Showing posts with label in the pines. Show all posts
Showing posts with label in the pines. Show all posts

Thursday, November 11, 2021

Cabin

 
 
 

 
 
 
 Cabin
 
 
 
The war was lost, the way
worse. I felt
the tired mare sigh
a heart-green path to
my old lover, the oldest lost
 and brown-eyed truth,
 a place to fold us
peel to apple,
bird to song.
 
I rearranged his
forest home as if
it were mine
 
and so it was
the old mare sighed.

 
 
 

 November 2021




 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 posted for dVerse Poets
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
This poem has been edited since first posted.
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Illustration for "Vasilisa the Beautiful." 1900,  © Ivan Bilibin  Public Domain
Peasant Girl Near A Cabin, 1895, © Camille Corot   Public Domain
 
 

Friday, July 18, 2014

The Tenth World


The Tenth World




Nine worlds walk 
in the count of all things:
one for fire and smoke
one for mist and ice;
two were made for the gods of life
and change, one for cold death, another
for the dark in the Dripping Hall,
one for the bright ones beneath the Fair Roof;
one for the giants where all things begin,
one pulled out complete for the time of men.

The Seer came traveling
over each one by one. She sought
the spinning, the Well and the Tree;
the farther shores, the other skies
where the dancing of wheat
and mollusks meet
where the wise one dies
choked in his thoughts
to brew the robbed mead
of gods and skalds.

From the Old Ones she learned
the names for all things:
the Ways, the Weaver
the Wind's Kite of Clouds,
the Hush and Wave
of sea and calm air,
Wildfire, green Wand,
the flying Seed
and the Foaming that steals
away sense and care.

She traveled each world
high to deep, end to end
till her closed eye could see
where all traveling ascends,
where the moon's mare runs wild
at last wolf-free,
where Lif and Lifthrasir
have found the Tree
in the Tenth World's
pine-candled sanctuary.





~July 2014



posted for    real toads

Fireblossom Friday: Another You
The  incomparable and incendiary Fireblossom (Shay's Word Garden) asks us to imagine another world on which there is another you; I have gone a bit overboard by imagining ten worlds, but at least only one hedgewitchian alter-ego. (And she did most generously say, 'Really, anything the clip inspires you to write will be okay.' so that'll larn her.) Thanks to all who have the patience to wade through my mythological self-indulgence.







Process Notes: To cite everything I've dismantled from Norse mythology here would be an exercise even longer than the poem, but below you will find at least a few high points, with some explanatory links to wikipedia. Please don't feel you have to read any of this unless you are so inclined:

Norse mythology posits at least six 'homeworlds' and the Poetic Edda lists nine, which I have cataloged in stanza one.
In stanza two, The Well is Mimir's, and the Tree is Yggdrasil.  Skald is the old Norse for scholar, or poet. I also refer to the myth of Kvasir, the 'man who knew all the answers' and his demise at the hands of the dwarves who murdered him, then told the gods he had suffocated in his own intelligence (details can be found here, ) as well as Odin's theft of the resultant Mead of Poetry (here.) I will just quote this one part, because I love it:" Odin [spat his loot out quickly into containers placed by the Aesir]. But Suttung was so close.. that ..some drop[ped] backwards. Anybody could drink this part, which is known as the "rhymester's share"... But the [true] mead of poetry was given by Odin to the gods and to the [skalds ...]"
Stanza three, again plundering the Poetic Edda, has the names given by the Vanir (the oldest Norse gods, thought possibly to be originally Indo-European deities of magic, nature and fertility) to the world and various things in it: Earth(the Ways) Heaven(the Weaver) Ale(the Foaming) wind, clouds, sea, etc.
Stanza four refers to Lif and Lifthrasir, who shelter in a protected wood called Hoddmímis holt, and are the Adam and Eve-like couple chosen to repopulate the earth after  ragnarök.   I have invented the phrase 'Tenth World' as a name for whatever might exist then, after the old gods and old worlds have passed.





Image: An amulet of gold from the Iron Age, thought to depict the Vanir Freyr and his wife the giantess Gerth(Geror,Gerd) Public domain  via wikimedia commons

Monday, February 10, 2014

Century





Century


A hundred years ago
you came to undo my buttons
throw my calico skirt, my muslin shift
over the moon, unpeeled teal eyes to
lay me down in piney night,
exhaled a smoke ring sigh to drift
around me, knotted tight
in deep green black.

Now I spit this centenary curse:
that we ever came back
to the skins we couldn't shed
on that cabin floor,
from murmuring boards so old
they glowed snake blue, luminous
as the windfall shapes we wore,
dropped apples of a slanting  

summergone sun. I walked
like a freckled young lioness
before she learns her scarlet roar,
my mane of stars 
shook out on the jade inflow;

who could know I'd die there under the gun
a hundred years ago?


~January 2013


posted for    real toads
Open Link Monday




This poem appears, along with 35 additional poems of mine, in our new book, 
Three Note Howl:The Wild Hunt,
 which I am flogging here only once, I promise.

 All the poems in this book were meticulously gathered, transcribed and  
due totally to the industry, persistence and generosity of Shay Simmons,(Fireblossom) who dragged me kicking and screaming once again into the world of published material, and who has graciously allowed both the talented Mama Zen and myself to share space with 64 of her own brilliant poems.

 Thank you, Shay, thanks to Kerry O'Connor and  all the Real Toads, and to everyone who reads and comments here for the impetus to continue writing,  and to  all who were so encouraging and supportive of our first effort.






Header: Cabin Under the Trees, Paul Gauguin, 1892
Public Domain, via wikipaintings.org
Footer: Jungle with Lion, Henri Rousseau, 1910
Public Domain, via wikipaintings.org

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Century






Century



A hundred years ago
you came to undo my buttons
throw my calico skirt, my muslin shift
over the moon, unpeeled teal eyes
laid me down in piney night,
exhaled a smokering sigh to drift
around me, knotted with me tight
in deep green black.

I spit this centenary curse:
that we ever came back
to the skins we couldn't shed
on that cabin floor,
from murmuring boards so old
they glowed snake blue, luminous
as the windfall shapes we wore,

dropped apples of a  slanting 
summergone sun.
I walked like a freckled young lioness
before she learns her scarlet roar,
my mane of stars shook out on the jade inflow;
who could know I'd die there
under the gun
a hundred years ago?




~January 2013













Header: Cabin Under the Trees, Paul Gauguin, 1892
Public Domain, via wikipaintings.org
Footer: Jungle with Lion, Henri Rousseau, 1910
Public Domain, via wikipaintings.org