Saturday, November 12, 2016

White Bird In Snow



White Bird In Snow






This unsleeping night
remembers winter for me
as it remembers the January hour
I was born, seeing past the still
green curl of April's exhausted leaf
the chill glassful of north wind,
so delicately sipped now
before the drowning.

It knows my name, it calls me
winter girl, drifted witch, 
snow-woman globed from rolled
frozen fog, compressed cloud wrack,
sentinel-eyed and carrot-beaked,
ice fingers melted then
rigid again around
a hollow pen;

bent wrist, bent back, ages
old, so old not even an ash-furred coal
glows from the parsed fire in my pale
flattened face.
The sleepless night
rustles with husks and remains;
a coyote stutters his hunger 
to the planked stars

and here where all things pass,
long sleep comes down the grass
where I wait
invisible and surprised
as a white bird
in October snow.




~October/November 2016







for Brendan at real toads 
from a still, white place






 






Images: House in Snow, 1890-94, by John Henry Twatcham
White Birds in Snow, by Ohara Koson
Public domain.









Thursday, November 10, 2016

Babylon


Babylon


When the way is smooth
we trip on nothing
because we're made
 to kick things down.

When the belly's full
the brain cramps,
sells thought
for adrenaline.

Small griefs swell like seeds;
so the vein sprouts the needle,
the mountain's slick slope 
shakes its entropy, an avalanche

rumbling us down while
the summit recedes.

We forget

when living's too easy,
we make times get hard.

~February 2014.  revised November 2016










an old one revised, for Fireblossom Friday






Top: Aerial View of Capitol Hill, Public Domain  via wikimedia commons
Footer: Ruins of central Amarna, Egypt, the little temple of the Aton(Amarna Bâtiment du centre ville, zone du petit temple d'Aton)by Kurohito
Shared under a Creative Commons License  via wikimedai commons





Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Warrior




Warrior





The warrior walks
across the sky tonight
spinning the tale of resilience
twisting the tale of valor
wearing the worked hide of stars,
supple in battle yet
turning no blade;
marked for an early death
or a bloody age--
yet who would want to pass
through this night of sorrow and wrong
without a fight?




~Election Day, 2016









Image; reproduction of the Golden Horn of Gallehus, via wikimedia commons


Friday, November 4, 2016

Glass Alligators




Glass Alligators


Glass alligators
slide on their own bloat,
plagueships that float
over the muck
slurping it up, spitting it back;
it's so easy to break
if God finds the mistake
so they've learned how to make
their eyes look like toys'
too blank to annoy.

The glass alligators
stir their swizzlestick teeth
in a light liar's grin 
as they soft-lick your skin.   
(They just want to win.)
Their slick smoky sides
aren't built to hide
what's moving within:
the clockwork tossed salad

of death and money,
blood for oil, power-honey.
Their brittle scales ring
like a bad novel brings
out every cliche
on the side of a truck
to turn a quick buck,

and each soiled rotting page
bleeds the end of an age.


~Four days before the 2016 U.S. Presidential election






for grapeling, and my real friends at Real Toads



Optional Musical Accompaniment










Image: Muddy Alligators, 1917   by John Singer Sargent
Public domain

Thursday, November 3, 2016

Off The Shelf Resumes












Remembrance
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
They flee from me, that sometime did me seek
    With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
    That now are wild, and do not remember
    That sometime they put themselves in danger
         To take bread at my hand; and now they range
         Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise
    Twenty times better; but once, in special,
In thin array, after a pleasant guise,
    When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
    And she me caught in her arms long and small;
         Therewith all sweetly did me kiss,
         And softly said, ‘Dear heart, how like you this?’

It was no dream: I lay broad waking:
    But all is turned, thorough my gentleness,
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
    And I have leave to go of her goodness,
    And she also to use newfangleness.
         But since that I so kindly am served,
         I would fain know what she hath deserved.


 ~Sir Thomas Wyatt









def:  newfangleness: fickleness, infidelity




 Notes: When I began Verse Escape, six years ago now back in the heyday of blogging, I included a feature called Off The Shelf, where I shared the works of poets dead and living that in some manner spoke to me. Since at this point, my own output is so low, and the blog exists mostly for my own satisfaction (though my few kind readers are much appreciated) I've decided to once again do so, and the first entry in the reawakened series will be Remembrance,(also sometimes called by its first line, They Flee from Me That Sometime Did Me Seek) by Sir Thomas Wyatt.

Sir Thomas Wyatt was a 16th-century English ambassador and lyrical poet in the court of Henry VIII. He was a great innovator in popularizing many classical poetic forms  into the English language, including the sonnet.  

[Per wikipedia: "A significant amount of his literary output consists of translations and imitations of sonnets by the Italian poet Petrarch; he also wrote sonnets of his own. He took subject matter from Petrarch's sonnets, but his rhyme schemes make a significant departure. ...Wyatt employs the Petrarchan octave, but his most common sestet scheme is cddc ee. This marks the beginnings of an exclusively "English" contribution to sonnet structure, that is three quatrains and a closing couplet. 

In addition to imitations of works by the classical writers Seneca and Horace, he experimented in stanza forms including the rondeau, epigrams, terza rima, ottava rima songs, satires and also with monorime, triplets with refrains, quatrains with different length of line and rhyme schemes, quatrains with codas, and the French forms of douzaine and treizaine. Wyatt introduced contemporaries to his poulter's measure form ...and is acknowledged a master of the iambic tetrameter." ]

Several of his poems, including the often anthologized  Whoso List To Hunt, are reputed to be about Anne Boleyn, with whom he was rumored to have had an affair. This sent him to the Tower during Anne's trial for adultery, though unlike her and five of her alleged lovers, he escaped execution and remained more or less in the King's favor, as much as anyone can be said to have done so.

Wyatt died in 1542 at the age of 39. His poetry remained unpublished during his lifetime.

I like all of his work, but this poem in particular.





Images: Sir Thomas Wyatt, by Hans Holbein the Younger, 1535-37
Still Life With Animals, 1660, by Melchior d'Hondecoeter
Public Domain