Song of fragility

These precious wooden eggshells
Out of their tough cases they are vulnerable
But locked away they cannot sing -
when singing is their reason for being.

There is always a tender tension
in a good musician whose instrument
is resting on a chair
even as he chats with colleagues
in an orchestral teabreak.
part of the mind is always attentive
to the fragility he has drawn
out of its case. An attention
not guilty, but born of gratitude
for the open trust
that allows them to sing together.

The defenceless fragility of the walls
is what allows them to vibrate.
The strength of a tree planed down
to this delicate membrane of music.
And something is betrayed when these
fragile cocoons of sound
are ruptured by carelessness or spite.

My body is a dusty guitar
strung by the hair that falls
past the curve of my waist.
Wounds patched, barely visible now,
wholeness restored by patient hours of healing
until the intact walls are ready
to sing again. Yet still the dust lies thick,
undisturbed by the waves of emotion
that once shrugged away both dust and time
The waves of emotion that used to make me tremble
flowing up the shell of me and coming out in sound.
The waves that were stranded in the doldrums
when the songs of my heart
and my body
were silenced by the pain of love’s abandonment.

Unplayed, an instrument
grows stiff, loses its sweetness
must be coaxed back by the gentleness
of patient fingers. As if the wood
knows how fragile its defences are
and fears to once again
be twisted to play uncongenial tunes
by hands that force its fragile walls
not to resonate
but distort.

Yet a body that has once known the joy of song
will always yearn to sing again.
And the music that is in me
cannot be silenced
for long.

This responds to two prompts – the picture above, by crzycowgrl046 at photobucket, which is the Monday Mural at Poefusion, and this week’s prompt at One Single Impression – defences down.

Time to leave…

I’ve written two poems for the latest totally optional prompts, time to leave. Which struck me with particular relevance because I’m due to leave the country where I currently live and work in exactly a month from today.

The first poem I wrote, the second to appear here, seemed a bit bland, though did capture some of what I was feeling. And then I came across the Friday 5 at Poefusion – to write a poem using the words apiculate, sedulous, blisters, pheromones, earmarked. And out came another poem that I liked better.

1:
Time is apiculate
Like a drop of water on a leaf vein I roll
towards the point where I will be
inevitably
flicked into the void.

Each night I awaken many times
my sheets churned in imitation of my paper-littered office
On my bedside desk a notebook dozes
Waiting to grant absolution for these night-time frettings
I scribble down new tasks, gripping the pen
hard enough to get blisters.

And so the new day opens with each hour already
earmarked for another score of sedulous steps
towards the ending.

And yet despite each day’s struggles,
the boulder rolls back, every evening,
with a cargo of new tasks to trouble my sleeping.

Sometimes my tired body
catches a whiff of pheromones.
As if something is waiting for me
beyond these deadline-fenced days. But what?

Is it the scent of the fresh-mown grass
where I will roll with sheer joy
like a horse still sweaty from its just-removed harness?

Or does it presage the scent
of another sort of rolling entirely?

 

2:

Once these winding streets looked new
Waiting to be walked and seen
Once the flawless sky of blue
was a treat, not just routine

Once the flavour of papaya
Welcomed me to my new place
Once I struggled and enquired
And now I babble at a rapid pace

Once my colleagues here were strangers
And now I know them far too well.
Once I was nervous of unknown dangers
Yet habit quickly broke fear’s spell.

How it all looks different, now I know
That very soon it will be time to go.

One way

Pages of my past
Smudged with wild drafting errors
Stubbornly resist
The most fervent eraser’s
Attempts to prettify them.

A tanka for Totally Optional Prompts – this week, “one way”.

Seduction

Above my firmly planted feet
my slender waist sways
as I turn to show myself
in my full glory.

I tread, as all beauties must
that delicate knife edge -
Seducing those with what I need.
Avoiding those who might hurt.

Youth is achingly short – so I
must seize each sunlit hour.
Before age’s frost can wither
the very life in my veins.

So don’t call me names
or criticise my seductive ways.
Don’t blame me because I
dress in the sexiest colours;

chosen to flaunt, not conceal
my intimate parts, which glisten
with the tantalising nectar
so many bees have died for.

This was inspired (rather belatedly) by an old Totally Optional Prompt – to write a poem from the point of view of a flower! Well, what else did you think I was writing about?

Dancing – a ghazal

Life’s music may set our arms mourning or our feet dancing
And yet whatever its melody, we are always dancing

A bright lightning flashes between the minds and hearts
Of a man and the desirable woman he espies dancing

Some may baulk, finding dancing too spontaneous or sensuous
Yet who can live freely who is hesitant when he tries dancing?

Revelling in compatibility and caressed with compliments,
Lovers smile at each other, their bright eyes dancing.

Some spin webs to trap their lovers and bind them close
Yet love is starved by conversations that are merely lies dancing.

Love has a power to give our fleeting lives
The brilliant beauty of butterflies dancing

Some walk the journey of their life, others run or crawl.
Happiest those whose words sing, who spend their lives dancing.

This is my first attempt at a ghazal, prompted by totallyoptionalprompts, on whose site you can find links to guidance on this form, and will soon be able to find examples by other poets. It’s a challenging form and I’ve not quite got the hang of it yet!

Edit – I’ve just been reading more about the Ghazal (HT to Brad) and have changed the last line, which used to be: “But the wise and happy travel through their lives, dancing”.

Slow times

Some days walk slowly past.

Limping,
or dawdling,
or just plain tired.

On the flat path,
yesterday’s pebbles become
daunting obstacles
(remember -
it’s much, much easier
to trip over a molehill
than a mountain.)

Nowness is diluted.
Vividness muted.

Nothing is wrong and yet
each moment is heavy
with the absence of 
the active joy 
of everything going just right.

Muscles miss the effort of climbing
as much as the easy swing of descending.

Time dawdles from day to day
wrapped around bright flashes of
things that insist on being noticed.

But these slow times
are just as much a part of life
as the roaring torrent of ecstasy and heartbreak that is love,
or the surge of adrenaline in a body facing times of stress and change.

Patience is as necessary as courage.
And the flat path is also
part of the journey.

So I walk on
through the ambling days. Certain
that interesting times are ahead.

 

I’d forgotten that this week’s Totally Optional Prompt was to write about tempo… but maybe it was working away in the back of my mind, because I wrote this, and only after writing it realised that this was very appropriate to the prompt!

Summer and winter

Winter feels coldest
When everyone else is
Enjoying summer.

They bask, relaxed on
life’s green lawns, full of summer.
Joy warming their bones.

Blanketed, I shrink.
Sipping comforting hot tea
Waiting for the sun.

This is partly a reflection on what it’s like to keep being prompted to write poems about summer in the southern hemisphere’s winter. It’s also partly a reflection on how other people’s happiness looks when we’re going through more difficult times. Each verse is a senryu/haiku, and while they work together I’ve written them so they can also stand alone.

(I wrote another set of haiku contrasting summer and winter quite some time ago – in rather a different mood!)