Saturday, February 23, 2019

Nostalgia of Old Things

Nostalgia of Old Things

Old things like a pattern; blue
willow on china's bone, Celtic knot,
on moss-faced stone,
cross in the weave,
thunderbird in the beads.

Old things want
to fit a picture,
outrun the mirror, last forever
in an eye's reflection, the
part that made it real.

Old things work
to make a picture, liver-spot
hands around the needle,
brush, pen, bead, hook,
the cursive book
of counted dreams.

Old things like a pattern
dog in his bed,
crow on the fence rail,
solsticing sun and feckless moon

not the bed empty,
night rioting,
tea set shattered, not
the bloodsign on the door
where chaos has knocked
as the end.

~February 2019

Images via internet, no copyright infringement intended


  1. Deep and beautiful, Joy.. so wonderful to read you. We miss you!

  2. I agree... This is beautiful. So happy to read your work again.

    1. Thanks, Susie.Have enjoyed reading yours, even if I have not always commented.

  3. Oh my. What an absolute pleasure to have a new poem of yours to savor, and such a fantastic effort to boot. This is old-time Hedgewitch, and it makes me feel like, when and if I grow up, I might be able to ape it, if not quite get there. Wow. Somehow it's the last two lines of each strophe that knocked me over entirely. A strong, clear, perfectly wrought poem that says so much to this fellow crone of yours. Brava.

    1. Thanks, dear BFF. You know how dry it has been, so all the more satisfying to hear you confirm this is real.

  4. I read it out loud three times just because i did not want it to end. Stunning,and full of beauty!

  5. It stanza holds its own and weaves the never-ending pattern of the poem as a whole, and too, life. Even death, which fits the pattern in another way.
    I am always moved by your voice, Hedge. So good to hear it again.

  6. Both the delicacy of voice and brutality of the swung hammer marrow through this -- the nostalgia of old things is of a center that is maintained and celebrated and fabricated through a life. How much to hold on to in our relics is spectered by how much there is to lose. Cleaning out my dead mother's house with my sister in recent weeks has been a tough exercise in this sort of presence (hundreds of family pictures through several generations framed on the walls) and absence (her empty chair where she read her Bible, the teddy bear of my dead brother she kept on her bed til the end). So good to resonate with your voice here, even if it's a windy and cold place. Happy really, at least in the words ...

    1. Yes, exactly--order is a cohesive for all that wants to fly away, or a hope's limitation on what still may. Your mother's(and father's) passing was in my thoughts as I wrote this, B, as well as several dreamspace images of how things work to cling together despite all the forces that pull against that in both inner and outer worlds. Thanks for reading, and thanks also, for your writing, which has been such a comfort to me over the years.

  7. The spirit becomes attached to things and people it touches, to what it's touched by. After a while, the idea of having to live with those things becomes inconceivable-- nostalgia and need start wearing the same face, newness seems like an affront... When we are young and bursting with time, that final knocking sounds like opportunity. Then, it comes a time when the knocking feels like an intrusion. I wonder where balance lies, if there is a way to invite it to dance with chaos.

    1. P.S. It's so good to read your words! ❤️🖤

    2. Thanks, Magaly--so good to hear the muse whispering again, on this end.I agree completely with your astute observations...what restricts us in youth can comfort or liberate us in age, what chaos can do to us, however, I truly feel is beyond our power to know.Thanks again for reading, dear heart. ((()))

  8. As one wandering these halls, I'm grateful to read this condition so eloquently framed. I know you're out there, even when quiet-you must know that you are one of the primary reasons I post anything at all.

    1. Thanks, M. I do read what you write, even when I don't comment--I find commenting much harder than it used to be, because I always want to say something that means something to the writer, not just the gobbedly-gook flip compliment. Also, I don't get online much, so there's always a backlog. Still, no excuse--I will try to do a better job in future, because we need to be there for each other, all of us.

  9. Your verse was so well sensed, it generated this below.
    __ The old so often creates the new, a "sort of" Cinquain. _m

    Old things
    in these shadows;
    those hidden within our minds
    jump out in smiles of that, that is
    new thought.


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats

Comment Moderation Has Been Enabled