"Alarms"

I haven't written a form poem in quite awhile, so here is a pantoum, written in quatrains; neither rhyme nor line length is specified.  It's well-suited for extreme states of mind since it repeats itself just like an unstable person might.  Here is the pattern:

1234
2546
5768
7381

The first stanza is key to the poem.  The first line is also the ending line, the second line makes a transition, the third line sets up the ending, and the fourth line propels the poem.

My inspiration for this pantoum is Rebecca, one of my favorite movies.  There are two versions.  Alfred Hitchcock directed the '40's film, and it has his typical touches - the camera acting as character/narrator ("Look out behind you!"), plot twists and turns ("What is he really saying?  What is he NOT telling us?"), and wonderfully atmospheric settings ("Would you like to see the west wing?").  The second version, produced for PBS Masterpiece Theater, is a bit more subtle but just as well done.  It would be  worth your time to go to YouTube to see this movie, especially the opening scene.  Here are the first 10 minutes of the older version.

"Alarms"

I walk here, the garden hanging with perfumes of the wildest sort,
newly drunk in the fragrances around me,
disregarding an alarm tucked somewhere behind my senses.
Odd that I should remember it today...

Newly drunk in the fragrances around me,
it's time for me to make my own time now
(Odd that I should remember it today...)
and crush the blooms, not hearing it for the thunder.

It's time for me to make my own time now.
Ah, but the melodrama is over.
I crush the blooms, not hearing it for the thunder.
It goes on, it goes on, it goes on...

Ah, but the melodrama is over.
Disregarding the alarm tucked somewhere behind my senses,
(It goes on, it goes on, it goes on...)
I walk here, the garden hanging with perfumes of the wildest sort.

In My Pocket...

The Bennehan house, historic Stagville Plantation, Durham, NC.  This was once one of the largest plantations in the antebellum South.  A marriage between the Bennehan and Cameron families resulted in a lucrative business partnership; the families were holders of 30,000 acres and 900 slaves. 

Visitors can choose a guided tour with a knowledgeable volunteer or a self-guided tour with a simple map and brief history.  There is the requisite visitors' center, complete with gift shop, and I bought a book at the end of my self-guided tour.  The  little map I was given inspired this poem, written for Poetry Jam's "What's in your pocket?" prompt.

"The Map"

Folded hastily,
its lines blur
and make an odd webwork
joining old pathways together.

I am caught
by the sudden breath
     of white heat,
     of dark blood,
overseen now by the volunteers
in regulation shirts,

telling of strife and toil.

I thought of it today:
villainy and custom we couldn't know
and the end of tender pity.

Mirror

I made this little collage,  a small canvas just 2"x3" in size, using one of my favorite rubber stamps, a little piece of film tape, and pieces from my stash of little old rusty bits.    I like the expression on the Art Fairy's face as she looks back and wonders, "What just happened here?"

For Poetry Jam's prompt this week, Castle of Glass:  what cracks your glass?


"A Meditation: Mirrors"

Your music bounces off the glass
and
       that
                one
                        note,
insistent,
disturbing,
weaves itself into my reflection.


I drown in pure memory
               reaching in,
hand and heart under your reflection,
             broken as before.








                    

Dorothea Danced...

 

 

Photographer Dorothea Lange, who worked for the Farm Security Administration during the Great Depression, snapped this picture as part of her work to show the effects of this country's economic hardship on small farms and rural businesses.  She is probably more well-known for her evocative, dramatic photos of the struggling poor out west, but she visited North Carolina, too.

 I have a special fondness for this particular picture.  This little country crossroads is about a half a mile from our farm.  Yes, the streets are now paved, and that big white farmhouse in the background is still there.   Directional signs like the one in the photo are still used; I can barely make out the places on this one, but I do see Culbreth, Butner, and Stem fairly well.  I'm sure that Shoofly and Creedmoor are on it, too.  The tree behind the sign grew to be much bigger over the years, but it was hit by lighting about ten years ago, its remains most likely chopped up and hauled away.  Look closely at the lower right corner where you can see the fender of Lange's car.  Maybe it's the same one in this photo:

 

For Poetry Jam's dance prompt, I offer this poem in honor of Dorothea Lange.

 

"The Dancer"

 

Sometimes ideas billow around me

like a dance dress

kindling sparks

then

creative fires

with its movement

even though I am

still.

 

Sometimes.

 

Photographs are another matter

as they press over me

hard

frame by frame

knowing that what's left

as I drive away

is forever

unrecorded.

 

Sometimes.

 

Today, though, I turned

in my own pirouette

and saw the dancer

although born for hard luck

raising dust

making his peg-legged mark

 

until my eyes watered into grateful pools.

 

 

Here's a video from YouTube with Dorothea Lange's extraordinary photographs accompanied by old blues music.

 

 

 

 

 

"Simply Now..."

"Simply Now..."

Suddenly, she said,
there are lilacs for loneliness
and violet velvet night
is an encumbrance.

Come closer, she said.
Let me see how far
      and away
you have gone.

Time, she said,
has taken the lock
from my door.

Inside, she said,
light makes
colors dance.

Everyone has a story,
she said.
You have become mine.

For Poetry Jam's PRISM prompt.  Photo from Wikipedia.

"The Metaphorical Winter"

                 

At last we had a snowfall worthy of photos and poetry. 

 

"The Metaphorical Winter"

 

Snow today,

deceivingly comfortable

though memory's ground,

so thinly layered,

 

holds still those little embers

of sweet remembrance

that wait

to burn higher.

 

Spring will still wear

her crown of stars,

each to the other

bound.

 

She could give them up

at some peril

and sacrifice,

but the season,

endless,

confounds.

 

 

 

For Poetry Jam's challenge: sacrifice.

Ephemeris for February

 

 

"A Snowdrop Winter Story"

 

We've seen the light-gatherer

carrying white buds in the tiniest

of jars,

 

his pockets fairly jingling,

numbers too high for counting

on moonless nights.

 

Dancing branches overhead

twist and coil and giggle

as he passes,

and stars, envious where they hang,

dip a little closer to earth.