*On the Birthday of John Keats

Finally! I've been on something of a dry spell lately, but thinking about one of my favorite poets has inspired this little piece. This is also my ticket onto the Poetry Bus, where 120 Socks has given some excellent prompts, including the one I chose -- "amber." You can read other bus poets here.

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF JOHN KEATS

Some things deserve to be captured,
frozen for all of time,
made more precious by framing
in the lens of the mind.
Like fragments enclosed in amber
or beauty and truth in rhyme,
some things deserve to be captured,
frozen for all of time.


* Today is actually the anniversary of Keats' death, but I like the title, and so I'll keep it. Maybe I'll post this again next Halloween, the actual birthday of John Keats. (Thanks to my daughter with the Ph.D. in English Literature for setting me straight. I knew there was some reason I had Keats on my mind...now, I'm thinking that death is a birth of sorts, so maybe I wasn't far off!)

UNSEEN

The Poetry Bus rolls again, and this week it's an enchanted trip with Chris Alba of Enchanted Oak at the wheel. Chris gives us the challenge of writing something about our lives. I don't even know where this stuff comes from, but this is what came to me:

UNSEEN


The surface of the pond is calm;
     the deep green pool
          reflects the trees that overhang it.

Beneath the surface
     where sunlight barely reaches,
          staying still among the reeds,

sifting breath through slits
      that flap in time with the small
          slick and pulsing heart,

a shiny thing among the weeds
     watchful, waiting
          unknown and unseen

by those who view
     their own reflections
          when they peer into the water.

On The Road Again

And we're off! But before we hop aboard, you just have to join Willy while he wails about our trip! Take a look at this American icon if only to get a gander at Porter Wagonner's sparkly suit! Then ride with us on these bumpy roads less traveled.



Here we go...

The Bug

Poetikat

Muse Swings

Jeanne Iris

Dave King

altar ego

Jinksy

Helen

Rachel Fox

swiss

Stafford Ray

120 Socks

Liz 

Carolina Linthead 

Peter Goulding
 
Enchanted Oak

Totalfeckineejit (our fearless leader)

Weaver of Grass 

Various 

annell 

Titus 

Dick Jones

And here's my ticket. Don't even ask...

LAZARUS

Did you pull the cloths around you,
holding on for all you had?

Did you try to stop your ears
against the swarming in your head?

Did your bending knees creak
when they hit the cold stone slab?

Did your papery feet quell
when they stood upon that  floor?

Did your eyes regret the light
that poured in through the vacant door?

Did you hide your irritation
at arising from your bed, or

Did your parched throat croak a plea
to simply let the dead be dead?

unspoken

Ghosts are not always frightening, and sometimes we hold them hostage rather than the other way around.

The Poetry Bus runs on Monday, and Liz Gallagher asks that we write a triolet or some other poem about Halloween business. This poem began as a triolet and evolved into a villanelle. It's funny how words will have their way.

Or will they? 

UNSPOKEN

all my ghosts are friends
things I should but did not say
I’m haunted by my sins

damnation never ends
redemption lies one breath away
all my ghosts are friends

familiars whom I did not send
but held until the tongue decay
I’m haunted by my sins

unspoken and unpenned
persistent shades with whom I lay
all my ghosts are friends

whose present tense attends
to bind and hold my soul in sway
to things I should but do not say

till time shall split and world transcend
till reticence shall fall away
all my ghosts are friends
things I should but do not say

In a Name

Argent's driving the Bus this week, and our challenge is to write a poem about a meeting. Meet contemporary American poet and two term Poet Laureate of the United States Billy Collins.

See the challenge and read the entries of other passengers here.


















IN A NAME

You'd think that by this time,
We'd be familiar--
Sweet William,
Wild Bill,
Maybe Billy Boy.
After all,
He's naked in the hallway,
Turning circles
Shuffling round the house.
Every night I sail with
Billy Collins.
And still it's Billy Collins, first and last.
I have known just Keats alone,
And Shelley. Shelley,
He's still three as in the past.
But as for my new lover
Billy Collins,
It's Billy first;
It's Billy Collins last.
Now I spend my nights with Billy Collins;
We're drinking tea and writing hard and fast.

Catch the Big Yellow Poetry Bus

THE BUS STOPS HERE!

After all these weeks of running to catch the Poetry Bus, I'm finally at the wheel, and what do I bring?  It's the Big Yellow School Bus!

What else would I drive?

I'm what you might call a Schoolmarm. Counting this school year, which began for me this week, I've been in schools for fifty years as a student, teacher, school leader or district level administrator. It's as natural as breathing for me to plan a field trip!

So....sharpen your pencils, kiddies! Grab your papers and your lunch boxes, and come along! We'll start here in West Virginia, head north for Professor Semi-colon, then make our way across the country, picking up a Bug or two along the way. We'll make a brief detour to pick up some Canadian Kats before we reach the coast. After we fuel up on Enchantment, it's back to the Atlantic, by which time the TFE should have solved the Problem of the Day: How do we get a big yellow bus full of poets across the sea to London and Dumfries and Dublin and highways and byways between and beyond?

Well, that's the magic part of our art! I promise this bus will go as far as your words and imaginations can travel. Just meet the simple Poetry School Bus challenge for this week: write a poem about school or schooling. Leave your URL in my comment box, and I'll link it in the sidebar below my profile-->

The bus runs on Monday. Don't forget your permission slips, boys and girls!

* New Passenger : Judy Clem at http://www.judyclem.blogspot.com/
Welcome Aboard, Judy! 


Just for a warm up, here are a couple of mine:

SCHOOLMARM (that's me)

At three o'clock
When school is out,
She gathers up her things.
If she had an old hat,
She'd jam it on her head;
If she had an old horse,
She'd plod down country lanes,
Stopping here and there to pick tall stems
To take with her on her calls.
She'd sing along the way.
There would be dinner with the families,
A different one each day.
They'd watch their grammar,
Put out their better plates,
Offer her the choicest cuts of meat, good bread.
Later, they'd stand on the porches and wave
Until she was gone from sight
Before the washing up.
If she had a hat, a horse,
A country lane
At three o'clock --
If she had a hat and a horse
In her life.

This next one is dedicated to a wonderful poet friend with whom I survived the messed up college years. Her K is Name Lawson. Or something like that. She'll recognize herself here, and you can find her outstanding poetry here:

WHO WE WERE

I still recall your stance
before the class,
so compact,
thick black curls
around your head,
eyes big as china saucers.
You're telling tales
of cars and barracudas
and mixed up names.
At night we pick black circles
from our eyes and rub them
on the smooth white page,
drawing lines round truth and beauty,
knowing it for what it (is) (is not).
At eighteen, we think we know
who we are.
And youth.
We drink our wine
from plastic cups
and sleep with youth
between us,
tangled in our separate dreams,
riding who we (are) (are not)
to places where we'll someday
know our names.

Georgia, Your Hands

Chris at Enchanted Oak is taking the Poetry Bus on a tour of sunny California this week, and she has given us a pictorial challenge. Georgia O'Keeffe's hands are the subject of both the picture and my poem.

O'Keeffe was married to the famous photographer Alfred Stieglitz, and they both scandalized society by some of the photos of her that he took and displayed (not to mention their unusual lifestyle). Stieglitz photographed O'Keeffe off and on for years, so we have a wonderful chronicle of her changing landscape as we see the progression of her subjects and her art.

One of my favorite photos of O'Keeffe shows a young woman, her hair loose around her shoulders, clasping a white silk gown at her breast. This is the first time I've seen the picture of her hands.

Georgia, Your Hands

When you stand so solid in the light
your hands crossed over your heart,
hair around your shoulders, Georgia,
white silk robe clasped loose across your breasts,
coal black eyes  held tight into the lens
like the eyes of the night,
it is your hands,  your long lean fingers
that crush and mix and brush the pigments
against the smooth white canvas
caressing it like silk, your strong, bold fingers
opening  yourself like an iris or a  poppy
or a white trumpet flower
that  feel deep into the yellow white of bones
that stroke the browns and lights of desert shadow sun;
it is your hands prying and pulling at their own skin
peeling away the layers of faraway city and desert,
your eyes, your hair, your white silk robe
until you too are nothing but bone,
bone and bone and stamen and sepal and sand.

Sylvia Rising

Sylvia Rising

History on her rosy northern skin

had traced with pain the crossed, fine

lines of vain attempts and vanished

tears, of long endured days and years and deaths

that marked her like a line of graves

waiting for the art within her charge.

Through too few years she bore the charge

of creation; from her fragile bones and skin,

and from her mingling with that grave

poetic man, the mixture of her own fine

poet’s blood with mud made life from death

and dreams that from her heart would vanish

only as the storied, vanished

bird that falls beneath the charge

of purifying fire and defies its death

to leave the self and rise within new skin,

all loss and pain ground down to fine

thin ash that blows across the useless grave.

With art unconquered by the grave

attained, she spins the words of never vanished

heart; beyond the veil of night on strong, fine

winds, she sends her poet’s charge:

Be fire that frees these words of their fine skin

and burns them to the ashes of a death

that is a rising up, the death of death.

With spirit breath, she mocks the wished-for grave,

and putting on a pure new feathered skin,

soars forth upon the wings of her vanished,

but unvanquished heart, from which the charge

of beating with too fine

a beat – hoping with too fine

a hope to find the pall of death

no longer is her calling or her charge.

Her spirit heart takes flight beyond the grave,

bearing through the cast of this dark night the vanished

hopes and dreams of verse and skin,

delivering the poet’s charge beyond the grave,

to mingle with us in a living fire and vanish

from her death into this fine new skin.

the land of me

The Land of Me

I wish I were the red balloon
Of a hurdy gurdy man
Whose little monkey set me free
To sail across the land

To places that I’ve never been
And times I’ll never see;
I’d float beyond this Isle of Man
And to the Land of Me.

A stranger to this foreign shore
Where one can think all day
About the things she wants to know
And what she wants to play,

My red heart would then swell with joy
To very nearly pop
As I pull my own strings along
And never, ever stop.

I’d float just where I want to go
Without a hand to hold
And sail away on fresher air
Than I ever breathed of old.