MAGICAL CREATURES

Walking alongside the Atlantic one morning last week, I saw how tides had created in the sand a pattern of infinite play that stretched as far inland as the ocean could reach.  Underfoot they massaged my bare soles, that outer layer of my imagination,  and set my senses spinning into the surf itself where anything is possible, the ocean herself the artist, the beach her fabric from which she might raise up the most magical creatures, the ones  we hear as we fall asleep with the window open, the surf's voice singing its caravans of  imaginary elephants thundering like freight trains, only to take to the sky like gulls when we rise from our beds in the morning to look, to verify, to go running out into the  landscape of water kneaded signs, ocean

 language for what goes on underneath 

the eyes of moon and sun, whitecaps pulled to shore, reaching their lacy fingers toward where we lay in darkness, dreaming the earth back to its beginnings, for there is always more than one beginning.  And always will be, as long as the ocean has its way with the sands we walk upon.

(with thanks to Magpie Tales)

MAGPIE TALES: MELISMA

(http://www.magpietales.blogspot.com)

Melisma

for Nina Bagley

The doves in the empty fields

still mourn my father

though he was no saint

into whose palms

they might have come

gladly to roost

through the long afternoon

of a South Georgia

August, their voices

at last making harmony

out of the daily

descent of the sun,

its grace note shimmering

this side of silence.

August field's edge on my father's farm.

MAGPIE TALES: LES FENETRES

Cinquains are fun: the syllables run in this order per 5 lines--2, 4, 6, 8, 2. I used to day-dream in classes about when I'd be able to wear my French looking open-toe sling backs after a long winter. I wish I owned a pair of shoes like the above from Magpie Tales.

LES FENETRES

Windows

I look out of

while I sit in English

Class wondering how long before

I can

wear sling

backs, how flirty

these windows look, filling

with green buds and snazzy birds blitz-

ing by!

MAGPIE TALES 12: i am

i am

such a tiny

movement

through stillness

around and

around

the incarnadine

mystery

raised from

the floor

of my fishbowl

through which

i look out

at your

world, tiny

self that

i am,

my gills opening

closing,

my small

supple spine

weaving ripples

nobody

can see

MAGPIE TALES 11: SILVER-TIPPED CANE

In the early 70's I attended a literary convention in Atlanta where this incident took place. The man at the center of the poem was a more or less respected conservative critic and scholar. The black cane for Mag 11 looks just like the one I remember he carried.

Literary Conventions

He stood in the hotel room doorway,

Atlanta, post-civil rights,

a contingent of scholars

and editors schmoozing in one smoky

room on the 25th floor,

I the lone female sitting apart in the corner,

my plastic cup half-full of bourbon,

my cigarette burning its way down to filter,

and jabbed his black silver-tipped cane

toward the window where lights swarmed.

Out there, he said, cane swung at threats

cresting round us, I know they'll be waiting.

But I'm ready. Lifted his waistcoat

to show us the gun nestled under

his armpit. Laughed. Tipped his cowboy hat

to me, leaned down to wipe dirt from

his boots, and drawled, Have a good night.

MAGPIE TALES 10: TIME

(Image from Magpie Tales)

This poem comes from a dream landscape I used to visit frequently, the noon sun beating down, nothing moving, the clocks stuck. It haunted me. Still does.

TIME


scared me, unmoving
at noon, no shadows anywhere.
Dead time. I stood still
and waited. For what

I don’t know. Will I ever?
My question hangs like the bell
that stayed harrows
and tractor wheels. The midday

meal. Of the Gods
grinding slowly I understand
only that sooner or later each furrow
arrives at the edge of the field.

(from Connotations)

Eavesdropping: Magpie Tales

Willow asked me to put my Eavesdropping (from Catching Light) on the Magpie Tales link, so here goes. This poem got its start as I was leaving Red Lobster, but I up scaled the restaurant just a bit. The poems in this book are spoken in the voice of a woman named Evelyn, in her late seventies, and originated as a response to a series of photographs by Louanne Watley.

EAVESDROPPING

He was trembling so

and his lips were turning blue,

she speaks into the pay phone

as I pass, in search of the ladies'

room hidden somewhere

in the hotel bar's posh

outer dark. I can't stop

myself wondering what was he

to her and why was he

trembling, his blue lips about to say

something this woman, struggling

to make herself heard over

happy hour, might or

might not be about to confide

as I shove my way through

the inevitable end

of her story and into

the door labeled Mademoiselles,

where a plush carpet,

rococo mirror

atop a pink vanity,

welcome me.

I pull out my lipstick

and slowly apply it to top lip,

then bottom lip.

Look at my mouth in the mirror.

The color I like,

extra long lasting.

No smears.

My hand's steady.

Nothing about my hand trembles.

MaGPIE TALES: SMOOCHES

(MAGPIE TALES)

Smooches


My first tube of Tangee
lipstick tasted like Florida
sun and turned my lips sun
-kissed as citrus,
turned my head
again and again to look
at myself in the mirror.

I blew a kiss
to my image,
as if I were Sandra Dee,
holding my Tangee
tube inside my fist
like ammunition!
I was going for the heart,

watch out world,
I warned,
prissing around the house
till my mother said wipe
that lipstick off now
and come help
me fix supper.

The dishes done,
I headed back to the mirror
to turn my lips
into Lola's (whatever
Lola wants,
Lola gets)
and daydream about
all the lips waiting
for me to kiss.

Over 50 years passage
I blow a kiss
to that girl in the mirror
who blows it back,
teasing me,
Pucker up, Babe,

And don't ever
leave home without
Avon's Spiced Coffee
or Cover Girl's Sultry Sangria!

LASTING: Magpie Tales

(Thanks again to Magpie Tales for the prompt!)

Lasting

---Easter Afternoon

From tiny holes, my German great-aunts

blew the yolks from their eggs

to craft miniature worlds within.

I marveled at how they made

something so fragile

hold fast. How long did those eggs last,

displayed on a shelf? Kept under glass?

How long will we last,

I don’t ask, drinking wine

with my husband.

How long this tree

we sit under?

The earth we ride?

Blue as an egg being raised

from its dye cup, the sky

knows I can’t crack its shell

to see what’s on the other side.

POET OF THE DAY: TESS KINCAID

(TESS KINCAID, AKA "WILLOW" OF LIFE AT WILLOW MANOR.)

Today we celebrate being April Fools for Poetry with a poem by Tess Kincaid. Tess is a Renaissance Woman, par excellence. Gourmet cook, blogger, poet, photographer-- well, the list could go on. I'm happy to begin my Poet/Poem of the Day feature for National Poetry Month with one of the poems from her blog, Life at Willow Manor. She has a sheaf of them only a click away on her site, so hurry on over and read them, after you enjoy the poem below. Then click on her recipes. Then read her blog posts..and then, and then, go to her Magpie Tales blog and write some of your own poems in response to her prompts. It's fun. I've become addicted.

Don't forget: every poem is like a message in a bottle, bobbing up to the surface, waiting, hoping, yearning to be read. We need them, as Tess says, to keep us on track.

Memos

I need messages in bottles.
Random fortune cookies.
Those subtle signs
from heaven.
Memorandums
stating all is
as it should be.
.

Not Moses
parting my Red Sea.
Just a burning weed.
A small bit of shrubbery.
A simple note
stating he supposes
his toeses are roses.

.
A little everyday
omnipotent ditty.
Showing
his sense of humor
is still intact.
That I'm on the right track..

.

willow, 2010

(IMAGE FROM WWW.willowmanor.blogspot.com)

MAGPIE TALES: DEMETER'S DAFFODIL

Now is the season when the goddess Demeter welcomes her daughter Kore (or Persephone) back from the Underworld, her joy at the reunion kindling Spring for the world. Here she finds in the first daffodil her beloved daughter's presence.

DEMETER'S DAFFODIL

(for Willow at Magpie Tales)

To dip

into your corolla

carefully one wintry

finger and touch

to my throat

what I hear begin tuning

up downwind,

the little frogs

chorusing cullowhee

cullowhee, Cherokee

shivaree down by

the rain-swollen Tuckasee-

gee, what sweeter

scent than the attar

of you ever

after come back

to me, Golden

Girl!

My laughing daughter!

REBUILDING MY GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE

(Magpie Tales)

Rebuilding My Grandfather's House

In the ashes I search for a nail straight enough

to be hammered. (Oh, for a trove of new nails spilling

out of its box like gold coins, silver

earrings, a handful of diamonds discovered

among the debris of my grandfather's house.)

As soon as I find it

I pound with conviction but no skill.

I hold up my battered blue thumb to the sky

and I curse as magnificently

as my grandfather ever did.

Tears streak my dirty cheeks. Each day I quit

and each day I start over again,

using patience I hardly knew I had inherited.

I swear by the toil of my clumsy hands

I will make of this junk-pile a dwelling place yet.

I work best when I take my time,

coaxing woolly worms into a tin can

and letting them go again, dreaming

the night sky unfolds like a blueprint I learn

to read. I dance by the light of the moon

and feel lonely, already at home here.

When I hammer the last nail straight

into the last sagging beam, I will

spit on the edge of my shirt and sit down

on a barrel to scrub my face clean.

I will not look my Sunday-best,

but I cannot wait forever.

The hinges will creak as I open the front door

and call out my grandfather's name.

In the silence that answers, I step

slowly over the threshold,

believing that each board supports me.

I stand in my grandfather's house again.

MAGPIE TALES: DANCING WITH GANESH

Here's to Ganesh, the Hindu Elephant god, who's ready to have a good time, thanks to Willow's Magpie Tales' writing prompt.

DANCING WITH THE STARS

Ganesh

The Remover of Obstacles

leaps

from the mouse

on which he has been riding

for centuries

shakes off his god- garb

rattles the universe

and rolls the wind up

like a rug from the dance floor

where he does The Funky Pachyderm

Bollywood style

to a standing ovation

on this evening’s Our Galaxy’s Got Talent

for three perfect scores

from the judges

who say he’s the biggest

star they’ve ever had on the show!

(photo from Wikipedia)

MAGPIE TALES: An Ounce

Ah well, my post is late for Magpie Tales, but here it is anyway, a poem I began when looking at how weights came to be measured. I'm down in SW Ga. now with my mother, and wonder of wonders, she has broadband, so I will be able to continue my posts. Sorry this is late, but I had some stress-related symptoms last night and ended up in the ER!

An Ounce

being twenty pennyweights, I marvel

at such ancient measurements I never think of

when I weigh my cabbages at the supermarket.

Ounces and pounds, but first pennyweights

and before that, a grain--twenty-four

to be honest. No more and no less.

Pennies dropped in the piggy's slot.

Pennies from heaven. A penny for my thoughts,

which weigh nothing. I can hold in my fist

what amounts to an ounce, grubby pennies

I pour from my coat pockets onto the table.

How many grains

from my garden have I tracked

inside, so much weight in my rugs?

My dirty feet tip the scales!