The Wizard's Gift

 

The Wizard's Gift

It came in a box.

Death wrapped in red foil

and silver ribbon

glowing with night's own light,

the dark knowing of its nature.

The wind brought her stiff broom

to sweep the air clean of brimstone stink

but you stood and laughed and reeked

in the midnight sun.

You wore those solemn robes

like stiff wings freshly feathered.

A pretense of hooded eyes cerulean blue 

smirked compassion through the snarl of

each jetblack lash, yet under your

velvet calm was a constant rustling.

Anyone not spellbound in tranced oblivion

would see the barbed tailtip of your starved familiar

thrashing with a scorpion's steel sharp sting.

You held the ocean out in a crystal cup,

tiny hearts tied to the mast, a thousand ships

set sailing in the devil's brandyglass.

Windtossed I watched the mousemaid's fallen tear

grow the deepest pool in a black moon-strangled grove

where the winking fox set the crippled rabbit free

and one absent swipe rang the raven's dinner bell.

Down down went the chambered shell

to the scarlet aquifer;

you curved your fingered claws over my white hand 

until they twined

and flowed together as grains of sand

merge in a dune indistinguishable

and we pulled the fullness up

to our glittering husks from the butcher's well

to drink together the bloodred wine of hell.

~July 2012

Posted for   OpenLinkNight   at dVerse Poets Pub

I'm the host tonight at the pub for our usual poetic festivities. Come join us in the cool and bring a well-chilled word or two to cut the summer heat. 

If you'd like to hear the poem read by the author, click below:

the wizard's gift by Hedgewitch O'theWilds

Image: The Wizard, by Edward Burne-Jones

Public Domain, via Wikipaintings.org

Waltzing on The Cross

 Waltzing on the Cross

 A Dizain

You, my sweet drifting feather dipped in lead,

faun's startled glance in the soul pool mirror,

piped a masque of muted dancers dressed in red

swirled in a beggar's ballroom bright with fear;

reflections drowned in glass were never clearer.

Our bloodless puppets linked their inkstained hands.

I jumped and posed and waited your commands;

you ground me up and used the paste as balm         

to seal the leaking wounds the heart remands:

stigmata where the ego pierced your palms.

~July 2012

Posted for    real toads

Open Link Monday/Sunday Mini-Challenge

Kerry's form challenge this weekend was on another aspect of the ballade stanza, the dizain: 'a decastich, a whole poem made up of a single Ballade Supreme stanza, a 10 line stanza...' 
with rhyme scheme a b a b b c c d c d .

Image: Bust of a Satyr, by Jacob Jordaens, 1621

Public Domain, via Wikipaintings.org

Off The Shelf Archive~July 2012

The archivist has been most remiss of late, plus under medication, but no excuses. It's more than past time for a new selection for the Off the Shelf Page, and it's a good time for one, as I still am a bit groggy and not up for much in the writing department. 

This month, what's left of it, I've chosen a moody and bizarre poem from American novelist and poet Stephen Crane called On the Desert. It makes heavy use of repetition, without rhyme or a true refrain, and for me is one of those poems that give the effect of being in someone else's nightmare, a sensation of grue and creeping darkness. There's a bio of Crane here at The Poetry Foundation   for those who'd like to know more about him.

You can read On the Desert here:  Off the Shelf Archive for September 2012

And to make room for the current offering, last month's selection, Beyond Love by Octavio Paz, is archived below for a final reading. As always feel free to comment on either poem here, as comments are disabled off the main page :

Beyond Love

~by Octavio Paz

Everything menaces us:

time that divides into fragments

who I was

from who I will be,

like a machete does a snake:

consciousness, transparency transfixed,

the blind look of watching yourself look;

words, grey gloves, mental dust on the grass,water, skin;

our names, that rise up between you and me,

walls of emptiness that no trumpet can fell.

Neither dreams peopled with broken images,

nor delirium and its prophetic foam,

nor love with its teeth and claws, suffices.

Beyond us,

on the frontiers of being and time,

a greater life than life beckons us.

Outside the night breathes, it expands,

full of great hot leaves,

of mirrors in combat:

fruit, talons, eyes, foliage,

backs that glisten,

bodies that push their way through other bodies.

Lie down here on the edge of so much foam,

of so much life that does not know and surrenders:

you too belong to the night.

Stretch out, whiteness that breathes,

throb, oh portioned star,

cup,

bread that tips the balance to the side of the dawn,

pause of blood between this time and another, without measure.

From El Girasol, Poems 1943-1948

© Octavio Paz

Image: Blue Dahlias, 

© joy ann jones 2012

Offline Notice

Thanks all who've been by lately despite knowing I might not be able to return your visits--I greatly appreciate it. I'm afraid I'm in for a more serious than usual time with my back. I reinjured it yesterday and all movement is painful. I am following doctor's orders and staying flat on my back till things improve.

So, I will not be posting anything or joining any prompts for awhile. These episodes usually take about two weeks to wear off and return to normal, so see everyone then.

Wish I could leave you a poem but my brain is out of order as well on the required meds, so I'll leave you a picture from my garden.

Oriental Lily 'Casa Blanca'

Asteria

Asteria

All sun's length she sits

nested high in the world tree

alone, surrounded by

the howling, blue

painted greenwitch

oracle of the ward songs

in her iceglass

barelimb chapel

keeping vigil.

 

At night when the moon

hangs heavy and hunger

sings to the tides,

she flirts her feathers down to

probe the chambered nautilus

and fetch the glitterfish

called to her

rattling net hung

with bone charms.

She's felt his questions

pressing on her

all day so heavy

the singing

so heavy for something

made of air

the sword unsheathed 

so red cutting from

the southern ocean’s rim.

She can hear him reading

from the old gods’ psalter

feel the sigh as the pages

slip to almost dawn,

till he finds

the leaf forgotten,

the star fallen

just before

the world ends

and the kingfisher flies.

June 2011

revised August 2011 

Asteria was the name given, variously to: " the Titan of nocturnal oracles and falling stars," and mother of Hecate, "the ninth Amazon killed by Herakles when he came for Hippolyte's girdle,"  "one of the Danaids...who, with one exception, murdered their husbands on their wedding nights.." and "..one of the Alkyonides [who, after Herakles slew their father] along with her sisters...flung herself into the sea and was transformed into a kingfisher.."  ~wikipedia 

All in all, a name with plenty of room for poetic interpretation. 

Posted for   OpenLinkNIght   at dVersePoets

Note: Having back problems, so I've posted an old one tonight, and may not be able to do any visiting, but will try to as soon as my body cooperates. I just couldn't miss the one year anniversary party. Thanks, Brian, for linking me in.

Image: ireland's fangorn(Yew woodlands at the Killarney National Park, which is located beside the town of Killarney, County Kerry, Ireland,) by Justin Gaurav Murgai

Justin Gaurov Murgai's photostream

Shared under a Creative Commons 2.0 Generic License

Iseult's Song

 Iseult's Song

A Huitain

How used I am to all this weeping

this solitude, this douce tristesse.

How softly emptiness comes creeping

to meet its new petite maîtresse,          

who cries the more and laughs the less

under god's silent black stardome;

where once were the towers of Lyonesse

now only fishes make their home.

~July 2012 

 Process Notes: "Lyonesse is a country in Arthurian legend, particularly in the story of Tristan and Iseult. Said to border Cornwall, it is most notable as the home of the hero Tristan, whose father was king. In later traditions Lyonesse is said to have sunk beneath the waves some time after the Tristan stories take place, making it similar to Ys and other lost lands in medieval Celtic tales..."

~wikipedia

 Posted for   real toads

Kerry's Sunday Mini-Challenge: The Huitain

Kerry explains this old French form in detail at the link above.

also posted for   Poetics   at dVerse Poets Pub

 Karin Gustafson hosts and asks us to get our French on in honor of Bastille Day. I went a bit further back.

Note: I'm under the weather a bit this weekend and so there may be a delay in returning visits.

Image: Tristan and Isolde, by Salvidor Dali, 1944

All copyright remains with the owners

courtesy Wikipaintings. org

Riverspeak

 Riverspeak

In the arms of the river

crooning rocking

all things come to rest,

or get caught in the net.

Bodies and cowpies

moribund butterflies

mattresses endwise,

cast offs and discards

the rafting mind blind

throws tail over ear

to disappear;

yet the river's no acid-spate, 
no dimensional warpgate.

All of it

bloats

and eventually

floats.

July 2012

Posted for   FormForAll   at dVerse Poets Pub

where if I'm reading the clues on WaystationOne correctly, Gay asks us to write about writing about it all (ars poetica)

and also, for

the triumphant return of the

Friday 55

at the g-man's

Header image: River relection day, by tanakawho, on flick'r

Footer image: Danger, by Leo Reynolds, on flick'r

Rebellion

Rebellion

When the Master died

in the red ruins of the night

and the child of slaves became free,

orphaned she ran, a witchwild flame

from her matchstick home

to the hardcobble streets

on her pierced bound feet.

She hobbled in shadow

gnawed crusts cooked in sun
hid with mice till the wounds

closed their lips; climbing the hill,

she looked down at the Corpse

in the snowman, the burnt stinking Tower

raised her arms, crooked her knees

swirled her tattered skirt

and began to dance.

July 2012

Posted for   OpenLinkNight   at dVerse Poets Pub
This is our 52nd Open Link Night at the Pub--so Happy Birthday to Us, and come be a part of the party, tonight and next week, when Brian and Claudia have a very full schedule of celebratory insanity for us to imbibe.

If you'd like to hear the poem (with assorted background whistles) read by the author, please click below:

rebellion by Hedgewitch O'theWilds

Image: Fire Dance, by Paul Gauguin, 1891

Public domain, via Wikipaintings.org

Pawned

Pawned

or

Lust Among the Chess Pieces

Black knight of the cross

checkered demarcations,

Master of airs above the ground,

you caprioled over my board in full panoply

rattling the table with the

arrhythmic syncopation of

your strabismic stallion's hooves,

lance proudly gripped in fisted mail

as ready to conquer as cavort.

You swept away the pawns

outmaneuvered the Bishop, but

when the rook screeched his mock

from the high castle corner, 

your stiff King of ebony kings

fell dead on the milk blue breast

of the rose white Queen.

July 2012

Posted for   real toads

Sunday Challenge: Photography of Gemma Wiseman

Also, late,

 for A Word with Laurie, who featured the word 'demarcation' in her challenge Friday.

Process notes: 'Airs above the ground"  is a comprehensive dressage term for various jump movements the horse performs with two or all four legs off the ground. A capriole is one such, according to dictionary.com "..a movement in which the horse jumps up with its forelegs well drawn in, kicks out with its hind legs in a horizontal position in the air, and then lands again on the same spot..."

Image: Outdoor Chess Game, © Gemma Wiseman

Used with permission

Undocumented Mist

 Undocumented Mist

The night exhales a coolness

that seems foreign after the

hammering heat of the day,

an alien breath wetbacked across

a dangerous border,

speaking another tongue.

So age comes to me running crouched

across the river, buttons missing,

wearing her threadbaring gown,

breathing lines, bending flesh

to slope and flow at gravity's whim,

calling her wares from the rocktop of

a round calcite egg turned silvered stone, 

grit-pocked and bubbled with imperfections,

dirtied in the hard guttered smut of too many

days blown out, all the soft splattering away

from the sun's falling diamond drops.

She's hungry. She's tired as the hour after birth.

I look at last in her eyes, see only another night visitor,

an undocumented gypsy marched thru a hundred

dry gullies carrying her heavy pack, looking for work,

speaking the language of the cool breeze

that mists itself up from the fall

of a too bright day.

July 2012

Posted for   Poetics   at dVerse Poets Pub

Prompt: Whatever the Weather

Stu MacPherson is hosting today and has asked us to write a poem in which the weather figures in some way.

If you would like to hear a rather unprofessional reading of this poem by the author, who got tired of re-recording after many tries, click below:

undocumented mist by Hedgewitch O'theWilds

Image: Day2: Night Sky, by Jeremy Zilar on flick'r

Shared under a Creative Commons License

Broken Windows

by alexindigo on flick'r

 

Broken Windows 
24/7

I wake up in the bird loud dawn

and turn on the machines

before my eyes are fully open

the sound of water

turbulent in heat falling

through the cost-effectively
stripped coffeegrounds;

the six notes of the windows sound

drown out the mockingbird

trying to sing through the pane.

Meanwhile, star shoes kicked off,

the sky frittles on the griddle

of the mad cooks who've

taken over her kitchen.

May Global Temperatures Second Warmest on Record

According to scientists at NOAA’s National Climatic Data Center, the globally-averaged temperature for May 2012 marked the second warmest May since record keeping began in 1880. 

May 2012 also marks the 36th consecutive May and 327th consecutive month with a global temperature above the 20th century average
.

Most areas of the world experienced much warmer-than-average monthly temperatures, including nearly all of Europe, Asia, northern Africa, most of North America and southern Greenland.

 Only Australia, Alaska and parts of the western U.S.-Canadian border region were notably cooler than average...   Credit: NOAA:

Monthly climate analysis data from NOAA/NCDC

July  2012

Posted for  Meeting the Bar   at dVerse Poets Pub

Prompt: What's the Buzz? by Charles Miller

Charles has asked us to , among other options, 

"write a poem that describes the fractured nature of the modern world...[or]

write a poem that incorporates newspaper clippings or other non-poetic material.." Which I sort of did, though my clipping is more messed with and appended to than included in the poem.

Image: Untitled, by alexindigo, on flick'r

Shared under a Creative Commons Attribution Only License

I have cropped and slightly manipulated alexindigo's photo; view the original 

here at his  flick'r photostream

The Triumph of Verbosity

The Triumph of Verbosity; 

or Sweeteners in the Surreal Afterlife

Space nor motion

neither can exist

without  a marker, black,

magic, plastically spastic, shooting demarcation

in tommygun spasms.

Without

some point of surety,

love's demise brings flying into the eyes

only cindertears ceaselessly sweated from the worm's

gut of indigo void.

If only I could

measure this stainless steel

tapeworm of loss,

writhing through my night

of sin and scrapple.

No dimensions are assigned

to the bucket of sugar

glimpsed fine balanced on the distant windowsill

until it falls in Icarian flameout,

making a hole in stomach's soft plane.

The plain red coat wore a

perfectly matching blooded scarf, but

there’s a price for every illusion

even a price for words

falling

straight into the twisted lips

of an altered state.

I never answer when you say,

“Are we going to do this

by the book,

or are we just

going to do it?”

There is only one question left:

Bowling with the blind; who

picks the team colors?

July 2012

Posted for    real toads

Challenge: Out of Standard with Izy

The ever scintillating Isadora Gruye asks us to step outside ourselves  and have a bit of fun by writing 'a poem which parodies your own style, structure, or tone.' I tried, but I think it actually reads just like one of my usual poems. :P

Image: The Triumph of Death, by Peter Bruegel the Elder--NOT the younger! circa 1562

Public domain, via Wikipaintings.org

The Unnaturalist

The Unnaturalist

Come to me, my spider-snake

my locust-worm, my vulture-hawk

my hyena-wolf, my caliban-mars.

The experiment ends in the killing jar.

Come to me, my spider-snake;

inside my lab where no lights leak

come close enough so I can crush

your twisting spine, your cambered cheek.

Come to me, my vulture-hawk

to feed on meat already killed

so long ago, so rank, so soft;
duplicity damning as it distills.

Come hyena-wolf, with your needle teeth.

I'll stroke your narrow jewel-eyed head

before I lift my other hand to

stop the pant of your opium breath.

Come locust-worm and build your nest

so near my fever that you grow warm;

starve in the twiggy bed of my breast

stripped by the multitudes of your swarm.

Come my caliban creations all

to the place I've built beneath the earth

where all lies end and none embrace,

where crippled mouths are filled with dirt.

July 2012

Posted for    OpenLinkNight   at dVerse Poets Pub

If you'd like to hear the poem read by the author, click below:

the unnaturalist by Hedgewitch O'theWilds

Header Image: The Crying Spider, by Odilon Redon, 1881
Footer Image: Caliban on a branch, by Odilon Redon, 1881
Public Domain, via Wikipaintings.org

Urn

Urn

What good does it do

to sit and bleed

over all the empty boxes

over all that is not more

than what it is;

I’d as soon play sexton with a spoon

dig my own grave hole

six by six, concrete lined,

as only remember

the bleach and the burn.

When the south wind 
tosses its wild head in the night,

takes the trouble to journey

from that other country where

Aldebaran runs bright behind the Sisters,

all to twist out

a few strands from my braid,

drift them like sailboats

moonracing the dawn on a blue lake face,

dance them on a tickle of its cosmic tongue,

how foolish to yearn for what isn't

when the frogs are singing Puccini

when the red star

is my flower,

the big dipper my urn.

April~July  2012

Posted for   real toads

Open Link Monday 

Process Notes: "Aldebaran...is a red giant star located about 65 light years away in the zodiac constellation of Taurus...it is the brightest star in the constellation and is one of the brightest stars in the nighttime sky. The name Aldebaran is Arabic ... and translates literally as "the follower", presumably because [it] appears to follow the Pleiades, or "Seven Sisters" star cluster in the night sky..." ~wikipedia

Image: Aurora_4592crop_2s, by esapekka, on flick'r

Shared under a Creative Commons License