SINGEING BLACK

Growing gray
in the grand asylum,
she knows there
are rites being ritualized,
outside where she committed
the final transgression.

That time when she thought
burning a candle
would lead to her soul
simply being reborn;
neglecting the cautions
about lighting both ends...

Singeing herself dark
as someone from Africa
Now she cackles all the time,
"Me myself from the demimonde
used to be orange-skinned."
Before lapsing into silence
quiet as dying.

JANIS IAN IS MY MUSE

Almost four decades ago, she brought

“Tea and Sympathy” to my apartment

and stayed long after midnight

because we were both too tired to ride the

Milk train any more – I knew then that

there was another soul inhabiting

space on the planet with whom I felt

truly simpatico, and it would not matter

if we ever met, as long as I had her

writing to see me through, and through

As happens with muses, mine would flit

in and out of consciousness; sometimes her

writing often mirrored my life patterns

so closely I could not stand to listen

and would stack her vinyl out of sight

Until I could not bear its absence – then pull

out “Stars” and “Hunger” and put them on

the turntable, letting both tears and empathy

help my aching heart expose itself to

the light, listening again and again to

“Getting Over You” and “Jesse” and of course

sharing “Tea and Sympathy” once again,

a song that seemed to be our anthem.

Just recently, my muse came to the town

which I now call home and performed

in a smallish theatre with some cafe-style

seating down near the stage – which is where

I was fortunate enough to sit.

Oh my, Janis Ian is every bit as wonderful

as I had hoped—in addition to playing

one of the meanest blues guitars you’re

likely to hear anywhere, and I do mean

anywhere and from anyone,  including

slow-hand Clapton, Jonny Lang, Buddy Guy,

and Jeff Beck ...

In person – she is as gifted a story-teller

as one could wish for; a natural raconteur,

With a self-deprecating way of recounting

anecdotes that fill in bits of her history

that never seems rehearsed or boring ...

I was entranced; and imagine, in her fifties

her voice is clearer, more resonant, strong

and pitch-perfect than ever ...

I purchased her autobiography that night

—customs wouldn't allow her to bring her CD’s

across the border for some reason but the

book was already being sold here —go figure;

I began reading the book that night and could not

put it down, “Society’s Child” is mesmerizing

and held me in its thrall completely

Now, not only is she my muse, she

has vaulted into heroine status as well

As I join her legion of fans that work

within her organization for freedom and

social justice – in fact parts of her activist life

ring so familiar, I'm not sure she and I haven’t

been leading somewhat parallel lives at times;

It’s almost eerie – but in a good way.

The capper to my enthusiastic and continued

embracing of my muse as one of the best,

in all senses of the word was this – when she

realized how disheartened we were that we’d

be unable to buy any of her CD’s at her show,

she made this offer – if we ordered any of her

stuff off her website, all we needed to do was

scrawl “Canada” anywhere on the order form,

and she would see that we got a free

DVD of one of her recent performances –

Buying anything from Ian is a win-win proposition

since a portion of every sale goes to her

Foundation, Pearl, named for her late mother

Well, I did – and she did; not only did she include

the free DVD, she also sent along two signed

guitar picks,  a nice touch, I thought – tokens

I carry everywhere – ready inspiration.

  

Yeah, Janis Ian is definitely my muse

More than once I've tried to deconstruct

one of her songs and rewrite it as a poem

and realized her true brilliance when I

discover just how difficult that task is ...

Right now the song in question is “Shadow”

For she is just someone standing closer to

The sun and I am just the shadow by her side

Yeah – I wish

S.E.Ingraham©

BENEATH THE MIRRORED SURFACE

There is a lake just north of here with magic

Hidden deep beneath its glossy plane

So cleverly disguised is it, one might pass it by

To do so would be sad I guess, not tragic

But a chance missed all the same

To slide inside another world, who would not try

It is after all a lake just, and not at all pelagic

And once discerned the demarcation like a frame

Will pull apart allowing one to slip in and thereby

Entering an upside down town takes adjusting quick

But the enchantment is such you'll be glad you came

In fact it will be hard for you to think of saying good-bye

It's so calming beneath the surface in the town with no name

It's like Atlantis - a place to visit - a place beyond the flame

Samuel Peralta's in charge at dVerse tonight and well worth the visit just for the plethora of info on sonnets and variations on the form (only one of which I've tried to follow with the Trireme sonnet) - he also details some words on ekphrastic poetry, one of my favourite forms and gives a great example using one of his own poems from a new project he's collaborating on...hop on over to dVerse and check it out.

JUDGE NOT

In open court, the rancor

Rose like a plume

Bathing all present

With the vitriolic terms

Being tossed liked poisoned darts

Between the plaintiffs

More than once, the judge's gavel

Slammed as his face turned coral

And he demanded order

Called for some civility

Mopped his brow dry

Before scrunching his hankie

Into a ball, shaking his head

Thankfully, incidents as bad as this

Were rare, he thought

Trying to follow the thread

Of the arguments

Wishing he could duck

Below the lectern

to where his open bottle

Of single malt scotch lay

Wondered vaguely how much

Of his term on the bench

Was left ...

A LIFE LIVED FLAGRANTLY

Pieces of your early life fell

into my hands again,  just yesterday

And surprised me so;  such brevity

linked with such candour, still

I had forgotten how courageous

you were inclined  to be

When writing down the memories

from that storehouse

in your mind, that great private

bunker where such personal

things are stowed.

Not for the first time I wondered

whatever  had possessed you

to expose yourself

to the scrutiny of those

Who would eventually see the lines

for what they were; the detailing

of a life lived flagrantly

In defiance of what was expected

by almost everyone

You ever came up against

or with whom you will

most likely have to coexist

for the remainder of your days

To fly in the face of convention,

 Is that what drove you then

 and what drives you still,

 To pen the words

 that crawl across the page

 and seep into the minds

 of all who view them,

 Without most even realizing

 the effect of such seemingly

 innocent notions

 On the psyche and the soul,

 As they peruse your verses,

 Your non-rhyming poems

 that serve to tell the tale

 Without saying much at all,

 But saying all, just the same.

Read between the lines, they said

When first you wrote

I remember the sound of your laughter

And the incredulity in your voice,

'There’s just space there,

What do they think they’ll find…'

At the time, I thought you were kidding;

I searched with the rest,

And there was nothing, as you said.

It wasn't until much later

When I re-read your words;

I think, in fact I know,

It was soon after your brother died

You began to write again;

Your new stuff very different

from what I remembered,

Starker somehow,

And I wanted to compare.

It was as if I’d been given

new eyes, or maybe the years had

Just granted me some 

much needed insight

Along with the inevitable

Gray hairs and experience.

Your words made sense finally,

And I saw how very bare

You’d laid your soul

At this second first glance

You frightened me with your boldness;

I couldn't stand to read very much

of you at once and wondered

How it was that I had been

So misled and blind the real first time

Or if I’d tricked myself on purpose

Not willing to imperil my own sensibilities

To such a raw emotional exposing

of one’s deepest private thoughts

and feelings and essence really;

the very essence of you,

put into words for anyone,

to trace or touch, or roll off the tongue.

I've wondered

if ever you've found yourself

Regretting such revelations

Or if the unburdening

Was as freeing

as you always said it was.

NO FENCES, NOR GOD

Between the many medieval villages

Crumbling walls give way to history

Lost among fields of native grass

And wildflowers beneath the scorch

Of Italia's summer sun baking hard

Once arable land now thirsting so

For a merciful rain not in any forecast

And fences fallen into disrepair are left

To rot, sheep and cattle both, roam

Free - to find water and feed wherever

Possible - or death, which one comes first

It is the fourth or fifth desperate summer

In a row and fences mean nothing nor

Does the idea of farming or ranching

Not down here anyhow - where Christ

Reputedly stopped - Eboli, and south

It is not hard to believe no God comes here.

dreaming the lake mayliewan

bull-rushes all around and swathes

of dry wheat stalks almost obscure

the reflections of the rich owners’

mansions— almost— but tonight

they are mirrored so perfectly

it is as if another group of elaborate

houses lies beneath the calm surface

a surreal Atlantis where I could slip

and enter the fantasy as easily

as entering any other village

the demarcation point where they

meet, a still distinction

it would not be drowning or death

but gentle in the undertow I’d be

taken in the rhythm of the bees

Let's Go Down to the River again...

Starting tomorrow, it's the Mindful Writing River of Stones 2013 Challenge - one small stone per day
For details and to possibly join in with your own stones ... click on this link

http://www.writingourwayhome.com/p/river-jan-12.html

This Just In

Beauty queen and actress found

Face down, lifeless

Never really did belong

(overheard)

"C'mon sweetheart - big smile, shoulders back

Bust out - show your assets - can't go wrong"

Just a pawn in the machine

Swallowed pills, pride, and words

Stayed silent like a good girl

(overheard)

 "Sorry, please, just one more take?"

"I'll be on time from now on, I promise"

"Fired?"

Never had a chance. Unless. No.

Never did.

Wherein the Greatest Advises the Science-Challenged

“Imagination is more important that knowledge,” and

“Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s 

coming attractions,” Albert Einstein

 In the miasma that is quantum physics or mitochondrial DNA

As I struggle to come to understand the chemical mystery

That is my insanity; I rejoice to learn that even Einstein believed

There was more merit in brainstorming about possibilities

Then dwelling on what has already been proven – in fact, he

Once said “I used to go away for weeks in a state of confusion”

A remark very similar to ones I myself make and, not infrequently

While admittedly, Einstein’s “what if’s” have resulted in some

Of the world’s truly great scientific finds and theories

It becomes apparent upon reading his biographies, and there

Are a plethora,   he had a superfluity of those questions –

Perhaps the staggering number alone, coupled with his passionate

Curiosity couldn't help but produce the theory of relativity

For instance – after all, there is certain logic to be considered

Here, and empirical data would suggest that – omigod – I am

Doing some scientific theorizing – am I out of my mind?

Well, yes – given my history, there’s a very good chance ...

It would appear that science and philosophy are growing

Closer together – some are even postulating that God

And Science are nearing a resolution previously thought

Unattainable, or even unthinkable; Albert Einstein must be

Chuckling or maybe just nodding, from wherever he is

After all, he did say, “All religions, arts and sciences are

branches of the same tree.” I could get behind that I think.

Every day, it seems that idea is becoming more accepted

As science embraces religion and vice-versa; Einstein also

Maintained that “God always takes the simplest way” and

“God may be subtle but he isn't plain mean”- a couple of notions

That might not sit well with some forms of the more traditional

Religions but for much of the world, made weary by chaos

Brought on by war and bitterness, the divisiveness that little

Understood factions on both sides have taken to exploiting,

This could be welcome news, especially those who are ready

To accept God and Science as partners in a changing world

THE UNBOUND WE

She sits quiet but seething

Taught what to think, not how

Her damaged psyche

Is just learning to seek

The company of women

Who, like her

Bear scars she wishes to excise

She knows she has the power

Within her to unravel the thread

That's kept her bound to men

Not a single one of whom

Has been any good for her

She is ready to become one

With the whole

She will be part of "we"

Yes.

Lupine Loveliness

Last night you howled me awake

The pair of you, serenading each other

Making music, or love, your voices ululating

Full of such terrible tenderness I found

Myself unable to return to slumber

Sweet but primitive yearning in your voices

Had me wondering, were you about to mate,

Or simply singing eternal love-songs to Luna

As she blessed you with her gibbous fullness

Showering silvery light on shadowy mountain peaks

Thank you for honouring me, oh ancient ones

Granting me your ghostly presence again this year

An affirmation of the circle of life, you surely are

Performing in the darkness as if in a dream;

Stopping by just long enough to grant me peace.                                                                                                                                                                             

To Become Light

I stand free

Ready to become

Light - no more

Excuses - I shift

The childhood

Inherited back beneath

Thunder's umbrella

Deeper than shadows

Of the past

I join to the present

And vow to remain

Here, now

ALONE

In the solitary moments of my separateness
I wonder why you occupy such space
And yet take up so little room
It’s as if you’re everywhere and nowhere all at once

My heart’s chambers on the other hand
Are scoured empty as old pails of lye
Rusting through now in its various weak spots

That comes as no great shock really
Since I’ve been scrubbing at the vestiges of caring for you
Long enough to diminish the thickness of the walls

And even though scars grow without my permission
Over damage we have inflicted simultaneously
I seem able to lessen their callous nature as the years go by

Until they too grow less able to sustain themselves
And eventually I sense them falling off
The way the last withered leaves depart the trees of autumn

I wonder, in my isolated soul, if when I am finally
Irrevocably emptied, without within, unoccupied of energy or life
Will I finally feel the peace of being one with all
Or will my aloneness be the peace I’ve sought all along

Desperately Missing You Who are Gone

I walk at night in the graveyard, and I walk alone

Hoping against despair somehow I will run into you

Knowing in my heart, and in my soul,  you are gone

Reading the stones, I weep, but still you are gone

I try to take it in, realize the truth of it, I am alone

No matter how I twist away from it, I don't have you

Oh what I would give for just one day more with you

It does not matter that I tell myself our days are long gone

No, for then I am left with the sad fact again, I am alone

So, I am walking on alone without you wishing I too were gone.

S.E.Ingraham©

Latching the Gate

A mind floods

with past indiscretions

and other bits

of curvaceous lunacy

Its owner gives

chase as they lace

through narrow synapses

spinning past gateways

permanently stuck open

Trying to map these

is a lesson in futility

as they ricochet

at warp speed from

dark alcove to darker

Gaining even more speed

with dangerous

invisible intent

Any idea of eventual

dwindle, a dim impossibility.

S.E.Ingraham

CHOOSING NOW

In the summer of our lives

When eternity stretched

Before us like a lazy cat

And fall stayed hidden

In the dark corners

Of bureau drawers

Housewives were just something

Our mothers became ...

Never those of us who played ball

Spent months perfecting our pitch

Felt the sting in the palm of a well-worn glove

Choosing to remain ignorant

For as long as possible

Subtracting years ahead

From the now of it

We spurned the future

Chewed the rind of a bitter lemon

S.E.Ingraham©

Routine Hangings

In a strobe-like flicker

It's caught like a black and white

Snapshot - no more than a gesture

Less than the thin skin

Of a timpani drum

Their lips barely touched each other

An act defiant before ...

They stand back to back

Hands tied together

Heads strain through ropes

Meaningless words are uttered

Chairs kicked out from under

They are sent off.

S.E.Ingraham©

We Are

Grief older than the sea

Rawer than the cliff-face

Rips at the tops of the grove

We are giants, we are holy

Trembling is not in our nature

But our roots are being shaken

There is death colouring the sky

Slashing through the pines

And the taste of it is bitterness

Smell the sulphur as the lightning

Strikes,  splits an elder to the ground

The thunder booms triumphant

And we know the game is on - but

We bend together, try for grouping

Try for strengthening - stand as one

It is cyclical we know and can tell

This through the rings that count

Our age - but we also know the time

And feel it to the marrow of our wood

When the sky grows copper bright

And then is limned with lightning too

We whisper urgently as we huddle

Ever closer listening as the storm

Begins to take apart our lower limbs

It sounds like hunting season as shots

Are ringing out - each time a branch

Breaks off and one of us comes closer

To dying while the storm goes raging on

The storm goes raging on bringing death

With every crash, every flash, every sound

And all we can do in our terror, in our fear

Is stand bravely, and hold to our truth

We are older than the wind, we are ancient

We have outlived such chaos before

We must trust we will outlive this

As some of us fly apart in the fierceness

Of the end of days, the rest carry on

It is our destiny, our fate and we embrace it

We are the ones, we will stand tall, we are.

S.E.Ingraham

Over Dinner

Somewhere between the cheesecake

And the devils on horseback

They revisit a topic best left alone

The evening begun with such promise —

fine wine, crisp linen, dimmer switch low

music soft and tasteful; kitchen smells scrumptious—

Rapidly deteriorates, spins with concentric determination

Down, down, down — to the dark place

All too familiar to them both

She feels if she stretches her arms out,

Her hands will feel  cold, damp—

No, not damp —slimy —slimy, wet walls

And she knows the walls will be closing

in on them, on her

He, on the other hand, feels as if the ground

is disappearing beneath their feet

That the more they talk, the less real his world

is becoming

Until soon it and he, will become entirely weightless

He knows there will be no keeping him grounded

That his drifting away from her will have

the permanence of death

Still – try as they might to quell them,

Bitter words, crisp as alum, fall from their lips

Spill like old blood on the empty china plates

Plinking like coins, each one louder,

Uglier than the last

Her hands fly to her face

Touch the heat gathered there and

the salty tears leaking freely

Her voice is stayed and she stares

at him blankly, wondering again,

How is it they have arrived at this place...

The silence gathers like snowdrifts,

catches his ear; he stops to listen,

Stares into her leaking eyes

They stretch their hands towards each other

Grasping for some remnant of their love,

Her lips tremble with the absurdity

Of the notion that they may try

This staying together thing  another time;

How can she consider the idea

For even a second, when they both come

From such vastly different places,

Remember such very different pasts

She tries to remind herself how badly

He rewrites her history

How embellishment is one thing but now,

Every recital  of her transgressions

Has her growing more evil, less well

Then, tonight – oh my God – tonight

She’d almost forgotten that they’d

actually opened

Old-new wounds, some things she’d believed

scarred over

Were apparently never fully slashed apart

in the first place

The fact of the fiction has her feeling surreal

She can't tell which way is up, north, down, east

Her discombobulation so great, she feels

physically unwell

How could her memory be this faulty?

Could she really be this far off the mark?

She feels demented – she knows she's

subject to sadness

And bouts of mania – but demented?

Does she also have to accept that?

Dementia seems such an old person’s thing...

Besides she couldn’t be wrong

about all of her history —

Could she?

S.E.Ingraham©