Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts

14 March, 2025

Space Weather (2/2)


Photo by
Chinh Le Duc on Unsplash

When my daughter and I were discussing the marvels of space weather, we were sitting in one of her favourite cafés. Across from our table hung a striking picture of a whale suspended in the dark ocean depths.

As we talked, I couldn’t help but draw parallels between the mysteries of space and the vast, shadowy depths of the ocean. If you’ve ever seen whales in their natural habitat, you might understand the sense of awe they inspire. Their sheer size, intelligence, and grace make them seem almost otherworldly. It’s easy to imagine them as aliens—beings entirely unique, unlike anything else on Earth. 

A whimsical thought crossed my mind: what if whales possess an innate ability to detect space storms? Perhaps their minds act as transceivers for infinite cosmic information. I toyed with the idea of writing a poem about a whale speaking to the sun, but the words wouldn’t come. In the end, the thought itself was beautiful enough to linger on.

Disclaimer: I don’t actually believe whales are extraterrestrial—it was simply a fanciful flight of imagination.
 

28 January, 2024

I am... a mother

I am a mother 
Whose daughter is brave and strong 
Sometimes, but rarely, reproach 
Secretly slips out from behind her eyes. 
Who am I not to be judged? 

I am a mother 
Whose daughter is softness and steel 
She often speaks words so generous 
And kind, my heart stops beating 
How can she be this grand? 

I am a mother 
Whose daughter is quiet and scared 
Whispering in the dark night 
For me to comfort her ghosts. 
How can I fail to answer? 

I am a mother 
Whose daughter sees me growing old 
And yearns so desperately to stop 
The inevitable ticking of time. 
How can her wish not be mine?

26 February, 2012

Sunny Sunday

An old couple walk hand-in-hand,
Wearing woolen hats of similar burgundy,
Sturdy, but slow steps they take
This sunny cold winter day.

I look out the window
Watch them pass by.
A day dream, a film,
Wistful thinking of me and mine
In another curving in time.

15 January, 2012

A living worth scraping

If I can only scrape a living, at least it will be a living worth scraping.” Mickey Smith

A while ago, I posted this video of Mickey Smith called, Dark Side of the Lens. The photography, music, and text are all done by this extraordinary man, who obviously/obsessively loves the wilds of nature.


Dark Side of the Lens from Astray Films on Vimeo

Today I stumbled upon his talk at Do Lectures. The Dark Side of the Lens is also presented during his talk. It is interesting to hear him tell of his childhood on the Cornish coast. Hearing how these experiences and the inquiring of his sister made him do the film, somehow makes the film even more brilliant than before.



He mentions at one point in his presentation how he lived one year by the flip of the coin. It was a strange year with a lot of adventures.

Even though I don't think I would ever be crazy/reckless/spontaneous enough to live like this, it really would be fun to do so on the occasion. What do you think, would you give it ago?

I am putting it on my to-do list of this year.

Do Lectures is a fine site to while away your time on. If you do so and find a presentation that is especially inspiring, please tell me.

30 December, 2011

Being Alone


I left home to boarding school at 14, went alone to live in France at 16, and proceeded to choreograph a life of my own, on my own until I was 32 and my son entered my life. Nearly 20 years were spent figuring out the different hues of solitude, alone, and lonely.

Once you are on your own, no matter if you are alone or sharing a space with others temporarily, you are both the choreographer and dancer of your days.

There were times of sharing apartments with friends and strangers alike. Some friends stayed friends. Some strangers became friends. Some of both just disappeared into the dusty archive of "chalk it up to experience".

Most of all though, over those 20 years, I woke up alone and wandered out into the day.

I stumbled across Tanya Davis and Andrea Dorfman video poem a while ago and then again today. It speaks volumes of wisdom from someone who possesses equal portions of lion-heart and frightening vulnerability.

The poem is wonderful reminder of all those moments and years of finding the right rhythm within myself.

22 December, 2011

Divine Storytelling


The powerful words, the tonality of your deep voice, your inward journey escaping silent restraints... dupiously blessed by experiences that eventually find their way into divine storytelling.

If you wish for more...

06 November, 2011

The Siren's Song

siren song
In Margret Atwood's poem, The Siren laments about the gullibility of humans. How we seek what we can never know... we yearn to hear only the one truth, the one song. A song that speaks not of truth, but simply expresses our deep yearning.

This poem makes me wonder about our gullibility in constantly seeking out experts to tell us how rid ourselves of our persisting malaise about what is to come. We yearn so to know… what is going to happen, how can we circumvent disaster, how can we come through it all unchanged?

Perhaps, just occasionally, we should just choose to turn off the television or not read the article. Choose not to listen.

30 October, 2011

As Time Passes Quietly


Dear Sister, Dear Friend, and to
Those of Us who remember... days
Of hopeful anticipation, butterflies,
That prickling sensation, those
Moments before flight, when there
Was air under my feet, oh the joy,
Oh the lightness of breath… stepping
Forward into an adventure. Knowing
I'd never really know, but still...
Leaping, prancing, twirling with
Abandon, because life was spring
All was new and my spirit was free.

Now my dreams are muffled in
Coats of daily challenges, whether
Fair or not, it does not matter,
Really, truly, they do not define my
Self. Time slowly, quietly dances
Amongst the leaves of such splendor,
Such sublime lightness. The falling.
Who would have known? Certainly not
Me of the past. Thank God for that.

30 July, 2011

Trying to make Amends

During a recent visit with my younger brother and his family, it was pointed out that I had not included any photo or story of him in a family journal I created for my children years ago. This was a grave oversight.

An oversight I can only explain by the fact that those childhood memories, or the ones that I recorded, happened in my early childhood. Up until the time I was about 10-years-old. My brother, seven years younger, just didn’t figure into those times.

Later, when he was a young child, I was gone, having left home at 14. Now, I am perfectly aware that this is all just talk. So instead, I decided to try and make amends by creating this collage and writing him a poem.

The boy in the collage reminds me of my brother. I imagine the boy has been asked by an older brother to take his bicycle and put it into the garage. The boy is too small to ride the bicycle, but pride and excitement allow him to skim over the ground faster than any bicycle could.

(If you look closely, both his feet and one of the wheels are off the ground.)
boy and bicycle

Little Brother

We grew up in two different epochs.
Where those sitting at our family table
Varied in numbers and vulnerability.

You, with your joyous youthful naivety,
Were able to run light foot over ground,
Not once touching that precarious surface
Vibrating with its undercurrents of

Disgruntled teenager murmurings and
Old people’s loud whisperings,
“The times are changing. The end is near.”

Your world was filled instead with a
Giant imagination that transformed
All our adult pettiness into something noble
And worth worshipping, though we were
Not the heroes we could have been.
Should have been. The ones you deserved.

24 July, 2011

Homage to my Umbrella IV

umbrella05 dawn
To tell a story. To do so with self-depreciation and humility. To make choreography.

Heather McHugh does so brilliantly. I was going to quote the last words of the poem, the sage words, but that would be taking away the soul of the story. Do enjoy.

27 December, 2010

Hail all Mothers and Fathers



Just discovered that the marvelous Poetry Archive now has expanded out and has a poetry website for children, called (of course), The Children's Poetry Archive. There are various themes or poet interviews, all in a manner that hopefully children can relate to.

Here are two poems to start you off on,
I wish I had done more to teach my children about poetry when they were younger, and can only hope that somewhere in their futures they will discover the beauty of this art. There is something essentially healing about poetry. It is as if words carefully chosen have the ability to put the world back into balance.

23 May, 2010

Not all things go wrong...

tree

Was listening to Felix Dennis' poem, "Not all things go wrong..." this morning and thought it went well with the collage I made yesterday.

The last paragraph of the poem,

"Not all things go wrong - and after
Winter's famine comes the spring,
Kindness, beauty, children's laughter -
Joy is ever on the wing."

rung so true of these days, like today, when the sun shines and all members of this household are pleasantly preoccupied with various adventures.

02 March, 2010

Elegy of the Flowing Touch

springtime

Elegy of the Flowing Touch, by Christopher Middleton

Walking along the canal early this morning, the dark snow clouds above lend a dramatic atmosphere to the city’s silhouette. I watched a flock of ducks float upon the dirty waters amongst the winter debris, and wondered about spring.

13 December, 2009

Pride

automn02

My grandmother took
Pride
In the fact that
We were
English.

In a French-speaking Canadian province, our family name
Stood
For all those great
Anglo Saxon
Values our
People
Grew up on.

I don't believe she ever visited
England in her
Lifetime.

As a child, I thought her
Pride
Was
Carved In Stone
And this made it hard for us to approach her in a
Heart-felt... manner.

As an adult, I wonder whether
It (that Pride)
Was rather a cloak
That covered an
Unspoken Yearning
To feel more important
Than she normally
Did.

Insignificant beings
That
We are.

26 May, 2009

Solitary Days on the Baltic Sea Coast

seaside

A few days escape to rethink, retank, and rejuvenate.

Boats in the Night

Miserable “Scheet” weather.
A sailor sits at the bar,
Brooding darkly, drinking beer.
He stares blankly ahead.
Malcontent. Dreaming of the
Warm salt breeze of the Caribbean Sea.

The bartender looks up at the
Crawling clock. She steels another
Glance at the last and only customer.
The slight flush to her skin stays hidden
In the darkness of the bar.
She shakes her head. Reprimanding herself.
"Stay away. Trouble there. You know it's so."
Still, she can’t help dreaming about the sailor,
While she wipes down the counter,
Waiting for her shift to end.

01 March, 2009

Subway Ride Out To Berlin Suburbs


30ish man dawning 60ish sideburns,
Nice business suit, pleasant face
Sits across from me on the subway car
Reading a library book titled,
“Divorce without Losers”.
Is knowing the answer not worth
The price of the book?
Is he trying to figure out
Where he went wrong?

15 January, 2009

Winter Hours

winter beads

Winter hours. Mother-of-pearl beads upon silky surfaces. Frost splinters my thoughts. Memories of old loves and fond adieus. And, still, the pine cone drops syrupy rancidness upon my knuckles. While numbed fingertips brush away cold metallic concerns.

14 November, 2008

Postcards from Past Lives: Unclaimed Love

unclaimed_love_postcard

Dear Philippe

There were moments,
Our minds sparked,
Our hands touched,
Our limbs danced,
Our eyes lingered,
Oh, the lingering…

Yet, we did not listen.
Our shyness deterred us
From claiming what was
Ours. A kiss. It was there.
Hidden in our hesitation.

Years later, on this
Cold and rainy autumn day,
I long again for the lingering.

Love and affection,

From The One Who Was Too Shy

05 June, 2008

Dawn Points

summertime 
Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. 
Out at sea the dawn wind Wrinkles and slides.
 I am here Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning. 
East Coker, by T.S. Elliot 

 Many years ago, as a young adult, I became enamored by T.S. Elliot’s reading of his work, Four Quartets. I would listen to his reading of East Coker especially often: all the while following the ebb and flow of his voice with the written words. My uncle, Peter, who stayed with me for a weekend at that time, wondered what drew me to these poems. We went out to dinner one night and talked about the meaning of words, their power, and how Mr. Elliot’s voice haunted my days. I’ve just heard from my sister how my uncle-dear is struggling in this life, and I wish him a dawn wind out at sea. This is what he wishes. He has shown me, how we are all beginners when it comes to dying and that this is good so, since death truly is a beginning.

06 May, 2008

Keep Saturday Free

You know where you should be this Saturday.... right here!