...~* Poetry from my heart of hearts *~...

[Kätzchen]

Originally Posted by nycfembbw

Who wrote this? I love it (the most recent poem you posted).

Poems penned by L. D. S. are penned by me.
There are even a few other poems in my thread,
and also in Arwen's 9-word Poetry thread, that
are penned by me (as well).

Thank you nycfembbw: for the compliment,
that you enjoyed (loved) the latest poem I penned.

[Kätzchen]

Balance and Reflection

I tiptoed carefully
as I walked across
a body of water
on a log with moss,
wary of slipping
while deep in thought
wandering carefully
no fear of being distraught,
letting myself be filled
by scent ladened air
of magical ponderings
that I want to share,
tempered by the memory
to deeply care:
balance and reflection.

-LDS-

(May 11th, 2013)

[Kätzchen]

Melody in See Minor

Like strings plucked by time,

I hear your enchanted melody

And marvel, “Are you mine?”

If I focus long enough, I see:

I see your shadow,

I see your formidable essence,

I see your soul dancing,

And it mesmerizes me:

Luring me into a trance like state,

I breathe you in and exhale smoothly,

Eclipsing the moon and twinkling stars, of late.

I lift my face up to the sky --

Feeling incredibly high --

And, intoxicated by the very existence of you,

I feel you nearby and sigh.

© LDS

17th of May, 2013

[Kätzchen]

In light of what appears to be incessant miscarriages of justice (in the US and elsewhere around the globe), I find myself thinking about the much beloved and well respected poet, Czeslaw Milosz: Born in Poland, having survived two Totalitarian government regimes and other atrocities of his era in life, poetry by Milosz provides a way for me to make sense of a world filled with corruption and in dire need of redemption.


A Magic Mountain

by: Czeslaw Milosz (1911-2004)
translated by: Czeslaw Milosz & Lillian Vallee

I don't remember exactly when Budberg died, it was either two years ago or three.
The same with Chen. Whether last year or the one before.
Soon after our arrival, Budberg, gently pensive,
Said that in the beginning it is hard to get accustomed,
For here there is no spring or summer, no winter or fall.

"I kept dreaming of snow and birch forests.
Where so little changes you hardly notice how time goes by.
This is, you will see, a magic mountain."

Budberg: a familiar name in my childhood.
They were prominent in our region,
This Russian family, decendants of German Balts.
I read none of his works, too specialized.
And Chen, I have heard, was an exquisite poet,
Which I must take on faith, for he wrote in Chinese.

Sultry Octobers, cool July's, trees blossom in February.
Here nuptial flight of hummingbirds does not forecast spring.
Only the faithful maple sheds its leaves every year.
For no reason, its ancestors simply learned it that way.

I sensed Budberg was right and I rebelled.
So I won't have power, won't save the world?
Fame will pass me by, no tiara, no crown?
Did I then train myself, myself the Unique,
To compose stanzas for gulls and sea haze,
To listen to the foghorns blaring down below?

Until it passed. What passed? Life.
Now I am not ashamed of my defeat.
One murky island with its barking seals
Or a parched desert is enough
To make us say: yes, oui, si.
"Even asleep we partake in the becoming of the world."
Endurance comes only from enduring.
With a flick of the wrist I fashioned an invisible rope,
And climbed it and it held me.

What a procession! Quelles délices!
What caps and hooded gowns!
Most respected Professor Budberg,
Most distinguished Professor Chen,
Wrong Honorable Professor Milosz
Who wrote poems in some un-heard of tongue.
Who will count them anyway. And here sunlight.
So that the flames of their tall candles fade.
And how many generations of hummingbirds keep them company
As they walk on. Across magic mountain.
And the fog from the ocean is cool, for once again it is July.

Berkeley, 1975


"A Magic Mountain" from The Collected Poems: 1931-1987
(The Echo Press, 1988).




Poem found online ~>> HERE
Biography of Milosz found ~>> HERE

www.poetryfoundation.org

[Kätzchen]

The Peace of Wild Things
~ Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
And I wake in the night at the least sound
In fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake,
And great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
Who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief.
I come into the peace of still water,
And I feel above me the day-long stars,
Waiting with their light. For a time,
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

[Kätzchen]

[Kätzchen]

I have written lots of poems, the past few years, but lately, while having so much time on my hands, I found myself rearranging books I've kept, over the years. I came across a much loved literature studies book, found myself rereading portions of literature; then turned a page to find the poem written by Adrienne Rich. It's one of few poems that I absolutely love: Love, because it's rich with timeless wisdom, and an certain depth of agony, that I've known one or two times in life. Not something I think anyone should experience, but life often is the subtle teacher .... especially as seen and felt through the lens of Adrienne Rich.

Diving into the Wreck

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife blade,
I put on
(5) The body armor of black rubber,
the absurd flippers,
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this,
Not like Cousteau with his
(10) Assiduous team,
aboard the sun flooded schooner,
but here alone.

There is a ladder,
the ladder is always there
(15) hanging innocently
Close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
(20) it's a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down
Rung after rung and still
The oxygen immerses me
(25) The blue light
The clear atoms
Of our human air.
I go down
my flippers cripple me
(30) I crawl like an insect down the ladder
And there is no one
To tell me when the ocean will begin.

First the air is blue and then
(35) it is bluer and then green and then
Black. I am blacking out and yet
My mask is powerful
It pumps my blood with power
The sea is another story.
(40) The sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
To turn my body without force
In the deep element.

And now: it is not easy to forget
(45) What I came for
Among so many who have always
Lived here
Swaying their crenellated fans
Between the reefs
(50) and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
the words are purposes,
the words are maps.
(55) I came to see the damage that was done
And the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
Slowly along the flank
of something more permanent,
(60) than fish or weed.

The thing I came for
The wreck and not the story of the wreck.
the thing itself and not the myth.
The drowned face always staring
(65) Toward the sun.
the evidence of damage,
Worn by salt and sway into threadbare beauty.
the ribs of the disaster
Curving their assertion,
(70) Among the tentative haunters.

This is the place
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
Streams black, the merman in his armored body,
We circle silently,
(75) about the wreck,
we dive into the hold.
I am She: I am He.

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes,
whose beasts still bear the stress,
(80) whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
Obscure inside barrels
Half wedged and left to rot
we are the half destroyed instruments
That once held to a course,
(85) the water eaten log
The fouled compass.

We are, I am, you are
By cowardice or courage
The one who find our way
(90) back to the scene
Carrying a knife, a camera,
a book of myths
In which
our names do not appear.


~~~ Adrienne Rich (1972).