Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 53

Random word generator

Today’s words.

I have been writing Badgers, to get iambic pentameter out of my head. The Oracle gave me some relevant ones with this word selection. Reminder, for those who would like to try some, a Badger’s hexastitch is a six line, syllable-based poem, following a 2/4/6/6/4/2 pattern.

Badgers without badgers

I see
cats stalk the field,
conspicuous, white-furred,
yet their prey see only
a deeper shade,
death-winged.

Outside
supermarket
doors, the homeless with their
dogs sit, the begging cup
obstinately
empty.

They have
so much, the rich,
they walk in glitter-clouds,
not urbane or humane,
the word is crass,
vulgar.

The child
with the snotty
nose and dirt-patined skin
cries, but feet hurry past,
eyes always look
away.

Brothers
watch the field’s edge,
dogs, intrigued but wary,
unsure if a wild pig
is friendly prey
or foe.

Poem in Visual Verse

This was a great image by Omar Musa to write to, and I’m pleased Visual Verse decided to publish my poem. You can read all the contributions so far here.

Watching

The Oracle reminded me of an incident on a walk a week or so ago. She never forgets.

Painting by Willard Metcalf

Watching

I watch
but not her
not the woman with the tiny dog
yapping in her arms

fussing because leaves
damp dirt other dogs

I watch the beauty
fall slow from the trees
listen as the leaves whisper forgiveness
to the summer
for the relentless heat

I taste the tang of rain
in their soft browning
foetal shapes

while Dog sniffs the change
revels in its richness.

Autumn comes

Yesterday was hot. The yellow was golden, we kept in the shade and strolled home listening to the crackle of dried leaves.
The sunflower field looks desolate now, and the trees in front of the house along the stream look pale and thin.

The corn is in too, but the boar still come out to rummage.

Then today, the clouds came, the light was dull, and the yellow seemed more pronounced and drab. Like the box elder

the parched meadows

and the ‘garden’ reduced to yellow dust. The plants have died back or withered, the vine is wilted, the leaves curled and brown, and all we see on the roses are thorns.

At the end of this afternoon it rained. The start of the equinoctial change. High winds, unseasonably cool temperatures and rain are on the menu for the next fortnight. The mellow fruitfulness isn’t going to happen this year, I fear.

The days are shorter, sharper is the air

The days are shorter, sharper is the air

and when, within the dog rose hipped and barbed,
the robin, winter king, in russet garbed,
clicks his tongue to summon to his side
bright-painted finch wings, redstart-bobbing tails,
we know that autumn’s come, it rides the tide,
with flame-red sails unfurled to catch the gales.

The turning of the year

Another poem in straight forward rhyming couplets, iambic pentameter.

The turning of the year

Today we start the slow slide into night,
the balance shifts to dark from summer light,

and how are we to know to find our way,
once winter winds send all green paths astray?

When songbirds flock and flit among the trees
about the house, leaves thinning in the breeze,

with gentle chatter, reassuring words,
that mean, perhaps, there’ll still be seeds for birds,

when silver frosts the nodding stalks, their gold,
once honey-sweet’s a memory grown old.

The yellowing of the year

A poem in couplets of iambic pentameter with end and internal rhymes. I think it ought really to have five stanzas, but it’s late.

Painting Ruszczyc, autumn landscape

The yellowing of the year

The yellowing of the year has now begun,
In woods where timid deer and fox would run.

Rain falls in leaves from cloudless skies, gold drifts
Beneath the trees where summer lies her gifts,

Heaped red and orange fire-flamed, they were,
But equinoctial winds, untamed bestir,

In tourbillons of Dervish dance, their rest,
And I in silence watch entranced, the jest.

How many?

How many?

How many mornings left
of green leaves waving,
golden blue skies and tender sun?

Warblers sing the coming rain,
hearing the rising cloud-tide,
drops falling far away.

How many?
Enough perhaps to slake the thirst
of these wild throats.

Child at a window

Child at a window

The night was black as sloes, the stars
as bright as running water-shine,
a song, a rhythm in the air,
of chords plucked by a tawny owl
and fluted over stalky fields,
to weave a garland for the hair
of one child at her window high,
with eyes as wide as endless skies.

A touch as soft as blossom-fall,
a call from fox to vixen, soft
and hoarse with love and caring, sailed
across the rushy, windy trees.
She held a hand out, cupped her palms,
and waited for the star to fall
from tawny wings that skimmed the night,
for sky gifts for a bright-eyed bairn.

Of night and light and the half light

Some people claim that Homer wrote every story that ever could be, or that it’s all in Plato. I find all the words I need in Yeats, who, of course, I have to thank for letting me borrow a line of his for the title.

Of night and light and the half light

The skittering of loose pebbles
beneath the tread of unsteady feet,
and the slope yaws, slides
into a twilit gloom of uncertain light.

Hanging by a thread,
so we clutch,
even a straw will do.

It slops, fear, like filthy bilge water,
oil-dark and dead, filling the stomach
with reasons to retch.

But then, when the foul tide retreats,
and hands, tongues, paws, tails
say welcome back,

and the sand shines silver-gold,
bright as meadows and blackbirds,
when the fear dissolves
in mists of after-dream,

and the sun pours and pours and pours,
spreading peace like butter,
then, there is pure happiness.