Really, I don't think it's that bad. Mediocre, but not painful. And I don't have a whole lot up. So stop complaining, or just surf on outta here.
My Defense
She goes out
and leaves me alone again
with the dust
and the television.
I open a window
to hear the night wind;
the frogs on the lake shore
and little noises in the grass.
The time for birds is past.
I can smell her still
even with the window;
she gives no warning,
nor light.
I never have time to
prepare a defense:
she is leaving
then she is gone.
I think
when she gets back
I will be asleep.
I will leave the
television on for her,
though I suspect that
neither of us
really needs it.
I might have to retire the old Hirelgas' Lament, but I can't quite bring myself to take it down just yet. It's kind of a staple on my web page.
Okay, here's the deal. For my Honors Core unit on Literature, we had to read about ten billion different versions of the Legend of King Arthur and Company. It was to prove a point about how humans use history (thank you Dr. Goebel). The very last one we read was from Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of the Kings of Britain, and I read it at about three in the morning, exhausted, after having already read ten billion versions of the same story, and for some odd and unfathomable reason, I loved it. Go figure. And it inspired this little poem from me.
Hirelgas' Lament for Bedivere
And so I looked out across the land
As a gull surveying the teeming sea
And I saw them bearing you home
To the standard of the one you adored
Sorrow etched in their faces
But they could not stay to mourn --
Yet they offered up prayers for the repose of your soul
As they returned to the fighting at hand,
And they told me that dear St. Mary would guide you home.
Yet somehow I felt ill
And my heart moved within me stiffly
And the battle seemed to go grey around my eyes,
For I realized that you were lost, and nothing could be said
But that another brave man had died
In service of King and country.
For the hills and blue rocks you dearly loved,
For your sweet wife and for us all,
For love of God and worship of the King,
You came to this bleak place
Not knowing you would not return,
But even knowing, I believe you would still have come
For love of Britain, all her beauty, and her peace --
For this, we may only hope and pray.
And what now can I do for you, great one?
How can I ease the pain of your passing?
I do not doubt but that you gave up your last breath
Gladly, rejoicing, exhilirated by the wind in your hair
And the trumpets singing brashly around you,
The frantic, amazing song of war,
And I do not doubt that at the very end still
You were singing God's praises, you do not regret.
And neither should I, noble warrior, neither should I grieve,
When you have passed so nobly --
I see now how other men fight as though possessed:
They take their love and grief, grasp it firmly,
Acknowledge it, and make it into rage
That carries them on in battle
And it sends me off screaming your name
With grief and anger and praise
And carries me on where I know I must dutifully go
When nothing else could make me move
From your side.
A short poem.
I lie with my eyes
Closed, and I am looking out
The window.
You
Your carpet smells like smoke
And old spirits, and touch football
And all your brothers and you.
Pressed against my cheek it
Leaves little marks, red on my face and all
Damp from the crying tired from the
Yells. And the bright light biting
Down from the hanging bulb into my eyes
My bones pressing on soreness
Bruising my skin through my own skin,
Lying on your stale-smelling floor this time I
Hurt from the inside out.
My Portion
The spirit's dance takes place in an
Alpine lake, where she exists, washed through the depths in her own blues and greens
And taking in too the gentle fire of mountain sunset;
All rhythm, always touching the shore, always telling the earth its full joy
Of spirit, of dance, love.
And what of me, then, watching? I, who am mostly water,
Leaning toward the expanse of lake, searching for words?
Yes, I recognize the spirit's real rhythm in myself,
How that alert pool washes itself over and over, in blues, in greens,
Straining to shine through ny eyes a reflection of the sunset.
So close to the spirit's presence, as she dances with her glory,
My portion seeks to be so pure, beyond this pale light's understanding --
But this spirit has been given me, a ward, an orphan
To raise and guide, to teach to love, to endlessly watch
And make always more new.
From the clouds' rose fire come words of comfort.
Both lake and watcher, they must wait; both must be at peace.
One day the soul will learn to reflect that light,
Will leave the old weaknesses behind, memories, last summer's winds only.
And the drop will rejoin the lake,
And I will rejoin the whole.
Click on this icon to escape back home.
Or ... THIS PAGE NO LONGER EXISTS. It's a myth. Myth, myth! This used to be my feminism page but I deleted it so ha, ha, ha! Of course if you're really in denial you can still follow the "or," but there is no poetry there, nope, not no more.