On the fence

Fence ~ Photograph by Randy Baker (c) 2015

Fence ~ Photograph by Randy Baker (c) 2015

Randy Baker is a friend who loves the southern countryside and captures it beautifully in his photographs. Like many, he considers his pictures to be “just photos” and not art. He is modest about his talents for capturing beauty in a split-second shot. To me, this is art at its best.

I’ve held on to this picture all summer. It’s such a simple picture, and yet it is a perfect picture. Its subject is straight-forward–it’s a photo of a fence in the countryside. Yes, there are lots of fences. But look closely at this picture. The most noticeable feature is the upright stake, but it’s not just a pre-milled wooden stake. It’s a section of a tree still covered in bark. It also has a section that once was part of a limb and now appears to be almost a mouth sharing its thoughts with us on this cloudy summer day. The texture, the color of the bark, and then the color and texture around it in the grass and the wild flowers to the right and the cut and fallen grasses in front–all of these make it a photo you want to study for a long. I have certainly done just that.

This picture also made me want to re-read Robert Frost’s wonderful poem, The Mending Wall. I spent a whole morning reading and rereading that magificent poem and then reading some critical interpretations of it. I left refreshed and in still very much in awe of Frost’s brilliance. No wonder everyone remembers that poem or at least the famous lines it has given us. So this picture also gave me this–a little detour into rereading one of the great American poems that I hadn’t picked up in decades.

But Randy’s picture is not of a wall in need of repair or mending. It is a wall made of air, wire and wood. An entirely different type of barrier from a stone wall. The purpose is the same–it demarcates land ownership, and it keeps something out–or in. That is what got this poetic mind going.

What does a fence really do?

Here are my responses to the question of what a fence is or might be. I’ve looked at this picture so many times, and this single picture has inspired quite a few poems. These are very brief poems–sketches in verse, plus there is one poem about fences as a metaphor for our own need to be guarded at times.

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the only real fence is in my head

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on the fence—
am I in
or am I out?

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Clichés abound
when it comes
to fences.

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And here is a poem for all of us who guard our hearts so closely:

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My Fence

 

What do they —or you—
know about my fence,
and how carefully
I chose to build it?

Can you guess
how long
it took to build it?

A lifetime of habit,
carefully constructed
and often hidden habits,

a life spent half in fear
of being judged
unkindly, unfairly,

with malice
in another heart.

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Note
: I would like to thank Randy Baker for allowing me to use this beautiful photograph that he took in the beautiful mountains of Virginia. It is a picture I would like to have framed and hanging near my writing desk. Randy, your pictures are always inspiring and bring a clarity to both the mind and heart. Thank you so much.

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Transformation and the Ineluctable Signs of Ageing, prose poem by Mary Kendall (My Meta-Morphosis Series)

My thanks to Silver Birch Press for including my poem in this wonderful series. I have been enjoying reading all the poems posted, each so different from the others.

silverbirchpress's avatarSilver Birch Press

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Transformation and the Ineluctable Signs of Ageing
by Mary Kendall

This is not my first transformation. No, it happened way back when—six decades and then some, and I find myself no longer who I thought I was just ten, twenty or even thirty years ago. Those were other lifetimes, times I lived through, times I felt so alive, enjoyed, loved, and times I remember, but those were lives I knew I had passed through completely.

I have the evidence.

Now, going further back in time—forty or fifty years ago, it all begins to change. It starts to slow down—slow—slow—slow—as if someone has put a finger out and touched the spinning world—and now it slows down enough as if I must to look for a place to rest.

This viewing backwards makes me dizzy—dizzy—dizzy enough to want to keep traveling back to the end, which in fact is the beginning, and…

View original post 500 more words

Who Am I?

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Who Am I?

I am just a wisp,
a vision caught
at the edge of your eye.

I am just a thought,
a touch on the arm
you almost don’t feel.

I am just a memory
pulled back down to earth.

I am just an image
of what could be
but is not.

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To hear me reading this poem, simply click on the link below. Wait a few seconds for it to begin.

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This poem originally appeared in The Aroostook Review, May 2006

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Note: the rainbow picture is my own, but the beautiful purple flower is by Yolanda Litton, one of my favorite photographers.

 

 

 

Sonnet: The Meteor Shower (Get Ready for the Perseids)

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“Multi-photo composite showing Perseid meteors shooting from their radiant point in the constellation Perseus. This year’s Perseid shower will peak on August 12-13 (Wednesday night-Thursday morning) with a meteor a minute visible from a dark sky.” Credit: NASA

Excellent information source : http://www.universetoday.com/121599/kick-back-look-up-were-in-for-a-great-perseid-meteor-shower/

“Every August, the night sky is peppered with little bits of comet debris in what we call the annual Perseid meteor shower. In 2015, the Perseids will peak on Aug. 12 and 13, with up to 100 meteors per hour possible for observers with clear, dark skies, according to NASA. The Perseids are bits of the comet Swift-Tuttle and often create the most amazing meteor shower of the year.”  (www.space.com)

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Now that you know all about the great Perseid Meteor Shower of 2015, get your blankets ready, and go out before dawn on August 13.

My poem in honor of this spectacular celestial show is a sonnet called, “The Meteor Shower.” Written a few years back, it has never been published. I thought it would be nice to post it this week and share it with a few readers other than myself. 

The sonnet form I chose was the Spenserian sonnet form, invented by poet Edmund Spenser:     

a b a b     bc b c     c d c d     e e

I’ve provided an audio clip below to listen to with the poem or while you look at the beautiful pictures above or the lovely one following the poem.  (Note: audio takes a few seconds to begin after you press the play button.)

The Meteor Shower

 

But who can hold the stars? Let us look then,
Let us hear what songs the skies are singing
As we lie here on the dewy grass when
The Perseids start their wild summer dancing,

And we are so enraptured, not thinking
Of anything but this heavenly sight,
Unable to look away from shooting
Stars that sprint and leap, now left, then right.

Beneath this show, on such a timeless night
As life stands still, we glance at every star
In wonder that pieces of debris might
Create syncopated movement from afar.

Such beauty holds us quiet, but these thoughts
Betray the silence hidden in our hearts.

perseid-shower

My Attic is Full

AUDIO COMES TO MY BLOG!

It’s time to try something new on my blog now that I’ve reached the one year anniversary. I’m adding an audio version of this poem, “My Attic is Full.”

 

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This week’s poem was written in 2011 for a friend I worked/taught with, Jean Sotelo Coene. Somehow we got to talking about cleaning attics and about all the treasures hidden up there and how hard it was to part with things. Jean mentioned her grandmother’s handbag and all the stories it held and that was it…a tiny seed of a poem was planted. I don’t know how those things come to be while others never take hold. I wrote the poem and gave it to Jean as a little present. I love to gift poems to just one person. For that reason, no one has read the poem except for each of us.

Today I was going through some lovely photos from a trip to Cornwall in 2013. [See Bedford Square +2, my travel blog for the whole story of that visit if interested.] We had visited a small manor house, Lanhydrock. [http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/lanhydrock/] Part of our wanderings allowed access to the attic. Of course it was beautifully staged as were all the rooms in the house, but seeing these pictures this morning was too hard to resist. I worked on the poem today, changing words here and there, adding in a whole stanza and then deleting it. In the end, I liked the first version best. Only a few words are different from the one I handed to Jean.

This poem is dedicated to the memories of all grandmothers who gave us so many wonderful stories to listen to, to dream about, and to share.

To hear the audio, simply click below. I am not much of a professional reader so please bear with me.

 

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My Attic is Full

The attic needs cleaning. It seems so simple,
but it isn’t easy to throw old things away.
There is always the worry we might forget
those we loved, the ones crossed over.

Old boxes hold memories and clothing.
Do you hear the stories held in the silence?
A flowery print dress of soft lawn cotton
holds the story of when it was freshly laundered
and worn in the days of the mid-summer sun.

An old leather purse might tell you where
she went and what she wore.
Inside, a handkerchief delicately edged
in tatted lace is tucked away.

How often she must have clutched it
in her hand to wipe away tears or sneezes,
stifle laughter or mop her brow.
Even now the linen is redolent of old
damask roses from the flower garden.

Beyond the piled boxes of her belongings
are clothes from her husband so long mourned.
She kept them up here all those years,
the only way to keep him near.

Don’t you wonder how often she came up
into this dark attic, pulled the light string,
unfolded a crisp white shirt
and held it to her nose, eyes tightly closed
longing for the scent
that had faded from his pillow?

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Summer Poem 2 ~

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My thanks to my dear friend and photographer, Yolanda Litton for allowing me to use her beautiful picture of the Provençal countryside.