when the dead are invited back
on Halloween and All Souls Day, Dia de los Muertos and Dia de los ñatitas,
during Bon Festival and Qingming Festival, Araw ng mga Patáy and Gai Jatra Chuseok
on these days in the many places
on the crest of our mingling with spirits
at burial sites and among dappled silver-gray stones
and the blue and emerald of sky and sea
around the bend of alabaster bays
and the rough-barked redwoods and stripy eucalyptus
in the damp green of the moss
in the pungent cempasúchitl or pale bamboo shoots
and the raucous discontent of crows and sea gulls calling,
among bales of cotton clouds and symphonies of rain
among the hot tears and cool baptisms by salt water,
between the viridescent living and
the remains of the dead, the compost underfoot,
in the wind wailing past the bowing cypress
in these landscapes and littoral zones
our ancestors visit in cellular memory, our blood
sings their songs and they hound us; hounding,
not into death but into life, into blessing
into peace, celebration and joy ~
one life to live or many, what do you give?
what do you leave behind, what will you have
to say when, for just one moment, your spirit is
called to share again this wild rumpus of life
Remember “Let the wild rumpus start!” in Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are? Such a wonderful book and that exclaimation has stayed with me – probably you as as well – and I always wanted to do something with it. This poem is what came from that inspiration. So, my challenge to you this week, is to use “wild rumpus” in a poem. Enjoy the exercise and if you are comfortable doing so, leave your poem in the comments section below or leave a link to it. All poems shared will be featured here next Tuesday.
No illusions, no illusions, no lies, no softened truths, no tears, no bargains, though sun shines and birds sing, Winter is here, I know.
Spring danced like wild flowers in the wind,
held dew and promise and wore the colors of her heart like jewels.
She hadn’t heard the word defeat and didn’t feel hate or anger.
Spring liked to play and romp and sing and
hung her question on a tree to ripen – Why?
Summer took herself seriously,
was wide-eyed with longing, sizzling in the sun.
She wore a red dress and the champagne happiness of husband and child.
She had reckless courage because Summer is young and youth is bold,
a silver bell that rings and rings and never stops.
Too much is not enough and still that tremulous – Why?
Autumn gently smiled, like Da Vinci’s lady, and danced old dances,
reminisced Begin the Beguine, stepping lightly on dry leaves.
Autumn was lined with gold and muted silks, remembered her manners,
nodded wisely, spoke sagaciously, and was a might too profound.
Haughty and just so very sure that she knew – Why?
Winter is a season content to see herself in time displaced,
knows though fleshy bonds and boundaries dissolve, Life –
like heart has its reasons that reason doesn’t know . . .
Sanguine and serene, it’s just a habit now, that old question – Why?
To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under heaven.
A time to be born and a time to die;
a time to plant and a time to pluck that which is planted . . .
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
Wednesday Writing Prompt
Tell us in prose or poem and in terms of the seasons where you used to be in life and where you are now. If you are comfortable to do so, leave your work in the comments section below. If the work is too long, leave a link to it. All work shared will be published here next Tuesday.
day comes when your waist disappears,
your glow grows from a tiny zygote to
full-fledged fetus and then, all at once,
you can no longer bend or lay flat in bed,
you go on as you started, exchanging
secret messages with the promised child ~
and now, the miraculous moment, you move
from one into two, the nine-month stretch
along the pathway of life and hope, birthing
a new generation: your handsome boy,
lion maned, his fingers grasping your heart,
launched, from dark into light, washed with
the fiercest love and swaddled in faith
“There should be a song for women to sing at this moment or a prayer to recite. But perhaps there is none because there are no words strong enough to name that moment.” Anita Diamant, The Red Tent
Writing in a far and broken country, my pen
knows its kinship with the dark forest, asks
direction of its trees, celebrates its quiet amity
over the din of plastic medicine vials, the 40-foot
serpentine specter of a cannulae, the hiss and sigh
of an oxygen compressor amid layered silences.
We are named on a long list of regional poets.
The region is the sickroom where the palm and
birch in the courtyard know their meaning and
place. Lend a shaman ear. The trees will speak
and tell you that we are found, we are here,
not lost in those vials but found in the hallowed
company of artful seekers on a Vision Quest. Call it
the hero’s journey – Strike up the hill. Cry out for
the Sacred Dream, for the purpose of your life and
its confusions. A comforting Infinity breaks through
fierce grieving embraced. The great dream comes
to you. The trees come to you. They speak in God’s
tongue, which is – after all – your True Voice. . .
Life gives, leaving behind the key to its wide and
wild essence. Unlock the door. Listen … the voices
are gentle and they mark the pathway with poems.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 