‘When Great Trees Fall’ by Maya Angelou

When Great Trees Fall

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.

by Maya Angelou

The sun sets, again

This poem, the first in a series  on mythology, refers to the Norse stories of Skoll and Hati, and of Ragnarak.

The sun sets, again

The sun sets again, another day done,
another year, another astrological phase,
another end though barely yet begun—
when once the sun’s rage set the sky ablaze
now the sun falters, the day undone.

The sun was swallowed a year from today,
rose again, but not so fierce, not so bright;
was reborn 366 days
only to die again every night
the same cycle—rise, chase, fall—stuck on play.

The sun falls, at long last, the dark alight,
Skoll and Hati roam moonless vacant skies—
but this is no Ragnarak, no endless night,
beneath the earth the sleeping sun lies,
for tonight is just another night.

In Norse mythology the sun and moon are drawn in chariots, driven by humans of the same name. Each chariot followed by the wolves Skoll and Hati, although there is some conjecture about which wolf follows the sun and which follows the moon.

Skoll is the name of the wolf
Who follows the shining priest
Into the desolate forest,
And the other is Hati,
Hróðvitnir’s son,
Who chases the bright bride of the sky.

When Ragnarak, the end of the world or literally the ‘doom of the gods,’ happens, the wolves will finally catch and devour the two heavenly bodies, casting the world into perpetual night. Unlike other end of the world stories though, Norse mythology sees a rebirth of the world after Ragnarak. This cyclical view of the world fits aptly with my poem which also has a focus on death and rebirth.

My next poem will be focused on Greek mythology, and will be coming soon.

“August and yellow flowers”: a poem for Daffodil Day

I wrote this poem for daffodil day in memory of a friend lost too soon.  Daffodil day falls on the fourth friday of every August and is a a major fund-raising event for research into cancer research, prevention and support services for those affected by cancer.  It is also a day to support patients and survivors, and to remember loved ones lost to us.

Eight months ago I lost one of my best friends after her 18 month struggle with cancer.  This poem is about her in a way, but more so it is about my emotional journey over these last two years, about my loss, and about grief in general.  If anyone else is struggling with their own loss I hope this poem may offer you some small solace.

If you’d like to make a dontaion please follow the link at the bottom of the page.

 

August and yellow flowers

Daffodils break up through stone hard frost
while blue skies drip with sunflowers not rain,
and everywhere I look are thoughts of you—
now I know I should be charitable
because cancer’s taken so much I love
but I can’t see another damn daffodil,
can’t relive again this forced remembrance
that August and yellow flowers bring.

This month two years ago life imploded—
your future was stolen, mine stuck on pause,
when you were torn open and robotosised,
when I was ripped apart from the inside
your body taken over by rogue cells,
my insides gutted, my breath stripped away,
your indomitable energy bound,
contained in a prison of flesh and drugs—

I could see where all the signs were pointing
no matter how I tried to shield my eyes,
I couldn’t hide from my fate anymore
than I could turn my gaze from yours,
no choice but to walk this road by your side
until your path veered off into the sun
while mine dragged under grey and sullen skies.

So I close my eyes and try to forget,
let your memories slumber for a spell,
imagine the sky filled with clouds not sun—
for though the new spring is about to break
sunflowers drip from skies instead of rain
and I am surrounded by daffodils.

 

The two of us back in 2004

 

To donate go to https://www.daffodilday.com.au/

Bad Weather

Bad weather

The weather’s fine today,
partly cloudy with a chance of rain—
there’s always a chance of rain.
Yesterday was overcast,
grey clouds and white fog,
mist coated all my words,
before that it rained all day,
an endless downpour leaking through my roof
but even that was better than the wind
that raged and stormed and blew my fence down.
It seems days now since I saw the sun:

slipping weak tendrils out from behind clouds,
slowly gathering strength to leap into the sky and shine
before slipping back beneath a cloud to rest.

Sunrise in summer: a parting aubade

Sunrise in summer – a farewell

a parting aubade
in the indigo pre-dawn,
together we wait

birds chime a warning
the sun is coming, with it,
time to say goodbye

the butcher bird calls
orange fills the horizon
a last parting kiss

light slowly gathers
seeming anti-climatic
night gives way to day

in the clouds a glimmer
of the night fading away
of the sun rising

Clouds shimmer in sun
orange and purple and bright—
my wondrous night done

Falling

The bulk of my poems, no matter how I try to avoid it, tend to be focused more on the maudlin side: full of melancholy, angst, lovelorn laments and ponderings of existential despair, all of that fun stuff.  But beautiful poetry doesn’t always have to be dark, or so I try to remind myself.  This Valentine’s Day I thought I’d delve into some happy memories and see what diamonds I could find.

So fall all you crazy lovers out there, this one’s for you.

Falling

Falling again,
against my better judgement,
light as a feather
leaden as lead,
into your wide open arms
no thought, no choice, just one word,
‘go.’

 

“A new dawn” From Nina Simone’s Feeling Good

With every New Year we give ourselves an emotional opportunity to begin anew, to bind ourselves with resolutions, aspirations and prognostications of a better, idealised self to live up to throughout the year. Whether the new self becomes inspiration for change and self-improvement or fades as quickly as a New Year’s Day hangover; it remains emblematic of change; as Nina Simone sings, “It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me, and I’m feeling good.”

But I’m just not feeling it. After a rather turbulent time the New Year has been less about celebration and much more about finding focus. 2015 was a year tainted by grief and regaining my emotional equilibrium has been a long process. January has been a time of introspection. I have been spring cleaning, not just physically, but mind, body and soul. This poem, inspired from Nina Simone’s song Feeling Good, is about that process.

A New Dawn

Birds fly high into the dusky rose sky,
stars shine down in mournful song—
the sun is dead, is turned to ash—
and my mind’s a confused cog;
don’t know what to expect,
can’t cast aside this old wound
can only learn from what’s been done,
what’s been given was never meant to be;
this old world, this bold world—
this world will eat me alive.

Birds fly high into blissful skies,
my heart weighs me into the ground—
it’s time to clean out the old, comb out the fog.
Birds fly high toward the dawn
their song sings ‘freedom, freedom’
I watch their journey with envious eyes
and wait for the day my sun will be reborn.

The beach from day to night

Sand hot under feet,
sun a fire blazing in blues,
the water beckons.

Surf still and shining,
waters seem filled with diamonds
glistening on skin.

the sun bows its head
shows a golden path on surf
stretching into sky

on the horizon
the sun becomes a star
I could pluck from sky

The moon soars above
ocean now inky black
and reflecting stars

Footprints in the sand
the only sign left over
to say I was here

Ink Stains

Ink Stains

A blot of ink stains my sheets,
I notice it on another sleepless night:
tossing and turning, thinking of lines
while my skin turns luminous and clear
so that my veins become a web of blue on skin
and I realise they are filled with ink, not blood.

Ink stains my brain, leaks into everything
until every thought becomes a poem
and every secret, every piece of me is written;
I realise I have made my life a poem,
though everything I own is marred by ink stains.

Roald Dahl Day – By candlelight

Today marks what would have been the 99th birthday of children’s author Roald Dahl, celebrated on the 13th of September as Roald Dahl Day.  When I was a child Dahl was one of my favorite authors and has had a lasting influence on my own writing.  I think the stories we read as children help shape us into the adults we become and in Dahl’s books I found stories full of both humour and pathos, stories that showed the best of humanity in a child, a kind teacher or a reformed playboy, stories that inspire a gentle and nurturing spirit, a love for animals, admiration for those battling against much stronger odds and joy in the eccentricities of life.

The prose poem below, By Candlelight was inspired by the short story The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar.  Please feel free to share in the comments your favourite Roald Dahl book and how it has influenced you.

By Candlelight

Henry sat quite still and stared in to the candle-flame. The book had been quite right. The flame, when you looked into it closely, did have three separate parts. There was the yellow outside. Then there was the mauve inner sheath. And right in the middle was the tiny magic area of absolute blackness. He stared at the tiny black area. He focused his eyes upon it and kept staring at it, and as he did so, an extraordinary thing happened. His mind went absolutely blank, and his brain ceased fidgeting around, and all at once it felt as though he himself, his whole body, was actually encased within the flame, sitting snug and cosy within the little black area of nothingness.

(from The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar by Roald Dahl)

The candle flame looms, incandescent, bright yellow shell quivering in the stillness. Inside, a solid orange thumbnail holds the flame’s shape and below the purple centre hovers about the wick. The flame draws everything into it, including me. I see myself inside the flame: a glowing ember of thought, a salamander piercing through time. By candlelight I see myself, half a lifetime ago.

I look into the flame and see my own eyes staring back in fierce concentration: trying to control the candlelight, to find ‘the tiny magic area of absolute blackness’ like Henry Sugar in the Roald Dahl story, searching for the key to unlock my mind, a desperate attempt to save me from my own consciousness. Back then I still believed I had magical powers.

By candlelight I see myself, half a lifetime ago, find so much changed, even more that has stayed the same. I see myself more clearly than I ever did at that time. I see now how all my angst would dissolve into nothingness, how all the hurt and fear dominating my every thought would fade into something much further away, and life would go on, not unscathed, but undaunted.

I stare into the flame with fierce concentration. If I look hard enough perhaps my future self will look back, fifteen years in the future. Perhaps I’ll see myself at this moment, in between worlds, in between hearts, in between states of being. Perhaps I’ll see myself more clearly than I ever could now: I’ll see that there was a link after all between my different worlds; all this heartache and confusion will fall into the smallest part of me, rather than the biggest; I’ll make sense of everything, find that I was in the same world, the same heart, the same being as I needed to be. Perhaps my future self will look back and see that after all I did possess a type of magic.