“In the midway of this our mortal life, I found me in a gloomy wood, astray…”
Inferno Canto 1, Durante (Dante) degli Alighieri
in a mood
he stood at the wood’s edge and thought
……….why?
lost
this pained walk
under dark skies
living on the verge
wondering if he was
the plaything of his Lord, if so
a cruel game
from somewhere brightness beckoned
on the wing beat of sudden insight ~
it’s not your memory melting in the heat of time
or your true music dissolving unsung
nor the whimsy of some capricious god
it is, perhaps, Dante’s transformative hell
no love without yearning
no compassion without pain
no charity without failure
a Moses, he fell before the flaming bush
A Phoenix, he rose from the ashes
in his found humanity, he embraced life whole
There are moments, sometimes light and sometimes dark, that are transformative. Tell us about that in a poem and if you feel comfortable share or a link to it in the comments below. All shared work on theme will be published here next Tuesday, January 9. All are invited to participate no matter the status of your career: beginning, emerging or pro. Deadline is Monday, January 15 at 8:30 pm PST.
of fourteen hours
by plane and train when
arriving at a lonely station
in the far North I approached a man
who’d obviously been
standing in the road outside
for a hundred years
and was therefore likely to know
his way around like the back of his hand
– I want to go to Etlic I said
– Etlic: you’ll need to go to Mrs Warrender
who runs the boat service; you see that trail…
he pointed down a long sea-embattled peninsular
down which the yellow trail snaked
into the distance; it seemed that Mrs Warrender
had a boatyard in some village
at the end of it
active mind in ailing body
set off along the track
which went though tunnels with deep puddles
over many stiles and up through manholes
which was entirely appropriate
for a man in a hole struggling
with many other pilgrims
intent on making the next boat to Etlic
which he failed to do
throughout the following day
I maintained an active image of Mrs Warrender
whom I must have met in some other life
***
Don’t ask me where ‘Etlic’ is. I dreamed about the place so it must be somewhere!
It had a kind of Bright Hope attached to it!
My chest twisted as a dying leaf
That had it’s last swing on that grey hill
When suddenly I saw a dewdrop ,
A pearly corn on that dying leaf
In the rosy -pink light of dawn
fondling a scarlet flower
Dazzling and giggling
in the wintry breeze .
Sparkling like diamond nose pin
That glitters and glistens on a queen’s nose
Or as a glossy prism on the grassy leaf
It sang mirthfully
One beam of hope still surpasses
That grey agonised mountain chest
Hello Jamie,
Here is one “work in progress” in response to the prompt about transformative moments.
Released
In utter despair
heart-broken open
stroke after stroke,
water engulfs me,
cradling, warm,
absorbing goggle-trapped tears.
Released, they said,
from one hell to another—
not free, not free to go home,
released from youth jail
to adult jail to wait for trial,
released, they said, cruel sentence.
Swimming my prayer,
please,
I can’t do this any more,
his pain,
merging with mine,
drop into drop.
Ears to hear, broken open,
voice in my head:
You must continue
they need you
he needs you
you can do this
Who speaks?
imagination or God?
mysterious mentor,
self pity called out—
Lady Justice, Compassion, Love—
who speaks?
Stroking the white-blue water
image etched on liquid canvas,
heart sliced open,
blood drops falling,
gold needle pulling golden thread,
closes red pulsing flesh.
Water holds me,
windmill arms can’t stop,
thunder breaths hauled in
puffing past ears that hear,
scolded, emboldened, submerged—
resurrected.
He, sitting behind bars,
sixteen, innocent,
Me, swimming,
free,
I can do this. I must.
Water.
„Per me si va nella città dolente…”
Dante Alighieri
You haven’t forgotten
you won’t forget…
In ices is swelling
the river again and trawling
roots and weeds,
and foam.
It leaves the shores bent,
mirrors,
swamps and frost.
But on the day
it kindles a glow.
With movements
spiral of
the hands,
I’m folding the air
after the beasts –
to that one threshold
(what does it say
no, I don’t know).
black bird sings early, the same bird calls late.
new light drowns darkness, spring spins around.
black bird calls early, the same bird calls late.
sonnet sings ten beats to another’s spare sound.
who asks for word, who knows which hour it starts,
which minute, which rule of rhyme or reason.
making of lines , counting the breaks, our hearts
open. this is february, split season.
moon draws the tide, upper river pools
on spring, a note , a sonnet , a dance
where light or other prayers redeem fools,
those who rage the world sons may change perchance.
by 
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 
it was after a journey
of fourteen hours
by plane and train when
arriving at a lonely station
in the far North I approached a man
who’d obviously been
standing in the road outside
for a hundred years
and was therefore likely to know
his way around like the back of his hand
– I want to go to Etlic I said
– Etlic: you’ll need to go to Mrs Warrender
who runs the boat service; you see that trail…
he pointed down a long sea-embattled peninsular
down which the yellow trail snaked
into the distance; it seemed that Mrs Warrender
had a boatyard in some village
at the end of it
active mind in ailing body
set off along the track
which went though tunnels with deep puddles
over many stiles and up through manholes
which was entirely appropriate
for a man in a hole struggling
with many other pilgrims
intent on making the next boat to Etlic
which he failed to do
throughout the following day
I maintained an active image of Mrs Warrender
whom I must have met in some other life
***
Don’t ask me where ‘Etlic’ is. I dreamed about the place so it must be somewhere!
It had a kind of Bright Hope attached to it!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Indefatigable
—
—
–
a sower here
— showed
a belief
as rising up
as change, as malleable
thought to call it god —
I spoke not knowing what I would say
just as easily —
the growing mountains of
refuse
mean something
equally
as insurmountable as speech
to really
satisfy
and that leaves the
obvious quiet
thematically dragged out on cue
— dream in cycles
each of these things committed
in silence — think
of the plethora —
guard as treasure
dub She
—
—
–
m.e.
(c) ‘18 miguel J escobar
photo m.j.e. 1/1/18
LikeLiked by 2 people
My first response Jamie :
#The Song Of A Dewdrop #
My chest twisted as a dying leaf
That had it’s last swing on that grey hill
When suddenly I saw a dewdrop ,
A pearly corn on that dying leaf
In the rosy -pink light of dawn
fondling a scarlet flower
Dazzling and giggling
in the wintry breeze .
Sparkling like diamond nose pin
That glitters and glistens on a queen’s nose
Or as a glossy prism on the grassy leaf
It sang mirthfully
One beam of hope still surpasses
That grey agonised mountain chest
©Kakali Das Ghosh
LikeLiked by 2 people
Some lovely poems here.This is my effort.
Post-Op. 2009
I’m roused from sleep again,
the nurse’s fob watch
twinkling silver
as she take my pulse.
She whispers an apology:
must do my obs.
check nothing’s come loose
and we grin.
I’m multi-tubed,lie flat
like a beached octopus.
I tell her I don’t mind.
I’m glad she disturbs
these drifting hours
between midnight and morning.
I’m glad of soft lights
above my bed,
glad of electric suns
along wide-awake corridors.
LikeLiked by 2 people
🙂
LikeLike
Hello Jamie,
Here is one “work in progress” in response to the prompt about transformative moments.
Released
In utter despair
heart-broken open
stroke after stroke,
water engulfs me,
cradling, warm,
absorbing goggle-trapped tears.
Released, they said,
from one hell to another—
not free, not free to go home,
released from youth jail
to adult jail to wait for trial,
released, they said, cruel sentence.
Swimming my prayer,
please,
I can’t do this any more,
his pain,
merging with mine,
drop into drop.
Ears to hear, broken open,
voice in my head:
You must continue
they need you
he needs you
you can do this
Who speaks?
imagination or God?
mysterious mentor,
self pity called out—
Lady Justice, Compassion, Love—
who speaks?
Stroking the white-blue water
image etched on liquid canvas,
heart sliced open,
blood drops falling,
gold needle pulling golden thread,
closes red pulsing flesh.
Water holds me,
windmill arms can’t stop,
thunder breaths hauled in
puffing past ears that hear,
scolded, emboldened, submerged—
resurrected.
He, sitting behind bars,
sixteen, innocent,
Me, swimming,
free,
I can do this. I must.
Water.
Lisa Ashley
January 8, 2018
LikeLiked by 2 people
Well done, Lisa. Delighted to be able to include you this week.
LikeLike
Hi Jamie,
My third response:
The Neighbour’s Traveller
crawls along a mountain’s shoulder,
down a verterbrae of spines,
into the leaf mould of birth
where it cradles a knapsack of beliefs
in a bonegirdle. Pioneer savage
come to swap gifts with half
dressed gentlemen.
His garden drystone wall
of philosopher’s stone
waits for an answer to a question
it has forgotten. Meanwhile spiders hunt
spaces between carefully placed slabs.
LikeLiked by 3 people
Hi Jamie,
This is my second response:
Every Key She
puts in the door is her 21st when she hauls her late five year old screaming
daughter to the dentists to get her braces tightened, folk looking askance
as the child shouts for help as if she’s being abused and milking the attention
and five years later after her final visit
to the hospital she puts the key into her
echoing house when she would have been glad to hear her daughter’s voice.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Hi Jamie,
Here’s my first response:
Vinegar
And a clean cloth is what she needs
to scrub the smeared pains of her heart
just as Jill needed vinegar and brown paper to repair Jack’s broken bonce
after he fell carrying a pale of water,
but her spirit is not in a bucket,
but in a pane of glass that needs cleaning so she can see clearly the obstacles
in her way and be a pilgrim
and wipe tears from her granddaughter’s eyes.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Almost a Song
„Per me si va nella città dolente…”
Dante Alighieri
You haven’t forgotten
you won’t forget…
In ices is swelling
the river again and trawling
roots and weeds,
and foam.
It leaves the shores bent,
mirrors,
swamps and frost.
But on the day
it kindles a glow.
With movements
spiral of
the hands,
I’m folding the air
after the beasts –
to that one threshold
(what does it say
no, I don’t know).
And the death ones leave.
LikeLiked by 4 people
Thank you Jamie- my response today
.on spring #2.
black bird sings early, the same bird calls late.
new light drowns darkness, spring spins around.
black bird calls early, the same bird calls late.
sonnet sings ten beats to another’s spare sound.
who asks for word, who knows which hour it starts,
which minute, which rule of rhyme or reason.
making of lines , counting the breaks, our hearts
open. this is february, split season.
moon draws the tide, upper river pools
on spring, a note , a sonnet , a dance
where light or other prayers redeem fools,
those who rage the world sons may change perchance.
on spring we write in fourteen lines, to date,
black bird sings early, the same bird calls late.
sbm.
LikeLiked by 4 people