M.R. Graham's Blog, page 16

Ashes – a Lenten poem

In mourning, in grieving,

we wear ashes on our brows -

for what in our lives is worthy?

for what in our lives is just?

We march forward without moving

and strive without doing

and search without seeing.

All is vanity.

Blinded by false wisdom, we grope

with hands bound by the ghost of mammon.

The Lord only knows how we may escape.

Spiritus, move me.

Impetus, work in me.

Sapientia, be my sight.

Of trees – a poem

Deep ghost-groves of freckled aspen

burn white beneath the winter sun,

whisper hoary adulation,

canticles for the Holy One.

And in the trees, the spirits dance

betwixt the motes of starry snow

illuminated by the lance

of lightning flash and candle glow.

All lights within this place combine,

reflect in splendour, white on white,

and mingle in a trance sublime

that breathes in peace through winter night.

The lofty heads of stately pine

rear up and brush the lowered sky

as if they could, by straightened spine,

so please the God who built them high.

Their incense needles, fragrant, fall

in silence to the chapel floor

and still above, they shade the hall

where ghosts who come by night adore.

Black on black, and brown by green,

create a hush bereft of light

where one may linger safe, unseen,

and sleep in peace through winter night.

Winter Park, Colorado 2011

Black Flower – a (very old) poem

Dug this out of the back of a journal and it made me laugh so much I had to share.  I don’t even really remember what it was supposed to be about. I think it was a prophecy or something, supposed to be used in a short story. At least the meter is pretty decent. Anyway, it dates back to high school. 

 

A flower bloometh blackly
betwixt the earth and sky
and he who dares to look on it
has doomed himself to die.

The flower knows the heart of man
it knows his very breath;
the greater faith he puts in it
the swifter comes his death.

And yet what heart can stop itself
from looking on such grace?
Calmly giving up the soul
to be lost without a trace.

The flower thirsts for purity
corruption, grief and pain
and he who gives what she desires
will never love again.

Just a reminder…

The plan is for me to attend Aggiecon again this year, with my spiffy little table in my spiffy little corner of the dealer’s room, cattywampus to the spiffy Noree Cosper. I’ll be attempting to peddle books and pointed sticks, while seeking to converse with the fabulous people of the Con.

The event takes place April 4th-6th at the Hilton Hotel & Conference Center in College Station, TX.

If Texas is too far a cry from home, remember that I do sell signed paperbacks from my Shop page! I’ve recently added The Medium to the list.

Failed Words – A Love Song

I wrote a poem for you

full of complicated metaphor

and abstract terms

philosophising on beauty and love

and the relationship between

an ocean wave and the curve of your eyelashes

or your flawless brow and the sound of silk on wood

rather like the Song of Solomon.

But then I remembered your heart

and the words fell away

one by one and laid you bare

inside my mind

where all of my imperfect words cannot sully you

and your beautiful imperfections.

So the only words now left are –

All I can say now is –

Thank you for being.

To the Ghosts of Glen Coe

Sleep, you brave, you innocent,

you warriors and women strong.

Dread William’s days are now all spent,

and memory is long.

On the glen, the snow lies deep,

as once it lay those years ago,

the night it witnessed traitors creep

on sleeping Invercoe.

Great MacIain ope’d his doors

to Campbells shiv’ring in the night.

He had grown tired of English wars

and looked not for a fight.

Sleep, you brave, you innocent,

you warriors and women strong.

Dread William’s days are now all spent,

and memory is long.

Screams of children drowned the storm

when Campbell blades came slicing down

on bloody tartan, rent and torn,

all for a foreign crown.

Donald blood can turn to ice,

though noble hearts beat hot and fierce –

a man, a frozen sacrifice –

a mother’s dying tears.

Sleep, you brave, you innocent,

you warriors and women strong.

Dread William’s days are now all spent,

and memory is long.

Under trust you met your ends;

within your walls they laid you low.

The men you welcomed as your friends

left blood upon the snow.

Seventy and eight you were,

the martyrs of that winter night,

left to char in homes afire

or cut down in your flight.

Still, the gloaming holds you here,

when February nights are still,

the skirl of Donald pipes rings clear

and echoes in the rill.

Sleep, you brave, you innocent,

you warriors and women strong.

Dread William’s days are now all spent,

and memory is long,

yes, memory is long.

Riverbank Children – A Poem

To the boy in the green canoe:

You brought a hopeful fishing pole

down here to the iron river

and with eager hands cast out your line

to plumb the depths of a crystalline morning.

The whitewashed banks lower their brows

in concentration

hungry for your disappointment.

Boy, your sweater is too large.

It covers your hands with handknit safety

and your chin with the smell of your father’s cigarettes.

Boy, your chest is too small to hold

your potential. Your eyes are Concho pearls.

Did you carry that boat on your back,

young man? Does it trail behind you always?

Do you carry it to school, canoe in one hand,

while the other grips an empty bucket

reserved for the day’s catch?

You are always ready, ready for a prize.

Boy, you cannot even see me up here,

merging with my park bench

in the fog – nor would I want you to.

You are the river, and her bounty is yours.

The whitewashed banks are disappointed

by your mastery, the relish and the fickle pride in a failure.

The morning is no less sweet without a fish.

Boy, you are the river, self-absorbed, eternal;

the banks cannot stand against you.

 

To the girl on the playground slide:

Your pudding thighs are full of sunshine

and you gleam through the fog.

Your bare feet leave optimism in the toes-splayed tracks,

spreading down the plastic chute.

Your fingers grip the bars, clenched teeth

gritted tight, latched fast to living.

Coal-dark eyes, you black sheep girl

with your red hair bow and your mockingbird laugh,

you own the playground.

There is a woman hiding in your infant eyes.

Wild Roma queen, the world sees you falling,

but I know you fly.

Woman, Burgeoning – a poem

Woman, lightning-limbed,

your flagstaff fingers bend

beneath the weight of wonder,

silver striving against the black

of your hair

and all your words are dust

to be licked from your rouge-caked lips.

Woman, diligently

folding hours into paper cranes

and hoarding seconds like pennies

massaging somedays into your face

with the hope that tomorrow will be real at last.

Woman, breathing winters,

you’ve hidden your strength for so long,

only fire can find it, now.

Scatter your maybes like ashes to the wind,

throw the magazines from your hair,

flex the muscles you forgot you had.

Woman, remember your thundering voice

and your granite bones.

Shake off your camera face

and be Gaia once again.

It’s Daniel! (CHARACTER ART AND HAPPY DANCES.)

The incomparable Dorota Pijewska has done it again! She has captured Daniel absolutely perfectly.

Click the image to visit Daniel’s page on The Books of Lost Knowledge:

Visit Ms. Pijewska here on DeviantART.

On “My Own Apocalypse” – A Poem

If silk could melt

to drip down arms and goosebumped legs

in scarlet rivers, serpentine,

it seems only right

that the sky should burn as well.

Like roses heaped upon a stage,

cloaked in tumultuous applause,

the end will fall in exultation.

Shall we stand upon the shore

and taste the salt upon our lips,

basking in the last breezes

before the Breaking?

These last days are a ball,

a promenade of bliss,

sublime devastation,

a eulogy of memory.

Shiva, ever the gentleman,

asks for one last dance.

 

Inspired by “My own apocalypse” by Sedeptra (Alexandra Semushina).