Adventing, Still

Sunday Eve

Mountains blue
ripple our horizon
above the river sleeping;
ribbons silken trim the sky
amethyst, pearl, gold,
as if the earth
was readying to greet
the baby we've been
Advent-waiting.


This poem is offered for One Shot Wednesday.

It's a Pronoun Christmas

It often happens this way. I sit down to read, relax. Something catches my attention and a poem is born (forged?).

Last night I flipped through Ordinary Genius and saw this little suggestion:

"start with a pronoun, then give us the noun it refers to"

The author, Kim Addonizio, gave an example of a poem by Galway Kinnell that said, "What do they sing, the last birds." I had been wanting another Christmas poem, and it made me smile to think of making one this way. Okay, sort of...

Ms. Addonizio Advises Me
on a Christmas Poem

She said to give us a pronoun,
but I gave two. How could I
give any less
when facing a day like Christmas;
even Noah knew
to take two camels
(where would the wise men otherwise be?),
two donkeys
(Mary needed one to bring the child to birth
and the child, when grown, needed its foal
to take him to old Jerusalem,
where turtledove pairs
would no longer do,
so he freed them to fly to the trees,
and would join them soon
on a hand-hewn limb,
frail nest
suspended
between two thieves—
a him and a he,
two pronouns without proper
nouns to claim them.
They might as well have been
a you,
a me.)



---
Thanks to Andrea, of The Flourishing Mother, for inviting me to sit by her at the Christmas Brunch where Christy Tennant of IAM spoke. Yes, Andrea, I still do hands and feet. Thanks for the precious photos of yours. :)

And this is the beautiful Christy Tennant...



This poem is in honor of TheHighCalling's Christmas in Verse project.

Walk in December

Walk in December

This is jewel-tree corner,
where I held your hand
and the streetlights
looked on, and I wanted
to keep the moment
beyond what seemed possible,
permissible, keep
the pressure of your fingers
against mine, and the ice
clinging to bare branches,
sparkling like pink
Depression glass.


Angel Photo by L.L. Barkat.

This poem is offered for One Shot Wednesday.

Christmas in Verse

An offering for the writing project going on at TheHighCalling.org. Come join us! :)

Another Christmas Ghost

I am always thinking,
now I do not miss you
anymore.
And I am right.
Words on the page are mine
without you, as are the mourning doves
who murmur in the trees. Christmas tea
is mine, and cream, laughter
ringing on an empty street,
children are mine (I brush
their amber hair), the curl
of my toes on air is mine,
and the curve of my
doll-like hand.
I am right, I do not miss you
anymore.
Then I turn a page of Neruda,
Kooser, Berry, Keats—
find I am always
wrong.


Winter Trees photo by Gail Nadeau. Used with permission.

For the Ghost of Christmas Future

This ends my trio of Christmas ghost poems, in honor of David's dare.

I thought to finish with a sestina, one of the more challenging forms. Thirty-nine lines. Six stanzas of six lines each, then a final stanza of three lines. The words (or tricky forms of them) at the ends of the lines repeat in a rolling fashion. See if you can figure it. Then in the final stanza, all the words from the ends of the lines repeat in a particular order, to create a grand finale of word-inclusion.

Spectre

If I close my starless eyes,
I can remember winter's future
where rooftops sing with icicles;
I dare them with red lips,
Drop your soul on me.
They do.

I cannot undo
the way they pierce my eyes,
sing a rhythmic do, re, mi,
coax the present to come early to my future
where carolers make o's with lips
on winter nights long-strung with icicles.

When sky turns velvet, breathing icicles
to carolers long overdue
on streets where I have whispered lips
to lips until you felt I'd
blinded you with promises of future
sung, and strung, a mistletoe of me

and we would tumble into infamy,
two royal loves with crowns of icicles
sleighing towards a holly-braided future
and there'd be much ado
for everything—especially your eyes,
especially my red and whispered lips.

Twelve golden fairies pursing crimson lips
might tend your hands that reach for me
to save my heart, my soul, my eyes
from slipping swords of falling icicles
that hurtle from the universe of do
and did and still-to-do for future

dreams of memories pressing to the future,
where rubied glass meets rubied lips
and we reach back to reach through time, undo
the snow lace falling, calling you from me,
calling you to merge your soul with icicles,
let them take the crystals of your eyes.

I still remember future nights when, starred, your eyes
meet rubied lips; it's all that they could do
to keep me stringing crowns, stop my turning into icicles.


Swing in Snow photo, by L.L. Barkat.

For the Ghost of Christmas Present

I've decided to write 12 poems for Christmas. Dave's Noel Ghosts dare and giveaway inspired me.

For the occasion, I thought to try a villanelle again. It's been a while.

The villanelle has an aba rhyme scheme. It has five 3-line stanzas and ends with a 4-line stanza. The first line of the first stanza becomes the 3rd line of the second stanza. The third line of the first stanza becomes the third line of the 3rd stanza. The first line of the first stanza becomes the third line of the fourth stanza. The third line of the first stanza becomes the third line of the fifth stanza. Then, to wrap it all up in the sixth stanza, we do an abab and put the first line of the first stanza as the third line and the third line of the first stanza as the last line.

If that sounds confusing, take a look at the poem below. You'll see how it works. Why not try one? Maybe with a Christmas ghost in the lines?

The Ghost of Christmas Present

She drifts amidst the holly
picking berries round and red
for the love of you, or me

avoiding news of tragedy
along each jagged edge
she drifts amidst the holly

pretending not to see
where evergreens have bled
for the love of you, or me

along an evening's melody
where harmony has lately fled
she drifts amidst the holly

painting crimson on her knees,
a silent angel fallen, led
for the love of you, or me

pricking fingertips on memory,
leaving things unsaid
she drifts amidst the holly
for the love of you, or me.

Handmade Wrapping Paper Gifts photo, by L.L. Barkat. This poem is offered for One Shot Wednesday and Random Acts of Poetry.

For the Ghost of Christmas Past

Write about a ghost of Christmas, he said. This was as close as I got, but I am perfectly happy with it...

The Promise

Send me your questions.
I will be your abbey,
full with apple trees,
rosemary, wattle fence
and quince.
Choose a plum.
I will answer your desire,
feed it to you sugared,
let my thumb touch
the cloisters
of your neck
and chin.

For Random Acts of Poetry, hosted at Dave's place (along with a giveaway) and Tweetspeak.