Strange Dirge

"You pluck strange dirges from the storm

sift rare stones from the ashes of the moon"

You've always been this way.

It's what drew me to you in May

of '71. Me with storms in my life

that needed music and moon-struck strife

that begged a mining of sorts, a sifting through

remains searching for stones you blew

to life like a shaman, prelude to all that came after.

We mined together then and sang out loud until we crafted

our sweet song. That time the strange dirge was sung
over our first daughter you stayed in such a way that along

with storm's barrage and from the ashes, we rose, not triumphant,
but still standing, longing that phoenix might bring bereft

to some other incarnation, any other incarnation than only gone,
us left alone, two not three, with nothing more to be done.



Posted for Grace at Real Toads who introduced us to the poetry of Wole Soyinka, the first Nobel Laureate in Literature from Africa and asked us to use his work as inspiration. The first two lines of this poem are his from the poem: Fado Singer for Amelia Roderinguez. The photo was taken by my Honey at the National Orchid Garden in Singapore.

That Was the Year

That was the year my brother 
got arrested. To say my brother's name 
and prison in the same sentence, other than

to say he was volunteering, was an impossible 
juxtaposition that destroyed my picture 
of our family, and took my breath away. 

That was the year my daughter left for college
and all I could do was cry. Not sweet motherly tears
but heaving sobs, running nose and swollen eyes
that embarrassed everyone around, including me. 
I went to a couple's workshop with my husband but 
all I could do was cry at the loss of Kelly.

That was the year my mother died
and there should never be a year when
a mother dies six weeks after being diagnosed with something
that had treatment protocols 
and a favorable prognosis but instead she died. 
I wasn't ready to not have her in my life,
in my daughter's life or to figure out what to do
with the hole in my heart for which they
had no treatment protocols. It felt
like this hole was the whole of me and it
was mother who always cared for our hearts
but she died and I had to figure out how to do it
by myself that year. In the many vivid dreams 
I had of mother after she died I was so relieved 
to see her I forgot to ask how she did this essential thing.

That was the year I got fired from my job but it wasn't a job
to me. It was my profession, all I wanted to do since I was three. 
They used euphemisms like downsizing 
or rightsizing but it wasn't right for me, although 
they did size me down alright, so down I was immobilized,
really, unable to move. 

I had to go to a healer that year to get healed
because I just couldn't move and I had a hole in my heart.
It wasn't the kind of healing to give me something
to chat about at a coffee klatch. It was the kind that got my
limbs moving, filled my heart, drove away evil,

brought back goodness and saved my life.

That year, that was the year.


This was posted first in May of 2012 in a different form in response to a stream-of-consciousness writing prompt and redone here for the Repeat Performances prompt by Karin (Manicddaily) encouraging repitition in our poetry over at dVerse Poets Pub. 

Now, many years later, I realize that that year became one of my great teachers and that the healer was one of my life's great gifts. 

Rain

It started as a shower
like the final rinse at the car wash
but kept going for four days of storm,
streets awash, flowers destroyed, schools cancelled,
busses grounded, canoes used on Main Street.
Rain a sadness

catastrophic, the loss grieved
such that crying can't suffice,
enough to demand deluge and flood,
a leaving home, family, country, culture, language
in one swoop, marooned in the unfamiliar
with no way back, no way to tend the heart.


Peggy gave us photo prompts over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads and it's open link night at dVerse Poets Pub.

Caiden

Loss stoops
his parents' backs,
hollows their hearts,
birth and death
on the same day
despite their longing.
Grief's cloud layer
decks their souls,
strength borrowed
until resilience returns.


Written for my niece and her husband. From Patricia's word list about good neighbors over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads. I took a different tack to acknowledge the importance of loved ones to rely on when things become too difficult. Words chosen: borrow, return, parents, birth, death, stoop, deck.

By Her Leaving

She tripped on steep cement stairs,

but her father snatched her

before she hit ground; still

she sobbed with the fright

of it; mother ran, face bears

fear as well, knowing how quickly

death snatches those we love, spills

life like a profligate until bright

dims to dark and we're left there

bereft where love once was, and it thickly

weaves webs to entrap when a moment ago

life danced patterns to fill our nights

with stories, embed memories that dare

to endure, be told as family lore that will

define us, but surely not as having lost this child, though

another babe left long ago, and us marked by her leaving;

she, etched in heart and mind as we transfer

pain to medicine, to somehow move when death stills

that opened place meant for this dear one, slight

light slants through the lattice of loss by her leaving.

This is posted in response by Gay Reiser Cannon over at dVerse Poets Pub who introduced us to David James who has devised Karousels and Weaves to challenge and expand our poetic options. This is a Karousel. Check it out, it's a great article that can take you in new directions. It certainly did me. 

Naming Free

I wish I could say I knew

what was happening in my body.

It is my body. I am a nurse.

Surely that's not too much to ask.

The pain was intermittent, insistent,

signaled something wrong with my pregnancy,

sent me to the hospital. But
I'd never felt it before

so I turned on my stomach to ease 

the pain as I waked off and on

through the night.

I wish I could say I knew

what was happening in my body as I woke that night

to urgently go to the bathroom.

A nurse had put a container covering the toilet.

Why, I wondered.

I wish I could say

I picked up that tiny girl

in the white plastic container,

held her and whispered what I thought: 'I'm sorry 

I failed to carry you long enough for you to live.'

She looked so perfect as I stared at her

but she didn't breathe or move

and all I did was stare, never 

touched her. And for every day thereafter,

I wondered how I didn't do this simple thing-

touch my daughter and

name her.

I wish I could say that I told that secret,

sought help for that remorse

magnifying my grief,

forgave myself, didn't have guilt

that sleeping on my stomach caused the miscarriage,

didn't have nightmares for years 

about forgetting crucial things.

What I can say

is that it took until I was 50, in therapy
over another loss, for all that to come flooding back.

I grabbed the chance to do it again, do it
as I wished I had done it then-

hold that baby in my arms,

greet her, tell her of her family and name her-

name her love, name her wish,

name her Free.

This is posted in response to the prompt of Stuart McPherson at dVerse Poets for Poetics: The Beautiful Sadness. I posted this poem two years ago under a different title but have reworked it for this topic because beautiful sadness perfectly describes what this experience ended up being for me.

Buried Alive

It's not like setting fire to the rain

as Adele sang when she jettisoned

her guy and friends cheered

images of mystery and catharsis

with symphony accompaniment.

It's more like being buried alive

in sand with only my head exposed

to stare alone at the sea of our love

without arms to take us where

we are meant to be.

This is in response to the visual prompt above posted at Magpie Tales.