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,
Haiga by Mary Kendall
This was written for a prompt on the spring equinox for a favorite small poem poetry group I belong to called “seize the poem.” I’m enjoying creating this mix of haiku and photography, and I think I finally got the words correctly balanced on the picture, so I’m sharing it here as well. The photo is my own taken in the sculpture garden of the Rodin Museum in Paris this month.
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…
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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
barely spring–
rowers churning water
silver slips away
~ ~
I’m still very new as a haiku poet, so it is with caution that I’ve ventured out to try an actual haiga. A haiga combines art and a haiku. Since I lack all painterly skills, I’m combining my haiku with a photo that I love. I’ve done this in a slightly similar way on my blog with tanka and some autumn haiku. However, I consider this to be my very first true haiga.
~~
“Haiga is a Japanese concept for simple pictures combined with poetry, usually meaning haiku. In Basho’s time, haiga meant a brushed ink drawing combined with one of his single poems handwritten as part of the picture. In our day and age, haiga can be watercolor paintings, photographs or collages with a poem of any genre that is integrated into the composition. Sometimes the poem is handwritten or it can be computer generated, depending on the artist’s taste.” (This definition of haiga is by the poet, Jane Reichhold on her website, Ah Ha! Poetry.)
~~
Note on Photograph:
This beautiful photograph is by an Icelandic photographer known to me only as KariK on Flickr. It was posted and thus copyrighted in (c) 2011. It has been posted thousands of times online and almost never with an attribution to him. By doing a ‘backward’ image search I was able to find him on flickr. His photographs, most of nature, are magnificent. This is what he wrote for this particular picture (translated from Icelandic):
Reykjanestá: This location is unique for the fact that there can see the ocean ridge walk on 1 and, Mid-Atlantic Ridge, which separates the prefabricated North America and Europe.
KariK, (c) 2011
Snowfall by Debbie Nemer Suggs
Swiftly falling snow
Our footprints disappear ~
Were we ever there?
I would like to thank my dear friend, Debbie Suggs, for the use of her beautiful snowfall photograph (c) 2015. Debbie and I wrote and published a book, A Giving Garden, in 2009. Her beautiful photographs have always inspired me.
THE DECORAH EAGLES…JOIN THE FAN CLUB!
The eagles landed some time ago and have carefully rebuilt and replenished their nest. I am referring to the now famous Deborah Eagles out in Iowa. For several years now, I’ve been one of their fans watching the live camera feed. The first egg has been laid, and the camera is showing mom sitting on it as the wild winds blow past here high up in a cottonwood tree.
The first egg was laid a day ago. It will hatch in 35-39 days if all goes well.
Watch it, if you dare. You just might get hooked on this fascinating bit of eavesdropping.
Raptor Resource Project Decorah Eagle Cam, Decorah, IA
***LIVE CAMERA LINK: http://www.raptorresource.org/falcon_cams/decorah_eagle_xcel.html
And Then It Flew
Older by only days, the first-born eagle
Was the first to branch, the first to fly~
Young eyes studying the world beyond the tree,
It now stood on a limb, lifting its wings over
And over, learning how to battle erratic gusts,
Learning how to channel the waiting wind,
Understanding now what it would be like to fly.
Again and again, those powerful wings fluttered,
Starting and stopping, gaining strength and nerve,
Gathering courage for that first awkward jump
Until one morning it lifted off the branch and flew,
Joining its parents in capturing the wind, trusting
That once it had made that leap, it too would fly.
His first flight.
This love poem was written for my husband. We met in 1974, forty years ago. It really does seem like last year. 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.
The link below will give you the option of hearing me read the poem. Click on it if you wish to listen. (It takes a few seconds to begin.)
On Growing Old Together
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?
Ashes to ashes, Soul to Soul.
Two Hearts Beat as One by Alexandru 1988
I’m working on a series of poems based on dreams. The draft is tentatively titled, Dream Time.
For years I didn’t dream. Oh, I know I did. Science can prove we dream. I just didn’t remember them at all. When my doctor put me on a new medication, a surprising side effect was very vivid dreams. Colorful dreams, strange dreams, confusing dreams, and beautiful dreams. I loved this unexpected gift, and so I have been working on cultivating how to recall dreams. We all know that dreams are quickly lost upon awakening. If they aren’t written down or recalled consciously, they float back to where they came from.
I’d like to share one of these dream poems today. This poem is loosely based on a very strange dream I had about chasing a bus. It was very disorienting to say the least. Of course, I checked dream meanings online, and I read that to dream of missing a bus is a very common dream. It tells of someone not sure of the path in which they are headed or if they missed an opportunity by hesitating, or even perhaps that they are faltering in a relationship. But none of these fits my dream of being lost in a city I know but looking totally different. A city in which no one can tell me its name or the direction in which they are heading. Please remember the poem is not a literal retelling of the dream as a journal would do. It is a poem and thus a product of the imagination.
Dream Time 1 ~ The Missed Bus
The missed bus
pulls away
from the curb,
picking up speed
faster than I can run.
In my sleep I am able
not only to run fast
but shout loudly enough
in a stranger’s voice
that might be heard
if only the driver
would catch
a glimpse of me
in the mirror
as I chase
the departing bus
on a street
I don’t know,
in a direction
of which
I am unaware.
Running so fast,
shouting
until my voice
gravels to a rasp,
my legs and arms
feather darkly
and suddenly lift up.
I am flying
above the bus
waiting for it
to stop or even slow,
but it speeds on
its course.
Sailing down
I see it is empty,
hurtling fast
somewhere,
nowhere,
unguided, and
with lowering wings
I fly into the open
side window,
my fingers emerging
from dusky feathers
I grasp the wheel
in desperation,
my foot able
to hit the break.
The stop is sudden,
my head rolls
forward fast
into the glass.
Only silence,
and absolute
stillness
now,
the wind
speaks of
something
I can’t
quite hear.
I awake
in my bed, heart
pounding,
head throbbing,
dizzy,
relieved.
Outside,
in the tall tree
the crow
watches
from his branch.
Even he is silent
for once.
Morning starts
to erase the night,
and the mist
begins to thin
in parts.
A new day
is waiting.
The Crow by Oana Stoian, (c) 2010
Photograph by Harald Illsinger (c) 2015
Ever since I began this blog in late July, 2014, I’ve noticed how often I am inspired by beautiful photographs I come across. Word Press photography blogs are some of my favorites, but photographs appear elsewhere, too. Harald Illsinger’s beautiful nature photographs never fail to dazzle his fans and friends, and that includes me. This picture above is one he labeled, ‘Longing for Winter Sun Light.’
Mid-winter can be dreary, dark, depressing for so many of us. This picture is the antidote to all of that. The colors are so brilliant that our eyes can’t stop looking at this picture without murmuring something about how magical it is or how much like a painting it is. This is one photograph I would love to have sitting before me at my writing desk. Thank you, Harald, for allowing me to use this brilliant picture. Your elegant Viennese light is very special indeed.
Longing for the Winter Sun
river running roughly
winter chill set in
deep, deep
into the bones
waiting for warmth,
cold winter light
sun frozen in place,
color splashed
across the water;
the swans are quiet,
now nestled deep
in the grasses,
this simple knowing
when land offers
respite, relief
from wild waves
and frigid ripples,
river running deep
Many thanks to photographer, Harald Illsinger, for allowing me to use his beautiful photograph, ‘Longing for Winter Sun Light’ (c) 2015)
Laundry Day
by Andrew Wyeth
How many of you readers remember the scent of clothes and sheets dried outside in summer? That fragrance is something you never forget. All the fabric softeners in the world can’t duplicate it. In our busy world clothes dryers are something we all use. I can’t imagine hanging clothes out to dry at my stage of life. However, while we are living in London, our flat has a nice washer/dryer combination unit. British machines are very difference from American ones. This one is smaller and takes much, much longer to run a cycle. The dryer often leaves clothes slightly damp. Luckily the flat is well equipped and we have two small folding laundry hangers where I can hang things out to finish drying. I don’t mind doing this at all. It reminds me of my childhood when we always hung laundry outside out of necessity. Even in cold, cold weather.
The following poem was written a few years back for a prompt on PoetsOnline (see http://www.poetsonline.org) about laundry. While several poets chose the metaphorical allusions of hanging one’s laundry out or dirty laundry, the prompt evoked in me a sharp image of having to scramble to pull half-frozen clothing off the line before the snow came.
ON WINTER WASH DAYS
On winter wash days, those on the cusp
of warmth, we hung out the clothes
with numb fingers, feeling the curtain
of clouds closing in.
Those were the days when the sun
often hid, and the cold never left at all.
Fabric froze hard, and dresses
and shirts grew solid and stiff.
Rows of sheets, towels and clothes
waved wildly, like pages of a book
flapping in the wind.
In late afternoon, we took it all down,
clothespins snapping shut as each piece
was pulled, placed in the wicker
basket and taken inside.
The darkness closed in early
those mid-winter days, the
evening star sometimes rising
before the icy moon.
(c) 2009, Mary Kendall
Marcel Proust had his fragrant shell-shaped madeleine and linden flower tea. I have my burnt toast.
How often have you found that a simple smell can carry you back in time or far away? It happens to all of us, the sense of smell being strongly linked to evoking memories. Scientists can now prove this through brain scans, but artists and psychiatrists have long noted how taste and smell work with long-past memories far more than other senses. Proust says it so eloquently:
“When from a long distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.”
For Proust, it wasn’t simply the beautiful shape of the madeleine, but the smell and taste of the madeline dipped in the linden flower tea that brought back a flood of memories.
The other morning as I waited for two eggs to boil, I made some toast. It was lovely whole grain bread bought in a farmer’s market here in London. I cut the slice a bit unevenly, and I think it was this that caused the bread to stay down too long in the toaster. I smelled it before I noticed the smoke. The bread was burnt. Feeling annoyed that I hadn’t caught this in time, I grabbed a knife and began to scrape the charred layer from the toast. You can guess where I am going with this, can’t you? In a split second or two a long forgotten memory came flooding back from my early childhood. The poem, “Burnt Toast” was written later in the week. Interestingly, as I wrote each draft, I imagined the smell of the burnt toast over and over.
Burnt Toast
I burnt the toast.
The butter knife
rasped across
the too dark toast.
Sooty crumbs
flurried down
into the sink,
and the smell
of blackened bread
brought back memories
of momma doing this,
scraping the bad away.
Hazel eyes twinkling,
she’d tell us the burnt part
would whiten our smiles,
and we’d always laugh
at this silly joke,
never quite sure
if it might not be true.
But one lost slice
was one less meal,
and she was unwavering.
We would never
know the hunger
that hovered close by.
Even to this day,
I have a strange fondness
for slightly charred bits of food,
my mother always standing there,
at the edges of my memory.
1.
curls of steam
a pot of ginger tea
fragrant this night
2.
silent crow …
holding tight in
winter wind
Crow on a Willow Branch, Japanese woodprint, Library of Congress
Winter Moon Haiku
These haiku were first published PoetsOnline in response to a prompt for winter haiku. In the summer of 2011, I was contacted by the American composer, Paul Carey, who asked permission to use the haiku for a commissioned composition. These were used as lyrics for “Winter Moon” by Paul Carey, a piece for women’s chorus in 2011. The work was premiered on December 8, 2011 by the Clark College Women’s Choir (directed by April Duvic).
Sadly, I’ve never gotten to hear the musical piece since I’m on the east coast and Clark College is in Vancouver, Washington. It would be my dream to get a download of that performance, but enough time has passed that I believe that won’t happen. Still, it was a true honor to be asked to use my haiku in a composition.
I’ve decided to post these haiku today because yesterday was the first full moon of the new year, 2015. Often called the Wolf Moon or Old Moon, the full moon is always a magnicent display for us to observe. I have always felt I could write more freely and easily during a full moon, though I have no proof of that. It’s just a gut feeling of a single poet. Because these were published as part of a composition, the haiku won’t appear in any journals, so I’d like to share them with the readers of this blog. Otherwise they lie dormant in my poetry folder along with so many of their friends.
I offer good wishes to each of you for the new year.
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
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
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 © 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
(Photograph © 2014 by Harald Illsinger)
Frosted rosebud
caught in the night,
Awakening to the fog
of a December dawn.
This sweet pale rosebud
delicately iced over,
Thin slick of frost
lightly brushed on
As if an angel chose
to paint, capturing
The morning’s canvas
where season changes
To season, autumn
turning into winter,
Short days giving in
to long nights of silence
As your fragile calyx
gives you up to the day.
Many thanks to photographer Harald Illsinger for allowing me to use his beautiful photograph, ‘Frosty Morning,’ (c) 2014)
Grief, by Iosatel, The Obvious and Hidden blog, (c) 2014
1.
only the bereaved know
they needn’t speak in whispers,
grief is never
completely silenced
2.
rush of water
a broken branch drifts by
what will be left?
3.
Unending days of darkness
that never let you forget.
4.
Saturated, as if the clouds
had wrung themselves out
all at once, watching what
would then ensue
5.
sitting at the window
watching the rain
despondent days
of unexhausted sadness
trying to let go
6.
forgetting you
was never an option
7.
grief exhausts
but holds on,
rain continues
to fall
8.
thirty-five years and still I mourn you,
sometimes waking and imagining you there
9.
darkness deepens
into the black of night
lightning signals
thunder cracks,
but it is the loss of you
who took your life
that makes me ask
why it had to be
~~~
My Note of Thanks to the photographer, Iosatel, for his beautiful picture, Grief, which was first posted on his blog, The Obvious and the Hidden on 4/11/14. This photograph is copyrighted (c) 2014 by the artist himself.
“Broken Mirror” by Edward Van Helgen @ deviantart.com
For quite a few years now, one of my favorite poetry sites online has been POETSONLINE (see http://poetsonline.org). This site introduced me to presenting poetry online for others to read and it also taught me what fun it can be to write to a specific prompt. The site’s administrator, Ken Ronkowitz, has several blogs, several of which focus on poetry. His prompts are always very well thought out, amply illustrated with poetic examples, they never fail to offer a good challenge to both an experienced writer or someone new to writing poetry. This past summer, Ken presented an interesting prompt that began with Carl Sandburg’s poem, “Mag”:
“The prompt this time out was to write a poem about a negative wish (or wishes) – a wish to undo, wishes that change the past. Those are the wishes that pull you right back to the present and have you thinking about the future.”
The poems written in response to the prompt were published this fall. I wanted to share mine here on my own poetry blog to reach a broader audience. I think the problem is poor self-esteem and distorted sense of self-worth isn’t uncommon in women in America. I struggled with it all my life and just when I think I’m in control, something might happen and make me backslide. I’d say that 97% of the time, my rational self is in control and keeps that negative thinking in check. I do regret having wasted so much of my life feeling inadequate or not worthy of being valued in so many ways. I know I’m not alone. I hope any person reading this poem will think about it and someone they know who struggles with this issue and perhaps, do something to help her (or him) learn to embrace their own self-worth.
Self-portrait in colored pencil
If you’d like to listen to the poem, click on the link below and wait a few seconds for the audio to begin.
I Wish I Could Undo…
All the time
I wasted waiting for life to happen,
As if there would be a perfect moment
When the stars aligned just so,
Or my sails swiftly caught the wind,
And the ivory moon was full.
I thought it would just happen.
All the time
I wasted loathing who I am:
Never good enough, smart enough,
Thin enough, clever enough,
And if that weren’t already enough,
I somehow felt that if I said it enough,
I really might be transformed,
Emerging a butterfly and not a moth.
I would be smarter, beautiful, wittier,
And I’d dance with agile grace.
At last it became quite apparent:
I would never be ‘enough’ for me.
All that time
I wasted wishing myself away.
If only I could undo all of that,
And take back time…and use it well.
I’d whisper a simple incantation
To my younger self:
You were enough, more than enough
In your very own way.
Apple in Mirror
First published on PoetsOnline.org under “Negative Wishes,” August 2014
“I Wish I Could Undo…” (c) 2014, Mary Kendall
Katy, my donut dog, deep in sleep.
One of the great joys in life is owning a dog you absolutely adore. For me that is my sweet seven year old yellow Labrador retriever, Katy. We got Katy as a one year old rescue dog from the wonderful rescue group, Saving Grace, in North Carolina. She surprised us by chewing just about everything including more than one down-filled pillow. (Did you know that a down pillow contains a million and a half down feathers? Neither did I until I had to clean up the ‘snow filled’ house on several occasions.) Seriously, we quickly found out that this bundle of energy needed really long, hard exercise. For Katy, this came in the activity of fetching. Even today she still runs so fast that people comment on it. And she fetches until you stop throwing the tennis ball. My neighbors are used to dropping off bags of used tennis balls, all for Katy’s pleasure. She definitely has her fans. Who can resist a lovely, very silly dog who won’t live without her beloved tennis ball?
This poem is my tribute to my dear Katy. As you can see from the picture above, she loves to curl up like a donut (what dog doesn’t love this position?).
Donut Dog by Mary Kendall
Eye on the prize!
A ball is always close by.
Even old tennis balls need a nap.
A second poem of mine in the Silver Birch Press Mythic Poetry Series! I’m delighted they selected this one.
I’ve done an audio clip of me reading this poem. Click below if you care to listen.
The Broken Promise: Orpheus and Eurydice
by Mary Kendall
If only he had kept his promise, she’d be there.
All it took was one glance, a quick turn,
a meeting of the eyes and then she vanished.
How long did he stand there staring at where she had been?
When did he realize that she was lost to him forever?
How sad the stars were that night,
tumbling through the black sky
in mournful arcs;
even the moon turned its face away.
As he lead her out toward the ledge,
did she gasp at her unsure footing?
She with her snake-born limp,
trying hard to keep pace through dark tunnels
winding up to the craggy precipice?
Was this what tempted him to look?
His glance came so naturally,
that of the husband who worried
his wife might stumble and fall.
His trust in her never wavered and yet
he looked…
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“In my End is my Beginning”
The End of Autumn
How could we pass through autumn
without thinking about life.
Life and death.
Life and birth.
Birth and death.
The book ends of our existence
with pauses of space in between
waiting for us to write the chapters
that will fill the empty volume
that eventually defines a life.
These photos were taken by me at the Duke Hospice at The Meadowlands in Hillsborough, North Carolina. This hospice is set on an old farmstead in rural Orange county. The hospice and grounds are a wonderful gift to all who pass through.
Quotation embroidered and worn by Mary, Queen of Scots
Due North © 2014 by Iosatel
There are nights in the winter
once the leaves have fallen away,
when sometimes I wake in the dark,
hearing the distant, plaintive sound
of a single train a few miles away
as it crosses over a country road
or maybe it’s to warn off deer
that pause too long on the track.
The train travels due north,
and in the blackness of the night
the train’s dark sounding
brings back fragmented images
of my childhood life up north.
North, where winter’s silver skies
are layered in clouds most
of the year, and where snow
begins to fall early and deep.
North, where my family lived
in the rust belt of Lake Erie,
where strong winds raced across
the lake with bone-chilling cold.
The lake effect meant snowstorms
that went on for hours, even days
on end. Times when all of us gathered
together happily, knowing school
would be cancelled the next day.
Night was peaceful back then.
In the morning, we’d make our
way through the thigh high snow
and help shovel the walk, leaving
tall tunnels of snow on either side.
Our boots would crunch on frozen
snow, fingers painfully cold, but
that never stopped us from a snowball
fight or playing king of the mountain,
or sledding, tumbling, rolling in snow,
or making lovely snow angels
all over the yard. Those were the
carefree days of childhood, when
we didn’t worry about time or the
future or much of anything.
And for a while the thick snow
continued to fall, covering the tracks
of cars, birds and anything else
that dared to wander outside
on those interminable winter days.
Now, no longer in the north,
I lie in bed remembering such
simple times, times of being together
as we coasted down the snow hills,
all six of us tucked in tightly together
until halfway down when the toboggan
shifted and just after the pull to the left,
we capsized, all of us scattered down the hill,
laughter ringing out so loud as we fell,
each of us ready to give it a go again.
Tobagganing in the Snow
My thanks to the photographer, Iosatel, for use of the photograph, Due North, which appeared on his blog, The Obvious and the Hidden, 03/11/2014
While visiting my brother and his wife this summer in East Aurora, New York, we experienced a truly wonderful and unexpected visit from three pileated woodpeckers at the suet feeder Jim had filled. His wife, Paulett, said the woodpeckers were frequent visitors to their lovely back garden. This was a first for me. Although I’ve been an on again, off again birdwatcher for most of my adult life, I’ve only seen one pileated woodpecker in person before. Seeing three at the same time was simply brilliant. Watching their acrobatics as they fed on the suet, flew back and forth to peck at a tree, and generally manoeuvered their rather large bodies in amazinglying agile ways was pure delight. After a feeding frenzy, they flew away and it felt amazingly still and empty where they had been. Much like a visit with beloved family and friends, the ‘after’ part comes all too soon and leaves a void in our hearts. This poem is dedicated to Jim and Paulett, two of the kindest and most caring people I know. Thank you for sharing your home, your family and your amazing woodpeckers with us.
Dining with the Woodpeckers
In the late August garden
The quiet afternoon now
Comes to a languorous close.
Out of nowhere, a flash of red,
Bright scarlet crests crowning
Zebra-patterned feathers.
Three Pileated woodpeckers
Begin to feast at the suet feeder,
Fluttering, flying tree to tree,
Tree to feeder, alternately
Pecking at thick maple bark,
Then shifting to soft silky suet.
The youngest, now the size of its parents,
Joins in to grab his share, and father
And mother dutifully give way.
For a few Cirque des Oiseaux moments
All three woodpeckers hang right side up
And upside down, their brilliant red heads
Flash like stop lights in the early evening sun.
We sit around the table eating an early supper
And sipping local wine. Conversation drifts
As we watch in these avian acrobatics.
Just as quickly as they arrived, so soon are
They are gone. More wine is poured,
Seconds of hot buttered corn and fresh
Heirloom garden tomatoes are passed
From one to the other. Like the birds,
We share this meal together, enjoying
The richness of what the day has given.
A light wind blows the leaves outside,
A beautiful evening for us to be together
Knowing that summer will end all too soon.
Picture by Beth Brandkamp
Water Song
Water, the color of night,
so very still
not even a wave
breaks the glass surface.
Fear is sometimes
like this, submerged
so far it is hidden
from the conscious self,
safely buried
and unable to rise
to the top again.
Dark thoughts swim
against the current
of common sense, but
they meet no resistance
that far down.
Narcissus, 1912 by John William Waterhouse
Persephone’s abduction by Hades is swift, violent and over so quickly that no one hears her scream except for Hecate, a goddess who helps Demeter find out where she has gone. Could there be anything worse for a mother than to lose a child? Demeter’s grief is profound. This is the Second Lamentation of Demeter.
The Abduction of Persephone, Hans Von Aachen, 1587
To hear me read this poem, please click on the link below and wait a few seconds for it to begin.
The Second Lamentation of Demeter
The earth groaned, then opened briefly.
That’s all it took.
He appeared out of nowhere
Like a wild flume of fire,
The flickering golden chariot with
Four black stallions at full gallop.
He sprang upon her so quickly
That when the earth closed back
Upon itself like a wound healed over,
All that was left was a circlet of flowers
That she and the daughters of Oceanus
Had been stringing together. Irises, roses,
Violets, hyacinths, and the faded blossoms
Of sweet narcissus plucked by her hand.
The scar in the earth and grasses torn apart
Were all that told the story.
I always knew he watched her…
I sensed when he was around.
Clouds gathered overhead,
Shadows clothing him in darkness,
Hades,
To whom sunlight is a stranger.
My sweet Persephone is gone now,
Gone with him.
O, horror…
My sweet child is his.
Persephone’s abduction is well represented in art. It is my personal opinion that one need look no further than the magnificent sculpture done by Bernini in 1622. The details of the hands and arms as well as the force and resistance between their two bodies is powerful. Persephone’s tear stained cheek tells us more than any words can.
Gian Lorenzo Bernini, The Abduction of Persephone, 1622, Galleria Borghese in Rome
(detail)
(detail)
British Museum GR 1885.3-16.1 (Terracotta C 529), AN34724001
I’ve been looking over my writing notebooks written a while back but unread by anyone other than myself or my husband. The myths of Demeter and her daughter, Persephone, fascinate many including me. For a number of reasons these myths seem to appeal especially to women. Many of the great living women poets have written brilliant poems about Persephone (e.g., Louise Glück and Eavan Boland). The story is timeless.
In today’s poem I’ve written a Lamentation of Demeter. Demeter, the goddess of the harvest and grains, is often referred to as the mother-goddess since she represents fertility on earth. Her importance is indisputable. When she mourns for her missing daughter, Persephone (who has been abducted by Hades and taken down into the underworld by force) the seasons stop. Things stop growing and the earth begins to die before Persephone’s father, Zeus, intervenes. You know the story, but it is worth re-reading if you haven’t read any mythology for a while.
Demeter statue in front of my gym in Hillsborough, North Carolina
So what is a lamentation? The Oxford English Dictionary defines it simply: “The passionate expression of grief or sorrow; weeping.” Anyone who has grieved knows instinctively what it is to lament the loss of someone who is dearly loved. The feeling is painful and deep, and I think this resonates within us all. Demeter mourned her daughter’s abduction to a point where the earth nearly perished. This poem begins with her not yet knowing all that has happened. I picture her as a mother desperate to know what has happened to her child.
This is one of two lamentations of Demeter I’ve written. The second will follow at some point.
Demeter
To listen to an audio recording of me reading this poem, click on the link below and wait a few seconds for it to begin:
The First Lamentation of Demeter
How is it that I don’t know where she has gone?
I warned her.
I told her time and time again not to trust them,
that there were those who so longed for her
they would stop at nothing.
And who was right?
Like all girls her age, she could be headstrong,
believing her own mother too old
to understand those yearnings.
I warned her.
Last night I watched the dog star rise up.
Its magnificent beams were like beacons
that might lead me to my lost child.
Why is it the stars are silent?
O, Sirius, your brilliant rays reach down
to us and yet your silence is puzzling.
Surely you saw where she went, my only child.
Will no one tell me where my Persephone has gone?
I’m not sure where this poem came from. It just happened. I was thinking about the sad loss of butterflies this summer and what that might mean to our environment, our gardens, our enjoyment of nature. Somehow, from that line of thought to the poem…well, how does one explain where things are born? I hope you enjoy this poem.
An audio of me reading this poem is available at the link below. Give it a few seconds to begin.
When a Heart Breaks
Did you ever consider a heart is like a chrysalis?
Perfectly wrapped round and round, silken strands
layered one upon the other, locked together
in a solid embrace of fragile fibers.
This is what the heart is.
When a heart breaks, no one picks through
the fibers trying to separate the strands.
Yet it can be undone so easily.
Words can unravel it so quickly that it spins
like a frenzied top, leaving behind a trail
of weakened strings, no longer useful to anyone.
Swan Feather, Moscow by Veronika K. Ko (c) 2013
If you care to listen to me read the poem, just click on the link below and wait a few seconds for it to begin:
Icarus II
The hardest part was letting you go,
knowing that once you sailed so high
it would be impossible not to try again.
With each pass you made, you soared
higher, more effortlessly; sweet-scented
beeswax noticeable as the air grew warmer.
Arms outstretched as if embracing the sun,
you changed course and flew even closer
before you shifted abruptly, a quick turning
of wings, now fighting the unexpected wind
with young muscles tensed and determined
to hold the course.
The descent was swift.
A feather fell
and then another.
Click on the link below if you’d like to hear me reading this poem. Give it a few seconds to begin.
ICARUS I
by Mary Kendall
September was ready to slip into October
and autumn skies were filled with color
Clusters of clouds
suddenly dissolved
and let the sun peer through
I imagined you as Icarus taking a risk
and trying to fly high above your depression,
gliding for a while like a broad-winged hawk,
the cool air making you unaware
of just how close
to the sun
you flew
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The story of Icarus has always fascinated me. I think as long as people have lived, some have always wished they could fly like the birds. There are so many beautiful paintings and drawings of this classic myth, but in my mind’s eye I see only the simple picture of water with a feather floating on it—a reminder of how easily a dream and a life can come to an end. My Icarus poems were written when…
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Yes, this is the second time you’ve seen this picture in my blog. It was posted with a poem, Daybreak, in late August and now it reappears to accompany a second poem it also inspired, Daybreak II. A single picture on paper, on the screen or in the memory has a powerful, persuasive control of our imagination. This beautiful photo by my friend and photographer, Yolanda Litton, has done just that.
Early Morning at Bagnegrole (Photograph by Yolanda Litton)
I’ve included an audio clip of me reading the poem. Click on the link below and wait a few seconds.
Daybreak (2)
Waking up in at daybreak in the south of France
Is as if I were stepping into someone else’s life.
So far from my own home, this wistful morning fog
Rises slowly to reveal a house of soft honeyed stone.
The slope of a sharply pitched roof holds a tall chimney
Where the swifts are now resting after a long evening hunt.
Somewhere a rooster crows with the energy that only
The young can bring to a new day. Out of nowhere,
A soft gray cat tip-toes by, looks up at me and blinks
Its eyes in that inscrutable feline way and disappears.
I stand here leaning on the windowsill, wondering
What my life would be like had I been born here.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts up from
The kitchen below. One lone church bell rings
Calling its faithful to prayer. But nature’s beauty
Is my religion, my serenity, my salvation, my Eden.
An Autumn Long Gone ~ a Reverie (prose poem)
An audio of me reading this prose poem can be heard by clicking the link below. It will take a few seconds for the sound to begin.
It was the year we lived in London, some 25 years ago, when autumn began like any other autumn. The fall, the changing, the color shifting, the soft breezes, the sporadic thick fog and the leaves dancing, even floating upward at times. What I hadn’t anticipated, being so far north for the first time, was how short the days grew. How dark it became earlier and earlier all during that autumn. The days were ‘closing in.’ That’s what they called it, and I loved that phrase. It brought a certain comfort of pulling heavy curtains closed and shutting out the darkness. It was a time for wearing coats and warm sweaters, and I dressed my son in practical English clothing and soft grey mittens while he ran ahead enjoying what was left of the day. He was only three, but he knew the delight in using what was left of the day’s sunlight. I learned to enjoy the simple pleasures around me that came with this quiet season. Victoria plums were my new delight. They appeared at the Greengrocer’s shop just as autumn set in, later replaced by apples—Bramley and Cox’s Orange Pippins, names that twirled on the tongue and tasted as good. Burning leaves were an unexpected, half-loved sensory pleasure. The smoke was pungent, but it brought back memories of childhood. I loved even the rasp of raking, bamboo or metal combs gathering leaves in sacred piles waiting their turn to be sacrificed in an autumnal pyre. In the English light, I found the colors were softer, quieter than the brilliance of New England woodlands. Each morning I left my son at school and then walked through Hampstead Heath. I found my own favorite route through woods and meadows up to the large ponds. Purchasing a single cup of tea that warmed my hands, I made my way to that empty bench that faced the pond. I thought about all the people it had held before. And every day without fail a lone Scottish piper played his bagpipes as if on cue. Each day I sat and listened. A world so far from my own. From where he stood near the peak of Parliament Hill, the mournful songs became a wordless chanting, charging the air with a lamentation to this closing season, every day briefer, softer than the day before.
Lost in Reverie (c) 2014 by Iosatel, The Obvious and Hidden blog on WordPress (with his permission)
Today is the first day of autumn, and for my writing practice in the next few weeks I’ll begin a series of autumn or fall poems. This is my favorite season, my soul season. I’ve done a few different types of haiku ranging from traditional 17 syllables to a poem in a single line. Do you have a favorite?
1.
biting into a Victoria plum, such guilty pleasure
2.
spent blossoms–
the last swallowtail
sips alone
3.
the season’s first soup
almost ritually cooked
stirs our senses
4.
sweet windfall apples…
bruised memories
autumn of long ago
Modern English language haiku are not always seventeen syllables. A haiku can be many things, but always it is a brief poem with a strong image that evokes a season and a moment of time captured simply in lyrical language. Scroll to the bottom of today’s blog to find a list of essential qualities of haiku.
The following list from the wonderful journal, Heron’s Nest, lists important qualities that make a haiku.
Here are some qualities we find essential to haiku:
The First Coyote
Shadowed by trees, it was alert,
Watching those on the porch.
Tall, thin, a knife sharp gaze,
This coyote knew its way around.
The startled man cradled the cat
And called the nervous dogs back
Inside the house, far away from
This lurker in the evening woods.
Was it waiting for a squirrel or
Rabbit? You couldn’t tell this far
Away, yet clearly it was patient
And after tonight’s dinner.
How else could it survive
If not for foraging here and
There, waiting for a quick
Capture, meat for a day or two.
This was the first coyote seen
In the neighborhood, and now
I open the window late at night
To listen to it sing to the moon.
A friend and former teaching colleague of mine, Patti Hardee Donnelly, is a superb photographer whose work I’ve long admired. A small offshoot of her photography has been her finding small HEARTS in many forms in nature and in life. I am often surprised, frequently amused, and always delighted by what Patti comes across in her daily life. This summer she posted this beautiful picture of an old tree stump she came across very early one morning on her daily run. I was mesmerized by the beauty of it, the color and texture and most of all by the image I saw within the heart. I know that if I had been walking that path that morning, I would have totally missed this beautiful creation of nature.
Thank you, Patti, for your amazing photo and talent. It immediately inspired me to write this poem, which is dedicated to you.
I’ve recorded an audio of me reading this poem. To hear it, simply click on the link below. It will take a few seconds before it begins.
Heartwood (photo by Patti Hardee Donnelly © 2014)
Heartwood
~for Patti Hardee Donnelly
This heartwood is no more
Than a bit of grey crackling,
More a silvered wood fungus
Than what was once the lifeline
Of a tree, an umbilical hotline
From the sun to the leaves
Down to roots fastened in earth.
Now this aging heart of wood
Reveals elegant scalloped wings,
An angel dancing, a floor
Made of rough pine straw
Softening her delicate steps.
In the silence of morning,
I glimpsed an angel,
But you found her heart.
