On Rewriting a Poem

 

{Sometimes old poems ask to be reworked. This is a small example of just that.}

 

 

                                  

On Growing Old Together, A Love Poem

 

Will you scatter me over water
or throw me to the winds,
letting me float away?

 

Will your ashes mingle                                                                                       
with mine one day
when you too are gone . . .

              Ashes to ashes . . .

 

Will you take my hand again
and hold me close against the wind?
Will your eyes always smile with mine?

              Dust to dust . . .

 

Will our hearts travel as one
no matter where that might be?
Will our love be forever?

              Two stars together.

 

 

 

November 2025

 

This is a love poem written for my husband. We met in 1974, fifty-one years ago. This poem originally appeared on this blog in 2015, but I was never really happy with the ending. It never felt “right” to me. Those of you who are writers will know the feeling. You will know that some poems are meant to pop up again for you to rework it until it really is complete, and this is what I have done.

 

Growing older together has been a gift to both of us. We have shared so much and grown so much. Love is the one constant in the equation we call life. This poem is dedicated to my beloved husband and to all who have loved and been loved.

 

 

I’ve recorded myself reading the poem should you care to listen. Just click on the button below and give it a half a minute to begin. 

 

Ritchie and Mary, 1976

Voices in the Wind

This is an old poem that was originally posted in the early days of this blog, back in 2015. My writing lately has come to a standstill, but rereading things written a while ago is often a way to trigger a creative response. (Let’s hope it works.)

The poem was written when we were living in London for a spring term with university students who were studying abroad. Wonderful memories of that group who are now fully grown and probably leading interesting lives.

We live in Chapel Hill, North Carolina in a beautiful rural development that is filled with gardens and trees. Our single acre plot is divided into flowers, vegetables, invading weeds and cultivated trees. The back half of our acre is woodland and beyond that runs a small railroad track that is used for a daily single train that carries coal to the university nearby. Sounds are important. In winter we can hear a distant passenger train at night. In summer it’s blocked by all the greenery. Chapel Hill is truly verdant as is the nearby town of Hillsborough. Our trees are a mixture of hardwoods (oak, hickory, beech and evergreens (mostly loblolly pines but a few small cedars and hollies). Our beautiful Camellias bring winter color and our small (hand-dug) pond delights us with frogs serenading one another. Southern summers are never quiet. Katydids and Cicadas sing during the hottest part of the year, and all sorts of songbirds visit as we work in the garden or sit on the screened porch.

One of my favorite parts of living here is listening to the trees blow. Whether a storm is coming or not, the very tall trees have a life of their own as they blow and move. It is quite often a very sacred sound.

The trees today brought to mind this ten year old poem for me to reread (and now, to repost).

Questions was originally published on this blog on June 19, 2015.
Ten years ago and still the same questions arise.

I hope you enjoyed reading this “oldie” today.

Shape-shifting in my dream

shape-shifting
in my dream, I leap
and run with graceful gazelles
able now to outpace
all that awaits

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A tanka published in
Gusts No. 40, Contemporary Tanka, Canada,
Fall/winter 2024  

Image by xi Serge from Pixabay

Poor brown moth … (three tanka)

 

 

Three tanka published last February in the lovely journal, GUSTS:

Gusts No. 38  Contemporary Tanka, Canada,
Fall/Winter 2024  

 

 

 

Compliments of “Draw Botanical”

 

a day lily blooms
for a single day
this brevity
a wonder to some,
unsettling to others

 

 

 

 

 

 

poor brown moth
trapped in a web
      the more you flutter
the tighter those
fine strands pull

 

 

the art aisle holds
such soft sable brushes
wedge, round, pointed, flat
patiently waiting
to adorn my words

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ah, sweet memory . . . (tanka)

 

 

 Ribbons 31 Fall 2023
(Journal of the Tanka Society of America)

 

 

 

 

Italian gelato names
slip off our tongues
so happily—
sweet memory
of that day in Florence

 

 

 

Hai fame?

 

 

 

 

The Last Camellia (my book!)

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It’s official now. My newest book has just been published, and I am absolutely thrilled with how beautiful it is. Holding it in my hands for the first time filled me with such emotion. Writing and even publishing individual poems is always exciting, but seeing and reading a collection of your own work is very powerful. The Last Camellia is a collection of tanka, haiku, senryu, haiga and tanka art.

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FRONT COVER2 copy

Cover image by Eva Bronzini

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The book has been published by Velvet Dusk Publishing and edited by Christine L. Villa (Chrissi) who is  a splendid tanka and haiku poet. Along with Chrissi, the book was initially shaped into manuscript form by another excellent poet friend, Susan Burch.  For a long time, I wanted to put together a book of both tanka and haiku but was unable to figure out how to juxtapose those two forms in a collection. Susan took up the challenge and skillfully and sensitively placed tanka and haiku, senryu, haiga and tanka art into what became the first draft of The Last Camellia. Chrissi and I then worked in editing and polishing the book. This process took a fairly long time despite the poems being so small. Placement of poems is actually a challenging process. We made a few changes of haiga and tanka art because they had to be reproduced in black and white rather than color (color would price the book too high–we both wanted to keep the book affordable).

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Screenshot 2023-11-21 at 9.11.08 PM

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Back cover book blurbs:

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     At times we all “stand too close” to ourselves. Beginning with “a childhood spent / in secondhand clothes,” Mary Kendall’s The Last Camellia documents her navigation through grief and the quest to rediscover herself. In doing so, images from the natural world float in and out of her poems like “the soft rustle / of quivering aspen leaves.”

     The poet links and shifts three Japanese forms—tanka, haiku, haiga, and tanka art—in a garden of exquisite images. Shadows and silence remain after “a feeling of you / standing behind me.” A red-bellied woodpecker “flaunts his drumming skills.” A newborn faun wobbles “in old-growth grass.”

     One cannot fail to notice the sensitive way Mary explores emotions—doubt, loss, sorrow, and the joy of finding oneself. In one revelation, she shows us how “it took sixty years / to find the voice I lost.” Her signature tanka, “the last Camellia,” concludes: “it has taken a lifetime / for me to notice / the beauty in myself.” Each poem is a flower, budding slowly and opening to reveal its fragrance. This is not a book to be skimmed through. It is one to sit with, savour, and quietly celebrate its images of human love and frailty. From this subtle collection, we discover the universal beauty that blossoms in our own souls.

 —Hazel Hall, author of Moonlight over the Siding

     The Last Camellia is a beautiful compilation of Japanese short-form poetry. Mary Kendall deftly employs poetics and Japanese aesthetics in her work, creating an evocative and engaging collection. Her haiku juxtapose the natural seasons with seasons of her life, true to the heritage of this poetic form. Her tanka, these “short songs,” link and shift from vivid nature imagery to a thoughtful reflection of her inner landscape.

     The poet details memories of travels, of grief and loss, and the beauty of imperfection. The subtle sequencing of her work adds depth to the themes she presents, such as in this exemplar: “miscarriage . . . / the very word/betrays / the promise /of hope” to “this haiku abandoned nest / four blue eggs / but no answers.”

     The Last Camellia is worth several readings to relish the insights therein.

   —Carol Judkins, author of  at the water’s edge

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Mary Kendall

Copyright 2023