Wandering in the Imaginary Garden

After an absence of about a year and a half, I find myself again in the Garden.  I'm very busy between now and Easter, so not much time for deep reflection.

So - only a couple of haiku inspired by a picture and accompanying haiku that a friend posted on FaceBook.  The picture is of a labyrinth made of rocks laid out on a bed of sand.  His inspiration came from Philip Cousineau's book, The Art of Pilgrimage, which I have not read.

in my pilgrimage 

wandering the labyrinth 

will I find myself

~~::~~

in this crooked path

wandering i find myself 

now i am amazed 

These were written a couple days apart.  The second one presented here was written first.  I did not have it in mind when I wrote the first one.  I think they're at least marginally relevant to Peter Cole's poem posted at The Garden today.

The Tuesday Platform

Just another Spider Tuesday in the Garden

It's an open forum on Tuesday, even if you don't get to it until Wednesday.

I have a lot of music events on the near horizon, including some challenging solos to master.  I guess I have a limited amount of creativity, since it seems to always be music or writing, not both.

Here's a haiku I wrote for Carpe Diem back in 2014.   There were strict requirements, as per classic haiku.  I've written a lot of bad ones, and even worse - haiku shaped word clusters, but this one came out well, I think.

on the silken strands

sad fly plays a minor chord

orb weaver's delight

It has 5-7-5 structure, a summer kigo, 1st-3rd line interchangeability, and phrase and fragment structure - an English language adaptation of the cutting word.  There might also be a deeper meaning, which I'll leave for you to ponder, if you so chose.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.  He will be spending the day with my kids and their kids.

Tuesday Gardening

Tuesdays are wide open in the garden.  Here is another demented sonnet from archives.

The captured maiden, monster, rescuing hero trope is as old as story telling.  One common variation derived from European folk-lore has a princess and a dragon in the starring roles.  This has become a fantasy cliche over the last few decades, eventually leading to creative alternate approaches, such as in the movie SHREK.  I've written a couple of stories that play with the idea, and this poem, which I think takes an original approach.  I hope you enjoy it.

Also, this trope plays into male-dominance, and its a short step from there to the abuse and pedophilia that is so prominent in the news these days.   It's all about power in relationships, and power corrupts.

Afterthought - I didn't watch the music vid at the Garden post until just now, so the idea of using a dragon is completely coincidental, and resonates in a rather weird way.



    IN PRAYER SHE CONTEMPLATES

Far from her home, sequestered in a cave
In dampness, gloom and foul lizard's filth
With golden chains that mock a kingdom's wealth,
She waits the coming of the knight or knave --

The fool who'd face the flame and fang to save 
A royal maiden from this monstrous death.
The fool arrives.  To scale and scalding breath
He shouts his dare.  Could one so wild and brave

Be any but a lout?  No doubt he'd clench
A princess as he would some low-born wench. 
Is lance of knight or fang of worm to be
The one to test her vain virginity?

Reposed in prayer she contemplates her sins,
Then spies her knight, and prays the dragon wins.

~~::~~::~~

It's All Relative In The Garden

Isadora asks us to,"Write about a relative's encounter with a famous person. That's all. The encounter doesn't have to have actually happened. And the famous person does not need to be living or even from the same era."

Well, if the famous person can be fictional, then why not the relative? And if not the same era, then why not a different planet?  Full disclosure: I do not have a cousin named Amoretta. Her name and a draft of the first two couplets popped into my head from who-knows-where. I wrote them before I went to bed, then composed the rest on my pillow [instead of sleeping] and set it all down this morning. Can't tell you when the last time was I wrote anything rhyming and metric, so this was a fun challenge.

                                  SNOW FALL

My cousin Amoretta was a drudge at Winterfell;

For a simple low-born lass she was doing well.

Robb Stark never noticed her, though she tried to flirt;

He was destined for a high-born girl whose skirts weren’t fringed with dirt.

So she set her mind and heart on father Ned’s by-blow:

A sullen and impulsive lad whose bastard name was Snow.

This Jon Snow had a weakness for girls with hair of red,

So red-haired Amoretta sought to lure him to her bed.

But their tryst was interrupted when he answered duty’s call

And road off to the North to join the Watchers on the Wall.

Then she was left alone again, bereft of love and joy

Until she caught the eye and heart of the burly black smith boy.

Soon they were wed and she decided he must never know
That in their closest moments she was dreaming of Jon Snow.

~~::~::~~

Cold Flash in the Garden

Kerry inspires us with this strangely beautiful and haunting image.

I immediately thought of the song displayed below, and that guided my entry.

I really couldn't go anywhere else.

Man Ray, 1929

in pale perfection

she lies supine on a plinth
we are both breathless

Autumn in the Garden

Magaly's invitation to the danse -- "Share any poem you like. Any form. Old or new. We’ll delight in it. If there is a hint of Autumn or October in its lines, I’ll probably dance with it. Fine, I will kiss it on the mouth."

So - another from deep in the archives - a demented sonnet offered here in honor of halloween, with mouth and tongue all moist and eager.  [Beware the teeth and claws.]


                      CELIBATE FATE

For four more weeks she keeps her innocence --
Mere carnal yearning since she was beguiled
Into wedlock with Selene's child
And his twenty-seven days of impotence.

The moon's once-in-a-cycle minstrel song
Called him out to last night's bloody rending,
Announced his victim's grim and grisly ending,
Siren to his lunatic Wulfsarkergang.

A shimmering crystal moonbeam, cold and clear,
Illuminates what never was but always were.
Its gray light casts the sacrifice's setting,
But her blood never flows at his blood-letting.

Her celibate fate follows Nature's whim:
The moon, not she, brings out the beast in him.

                                 ~~::~~

Better House and Garden

Building houses link.

butterfly cocoon

changing for the better

in a house of silk

~~::~~

a home is not made 

of boards and bricks and mortar

it is built from love

~~::~~

Images in the Garden

The challenge is to write a poem in any style matched to one or more images.   Simple as that.

I'm short on time this week - playing Sibelius's 2nd Symphony this evening - and, of course, a day late.  So one short simple verse.

fox on an island

in shimmering images

thinking of rabbits

~~::~~

Afterthought: I like it even better with 1st and 3rd lines reversed.

Tuesday in the Garden

Please share a poem of your choice and enjoy the company of your fellow scribes. 

Another one from the archives.  And with halloween looming, another tilt toward the macabre.

                  PASSIONATE PRETENSE

Her throat, no longer perfect, but still white,

Invokes the crimson from the sunset glow,

As she awaits the dark - to taste, to know

Carnality incarnate in the night.

       The sun's suffusion stains her skin to pink

       With its last russet bloom, as if she were

       A blushing maiden, innocent and pure,

       On satin sheets where white and scarlet link.

What has her throat to do with being white?

Like thorn and petals torn they two entwine,

But not as lovers do -- instead, to dine

In sweet engagement of an ancient rite.

Her white throat is a passionate pretense

That now, twice pierced, belies her innocence.

Briars in the Garden

"Both read the Bible day and night; but you read black where I read white."
-- William Blake

I'm a little late to this one.  Checking the analysis of Blake's poem we find that he was protesting the biblical interpretations that the Anglican church was imposing on ordinary people, particularly regarding the repression of human sexuality.  I'm not a believer, but I was brought up in the Catholic church, had 12 years of religion classes, occasionally paid attention, and have some familiarity with the teachings of Jesus.   I find the beliefs and attitudes of American conservative christianity to be anti-scriptural, nihilist, judgmental, hypocritical, hate-based and intellectually offensive.  On the other hand I find the concepts and attitudes of progressive christianity to be enlightening and fulfilling.   If I were a believer, I would find them compelling.

So Blake's 1794 poem resonates with the religious landscape of 2017 America.  I went back to the shadorma again to express my thoughts and feelings.

Wikipedia

Thistle Flowers

Where is love?

Evangelicals

Have grabbed it;

Transformed it

To judgment and damnation

Out of hate.

~:~

Where is God,

That loving father?

Remaining

In Crown thorns?

Does he bind his love for us

In brambles?

~:~

Salvation -

What then does it mean

If they change

All the good

Into the coffers of a 

Mega church?

~~::~~

Oh, no - I exceeded the 12 line limit! 
Lo siento. 
At least they are short.

Awhapery In the Garden

Today we have a list of obsolete English language words to chose from, and an invitation to use others, which I have taken advantage of.

Not feeling up to attempting rhyme, or anything long-form, I've chosen to do another shadorma, as befits my dwindled attention span.  But I'm delighted to finally get to use the word "swyve." which has been sitting idle in my vocabulary for decades.

BEMOANING

Oh Wasteheart!

Coney-caught again:

Awhaped by

Dowsable.

She swyved with a losenger

I’m betrumped!

Here it is translated

LAMENT

Woe is me!

Cheated yet again:

Confounded

By lover.

She screwed a lying rascal.

And tricked me.

Glossary
Awhape -- confound
Betrump -- deceive or cheat
Coney-catch -- cheat or deceive
Dowsable -- sweetheart
Losenger -- false flatterer, cad
Swyve -- copulate
Wasteheart -- expression of grief or dismay

Tuesday in the Garden of Weirdness

Here, Rommy tells us:

"You all know the drill.  Share a piece of poetry as the spirit moves you, new or an old favorite. "

So here is an old one, one of my demented sonnets from many years ago.  This pastiche was going to be a humorous parody of a well known sonnet, speaking of a relationship gone cold, but instead took a much darker turn, perhaps in keeping with creepy October.

Enjoy.

Or not.


              THY PALLID LOVELINESS 

Shall I compare thee to a winter's night?
Thou art more lovely in thy pallid chill.
Rough winds shake bare limbs, but thine hold tight,
Ever rigid, rigorous, and still.

Sometimes too cold the evening sky-light glows,
Encircled in a wisp of winter cloud
That with the gray dawn sends the falling snows,
Blankets the earth with its white morning shroud;

But thy eternal winter shall unfold,
Never to thaw thy fast frigidity. 
And rigor shall not lose the mortal hold
That binds thee in frozen rigidity.

Now once again I breathe on thy cold flesh,
And with thy pallid loveliness enmesh.

~~::~~

Some appropriate music

Fussy Garden Form

Today we are exposed to a form that is new to me - the shadorma - a 6 line, syllable-counted haiku derivative.  I love haiku/senryu, as you can see by scrolling through this blog, so I like this ideas.  The first one is just playing with the name; the second is how my day is going; the third is today's weather, and the last is in the haiku spirit, reflecting my affection for the amphibians I find in my yard.

Correction, a day later - this form is not a haiku derivative.  It comes to us from Spain.

shadorma

it’s not a shadow

nor gray shade

nor color

standing out in black and white

waiting to be read

~:~

lonely day

i sit by myself

just writing

scribing thoughts

my lovely wife lies in bed

sick and all alone

~:~

falling rain

in early autumn

thick gray clouds

the whole day

night falls and darkness deepens

winter is coming

~:~

slow hopping

under the bushes

mottled tones

blending in

hiding from the hawk’s sharp eyes 

a brown speckled toad

~~::~~

Cruel Imagination in the Garden

“Bodies, can’t you see what everybody wants from you?”

CRUEL - a Quadrille

I didn’t hit her often

Only when she deserved it

How could one so beautiful be so cruel

Not so beautiful with bruises though

And welts

Oh the anger

When she ran away

How that made it worse

Why do I miss her so

~~::~~

dVerse Tuesday Gardening

Should I apologize for standing this Hope prompt on its head?

Well, I too have been thinking a lot about the world lately.  It seems that everything is going sour - from killer wild fires and hurricanes to killers and idiots and megalomaniacs running the world - into the ground; which is a strange way of putting it.

Anyway, my verses have taken a sad and lonely turn of late - thankfully, not reflecting my conditions in real life.

So here is a Quadrille.



           Hope On The Strand

I met her on the strand

Told her my name

She said hers was Hope

We talked then hid away and did some things

My mistake to fall in love so easily

Since she soon sailed away

Now I walk the strand alone

Hopeless

             ~~::~~

Imaginary Garden - Camera Flash

The entries I've read for this prompt have tended toward a dark turn - and, indeed, the photo surely invites that.  But it jogged a memory for me - of when I happened to be in the water at just the right moment.  This is an older poem, but - hey - the challenge is wide open --- so . . .

The date stamp on the file for this poem is August, 2000, so I suppose that's when I wrote it. It is the narrative of a real incident, just as it happened. My wife and I were driving around one day, rather aimlessly, and went into a park. There was a lake, and we took our shoes off, and waded along the shore line. It wasn't crowded, but there were quite a few people there, in the water, and along the beach.

I am not a religious person, but this was a deeply moving event. Every time I re-read it, I have to fight back the tears.  Here is how it happened.


               SAVING TIME

Such a simple thing, to lift a child.
Hands grasp her sides, a second pair of ribs
Beneath plump arms, and swing her high:
Inconsequential weight on angel's wings.

Farther down the beach a gathering:
Mexican Pentecostal Church of God
All clad in white and black, their Sunday best,
With angel voices raised in Spanish hymns.

That little girl, no taller than my knee
Has not yet mastered walking on dry land.
In childish guile she flees her family's eyes
Makes her way to water's edge, and in.

Senor Juan Baptiste strides chest-deep
Into the lake. The others, arms raised high,
Invoke God's power as he grasps behind the neck,
Supports each penitent beneath the waves.

When no one else was looking at this girl
I saw her falter, fall, then float face down.
Two splashing steps, hands on her ribs,
I raise her out and draw her to my chest.

We could have driven past this lake today,
Or lazed another minute on the shore,
Or turned our wading walk the other way,
Instead, I found myself above this child.

Juan Baptiste mouths a Spanish prayer,
Lifts his new-found brother from the lake,
As I lift and hold this child close to me,
Saved, as by the very hand of God.

                        ~~::~~

An inspired after-thought

All water flows to the sea
Taking with it everything we've lost
Friends lovers pets tokens memories
Only the memories can be brought back
Dragged to the bony shore in neural nets

                  ~~::~~

Fireblossom Friday In the Garden

Another Friday trip into the garden for me - or maybe  .  .  . who is that?

Sometimes, a duplicate of a living person takes form, called a Doppelganger. The double does things the original person is unaware of, but others see. 

"I didn't know what I was doing." "I didn't know what my double was doing." (!) "I don't know what came over me." Maybe these are more than just common expressions. Maybe our wills are not always our own. What do you think? Let's write about it. 

My Doppelganger - a Villanelle

Yeah - that’s what I was thinking:
I would never do those awful things.
Not even if I had been drinking.

Always clever, never shrinking,
This is what my doppleganger brings.
Yeah - that’s what I was thinking:

All those women: their forlorn hopes sinking;
Sad songs plucked on their heart strings.
Not even if I had been drinking.

My wife is glad that I’m the one she’s linking;
Not stuck inside HIS binding wedding rings.
Yeah - that’s what I was thinking:

All those women’s sobs, their sad tears blinking
In memory of those cheating, piercing stings.
Not even if I had been drinking.

That doppleganger always slyly slinking
Into that good night after those flings.
Yeah - that’s what I was thinking:
Not even if I had been drinking.

Carpe Diem 1262 / Imaginary Garden -- Courtyard Blues

Today's Carpe Diem inspiration is this picture [attribution lost.]  Looks like an anything goes day at The Garden, so I'll share this there as well.

Took a sad, lonely turn with this blue image.

Courtyard Blues

in the blue courtyard

we shared blue margaritas

salty memory

~:~

in the blue courtyard

we met alone at midnight

taste of stolen sweets

~:~

in the blue courtyard
long i sat waiting for you

 you with him loving

~:~

in the blue courtyard

where our tempers flashed red hot

sitting cold and blue

~:~

in the blue courtyard

now i drink the blues alone
you and he are gone

Fireblossom Friday - The Distorted Lens

So I've wandered back, at long last, into the Imaginary Garden.

Fitting, since I did just see a real toad on the walkway in front of my house.

Today's challenge: 'So, your task is to write from the point of view of someone who is seeing reality through a distorted lens."

And here it is, if it qualifies.  I have no idea where it came from.

OH 

oh

it's you again

you

coming here

again

i did not invite you

here

to fling your fervid finger dance

on my hilltops

to slyly slither your stealthful 

wending way

along my hedge row

nor play your probing game of sinking

for a short while

into my silent secret bog

a short while 

too short

too short

and look at you

how you thrash and flail

spewing ragged steamy breath spasms

until that final gasp

when you heave your heavy ploughman's sigh

oh

are you still here

alright then

kiss me if you must

you must

no

not there

there

yes there

yes

more deeply

yes

there

oh

oh

OH

~:~:~:~

Afterthought: after reading Hedgewitch's entry, it occurred to me that this might also be about the incubus. A new and intriguing slant, perhaps.

The Tuesday Platform - Windmill in the Garden

The Garden

Carpe Diem #688 WINDMILL

My lovely wife is leading the charge to simplify and get rid of old, unneeded stuff. Tucked away somewhere she found a program from an event we went to in November, 2005, that I had forgotten about.  We were invited by our neighbors and didn't know what it was going to be until we got there.  Turns out, it was a variety show put on by special needs people, with assistance from a couple of very prominent Detroit area professional musicians.

At this late date, my recollections of that evening are quite vague.  But I was deeply moved at the time.  Most of the performers were autistic, though there may have been some with other difficulties as well.

Stuck in the program was something I wrote when we got home.  It's actually more of a song than a poem.  One of the acts was called HEART TO HEART, and I might have been specifically reacting to that.  I have the tune in my head, standard A-A-B-A song form, but no simple way to share it with you.  Feel free to sing it your own way.


RIGHT HERE IN MY HEART

Don't tell me what you think I can't do;
Sing me a song, teach me something new.
Show me the way to make a new start -
I have it all right here in my heart.

Don't tell me that my way is wrong
If it's not your way of singing this song,
We both have ways of playing our part,
If we have it right in our heart.

It's true, I'm different from you,
Or maybe you're just different from me.
But we're the same in our hearts -
Together now, what could we be?

If I'm racing now from pole to pole
Flying to fast to find the goal;
Let's bring it back to music and art -
I have it all right here in my heart.

~~::~~

Accompanying haiku, freshly composed for Carpe Diem

Image found here

in my mind and heart

all of these thoughts and feelings

windmill in a storm