Under Repair

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Greetings of the season to all! 

 

During the next few weeks, my aging (2013) computer is

going to be gutted, reformatted, tweaked and brought up to date so it can run the latest version of Windows. My son is in charge of all this, and I'm very grateful he has the skills I lack to do it.

When and if all is operational, I will be back. Til then, thanks to all of you who so generously share your poetry online, and who take the time to visit here and share your thoughts on my own.

 

As always this time of year, I wish for everyone the happiest of whatever holidays they celebrate, while I myself will be doing my best to

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

Disconnect

Dear readers, I am disconnecting from the blog world for a bit. My internet connection has become horribly unpredictable and unreliable, but more than that, I find my brain just unable to cope with the discipline of writing and reading on any kind of regular basis.

For those of you who don't know, my husband is fighting lung cancer, and the sand goes very quickly through the hourglass right now. I feel that I need to be with him, directing my energies his way while I can.

I apologize for abandoning the 55 for awhile, but I will no doubt be back at some point. Till then, thank you all for the support and the input you have so generously given me over the years.

Review: Catechism For A Girl On Fire, by Shay Simmons

* Five Stars *

Where to even begin? The cover, carefully chosen by the author, seems to be a logical place, with its sense of wildness, its fear and its picture of the Self on the run amid forces beyond its control. This is a book of poems, but it is also a mirror of our inner world, crossed by storms and fertile with all the fleeting gifts of life savored as they tornado past.

The book is divided into sections described by tags from the author's blog, Shay's Word Garden, where these poems have all previously appeared under her internet sobriquet of Fireblossom. Like the title, they are highly individual and full of Simmons' own quirky view of herself and life on this planet. The first is called Travel Stories (For Girls, but all are welcome), a seemingly conventional phrase, yet the places we travel here are far from anything found on a map.

Here is a bit of New Banana Town to show you what I mean:

 "In Old Mango City,
I wore the thrift shop jacket you liked
and the big shades

I wore them up, in my hair
as if I were trying out for Queen of the Produce Stalls.
You disassembled, became incorporeal,

and slept with my better nature
behind my back..."*

This book is a journey of the heart and mind as well as that tag-along, the body, and Simmons never fails to take us by surprise with who we are, with who the ones we love are, and what may happen to the innocent at any moment. In the next section, Catholic Girls (on the Loose) we see that sense of perpetual displacement handled with grace and control, illustrated in poems like Crow Heart, from which I will only quote a very few passages (but please read it all at the link): 

"I told you from the start,

from the morning you came through my open door

tripping on a hinge flopped dead on the flagstones,

that crows had nested in my heart.

My fairy tale cottage had survived the bombardment;

just a little gingerbread dust on the plates and tables..."

The poem  takes us to a reality where everything legitimate seems instead dangerously illegal, where nothing can be trusted, but everything, possibly, manipulated. The speaker is both sympathetic and alien in her authoritative judgements, and if you listen you can hear the kind of pronouncements that are meant to define the undefinable, and do so competently and with completely ownership.

"My crows live for trickery because they are crows.

I am an honest woman, but they have nested in my heart...

We might have loved, you and I, in my gingerbread bed,
if we had met when people still cared about things.
As it is, I sink the shiv in even as I kiss you, but the birds whisper
inside my chest, insisting that I leave you a trinket, my old heart,

bright and worthless as a penny."*

 

In the selections in (Whatever Happened to) Baby Jane, we see an unexpected tenderness, unexpected because it is mixed with such stark surrealism, a feeling of larger, external chaos ordered by the inner self into an often wounding force, from which one hides in love for another; however illusory it may be, it remains the sweetest option, a sort of emotional minimalism amidst the carnage without. This is amply illustrated in the simplicity of  The Winter Guest, with lines like:

"I loved the delicate balance
 of my quilt on your back--
 candle light in my bedroom--
 and all of that...."*

but there is also an incongruous native horror in many of these (I won't quote but go read  The Tenth Month, for example)  that ties in well with the twisted quality of helplessness and of innocence before evil which the tag invokes. 

In the section entitled Funny Girl, we see the author's trademark sense of the absurd, her ability to make us laugh even while we're bleeding from the gut. Simmons is a many-faceted writer, and this is one side of her writing that never fails to move and amaze me, because dragging humor from loss or despair and making it genuine is one of the hardest notes in a writer's repertoire. See My Consultant for a great example of this.

The poet finishes with a single intense and perfectly crafted piece, well-deserving of its own chapter, that puts the last flourish on an experience that will linger in the memory long after the last word is read. Please go to her blog now and read No More of Jerry  because Simmons is at the absolute top of her form here, which no words of mine or anyone else's can adequately describe. 

I highly recommend this collection of recent poems as well as her earlier books, The Cherub of Pierzanie Prison, and My Mad Love, to anyone who loves the written word and the magic it can perform, because in my opinion, there is no one living today who is a more accomplished magician, or writes of the human dilemma more truly than Shay Simmons.

Her books are available on Amazon:

Catechism For A Girl on Fire
The Cherub Of Pierzanie Prison
My Mad Love









*quoted with permission of the author, all rights reserved,
© Shay Simmons

Friday 55 Preamble Ramblings

 Greetings from Castle Hedgewitch

 Forgive the long screed, all, but these thoughts have been brewing in my head a long time.


The world of blogging has changed a lot over the last seven years. I remember how excited I was when I encountered my first poetry prompt site, and how amazed I was at all the other writers out there who read and commented with such enthusiasm on each other's work. It was exhilarating, intoxicating, and inspired a flood of writing and of relationships that otherwise I'm sure would never have occurred. A few of these relationships remain, and are among the most significant ones in my life. Yet blogging feels like it's dying.

When I began 'archiving' my poems here in 2010, I never expected anyone to read what I put on my blog--well, now except for those few friends who still remain, those expectations are unfortunately realized, not just for me, but for many of us. All the fervor and fun seems to have seeped away like the helium from a child's balloon. Lots of people in our never-large community are laying down their pens, closing their blogs, or just dribbling out a poem when they can on Facebook.

I've had all these symptoms of bloggery malaise myself. I've resigned from every prompt site I ever volunteered for.  I've closed this blog at least four times, and taken extended breaks many more times than that. And who knows, I may again. But I've found I can't live properly without my poetry.

I can't pinpoint when the camaraderie of writers became instead a burden of obligations, but it did. The muse refuses to dance, and however willing the spirit, the voice becomes quieter and quieter, til now it's damn close to silent.

The saddest part of this is that we have never had times that needed poetry and camaraderie of kindred spirits more. One of my favorite prompts to nudge me out of the unable-to-write doldrums used to be the Friday 55, a flash fiction meme run by a unique human being named Galen Hayes, otherwise known as the G-Man, from his site, Mr. Knowitall, where this simple notice of his passing says all you really need to know about him.

He had a kind and often hilarious word for anyone who participated in any form--so long as it was 55 words, no more, no less. He always felt more like a friend than a 'site administrator,' made you feel that there was a real and human relationship happening, as if you stood face to face with him, he with you, and with all the people linking, and missing a Friday was just...not fun.*


The fact is, everywhere, no one seems to care if you have a kickass weekend or not any more, or feel that there is a relationship between those who come to a meme and peoples' real selves. (I maintain there is, because there are no selves more real than the ones we reveal to each other in our poetry.)

So, purely for myself--and for old times sake, a little--I have decided to begin writing a 55 word piece--no more, no less--each Friday whenever I can, posting it here, and calling it what it was always called--Friday 55.

It won't be the same of course. Many of the 55ers are long gone from my sphere in one way or another, and I am no Galen Hayes and never will be, but I remember him and what he did for me and so many others. Anyone who wants to is invited to join me in the writing, and if you leave a link in the comments--or the 55 itself, or tell me you have one on Facebook, I will be delighted to read it.

I will reprise the gist of this on Friday when I begin this personal journey, but I wanted to get this up so my few but dear readers could digest it ahead of time. Love to all of you, hands across the chaos, and let us all do what we can to keep our love for words and those who work in them alive.

via Mr. Knowitall

 

 

 

 

*When Galen passed, the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads took up his meme, but even in such good hands, and despite gallant attempts to carry on, it only appears occasionally; I make no attempts to compete with that of course. This is not about the dreary rounds of Mr Linky.

Goodbye

goodbye sweet singer and teller of truths

Sailing Away

Au revoir, friends and readers. It's time for another voyage away from the shores of blogging. If I come safely to the other side, perhaps we'll all meet again. Till then, best of luck to all, and much gratitude to those who have supported and cheered me through the shoals and reefs of the past.

Image: Guests from Overseas, Nicholas Roerich, public domain

April

April

Just a note to thank all my readers and visitors for their time and support, many of them over the course of the blog's life, and through the gates of many poems, good bad and indifferent. 

I will not be doing anything for National Poetry Month this year, but wish everyone who takes on the challenge of writing a poem each day all the luck in the world.

If I am able to write or even read, two things that are unfortunately becoming increasingly hard, I will certainly do so, but know that you all have made a great difference in my life, and provided me with vital encouragement over the years, for which, again, I sincerely thank you.

~Joy       3/29/16

 Shadows touch the sand and
Look to see who's standin'
Waitin' at your window
Watchin', will they ever show
Can you hear them callin'

You know they have fallen
On campfires cold and dark
That never see a spark burn bright

photo: Ghostoaks, © joyannjones 2016

Icestorm!

Those of you who follow me on facebook have already seen most of these, but for those who are wondering where the hell I have been lately, it is cleaning up after the Black Friday ice storm. Thankfully, no damage to the house or pick-up, and we were spared the power outages, too. Lots of work, but on the plus side--we won't have to buy firewood this year. ;_)

First, the beautiful part:

Next, the destructive:

which turned into the work part:

So, bear with me friends--we still have a lot to do, but I will be by whenever I can drag myself out of my Aleve-permeated post-hauling torpor.

National Poetry Month

National Poetry Month 2015

As most of us involved in (and out of)  the cyber-world of poetry have already noticed, April is the month of the year in which the spontaneous generation of poetry in all forms is celebrated and encouraged. There are many organizations and sites, blogs and writer's groups which encourage and support writing a poem a day. My own favorite poetry site, the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, will be offering a daily challenge throughout April to help provide inspiration, as will many others. 

I have been blogging here at Verse Escape since October of 2010. Since 2011, I have written 30 poems in April each year, and this will be my fifth year of attempting to do so. I want to emphasize the 'attempting' aspect, as I never know if I will actually be able to do it. I also am adding another goal to the month, and that is to READ a (non-blogged) poem a day, from an actual book, of which I have many, and which too often spend their lives gathering dust. In the event I cannot write a poem for any given day, I will share my daily read here.

During this highly focused period, everyone appreciates and needs support, even though sometimes it's hard to make the usual rounds and leave the usual in-depth comments, so I want to say in advance, I am grateful for just a word to know you have been by, and if you are also doing this project, please let me know, so I can in turn support your efforts, even if not in my usual lengthy and verbose style, to which you have hopefully become accustomed. ;_) For those not involved in the madness, I will still be around to read and comment as usual.

 I look forward to seeing the fireworks that this sort of discipline can produce, and to enjoying the company of those as stressed as myself coming face to face with that blankness Bob Dylan once described when he said: "...if there's an original thought out there, I could use it right now..."

 Happy Poetry Month To All

Photos: copyright joyannjones 2015

 Please feel free to use the 'poetry month' photo if you'd like, any way you'd like.

 

Breaktime

Taking a blogging break, friends and readers. April burned me out in the writing department, and this is a very hectic month at Castle Hedgewitch. We are finishing up our planting and mulching, installing soaker hoses in preparation for what looks like it's going to be another record-busting summer of heat and drought, and building a chicken coop for our baby chicks, who are now a month old and need to go outside VERY SOON. We also have a new fence being put up where we had the neighbor's shed collapse in high winds and destroy our old one, which requires some brush clearing and ground leveling, and are re-siding our disintegrating barn, one side at a time. All this is a lot of fun, really, and I'm enjoying it, but it doesn't leave me much energy for blogging. I will still try to visit as I can and not be too much of a stranger, but I will be mostly offline untill all these projects are done.

Thanks to all of you who make this blog so rewarding, who give me so much support and incentive to write, and without whom my life would be less. 

See you soon.

Anniversary

Dear Friends and Readers, today is our twentieth wedding anniversary, and I will be offline. There are no big plans, just a day my husband and I are going to spend together commemorating a relationship that changed both our lives.

Twenty years ago today, on February 8th, 1994, Oklahoma was having a brutal sleet storm. We almost wrecked driving to the county courthouse, where we had told friends and relatives not to endanger their lives by trying to join us. While the bitter, ice-pellet wind blew through my cotton skirt and blouse, my husband held my elbow walking up the millions of steps, all rimed with a skin of black ice despite salt and shovels, or I would have fallen in my unaccustomed high heels. Rather a metaphor there, if you're into such things..

There was no one there that day except the judge and two strangers to witness our marriage, but I don't think either of us felt any lack--it was the culmination of two years of enduring, for my husband, a vicious divorce where every possible hurtful thing involving money, possessions, reputation and children that could have been done by his ex was, and the end of six years of a difficult stint full of poverty, non-stop work and stress as a single mother for me. I will never forget how many sacrifices my husband made to be with me, or how he has enriched and stabilized my life.

I seldom write about the man, as he is not into poetry,and, for me, happiness is not the place where I find my writing. Although I did get him to read and enjoy an entire Wendell Berry volume once, he has never read a word of mine, like most human beings on this planet ;_)-- but below is a poem I wrote a few years back for him, called Greybeard:

Greybeard

The wind is from the west and blows the storm.

You’re grey in my thoughts,

blown across sky, my very grey matter,

puffed far like a cloud from a smoldering pipe,

blown quick as the cunning flight of grey doves

who understand the shadow of the hawk, cloud pale
with the cottony softness of mare's tails
flying above waves to veil the sun’s glare

when the sea is finished with drama,
content to be softened,

washing living and dead in its slow endless pulse.

You’ve lost all the red

angry words, the ice-white silences

long ago. Your soft rumble stirs oatmeal-smooth,

the purr of plump cats by hearth-fire
dozing near the embers.

Your voice is a lullaby, secret

and tender as a ruffled wren with a ruby glass heart,

clear as the night sky swinging her moonshot skirts,

pink mother of pearl, with the round moon daughter

on her opalescent cushions gently turning the bowl of sky

to prism the earth with silver light.

You and I danced for for so long

circling our lives, wrapping the bands around the maypole,

weaving the yarns of years to make the tale

we now tell together, of two journeys

that became one traveling,
filled with the scarlet clamor of blood,

the black and purple bruises of grief,

across a mad planet to a place of moss and stone

where dancers can rest, and journey can end

with the grey hairs of wisewomen and white

beards of wizards nodding together.

~January 2010

Photograph: GB assembling the Vacuum Cleaner, copyright joyannjones 2012
All rights reserved.

Update

Well friends, I will not be around as much as I'd like, and maybe not at all, till next week. My monitor appears to be terminally ill, and writing as if in a dark closet, with a blanket over my head and a dim flashlight, is just not much fun.

I do have a new monitor on the way,and I will rejoin you then. Thanks to all who stop by while I'm unable to do much in the way of returning visits without going blind.

gone fishin

Back when I catch something

Due to a disturbance in the Force, I've decided to take one of my periodic breaks from blogging. (I reserve the right to emerge if I catch anything that's big enough to keep, however.) 

Everyone have a wonderful remainder of the summer.

 

 

Image: copyright Richard Marchand, 2004

Garden Interlude

The garden is finally waking up a bit, so for those who don't get to see my constant photographic barrage on facebook, I thought I would post a few of my very amateur photos of  flowers, 

suitable for any occasion, especially a

Happy Mother's Day!

Sweet William, sedum and Love in a Mist

Starting the container garden

Viola 'Halo Violet'

Larkspur & barberry

Wishbone flower (Torenia)

Dutch & German Iris

Spanish lavender

Verbena 'Homestead Purple'

Have a great weekend, everyone.

Garden Interlude

The blog, or rather the blog author, is still undergoing repairs, but spring is helping, so here is something a bit more cheerful to look at till I get back on track:

INDOORS

Amaryllis

Amaryllis, now blooming

OUTDOORS

Bradford Pear

Narcissus triandrus 'Thalia Sun'

Narcissus 'Spellbinder' with hyacinth

Phlox divaricata

Summer Flowers, Winter Snow

I am going to be absent for awhile, friends and readers, due to some minor health issues. Nothing to worry about, but it's just not possible for me to spend a lot of time on the computer at the moment. I hope to be back soon, but till then, here are some garden pictures to look at. Thanks to everyone for their readership and support, and may summer flowers always bloom through your winter snows...

Rosa meidiland "Magic Meidiland' also known as Cthulu

Canna 'Dawn Pink' and Daylily 'Destined To See'

Zinnia 'Violet Queen'

Canna 'Richard Wallace'

photos (c) joyannjones

Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present

Ghosts of Christmas Past?

Absurd;

they're never past

at all.

Passed, perhaps,

they linger in the hall

a scent unseen

a sight unheard, a laugh unlaughed

Watching, drinking, playing rapt,

unwrapping revelries they  made

when they had form.

Some were torn

away too soon and swept too far,

still hearing laughing cries not sudden tears,

And once each year

they show their hidden smiles

 smoky, floating, gone but smiling still.

Laugh? perhaps they will,

make a sudden joke, a flame 

leap up, or old remembered song

and then

(perhaps)

a new dance will begin 

free from old sins.

December 2010

I'd like to apologize for some of my extremely depressing poems of late, and thank everyone who has taken the time to read and comment on them, and on all my babblings, for their understanding and compassion. You are too kind, and too many to mention, but in particular, to Shay, Karin, Kelli,  Scott, Kerry, Sherry and all the other Real Toads, many many heartfelt thanks and best wishes. To Brian, Claudia and the dVerse Poets Pub community, and to G-man and the 55ers, thanks for the opportunities to write you create, and the support and encouragement you give. To those readers I have lost this year, Brendan, Ruth, Truly Fool, The Walking Man and others, know you were valued and are remembered and missed. Right now writing seems very far away, but I'm hoping to get back in the spirit in the New Year. 

Till then:


A Very Merry Christmas, A Happy New Year and additional Happy Holidays of Any Variety Not Previously Mentioned

to all my pixelated internet friends and readers who make this world a little brighter with their own 

ability to shine

Thanks for everything.

(Originally Posted for Moondustwriter's Christmas Eve Eve Poetry at the inimitable One Stop Poetry)

Photo:  The author as a young thing, with Santa, 
(c) copyright joyannjones 2010-2012, from the author's files

Hope

It's still sinking in, that we won tonight. I promise to have some poetry up soon, but as I was watching this evening wind down, listening to President Obama speak, these words of Emily Dickinson seemed to float into my brain, so I'll leave them with you all till I am up and running again. Thanks everyone, for bearing with me through my political high anxiety.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)

~By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.





Image: The Promise, by Rene Magritte, 1966
via wikipaintings.org
All copyright belongs to the copyright holders.

2012 US Presidential Election~Vote!

To all my readers, with apologies to those outside the US:

Yes, this is a poetry blog, but right now, for me politics is taking precedence. I will not be posting any poetry till after the Tuesday, November 6th election.

Disclaimer: This post represents my personal opinions and in stating them, I wish to acknowledge that I support the rights of all human beings to hold their own personal views and consider them as serious and real as I do mine, regardless of whether we are in agreement. 

There is a lot going on in our country right now to distract us from next week's  Presidential election, yet it would be a fatal mistake to think that it won’t be the single most important factor in our country's continuing economic recovery, and in our own personal lives in many subtle and not so subtle ways. 
 
It will determine whether the New Deal safety net of Social Security is there for your children, yourselves or your parents, whether Medicare and Medicaid and the health care reforms forcing insurance companies to stop denying coverage to sick people and to insure millions of additional Americans put through by President Obama remain in effect or are destroyed.

It will affect the future of public education, immigration policy, alternative energy investments and climate change, public safety and infrastructure, personal reproductive choices of women, the ability of LGBT couples to enjoy equal opportunity under the law, and many other issues central to our identity as a country of progress, freedom and equality. It will certainly affect our relationships with other countries, especially the Middle East, and the likelihood of war with Iran. 

In addition, whoever is the next president will determine the future composition of the Supreme Court, which in turn will be a determining factor in many landmark cases which will impact us all.

My left-leaning liberal politics are no secret, but to clarify, I have always considered myself more as an Independent, believing both sides in our time to be morally corrupt, and have in many past elections voted Republican. That party's extreme swing to the far right precludes any consideration of that this year, and I will be voting Democratic in this election. 

Nonetheless, regardless of which party, if any, you support, I urge you to find out the facts behind the hype wherever possible, and to vote your conscience.  

It's very easy to say that all politicians are corrupt and a vote doesn’t matter, but that's the biggest cop-out of all time. If people engaged with issues, paid attention to who  is saying what and educated themselves,  we would have a different class of people  running for office, and  power would not be in the hands of the wealthiest among us to the detriment of the rest of us. 

So  please, exercise a right people have died to protect, and  

Go  Vote on Tuesday. 

Okay, I'm off my soapbox. Below are some informative, non-partisan links that may be helpful. Normal poetry will resume sometime after the election.

To find out information on where or how to vote in your state:

List of State Election Boards

To verify the facts in ads or claims by candidates(non-partisan):

FactCheck.org

For the latest polling averages:

Real Clear Politics (leans slightly right)

Nate Silver's 538 Blog at the NYT (leans slightly left)

For image credits, hover mouse over picture. All images are shared under a Creative Commons License.