This is my third tanka in the fall/winter 2016 issue of GUSTS, the journal of Tanka Canada and edited by Kozue Ozawa.
Tanka by Mary Kendall
Published in GUSTS, NO. 24, Contemporary Tanka, Fall/Winter 2016 (Tanka Canada)
Category Archives: meditative poetry
Smiles from strangers … (a tanka)
It’s an honor to have three tanka in the fall/winter 2016 issue of GUSTS, the journal of Tanka Canada and edited by Kozue Ozawa. Here is the first one:
smiles from strangers
amidst the ragged flow
of city streets —
stitching small holes
in the human heart
Tanka by Mary Kendall
Published in GUSTS, NO. 24, Contemporary Tanka, Fall/Winter 2016 (Tanka Canada)
Words grow muted . . . (a tanka)
words grow muted
and hearing diminished –
I begin to tiptoe
along the lonely curve
of inner silence
Title Unspecified, by Jean “Hans” Arp (French, b. German), 1950s
This tanka was published in The Ekphrastic Review: writing and art on art and writing on September 13, 2016. The journal is edited by Lorette C. Luzajic as part of the Ekphrastic 20 Challenge.
To visit the site, please click on this link: http://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/a-tanka-by-mary-kendall
Grief (a haiga)
This haiga was published in Wild Plum, a haiku journal, 2:2 Fall & Winter 2016.
My warmest thanks to the editors, Gabriel Sawicki and Maria Tomczak.
Arrowheads rise…
It is always an honor to have a tanka published in , the Journal of the Tanka Society of America. My thanks to editor David Rice for selecting this poem.
arrowheads
rise to the surface
in a newly plowed field …
old memories
can be unexpected, too
Published:
Ribbons (Journal of the Tanka Society of America), Spring/Summer 2016, Volume 12, Number 2 (page 37)
I want to sing…
My thanks to Michael McClintock, editor of the Tanka Café in Ribbons, the Journal of the Tanka Society of America. The prompt was poems of spring and summer. Here is mine:
Sleepy French Canals…
And now my last tanka to appear in Frameless Sky 4 (Summer 2016), edited by Christine L. Villa. The beautiful photograph paired with this poem is by Irena Iris Szewczyk
To hear me read this tanka, simply click on the link below:
Notes:
My warmest thanks to Chrissi, for publishing this and my other pieces in Frameless Sky 4
and to Irena, for creating such a lovely picture and allowing my tanka to join it.
Closing the book…
This tanka was also published in Frameless Sky 4 (Summer 2016).
To hear me read this tanka, just click on the link below:
Learning to forgive…
One more tanka appearing in Frameless Sky 4 (Summer 2016), edited by Christine L. Villa.
To hear me read the poem, just click on the link below:
The hidden depths of sorrow
Another pairing of a tanka of mine with a stunning photography by Irena Iris Szewczyk that was published in Frameless Sky 4 (Summer 2016). I am amazed at how perfectly they matched…a big thank you to Christine L. Villa, editor of Frameless Sky for her excellent work and to Irena Iris Szewczyk for her beautiful photograph.
This link below is of me reading this tanka:
Clouds (haiku)
Another haiku published in Frameless Sky 4 (Summer 2016), edited by Christine L. Villa.
My thanks to Christine L. Villa for selecting this haiku for publication.
Looking back…
In Frameless Sky 4, editor Christine L. Villa paired my haiku/senryu with a another lovely photograph of Irena Iris Szewczyk. My thanks go to Irena Iris Szewczyk and to Christine L. Villa, editor of Frameless Sky.
Words by Mary Kendall
Photograph by Irena Iris Szewczyk
Frameless Sky 4, Summer 2016
So many I loved now gone
In Frameless Sky 4, my tanka was set to this beautiful photograph of Irena Iris Szewczyk. My warmest thanks to Irena Iris Szewczyk and to Christine L. Villa, editor of Frameless Sky. I will be posting others from this fine video publication in the next week.
A link to me reading this tanka is given below:
A Few Extra Notes:
Irena Iris Szewczyk is both a distinguished photographer and haiku poet. Irina blogs at Iris Haiku where she posts her photographs and her haiku: http://iris-haiku.blogspot.com
Her artwork for Frameless Sky 4 can be seen here: http://framelesssky.weebly.com/artwork.html
Christine L. Villa is editor of Frameless Sky. She is a distinguished poet herself. Her blog is called Blossom Rain and is located here: http://blossomrain.blogspot.com
Frameless Sky can be found here: http://framelesssky.weebly.com
All the blame… (a tanka)
My thanks to editor and poet, Pamela A. Babusci for publishing this tanka in Moonbathing, a Journal of Women’s Tanka, Issue 14, June 2016
To listen to me read this tanka, click on the link below:
This inner fire …
My second tanka published this week in A Hundred Gourds:
A Hundred Gourds 5:3 June 2016
You departed…
One of the finest journals around for Japanese short form poetry has been A Hundred Gourds. The editors announced several months ago that the June issue would be the last issue. This is a great loss, but there is an amazing amount of work editors do to make a journal of this caliber work so well. The tanka editor, Susan Constable, is one of the finest poets around, and her skill and advice as an editor is special. I know I have learned a great deal from her through our correspondence this past year. My thanks go to all the excellent editors of this journal. I am fortunate to have two tanka selected for this final issue of A Hundred Gourds. I will be posting them separately, one today and one tomorrow.
A Hundred Gourds 5:3 June 2016
hospice…
The Heron’s Nest, Volume XVIII, Number 2: June 2016
Two New Haiga
June has brought with it the publication of some excellent journals. I love being able to read through them and enjoy the poems. Some are haiku, haiga, senryu or haibun, and others are tanka, tanka art or tanka prose. Hours and hours of fine reading that will stretch into the whole month of June.
I’ve been fortunate to have a number of small poems published this month. I’ll post these by type and by publication over the next week. Today I will begin with two haiga that were published in the newest issues of cattails, the publication of the United Haiku and Tanka Society.
Both haiga were published in the May 2016 edition of cattails, collected works of the United Haiku and Tanka Society.
Poem: On Viewing a Skull Painting by Georgia O’Keefe
I love Georgia O’Keefe’s quirky paintings and perspective. She did a lot of work using skulls, which seems quite natural. New Mexico must yield all sorts of bones in the mountains and deserts. Just as she studied and painted flowers, so she did the same with animal bones and skulls. She was very prolific in her work, painting a skull or pelvis in many views, often accompanied by a flower or other desert item. Many didn’t like her bone paintings, but that didn’t deter her in the slightest. Even her husband, photographer Alfred Stieglitz, was initially critical of them. He later relented, as did most critics. To find beauty in death and decomposition and to create art that is somehow mesmerizing and thoughtful is quite an accomplishment.
This poem is from my chapbook (Erasing the Doubt (c) 2015, Finishing Line Press). It is hidden amongst just a few of these wonderful paintings.
Georgia O’Keefe and cow skull
Bob’s Steer Head by Georgia O’Keefe (c) 1936
Cow’s Skull with Calico Roses by Georgia O’Keefe (c) 1931
On Viewing a Skull Painting by Georgia O’Keeffe
- The Artist’s View of the Skull as Form
The sinuous curve
hollowed circle
smooth chalky bone
worn smooth, it goes
beyond the form
behind the slow dip
of the arching eye
twisting and curving
back on itself
2. The Skull’s Perspective
At first it all felt wrong,
reversed, bent forward
in a geometric embrace
of mass and space,
the brush stroke
through the hollow eye
that will never see,
beyond to the delicate shell
of the brain
that will never again think,
moving slowly
into that shadow of light
the sky insinuates itself in color
and it is there
that you alone can wander,
deep inside the form that is me
Georgia O’Keeffe, Ram’s Skull with Hollyhock, (c) 1935
Deer’s Skull with Pedernal by Georgia O’Keefe (c) 1936
Compassion (a poem about depression)
Depression is not very pretty. Nor is it very kind. It has many faces, and it comes and goes as it pleases. It can affect almost anyone. If you are someone who has struggled with depression, you know it never goes away completely but hides, waiting for the right moment to reappear. It isn’t something to be lightly dismissed in yourself or in others who suffer from it. Who hasn’t seen the devastating effect it can have on a vulnerable person? I’ve struggled with it, and I’ve certainly known many others who were also affected by it.
.
Watching someone you love battle depression is never easy. It isn’t easily “fixed,” even in this age of modern medicine. Therapy and medicines are there, and for some people they help so much, but for others, less so. Compassion, patience, unconditional love and presence are the lifelines we can offer…to someone else and to ourselves.
.
To listen to me read this poem, please click on the link below. It will take a minute to begin.
.
.
Compassion
Taking on your pain was something
I tried to do, like slipping on your
jacket, pushing an arm in and then
another, pulling it tight around myself,
hoping that by feeling what you do,
it would diminish your pain.
No matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t a fit.
Your depression fell around me in loose
folds, the sadness sagging around my heart.
Besides, it would leave you cold, open
to the fickle winds that blew your way.
Compassion was first published in Erasing the Doubt by Mary Kendall
(Finishing Line Press © 2015)
Sunday Morning
The Ekphrastic Review: writing and art on art and writing, has published my poem, “Sunday Morning.”
Let me give you a brief “back story” on this poem. Many years ago, I stopped writing completely for around twenty-five years. Total silence in my life. I don’t know why it happened, but it did. After what can only be be termed a spiritual experience on a trip to the Fijordland in New Zealand, poetry somehow magically entered my life again. I can’t explain this. It just happened, and I know it happened for a reason. This poem was the first complete poem I wrote when my poetic “voice” returned, and it’s only been read by one other person until today. It’s taken me about fifteen years to gather courage to submit it anywhere. My deepest thanks to editor, Lorette C. Luzajic, for publishing this piece.
Here is the link to the journal: http://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/april-21st-2016
Rijksmuseum, Out the Window (c) 2013 Mary Kendall
Sunday Morning
Hymns unsung, prayers unsaid,
I sat by the window and prayed
for forgiveness one more time;
one more time I begged.
Holding the cup of coffee in my hand,
I hoped the warmth would fill me
where your words had left me cold,
but I knew nothing could do that—
fire can burn for hours and be unfelt.
Hymns unsung, prayers unsaid,
I lay down on the empty bed, pulling
the blanket across my cheek, turning
from the window, from the sky
and the sun, praying for some rest.
Note: The window in the photo is not, of course, the window of the poem. I love taking pictures of windows when I travel, especially indside looking out. This photo was taken in June 2013 when my husband and I were in Amsterdam, visiting the beautiful Rijksmuseum.
Gusts ~ Tanka #2
Without Light ~ A Tanka Sequence
My very first tanka sequence was published in RIBBONS: Journal of the American Tanka Society, Winter 2016: Volume 12, Number 1. My thanks to editor, David Rice, for suggesting to me that these three tanka would work best in a sequence.
Silk Strands, a New Haiga
This haiga appeared on Daily Haiga on March 23, 2016. I would like to thank my dear friend, Sheppy Vann, for allowing me to use her beautiful photograph for this piece.
Here is the link to the original: http://www.dailyhaiga.org/haiga-archives/1805/-fall-s-footrpints-by-mary-kendall-usa
Marching on…
Two tanka and one haiku were published
in A Hundred Gourds 5:2 March 2016
~~~
A Hundred Gourds 5:2 March 2016
http://www.ahundredgourds.com
The first blossom of spring…
What a joy it is to open a journal–online or in print–and find your own work included among poems by poets you admire greatly. March 1st has been a special day since several wonderful publications all appeared on the same day. I’ll post separately for each journal, since I am hoping that you will go directly to the journal and read the work of the other poets that are included.
The first one is a very lovely journal, Wild Plum – a haiku journal, edited by Gabriel Sawicki who lives in Poland. This is volume 2, issue 1. https://wildplumhaiku.wordpress.com
A feature I love is that the new isssue downloads as a pdf file to enjoy now as well as later: https://wildplumhaiku.files.wordpress.com/2016/02/wild-plum-spring-summer-2016.pdf
I have two pieces included in this issue:
The first is a haiku on page 45:
and the second piece is a Haiga (page 11) using a photo I took from our flat in London looking out at the twilight sky of Bedford Square Gardens:
I hope readers will come to realize that meditation is very natural and we often do it without trying, especially at times such as studying a beautiful sky and clouds. Those moments are very centering, and you find yourself breathing more slowly and feeling more relaxed. I hope my Haiga conveys that to you.
Another Love Poem…
Photograph (c) 2010 by Patti Chronert
Another Love Poem…
If you’d like to hear me read this poem, please click on the link below. Wait a few seconds for it to load. I hope you enjoy both listening and reading this love poem.
Another Love Poem…
~ To my husband and partner of forty years ~
We walked along in the Tuileries
alone among the chestnut trees,
morning sky of crisp pale gold
so many paths we have strolled,
and still we wander, just us two,
my heart never very far from you.
We stop to sit and watch the birds
green park chairs, unspoken words,
plain sparrows chirp, so unadorned
no beauty lost, no beauty mourned.
Simple thoughts are often most true—
no man was ever loved more than you.
Heart Stone by Mary Kendall
Night Music (haiga)
This photo haiga was created by me as a response to a prompt: ZENITH. This is one day in NaHaiWriMo (National Haiku Writing Month) on Facebook during the month of February.
Brushing Your Hair
Brushing Your Hair
In the last month you ask me a favor.
Will I brush your hair when you have passed?
You seem to want to greet whatever comes
looking your best. I give my promise.
Each day when I come home, I offer
to brush your hair, but you say no,
maintaining the independence
you have always shown.
Later, in hospice, I no longer ask.
I hold your hands, rubbing lotion in,
skin so fragile, like a butterfly wing.
It is time now to make the last ablutions.
I clean your face and brush your hair,
your sleeping eyes flicker
under paper-thin lids, pale blue veins
tracing their course across them.
I imagine your mother tenderly holding you,
stroking your cheek, watching you dream
in her arms—her newborn daughter
with milky breath.
Ninety-one years separate us, your two watchers.
One joyously bringing you into the world;
the other sitting silently in the dim-lit room,
keeping watch over you through the night.
The poem, “Brushing Your Hair” is from my chapbook, Erasing the Doubt (c) 2015, Finishing Line Press.
Mary, Mary…poem by Mary Kendall (SAME NAME Poetry and Prose Series)
A new poem just up at Silver Birch Press. Click at the bottom to get to the original on the SBP site.
Mary, Mary…
by Mary Kendall
Unwanted.
Unloved.
Shunned.
Spoiled.
Rude.
Aggressive.
Obstinate.
Outspoken.
Contrary.
Sour.
Gloomy.
Dismissive.
Shut away.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Your attributes, little Mary.
A long list.
No one liked you.
Except for me.
Not true. There were others.
Your sweet Indian Ayah, who fed you,
washed you, dressed you, taught you,
tolerated your contrary ways, angry words,
miserable frown. She held you close,
rocked you after nightmares and dark dreams,
fanned you in the hot Indian summers.
She sang to you—mellifluous, soothing songs.
Your mother denied your existence, hid you away from view,
just as later, you’d find your cousin Colin, hidden away, too.
Denial.
What damage it did.
What pain it caused.
Like a plant held too long in a small pot,
its roots pot-bound and crippled,
Colin, unwanted and denied like you.
Unwanted.
Unloved.
Denied.
My family separated when I was just five,
I felt…
View original post 514 more words
Dream Time 2
This tanka art piece is the second in my Dream Time series of poems. To read the first poem in the series (on this blog), follow this link:
As you’ll notice the two poems are quite different in style and content, but I’ve grouped them together in Dream Time since both were written while poised on that slender edge of dreaming into another time and place.
A Special Word of Thanks:
A big thank you to my dear husband, Ritchie D. Kendall, who took this photograph on a hill in Greenwich in 2013 when we were living in London.
Crow on a Willow Branch, Japanese woodprint, Library of Congress woodprint
Small Poems for a Cold Winter Day
In my last posting here, I put up a new haiga that was just published in cattails, January 2016, the journal of the United Haiku and Tanka Society, but I was really very fortunate this time round in having three other poems published in the same issue: a haiku, a senryu, and a tanka.
cattails, January 2016, haiku, p. 8:
winter—
each day closing in
on itself
cattails, January 2016, tanka, p. 4:
chased away
by a gang of crows
the red-tailed hawk—
being different
is never easy
cattails, January 2016, senryu, p. 9:
black Friday—
the vultures circle
round and round
Migraine (haiga)
Published in cattails, January 2016:
haiku and photography by Mary Kendall (c) 2016
Winter Night Sky (a tanka)
Starry Sky (c) Kayaga
how could the moon
show its face
without light
…how could the stars
sing us songs?
Reflections on a new year…
Beauty in Broken Pieces
New Note as of March 11, 2016: This poem has just been published on a favorite online journal called Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art and Writing. A link to the journal: http://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/beauty-in-broken-pieces-by-mary-kendall
~ ~ ~
Readers of this blog don’t always notice its subtitle: One Poet’s Practice. I like to practice. I like to experiment. All poets do. Without stretching the mind, you fall into the pattern of repetition. Each poem starts sounding like the last or the next.
I have been writing a lot in short form poetry–haiku, haiga, tanka, and other small poems. Today, in an effort to go in a completely different direction, I offer you a very long, rambling poem–quite unlike me, I know. It is called “Beauty in Broken Pieces,” inspired by a lovely photograph taken in Dublin, Ireland by India Leigh Lassiter, herself a talented writer as well as photographer. Thank you, India, for allowing me to use your picture as a starting point for this poem.
To hear me read this poem, please click on the link below (give it a minute to load):
Blue Spiral, Dublin, Ireland (c) 2015 photograph by India Leigh Lassiter
Beauty in Broken Pieces…
Perhaps it was once a deep blue vase,
holding seven pale pink peonies
freshly cut one May morning…
the silence shattered
suddenly when
she lost her balance,
grabbed
the oval table
and together
crashed down,
one in splintered pieces,
the other dazed
watching the water
slowly spread
under the petals.
Or perhaps…
it was packed away in a doctor’s study,
an old cabinet filled with bottles…
cobalt blue bottles with faded labels,
the dark blue hinting of hidden secrets,
dangers that lay in long-dried residue
of those bottles that were shattered
and thrown upon a fire
that raged for hours,
flaring up in vivid hues
of acid green
and mustard yellow,
tipped with amber,
azure and moon,
the air once heavy
with poison
and dreams.
Or…maybe
there was no story.
Do you believe the whole really is bigger
than the sum of its parts?
And please, don’t let’s forget
there is always
perspective.
Large things are large,
but small things
are also large
if seen
close
up.
It is lovely, this small mosaic
made of glass in shades of blue,
blue so dark,
it might still hold the sound
of the ocean from the sand
that washed up and back
over and over
dancing on the ocean floor
before it became
the glass
we see…
for what is glass
but sand
and fire,
beach
and
star?
even
a simple
spiral
mosaic
in shades
of blue, pearl and silver
might hold the deep bass song
of the darkling ocean,
the glimmering
whispers
of clouds
above,
patterns spiraling through nature
like our thoughts about beauty,
reality or memory’s truth
Fibonacci gave it his name,
the Greeks gave it meaning
with their golden ratio…
it exists everywhere
… a simple nautilus shell,
the sunflower’s seed head
that turns to the sun,
and following its cue, the pinecone,
the hurricane, even the galaxy, the cosmos
and here with this Irish glass spiral
we come full circle of woman
with camera, snapping
a photo, capturing
the balance of
silvery bits
and pearl
to blue
done
just
so
.
goniatite-fossil
Fly me to the moon…haiku for the season
Full Moon of the Winter Solstice (c) 2010 Martin Liebermann
As I post this, it is the morning of the winter solstice of 2015. Where I live in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, the winter solstice officially happens tonight at 11:49 pm, EST. Wherever YOU are, it will happen at a different hour or perhaps the same. Readers of this blog come from all over the world–one of the joys in blogging is seeing the list of countries of readers–and I love imagining the moon going through its magical phases for each of you. Tonight, the solstice. Later this week, a full moon. What more could we want?
These are some of my earliest haiku:
WINTER MOON HAIKU
First published on Poets Online (c) Mary Kendall
Later used as lyrics in “Winter Moon” by Paul Carey, a piece for women’s chorus in (c) 2011.
night snow
boughs dreaming
of first blossoms
Fog filled woods~
even the winter moon
has lost its way
a winter walk
footprints
tell no tales
the blue moon
silently closes the door
upon the year
Pale Ghosts…
American Beech Trees, (c) Photograph by Jim Clark
It was a very exciting moment last week for me to open up the latest issue of Moonbathing, a journal of women’s tanka, and see one of my own tanka included. To be in the company of so many very talented tanka poets is a highlight of my year.
Published by poet and editor, Pamela A. Babusci, Moonbathing is a journal that showcases the many sides of tanka. The poems cover a wide variety of experiences, emotions and subjects…and all written by talented women poets.
Here is my tanka:
Moonbathing is edited and published by Pamela A. Babusci
American Beech Leaves, (c) Photo by Walter Reeves
Kamakura Beach 1333: Artist’s choice in Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge
I am both speechless and honored by the selection of my poem, “Kamakura Beach, 1333” as the artist’s choice of the October ekphrastic challenge by Rattle, one of the finest contemporary poetry journals. The artist/photographer is Ana Prundaru. My thanks go to Ana for selecting my poem for this challenge. I am deeply touched by her very thoughtful and generous comments.
To read the poem or listen to the audio on Rattle, here is the link:
http://www.rattle.com/poetry/kamakura-beach-1333-by-mary-kendall/
Note: there is an audio of me reading the poem on the Rattle page but I’ll include it here as well:
~
Kamakura Beach, 1333
The sea washed scarlet that night.
The tide rushed in—swelling and breaking—washing
all traces out to sea on the waves of Kamakura Beach.
You know nothing of this, you who long for adventure
and pleasure—youth who search desperately for meaning
in lives that are too rich, too busy, and still so poor.
Your small boats arrive in early evening, the carmine sunset
at your back, and you quickly gather driftwood, tinder, and
fallen black pine branches to burn. You light the fire.
A trail of smoke begins funneling up to the starry sky.
The fire burns hot and one by one, you feed it twigs, boughs,
pine cones bursting into streams of sparks and wild flames.
And in your wanton rambling, one girl grows silent—she alone
hears the hallowed chanting, the cries of battle, the shrieks
of arrows piercing skulls, the stench of life exiting too abruptly.
She wanders over shallow rocks, her hand touching stone,
knowing the pain hidden in the silence of eight hundred years.
The rest of you are unaware…you laugh too loudly, move
too fast, not noticing the shifting colors of the setting sun.
Listen and you will hear the shogun cries of warriors and farmers
that once shook the sacred sands of Kamakura Beach.
Can you smell the fierce fires, the burning buildings,
the blazing rafters crashing and lighting the darkening sky?
Can you hear the screams of those buried here long ago?
Time slipped by like swifts at dusk darting in the fading sky.
The fire raged on and on, and lives were ravished in a
single breath. It was our fate to die on Kamakura Beach.
With Samurai mind and clean, sharp blows, the sacred sword
was swift. One by one, we died…each of us choosing honor,
this bleak beach now strewn with bones, bodies and blood.
You who come to visit—feel the cool churning lapis blue water,
and see the late sun boldly brush red on sand, water and waves.
Remember us—we who lie buried on Kamakura Beach.
Let your fires roar, let them spark in comets to the stars.
Under the dark night skies long written in indigo and ink,
we will walk together here on Kamakura Beach.
Morning tide will come—swelling and breaking—washing
your presence out to sea— remembering our final night,
a night of fire and blood, bone and bodies on Kamakura Beach.
The sea washed scarlet that night.
~
Here is the broadside link:
Rattle also posted a download of a broadside that includes poem and picture side by side. It is so beautifully done with the shadows of the boat creating a subtle image under the poem. Very appropriate to this particular poem, I think.
Swallows: Three Haiku
Today, on Ekphrastic: writing and art on art and writing, as part of their 20 poem challenge, I have three haiku to go with a gorgeous picture of swallows.
To read the poems and see the art in the original publication, please click on this link:
http://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/swallows-by-mary-kendall
The artwork is “Swallows” by Benjamin Chee Chee
(1)
frail beauty—
scissoring the sky
on indigo wings
(2)
hope . . . soaring on wingless winds
(3)
taking leave—
gathering courage
as you fly
My thanks to editor, Lorette C. Luzajic, for including these haiku.
Drifting Along…
Today I feel a deep pride and happiness that a poem that has taken 15 years to complete has been published in one of my favorite poetry journals–The Whirlwind Review. This journal has a focus poetry following a spiritual path, and the current issue has a theme of journeying. That made it a perfect place to submit this poem, Drifting Along. My deepest thanks goes to editor, Jill Jepson, herself a writer I greatly admire.
New Zealand is a land far away from my own, but it is a spiritual homeland of sorts. After visiting there in July 2000, a twenty-five year silence in my writing of poetry ended after a spiritual experience I had on South Island. The beauty of the country and the kindness and friendliness of the people made this a trip I will never forget.
.
The link to the poem: http://www.writingthewhirlwind.net/Kendall.html
Audio: If you care to listen to me read this poem (and I hope you will–this is one of my most favorite poems), click on the link below. Give it a few seconds to load.
.
Drifting Along
. Visiting Waitomo Caves, New Zealand
There are moments when I wonder if one day
I will drift too far, too deep into my mind,
a world where fragmented thoughts,
memories and feelings might be lost forever.
The last trip.
A one-way ticket.
Traveling halfway around the world, we are
in New Zealand, the land of Aotearoa,
‘the land of the long white cloud.’ Driving
south, we arrive in the Maori heartland.
From Rotorua with its dizzying sulfuric scent,
we hike past brilliant springs, steaming lakes
and hot, bubbling mud pools where it seems
as if the underworld might hover just below
the surface of this ancient thermal valley.
One morning we go to see Pōhutu Geyser.
After a while, I wander from the path only to be
unexpectedly splashed by a small spurt of water
that was invisible until I came too close.
The Maori guide tells me that I’ve been blessed
by the spirits. Brushing off the still warm spray
of water, I hope she is right. I want to believe.
Driving through this world of rolling green
volcanic hills, we finally reach the Waitomo Caves.
As we wait for our boat, I feel a pulse in the land—
I know we are standing on sacred ground.
With our inner clocks all timed out, we begin
the dark journey into the heart of the cavern
Skimming silently through the still waters,
the young boatman leads us far into the blackness
of a cave that tunnels in so far, we lose all light
and sense of where we are. Our eyes now adjust
to this obsidian underworld, and it seems that
we have begun to cross into unending nighttime.
Everyone in the boat is silent. To be this close
to the infinite expanse of darkness,
to transcend time and self—this is a place
for stillness…and so it is.
With only the lapping of water against the boards,
the boat slips along. Although we came here
knowing what was hidden in this hollow, no one
is prepared for the full beauty of what is there.
I look up and see endless strings of glowworms—
glowworms hanging so high up, they become
numberless strands of summer stars—pale green fires
in these underground heavens whose ghostly translucence
leaves me feeling as if I am asleep somewhere,
not wanting to wake up from this ethereal place
in which I float between two worlds.
The boat glides quietly in the gentle sway of water,
and it is then that I begin to fear we have drifted too far.
I can remember no way back.
No signposts.
No markers.
No trail of crumbs.
My thanks to the New Zealand Tourist Bureau for the magnificent pictures shown above.
Almost Surrendered: On Being and Nothingness ~ An Ekphrastic Poem
So, what IS ekphrastic writing or art?
As many of you know, I love art. I love going to art museums, galleries and art shows. Art history has always been one of my passions, so it’s natural enough that ekphrastic art and writing has captured my interest. A very simple definition of ekphrastic poetry is writing a poem in response to a work of art. It can be descriptive or it can be a response of any sort to the piece. There are no restrictions, no limits, and that by itself is something that has great appeal. The same goes in reverse–an artist might create a piece in response to a written work. My own blog has poems written about ancient Greek mythology, and in each posting I’ve included beautiful works of art that are ekphrastic responses to the myths.
This particular poem was a response to a show of the artwork of Ronna S. Harris that was held at the Turchin Art Center at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina. My husband and I fell in love with her work and this particular painting has haunted me for nine years. This poem is my response to it. My thanks to the artist for her permission to use this painting here and in the journal it was recently published in. I hope some of you will wander over to her own website to look at the gallery of paintings she has there. I still dream of owning one of her works of art. Her website: http://www.ronnaharris.com
Note: My thanks to editor Lorette C. Luzajic for publishing this poem on September 13, 2015 in Ekphrastic: writing and art on art and writing:
http://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic/almost-surrendered-on-being-and-nothingness-by-mary-kendall
Painting: Almost Surrendered, by Rhonna S. Harris, 1992.
Picture used with permission of the artist.
Click the link below if you’d like to hear me read this poem. It takes a few seconds to load.
Almost Surrendered: On Being and Nothingness
The gallery was empty, the artist unknown to us.
Strangers to her work, we walked in quietly,
speaking in whispers about the way she painted
a rich purple aubergine or the clear, shimmering water
in blown-glass bottles. Illusion so real it was perfect.
Her paintings seemed direct but insinuated that
something might be hidden just beyond our view.
From fruits and windows, vegetables and doorways,
suddenly there was a room full of large paintings of figures,
mostly nudes with evocative names like “Pieta” or
“Architecture of the Perfect Man.”
We stopped in front of one called “The Marriage.”
It showed two figures lost in thought, in separate worlds.
It reminded me of what marriage is like for some after
so many years together. Still, silence doesn’t always speak
of distance but of an understanding of hearts.
And there, on the left wall, was “Almost Surrendered.”
A pale naked woman with arms by her side, palms stretched up
in prayer or supplication. She was translucent, existing half here,
half there. Behind her was a closed window. She wore a gold chain.
Was she a memory, a body giving way to death or being reborn?
Or was this ghostly surrender all illusion, a message
to women who have given too much of themselves?
A woman who had lost herself in trying to be everything.
Could she be a dream?
You moved on to the next picture and then the next,
but I stood there staring at this vanishing woman and
wondered who it was who really had surrendered.
Was she any woman?
Could she be me?
You reappeared, and together we moved on.
This time round, I found myself thinking about windows
in pictures, of what lay beyond the glass the artist
drew, surrendering myself to what she didn’t show,
what she concealed in her mind like a stage curtain pulled back
just enough to hint that maybe others stood on the other
side, looking back at us from a completely different angle.
Would they study us closely, marveling at our verisimilitude?
the lovely glazes of color so skillfully applied, built up so
carefully to a level of opacity that suggested real inner depth?
Would they compare us to the other figures in the gallery
and wonder why we were not painted as a man and a woman
fading from view, surrendering to a love spoken in silence?
(c) The Guardian
Who Am I?
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.
.
To hear me reading this poem, simply click on the link below. Wait a few seconds for it to begin.
This poem originally appeared in The Aroostook Review, May 2006
.
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)
“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)
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.
Pearl ~ a haiga
One of my earliest postings on this blog was of a haiku on a pearl. Having begun creating haiga, a combination of a haiku and a piece of art or a photograph. I reworked this poem, and this is the result. It is now finally finished. I only wish I could give full attribution to the original photographer, but I could find none after searching for quite a long time. I did alter the color to suit this poem. My thanks to all fine arts photographers who always inspire.
.
.
Two Tanka slip into Ribbons
I’ve had the good fortune of having two tanka published in RIBBONS, the journal of the Tanka Society of America: Ribbons–Spring/Summer–2015, Volume 11, Number 2.
lost in the pages
of a book my mother loved–
a sly narrator
speaks volumes of truth
while skirting the end
Tanka Cafe, Ribbons–Spring/Summer, Volume 11, Number 2, 2015
what I thought was a bird
flew past
casting no shadow–
I wonder
if you are near
Ribbons–Spring/Summer, Volume 11, Number 2, 2015
It is always a thrill for any poet to open up a journal and find her/his own poem nestled in among those of gifted writers. The truly excellent online journals of poetry in both tanka and haiku are really schools of learning for me. I go there to read, to fall in love with poems, and to learn from the very best writers. There is no better way to learn. Read, read, write. So, on the rare occasion, one of my poems makes it into those pages (paper or virtual), my heart is filled with joy.
Summer Poem 1~
Here in the southern part of the USA, thunder and lightning are not uncommon in summer. Days can be very hot and humid, and late afternoon lightning storms often break up the quiet of the day. Rain, when it comes, often fails to bring relief but instead adds to the high humidity. Still, there are times when just listening to the thunder and seeing the clouds grow thick and dark overhead becomes a magical experience. My friend, Jeanna Clever List, took this photograph while her family was on vacation on the coast of North Carolina. Its drama and beauty is truly exceptional.
My thanks, Jeanna, for allowing me to use your beautiful photograph to complete my haiga.
June Haiku 2
weathered wood—
memories of youth
drifting away
Old Boat ~ Photograph by Mike Keville, (c) 2015
The theme of old, worn wood (see June Haiku 1) continues in this poem. Amazing how beautiful things retain their magic despite age.
My thanks to photographer, Mike Keville, for allowing me to use his gorgeous boat photograph for this haiku. The textures and colours of this photo inspire many poems.
June Haiku 1
weathered clapboards–
does the old barn ever dream
of being a tree?
Barn in Spring Creek, Tennessee ~ Photograph (c) 2015 by Michael Todd
Note: My thanks to Michael Todd for allowing me to use his beautiful photograph of an old barn in Spring Creek, Tennessee. Pictures like this are always such an inspiration.
Questions
Questions
“Where did the time go?” we asked.
The north wind answered, “It rushed by while you were busy doing other things.”
“And how did we not notice it was passing?” we puzzled.
The south wind replied, “Perhaps the sun blinded you so you could no longer see.”
“Did any of us notice the days grew long and the nights shorter?” we wondered.
The east wind smirked, “You focused so much on clouds that you missed the stars.”
“Why must it come to an end so soon?” we questioned.
The west wind whispered, “You’ve done what you must. Now it’s time to go.”
Photograph (c) 2015 by Harald Illsinger
With kind thanks to photographer Harald Illsinger for allowing me to use this beautiful photograph of the gull in the morning sky. The top photograph was taken by me in London, 2015.
Tanka on a May Morning
In the past five months I have been studying my much beloved tanka, haiku and small poems in order to become a better writer. Writers–and poets–need to keep growing as they go. As part of my interest in these lovely small poem forms, I have joined a number of exception online groups of poets who post their own writing. On several of the sites, “prompts” are given and sometimes a picture is given. People respond as they wish or not. Often comments are given. I can’t tell you what a thrill it is to get a “like” or even a comment by one of these poets who are so gifted and accomplished tanka and/or haiku poets, but even without the ‘likes,’ it feels wonderful to be a little more confident about sharing poems publicly. This morning, I’m posting several tanka I wrote this week to specific prompts.
~
1 [prompt: celebration of color]
Photograph (c) Kristin Sanderson
scribbles
of scarlet red
in the shrubs—
two cardinals
take flight
~
- [prompt: full moonrise, unforgettable moon]
Photography (c) by Cab Treadway
cloud masquerade
tonight—
the moon is hidden
from your
wanton gaze
~
3 [prompt: how you share your journey]
old cobblestones
so hard to cross—
without speaking
I take your arm
and we walk on
~
4 [prompt: flutes..music…]
sweet song
hidden in the plum tree–
a nightengale
gives itself
away
~
In Luxembourg Gardens, Paris
Chairs in Luxembourg Gardens, Paris by Mary Kendall
In Luxembourg Gardens, Paris
A stairwell of shadows invites us to sit.
Empty chairs bask in the late spring sun,
Waiting for readers who choose to sit,
slipping into the borrowed lives of books.
Waiting for lovers to pull two chairs aside,
stealing time away from the world.
Waiting for an old man with a limping dog,
passing time away from his silent rooms.
Waiting for the widow who longs for the sun,
savoring the warmth like a delicate embrace.
Waiting for the disheveled girl who waits,
sipping a café crème with a guarded look.
Waiting for a businessman to eat his lunch,
savoring silence, no rumble of demands.
Waiting for the grandpère missing his children,
wondering what it is they do continents away.
Waiting for weary tourists who sit and rest,
whispering in languages you don’t speak.
Waiting for a tumble of clouds to sweep the sky
just as this sweet day slips into the waiting night.
Time passes.
People pass.
Memories pass.
Another day will come.
faded beauty…
Frozen Moments
Frozen Moments (c) 2015 Harald Illsinger
FROZEN MOMENTS
It doesn’t matter that your words were shouted
In a peal of sparking anger, anger spewed
In moon-white flames tinged with flicks—
Sapphire blue and poppy red and yellow.
Burning so hot and fast, those thoughts
Consumed themselves and all
Nearby, including what remained
Of hope
For change…
Your change,
Your transformation.
And when the fire burned down,
All that was left were the ashes of your anger.
Small chars of memories…
Frozen moments of who you were…
Once—
Long Ago.
Unable to forgive—even yourself,
You are locked in the ice of stagnation,
The ice of inner struggle.
Frozen fire—
No thaw,
No shift,
No change.
No redemption.
Frozen
Moments
Forever.
Note: Many thanks as always to Harald Illsinger for the use of his exquisite photograph, Frozen Moments (c) 2015. His work always serves as such wonderful and unexpected inspiration.
Dark-Eyed Juncos, a Tanka
I’d like to share a tanka that is currently appearing in Ribbons, Tanka Cafe, Winter 2015
Junco, photo by Kathy Adams Clark
winter light
shadows linger low
behind us—
dark-eyed juncos
scurry past our feet
Juncos, photo by Brian Cunningham
This poem appeared in Ribbons, Tanka Cafe, Winter 2015
This is the publication of the American Tanka Society,
Sounds of Summer Evenings by Mary Kendall (Where I Live Poetry & Photography Series)
I’m so excited to have a poem of mine included in the “Where I Live Poetry and Photography Series’ by Silver Birch Press. They have published two other poems of mine in other series, and It is always an honor to be included among their marvelous poetry selections. Thank you, Silver Birch Press!
.
Wherever you live, no matter where you might be, nighttime in summer reveals a very different world of sound. During the day we hear birds, breezes, people, mowers, airplanes, cars or sometimes just bees and hummingbird wings. At night, however, we must totally rely on our hearing to grasp all the different sounds that play out in the night chorus. Here in the south, in North Carolina where I live, summer nights are especially noisy. From frogs and owls to whipoorwills and katydids, there are times when it is absolutely deafening. I wish I had the expertise to identify all the different frogs our small garden pond must be home to. There is one frog that sounds much like what I imagine an alien creature would be like—high-pitched, very shrill and almost dizzying in its persistent song. It’s irritating enough to go inside..
Then there are the “call and response” night singers. I love those most of all. I can sit a long while listening to them. Occasionally I hear an owl, but lately it seems there are fewer around. I remember when we regularly had barred owls nesting in our woodland garden. Catching sight of one was always impressive, but hearing one in the middle of the night was truly haunting. I love to sit outside in our screened-in porch when it is dark. The dog often comes and sits with me listening and keeping me company. She makes no sound herself, knowing that we are the polite and attentive audience to this vast chorus of night..
Here is an audio recording of me reading this poem. Just click on the link below, wait a few seconds, and it will begin.
.
Sounds of Summer Evenings
by Mary Kendall
Sometimes at night I sit outside
In the screened-in porch out back.
In the darkness, the rustling leaves
Of the tall beech trees are blowing.
The katydids call to one another,
An evening of antiphonal refrain.
On nights when a heavy rain falls,
All you can hear are the tireless frogs
Chorusing in the garden pond.
The deep lone bass, the shrill soprano,
This diverse and discordant choir
Seems to be one of rhapsodical joy.
And then there are times when an owl
Soundlessly lands in a nearby tree
And startles me with its resonant call,
Letting me know it’s now on watch.
Two times more it calls, low and deep.
I rise and go, time now for me to sleep.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Northern by birth, I have lived for more than 35 years in North Carolina. Our summer nights are…
View original post 141 more words
Meditation on the Moment
The following poem of mine, “Meditation on the Moment” was originally published in a book called, True Belonging: Mindful Practices to Help You Overcome Loneliness, Connect with Others, and Cultivate Happiness (c) 2011 by Jeffrey Brantley, MC, DFAPA and Wendy Millstine.
Dr. Jeffrey Brantley was my first meditation teacher in the Duke Integrative Medicine MBSR program. His wife, Mary Brantley, introduced me to the practice of Metta (Loving Kindness). Through both of these teachers my life was forever changed in a most beautiful way. I wrote this poem for Dr. Brantley and he first used it in meditation classes and later asked to publish it in his book. This was an honor I will always hold very close to my heart.
Meditation on the Moment
When I am ready,
I close my eyes
and focus on the breathing;
awareness of air
passing through the nose
down through the body;
the belly rises, falls,
rises again ~
its slow rhythm
setting the tone.
Next, focus on the body,
accepting it for once
as it is right now,
here in this moment,
for the moment
is all we have.
Breathing in,
breathing out,
shoulders soft,
no striving
to get somewhere
for there is no place
to be but here.
No judging of self,
simply letting it be
in the moment
for the moment.
Rain pounds against the glass
this February evening.
The image begins with sound
transforming into a thought.
Raindrops falling,
each one perfectly formed
but then releasing,
allowing itself to lose
what it was alone,
becoming instead
part of something more.
Poem by Mary Kendall, 2007
A Simple Love Poem
Since my last posting, my husband and I have flown across the Atlantic and are settling into the faculty flat in Winston House, Bedford Square, London. Quite a beautiful place to live for four months ago. Some of my readers know all about this because they followed my travel blog (Bedford Square + 2), which will continue on a non-Word Press platform. If you are curious, you can find it through this link: http://marykendall2.blogspot.co.uk
We lived here two years ago, spending the spring term and following it with five weeks on the continent. This time ’round we will be here for four months. The flight was, for once, not too bad way back in coach class. The pilot surprised us all by taking off exactly on time and arriving at Heathrow Airport 50 minutes early. For real.
Jet-lag is something that seems to get worse with age, and both of us fell fast asleep at 10 pm on New Year’s Eve. At the stroke of midnight we both woke to what sounded like an awful ruckus. It took only a few seconds to figure out it was the fireworks along the Thames. From our windows we couldn’t see the fireworks directly. What we did see was the sky turning beautiful shades of pink, green, purple, white…and flashes of sparkling white rockets. By sticking my head out the window I figured out that I could see some of the fireworks and those were dazzling enough to me in my exhausted state.
(we didn’t see this from our window, but the sky was quite similar)
After about 12 minutes of this sound and light show in this ancient city, my husband quickly fell back to sleep while I remained wide awake for an hour. It gave me some quiet time to make a cup of tea, sit down in the darkened living area and think about our many visits to the UK and to London in particular.
Our first trip to London and England was back in 1977 when we were young and energetic enough to walk absolutely everywhere. Another summer we spent about a month in London following a month in Oxford where R. did research, and I enjoyed exploring parks, museums, shops, streets. In 1989, we brought the first group of students over on this Honors London program sponsored by my husband’s university. We lived in Hampstead that year, and we loved it. Our son was in nursery school, so I made friends of some spectacular women. The Heath was there for daily walks and our local library was next door to the Keats house. After we checked out our books, my little son and I would go sit in the garden of the Keats House and read stories together. It didn’t ever get better than that for me. Sometimes simple acts or simple gestures are better than anything.
In 2013, we returned to London and were housed in beautiful Winston House that now is home for this London Honors program. It was a very wonderful time for us and for the students. We’ve kept in touch with many of them. And now, in 2015, we are unexpectedly back again for four months. A new group of students will arrive on January 10th, and the term will have begun.
I will continue my travel blog if anyone is interested. Since this blog is devoted to my poetry writing practice, I thought I’d begin the new year with an old poem. I published it in 2013 in my Bedford Square + 2 blog as a Valentine’s gift to my husband. Since his teaching and research have given us both so many wonderful stays in this beautiful country, I’d like to share a very simple love poem I wrote for him. Love is not tied to a single day or week or year, and sometimes simple things like strolling in a beautiful place help you reaffirm your love and relationship.
If you might like to listen to me reading the poem, simply click on the link below. It takes a few seconds to begin.
Taking Your Arm
I took your arm for the first time in so many years.
Was it the cold damp air that made me reach out?
Was it the need to feel safe in the noisy city streets?
Slipping my fingers into the crook of your arm,
the warmth of your soft wool coat was comforting.
I felt grounded and balanced by your strength.
Through the busy London streets we walked,
much of it in silence, a silence built on
knowing that words aren’t always necessary.
I glanced down at our booted feet. Our steps
kept time, first left, then right, left, then right,
finding the rhythm of these unknown streets.
For RDK, London, February 14, 2013
Originally published on Bedford Square + 2
http://marykendall2.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/a-simple-valentine-for-one-i-love.html
This Sacred Place
THIS SACRED PLACE
There is a place near here I like to sit,
a place where the slanted rays of winter sun
warm the bare trees; where water drips
into the pond trickling notes of a wordless song.
Sitting with silence, the mind begins to quiet and
breathing settles. Thoughts come, then disappear,
and equanimity envelops me with a healing spirit,
the soul of this bare winter woodland.
Moments of Gold
(Moments of Gold © 2014 by Harald Illsinger)
flapping
five times twice
he hovers
over the pale swans
in a shimmering dance
My thanks to photographer Harald Illsinger for the use of his beautiful picture, “Moments of Gold” (c) 2014
A Poet in Time 