Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 30

The way of all dogs

I had an urge to try another golden shovel poem. I wrote my first golden shovel only a few weeks ago and found it heavy going. Something suggested (the Oracle?) that I ought to try one of Kerfe’s or Merril’s poems, since they often seem to fit together naturally. This golden shovel is based on the first stanza of Kerfe’s latest poem, My dream about dogs. We both wrote about dog dreams for this particular prompt, so there had to be a connection. Needless to say, the Oracle (or whatever) was right. My embroidering of Kerfe’s lines flowed without a single hesitation.

Please read Kerfe’s entire poem here. Her drawings, of course, accompany both poems perfectly.

The way of all dogs

In the dreamtime, the
world was bright, and dogs
ran where they would, were
always there, always here,
beside, behind and before, the first
of all friends, before me, before you.

We make chains now, think
to enslave every spark we, you
I see in wild eyes, to own
their vast spaces and fence them
all about with interdictions. But

though the links constrain the flesh, no
chains can hold free spirits earthbound, they
show us the way, if only we’d look, lead
us back to the bright dreamtime you,
I, say we regret. So let the dogs loose and follow.

Tricks of the light

For dverse. I’ll add the links to the poems tomorrow. Bedtime for me. The title is the title of the poem I posted this morning.

Tricks of the light

This year the roses are tall
in all the fields that stretch about,
and there will be rain tonight.

Through dim light we watch
this night of festive fires,
though the wind,
through a crack…

Burly, with shambling gait,
ils ne passeront pas
for the dust on the wall,
the light is heavy, or perhaps the sun.
So, shall I paint a prism?

Tricks of the light

Tricks of the light

I have no word for this,
though there may be one,
crushed between the pages
of a dictionary,

a word for when the sun
suddenly dies, and the clouds
cluster in dirty grey clumps.

I have no word for how it feels,
when the bright world turns off the light,
and I look at the sky through water,
from the bottom of a muddy pond.

Indigo sunset

10. (seven lines)

10.

Rain started at evening
it’s raining still
a morning grey enough
for slugs

dreary and still
silent except for the drip
of raindrops onto dull leaves.

Dreaming of a dead friend

For dverse

Dreaming of a dead friend

Dark as every day is dark in sleep,
beneath dark trees that cast their shadows deep,
we walked my dog and I.

He walked before with loose long-legged lope,
I behind, the path that climbed a wooded slope,
a tumbling brook ran by.

His coat with shadows striped and moonlight pale
grew fainter, as he moved along the trail,
so fast he seemed to fly.

The winding path, the crouching trees, the light
too dim, I lost him to the swelling night
and woke, a final cry,

the echo of his name still in my ears,
the echo of a dream. I hope he hears
and waits my time to die.

Fortress country

Fortress country

No standing stones crown these hills
or circle in silent stillness these forest glades.

Too many armies have traipsed and tramped,
stamped their ephemeral mark
in a flowing sea of anarchy,
sand and water, gone with the wind.

Old stones are the fabric of our cold keeps,
standing square and godly,
clenched fists along the skyline.

Word-watching

For the dverse prompt.

Word-watching

Against the sky
a bird trail etches
wing-beat runes
too high to read.

I can only
scrawl my words
and scratch their tunes
in notes that bleed

so dip my pen
in rose-red ink
sketch in bold
the tale wind told
among the reeds.

January morning

Morning moon
peers sleepily through the cloud
blinks and is gone.

Raven’s harsh call
wing-flash sleek black
among rain-brilliant trees
chasing a fleeing hawk.

Between showers we walk
the boar and deer paths
along the bank
with the badger’s sett
the dark woods loud
with running water.

We wade through wet
brown stalks half-rotten
following where the boar tread
scent of mint rises
dog sniffs the air uneasy.

A winter world
too silent only the stream
sings untroubled

as rain clouds swallow
the blue un ciel de traîne
I light the stove.

Katauta

This was Paul Brookes’ chosen form for last week. I’m not a big fan of haiku or Japanese poetry in general. The katauta is a half a poem, addressed by one half of a couple to the other. I’ve chosen to write both halves, two katauta making a sedoka, a poem that look at the same subject from a different angle, which I find more satisfying that the one side of the story.

Unwelcome

You look unhappy
I smile try to take your hand
you flinch in irritation.

Sorrow my burden
a bird’s broken wing—no smile
will mend the bone make it fly.

Selective vision

Window full of sun
the rose garden of my dreams
birdsong welcoming me home.

You smell the roses
hear only the birds’ sweet songs
not the drip of the roof leaks.

Shallow

What use dead gardens
full of snow where nothing grows
and spring so distant?

Winter garden sleeps
I watch the birds feed bringing
spring in their shining wing-dance.