POETS UNITED - MONEY

“It’s good to have money and the things that money can buy, but it’s good, too, to check up once in a while and make sure that you haven’t lost the things that money can’t buy.” - George Lorimer 

The topic for this week’s Midweek Motif at Poets United is “money”. Here is my contribution: 

The Will 

And finally the will was read,
At the appointed time,
To all interested parties
As stipulated to the solicitor
By the testator. 

“I give all my tangible personal property
And all policies and proceeds of insurance covering such property,
To my son…”
How odd, that he only called me “son” after his death,
While when he lived he simply ignored my existence.

So I have my “father’s” money,
Making his other relatives sour,
Their eyes dripping poison, choosing for me a slow painful death
(Had their eyes been daggers
I would have succumbed to multiple wounds and an easy death).

The stranger who on his deathbed acknowledged me
As his son and legal heir, made me a millionaire.
And yet how poor I feel, when no tears came to my eyes
At his death;
When no sense of loss accompanied his passing…

He left me money, but no memories;
I have no photos in an album;
He taught me nothing, we never spoke;
I know nothing of him, I have no knowledge of his heart;
He spent no time with me, he took no interest in my life.

The money willed to me, is but an afterthought,
A neat sum to buy some ease for his troubled conscience;
Atonement for sins of omission,
A purchase of a ticket to heaven,
Where all good fathers go.

POETS UNITED - CARPE DIEM

“You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today.” - Abraham Lincoln 

This week, Poets United has as its theme “Carpe Diem”, a phrase taken from one of Horace’s odes, which incites us to seize the moment, take every opportunity presented to us and enjoy ourselves, for time flies… 

Carpe Diem 

“Carpe diem,” you said and boasted your classical education
By completing the quote: “…quam minimum credula postero.”, 
And not missing the opportunity to drive home my lack of Latin,
You translated it for me…
“Seize the day, put very little trust in tomorrow.” 

And I smiled, because I loved you and whatever you said
Was music to my ears, flammable fodder for the fire in my heart.
And I failed to heed the dire warning of the quote’s meaning
And the smirk on your face as you carefully drew out the Latin long vowels
And clipped the short ones… 

You were always one for seizing days (and nights moreover),
Taking each opportunity, like plucking a ripe juicy plum;
Mindless of the consequences, unthinking of tomorrow,
Using all and everyone as accessories of your momentary enjoyment
Mindless of the long-term pain you inflicted.

And I forgave you, as I gave you my all, because I loved you,
And my pleasure was to always ensure yours,
Giving you all the plums your heart desired,
Plucking all happiness and making your days worthy of being seized,
(And all the nights, moreover…)

Then came tomorrow and you left, deserted me,
Your only goodbye the hackneyed words by Horace:
“Carpe diem…” and you didn’t complete the quote this time,
As its ending was self evident from your actions –
Nor did you bother to grace me with long and short vowels… 

And I wept, because my understanding of ancient tragedy is deep,
Even though I lack a classical education.
And I cursed Horace and Epicurus and their ilk who fill people’s minds
With hedonistic platitudes (or so do shallow people interpret them);
And I bawled with long vowel “a’s” and screamed with short “e’s”,
Piling maledictions on you, and I trust that your tomorrow
Will make you pay dearly for every day you seized from me
(And every night, moreover).

POETS UNITED - VOICE

“You have no choice. You must leave your ego on the doorstep before you enter love.” ― Kamand Kojouri

For this week’s Midweek Motif, Poets United is exploring the theme of “Voice”. Here is my offering: 

The Silent Telephone

Waiting for a promised call
By the silent telephone
While the sky rotates up above
And the stars laugh mockingly.

Waiting for the silent ‘phone to ring
Watching the clock mark time so slowly,
While the moon hides behind a cloud
And her face thankfully is obscured.

Waiting for your honeyed voice
Once more to drug me,
While my flesh pains me
Its unfeeling inertness a wound incurable.

Waiting for morning light
Waiting for the night to end
Your promised call a slender, sickly hope
Losing more of its tenuous life each passing second.

My life away from you, no life,
An empty waiting game, a vacuum;
Your call, your promised call,
How far away it seems
As endlessly I wait
By the silent telephone,
And as your voice’s drug is lacking
I face the terrors of withdrawal...

POETS UNITED - WORDS

“Better than a thousand hollow words, is one word that brings peace.” - Buddha 

This week, Poets United has as its Midweek Motif the topic “word”. Words are the building blocks of our meaningful utterances. We speak them, write them, read them. They appear fleetingly electronically or acquire a more enduring presence when printed. Better still, words hand-written make the stuff of memories when the writer is a person beloved. 

But words can be two-faced: Smiling or menacing, serene or agitated, calm or angry, superficial or deep, nonsensical or full of substance. Words can be our hope, our solace, our comfort, our joy; but words (or the absence of the right words) can be our nemesis, words can cut sharper than razor, words can wound more deeply than a knife, can kill more surely than a bullet.

Correspondence I
October 9th 1990

Waiting for your letter:
A promise of rain in the drought;
But why must so much die,
While waiting for the rain?

Waiting for your letter:
A promise of freedom to the prisoner
Who must learn to live
Alone with his thoughts in a locked cell.

Waiting for your letter:
A promise of hope to the betrayed
Who already knows that promises are hollow
And hope is an illusion.

“I’ll write...” you said, “I give you my word.”
And once again I dared to hope, that you write me that word,
Knowing full well of the falsity of smiles
And the despair of fruitless waiting.

Correspondence II
October 10th, 1990

Your “letter” awaited me
When I came home today...

It was as I expected it,
And a lot less...

Empty, cold, impersonal
Scribbled hastily on the post office counter.

Few frosty words,
A shallow wish of “...happiness to come...”

And not even a name, nor initial
Signed beneath, only a line quickly drawn
As if with the impatience,
The gladness of having completed
An unpleasant, onerous obligation...

POETS UNITED - SHOES

“Just walk a mile in his moccasins
Before you abuse, criticize and accuse.
If just for one hour, you could find a way 
To see through his eyes, instead of your own muse.”

 – poem excerpt from “Judge Softly” by Mary T. Lathrap, 1895 

This week in Poets United the Midweek motif is “Shoes”. The origin of the English idiom “Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes.” is given above. My poem below: 

Walk in His Shoes

It’s easy to dismiss the homeless man as lazy,
A good-for-nothing shirker of responsibility.
He is the foolish grasshopper who now freezes in Winter,
Because he sang all Summer long, isn’t he?
While we, industrious ants, were working hard…

He sits in a large carton, wrapped in an old, dirty blanket
While his breath condenses into tiny snowflakes.
He trembles and his eyes stare vacantly into the night,
While passers-by (few that they are) ignore him
Wrapped as they are in furs, woolen coats, warm boots.

He knows their thoughts and he’s given up hoping
For a few coins, that would buy him something hot to eat.
Way out beyond hope is the expectation of a kind word,
Someone who’s willing to stop and acknowledge him,
And his wretched existence as a fellow human.

The wind howls and the people rush to catch the train home,
Tonight is no night for laggards, there is no promenading.
The homeless man feels his teeth chattering as the sharp razor
Of the midwinter cold slices through him, freezing his heart
(Does he still have one? – He wonders).

A man and his son stop in front of him and the father drops some money
Into the empty tin the homeless one has forgotten beside his carton.
As the vagrant warmly smiles, the son frowns and admonishes his father:
“Our teacher said to not give money to bums; that sort of thing encourages them,
And they only spend it on booze, and the problem multiplies…”

The father looks at the son, surprised, and says calmly:
“Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes, Son...”
The son look askance at the homeless man, who shifts in his carton
Revealing his bare, dirty, bluish, freezing feet;
“Ha! Look he has no shoes; no doubt he spent the money on liquor.”

The father looks at his son’s warm boots and says:
“Take off your boots and give them to this barefoot man.
Then judge him when you’ve walked home on your naked feet,
Trudging that long mile through icy puddles, mud and dirty water…”

POETS UNITED - MOON

“The moon is friend for the lonesome to talk to.” ― Carl Sandburg 

The poetic inspiration seems to hover like a will-o’-the-wisp, bright and distant, uncatchable if pursued. And yet if one stays put and tries not to catch it at all, it will approach and alight on one’s heart and the words will gush forth. In the past few weeks I’ve been busy with work, family, have had to overcome a swathe of problems. Writing was confined to things of science and things that were matter of fact.

Creativity it seems, thrives on misfortune, but it also thrives on the availability of time and inclination to follow a certain creative path. My creative path took me away to music, so the poet’s voice remained silent. Music sustained me, but poetry beckoned like that ignis fatuus, and I wisely chose to ignore it.  Last night the moon was blue and it was a great moon, which was eclipsed. A once in a century or two phenomenon. The poetic inspiration coincided with this week’s Poets’ United theme, which was: “Make a new poem  for the moon, using a perspective new to you.” Here is my poem: 

The Moon’s Answer 

I ask the silvery moon, as she shines white
High in the sky, making my garden bright: 
“Moon, why should I speak with you
And not with my Love? Pray, tell me, do…” 

She smiles and stays far, so wan and silent,
Her light now steely blue, and cutting – violent; 
“Oh, Moon, you see all, up on your argent throne
But you choose to stay hushed, wise, like a crone.” 

A cloud passes before her lovely face
To hide a tear perhaps, or frown efface? 
“Moon, you too are sad and make good company,
Come with me, and my lonely song accompany.” 

She winks, and off the cloud she shrugs, she smiles,
(Her ways are strange and her manner full of wiles)… 
“Speak, Moon, please answer me my earnest query:
Is my Love true to me, or is she with betrayal leery?” 

A shadow passes and moon’s countenance bloodies,
Her voice rings out and she, in now darkened night,
Replies: “Your Love’s untruth the waters muddies, 
She lies and mocks, and sows doubt and blight.”

“Oh, cruel Moon, why speak such spite incarnadine?
Your golden, uncertain silence, I preferred, ‘twas more benign…” 

The Moon eclipsed speaks hurtful truths, no dulcet lies;
But when she brightly shines, fills she with hope the velvet skies.

POETS UNITED - BITTERSWEET

“A loving heart is the truest wisdom.” - Charles Dickens

In Midweek Motif this week, in the Poets United poetry blog, the theme is: “Bittersweet”. Here is my poetical offering: 


Sweet Bitterness 

The wine you offered, Love,

Was ruby-red, sweet muscat;

A fine vintage with a rich bouquet,

A velvet taste that lingered on the palate,

But the aftertaste, so bitter!

The kiss I took from you, Love,

Was fragrant, fruity, dulcet:

From lips so red, and smiling,

A kiss so freely given, remembered evermore,

And yet the aftertaste, so bitter!

Your softly-spoken words, Love,

Honeyed, soothing, like balsam!

My ears unstopped, to hear, to listen,

Words full of harmony, like music

But their echoes, a cacophony.

The soft caresses, Love,

We gave each other liberally,

Cloud-soft, candied, pleasant,

Soothed away all pain, healed all wounds;

And yet, they left deep aching scars in their wake.

You are a sweet bitterness, Love,

You enchain us all with gossamer,

You wound with feathers and you heal with thorns;

You nourish us with mellow poison

And we starve when we have surfeit of it.

Love, you’re contrary, and your steadfastedness

Betrays all trust, punctures all boats of hope;

You lift us up to heaven, only to dash us down to Tartarus,

You give us strength, only with silken threads

To captivate and weaken us, making of us in our death, immortals.

POETS UNITED - ROSE

“But he that dares not grasp the thorn Should never crave the rose.” - Anne Brontë 

This week’s Midweek Motif in the Poets United poetry blog has as its theme: “The Flower: Rose”. In the Southern Hemisphere we are currently enjoying very warm and fine Spring weather, and our garden is full of roses (you can see some of our roses here). Here is my poetical offering: 

The Sun-rose 

Like a pale pink fragrant rose
The sun rose and the sky blushed.
You, like a rose unfurling
Also blushed on our first morning.

Just as the pale dawn sky reddened,
The sun-rose shed its petals.
Dawn's rosy beauty soon was lost
In fast advancing light and heat
Of full-blown day.

With petals lost, within the rose
The golden seeds ripen
Within each seed sleeps a promise
 Of a burgeoning sun-rose.

POETS UNITED - METEOR SHOWERS

“Look at the sky; remind yourself of the cosmos. Seek vastness at every opportunity in order to see the smallness of yourself.” - Matt Haig 

In the Midweek Motif of Poets United this week, the theme is “Meteor Showers”. My contribution below: 

Meteor Showers 

Billions upon billions of suns
Strewn through the endless emptiness
Of cosmic infinitudes –
I look at them and yet remain indifferent
To the immensity that stares at me,
Being able to contain it all
Within the low walls and ceiling
Holding my brain.

I love.
I love you, and that is:
More important than the speed of light
Within a vacuum;
More rare than comets that careen past
And are glimpsed once in a lifetime;
More precious than the meteor showers,
Which fall around us like golden rain…

What should it matter if now a million suns
Should suddenly decide to supernova?
What if I am but a mite on a speck of dust?
It is enough that I have loved,
Nothing can take that from me.

I love, I feel, I understand:
I am small, insignificant, an atom only
In the endlessness of eternity,
And yet I love and I can pinpoint my existence
In unfaltering co-ordinates.

What if the earth should suddenly expire?
What if the universe decides to crunch?
What if Death around each corner lies in wait?
My only fear now is that we two are on a parallel course
And that the threads of our two lives will never cross...

That which I feel
Is infinitely more important
Than all the vastness looming above, below,
Around all sides of me.
Without you by my side,
The boundless space within me
Annuls the space without.

POETS UNITED - SILENCE

“Absolute silence leads to sadness. It is the image of death.” - Jean-Jacques Rousseau 

For this week’s theme Poets United has set its Midweek Motif as “Silence”. My poem refers to two Hellenistic gods: Harpocrates and Hermes – in case your mythology is rusty, here is what they stood for. 

Harpocrates (Ancient Greek: Ἁρποκράτης) was the god of silence, secrets and confidentiality in the Hellenistic religion developed in Ptolemaic Alexandria (and also an embodiment of hope, according to Plutarch). Harpocrates was adapted by the Greeks from the Egyptian child god Horus. To the ancient Egyptians, Horus represented the newborn sun, rising each day at dawn. When the Greeks conquered Egypt under Alexander the Great, they transformed the Egyptian Horus into the Hellenistic god known as Harpocrates, a rendering from Egyptian Har-pa-khered or Heru-pa-khered (“Horus the Child”). 

Hermes (Greek: Ἑρμῆς) is an Olympian god in Greek religion and mythology, the son of Zeus and the Pleiad Maia, and the second youngest of the Olympian gods (Dionysus being the youngest). Hermes was the emissary and messenger of the gods. Hermes was also “the divine trickster” and “the god of boundaries and the transgression of boundaries, ... the patron of herdsmen, thieves, graves, and heralds.” He is described as moving freely between the worlds of the mortal and divine, and was the conductor of souls into the afterlife. He was also viewed as the protector and patron of roads and travellers.

During Classical and Hellenistic Greece he is usually depicted young and nude, with athleticism, as befits the god of speech and of the gymnastics. When represented as Logios (Greek: Λόγιος, speaker), his attitude is consistent with the attribute, his hands often in an eloquent gesture. 

Silence Befits Harpocrates

O, Horus Child; O, Sun of dawn,

Who by the shores of mighty Nile

You grow into virile manhood,

My forebears dubbed you Harpocrates,

For your Egyptian name was too rough

For their silvery, slippery tongues.

You stand and look at me smiling,

And unlike your children friends

You hold your tongue,

Though all you know, all you’ve seen;

And yet you talk not, you keep my secrets

Betrayer you are not, my loyal friend.

Harpocrates (I too, prefer this name of yours),

You weave fine wreaths of fragrant roses

And even if sharp thorn draws blood

From your pricked finger, you let it flow

And not a word escapes your lips,

No cry of pain, no sigh of fierce frustration.

I shall my lover call Harpocrates, after you,

For he too stays silent, (too silent for my liking),

And he too betrays no confidence,

(Even his own to me he will not give);

I tell all, confide in him and expect in return a flood of words,

But like you Harpocrates, all he does is smile – silently…

To Hermes Logios I shall sacrifice three nightingales,

And hope that he will give you more words than I need;

For while Harpocrates is a fine god for friends,

I’d rather model my lover after Hermes, whose eloquence

I want filling my voids with wise words, small talk, poetry,

Entreaties, vows, idle prattle, and even more vital,

Words of love, sweet talk of passion, nothings of fond affection…

POETS UNITED - SAINTS

“The worst sin toward our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that's the essence of inhumanity.” - George Bernard Shaw 

The theme for this week’s Midweek Motif at Poets United is “Saints”. Here is my contribution: 

The Saint and the Sinner 

The old man built a hermitage in the desert,
For this was to be his lonely retreat,
His escape from a world gone mad.
Here he would come close to his God,
Leave all sinners behind him
In hellish City populated by devils incarnate.

He prayed day and night, fasted, sang hymns,
All for the glory of a God who expected all,
The old man’s penance genuine, his belief unshakeable.
The desert was harsh, his solitude immense,
His self-delivered punishment great
With snakes and scorpions his only companions.

The old man was proclaimed a Saint,
And his fame grew and people flocked to him,
Craving his blessing…
He sent them all away – annoyed as he was
That his eremitic ways were disturbed
And his prayers were interrupted.

The young man in the City was a sinner,
That he knew, as well as he knew the void inside him;
His shame was unfathomable, his remorse endless.
He stayed there in the thick of it, with others of his kind,
For he knew their weakness first-hand, and felt their pain
Deep in his damaged soul, which was contested by the Devil.

He fought hard, with countless temptations to vie with;
His will (almost all lost), first to be regained
And then to be made of iron – no, of tempered steel.
The belief in himself to be won in an unequal battle
With those who taunted and bullied and harassed him;
And once he believed in himself he could believe in a kind God.

The young man stayed and risked being labelled a Sinner,
As he worked with addicts and ex-cons, pimps and street-walkers,
Giving comfort to those in most need of it.
He welcomed all and shied not away from pain, disease, misfortune;
He endured harsh words and harsher beatings, sometimes,
For violence from great misery is begotten.

The old man lived to be a centenarian, a hermit to the end,
His life devoted to his jealous God who doted on his devotion.
The young man died young as the sick he tended
Gave him a disease for which no cure existed.
You tell me then, once you’ve made your mind up,
Who is the Sinner and who the Saint?

POETS UNITED - JOURNEY

“Gradually the magic of Corfu settled over us as gently and clingingly as pollen.” ― Gerald Durrell 

This week, Poets United has as its Midweek Motif theme “Journey”. We are all travellers, spatially, chronologically, experientially and spiritually, so it’s not hard to identify to this theme at all. Here is a memory from one of our trips to Greece, several years ago. 

Journey to Corfu 

A walk alone in the old fortress while the sun sets,

The air so sweet, the breeze so soft, the evening perfect.

Below the city stretches and I see it as if on a magic carpet ride;

The centuries around me crumble, time a fleeting sweet perfume.

The stones, if they could speak, what tales I would hear,

The earth if it could sing, what songs, what hymns, what psalmodies!

I look and sight contented rests for whole eternities on wine dark seas

And my mind travels on a ship hewn of history.

Restore the peeling paint, patch crumbling walls,

Upend the fallen stones and lo, the English to the Venetians cede their place,

And the Venetians to the Romans; behold, the Lion smiles on the arch above,

And somewhere always there, always alight, there is Greek fire.

POETS UNITED - DARK MOON, NEW MOON

“We are all like the bright moon, but we still have our dark side.” ― Kahlil Gibran 

In the Poets United site this week the Midweek Motif theme is Dark Moon, New Moon. My contribution is below:
  
Mistress Moon

Dark Mistress Moon,
You hide your face tonight,
(In shame?)
For mischief’s afoot
And all sorts of foul deeds need to be done… 

O, Moon, my Moon,
You of the radiant countenance
(So pure!)
You’re kind and gentle
When you shine and leaves with silver shower. 

Harsh, Moon, when you veil
Your beauty in dark crêpe,
(In mourning?)
You hide your sadness
And you let your anger, cruelty and vileness beget. 

O, Moon, my Moon,
Your gibbous fecund glow,
(In pregnancy…)
Generates blessings
When you touch with light caress all womankind. 

Dark Mistress Moon,
With sharpened sickle,
(So deadly!)
Tonight you’ll cut

The thread of life of those who dared offend you. 

O, Moon, my Moon,
Tomorrow night reborn,
(In innocence…)
You’ll smile and heal,
And give back hope and dignity to those wronged.

POETS UNITED - OCEANS

“Contrary to what the cynics say, distance is not for the fearful; it's for the bold. It's for those who are willing to spend a lot of time alone in exchange for a little time with the one they love.” — Meghan Daum

When the one we love is far away from us we discover a new way of loving. The experience of our affections alter in quite subtle ways and hits us with quite a punch in our everyday life. The longer the period of absence is protracted, the greater our change and our every action and thought begins to be coloured by that absence. The poem below is for the Poets United Midweek Motif, “Oceans”.

.
Across the Oceans

Though far away, you are close to me,
Because your distant presence
Attunes within my heart, your heart.

Though far away, I hear your voice,
When you call me; and its lingering echo
Resonates deep within my soul.

Though far away, I see your face,
Your smile a distant sun that warms
Each ice-cold fibre of my body.

Though far away, I taste your kiss,
Each time I bite into a ripe strawberry,
Fragrant, lush, juicy and succulent.

Though far away, I speak your name,
And my winged words fly out,
Across the oceans, swiftly to find you;
And in their beaks they carry my kisses,
And in their claws grasp my solitude.

Though far away, you’ll hear my words,
Calling your name, giving you kisses.
And my solitude, delivered to you, will be no more,
As you open your arms and in your dream of me
Will feel my love enveloping you softly.

Across the oceans, distance is annulled,
Love bends both time and space, taming them
And the oceans lose their breadth and depth;
Together our souls will meld and fly above
The crashing waves to find our sunny place.