“Poems must…be written in emotional freedom. Moreover, poems are not language but the content of the language. And yet, how can the content by separated from the poem’s fluid and breathing body?”
Mary Oliver A Poetry Handbook p. 3
quote- Mary Oliver on poems February 9, 2014
poem- what are you saying? February 8, 2014
The dress is tight
and youthful.
You beam, when people say
“You look great!”
But from a distance
they observe
the bulges from
the botched cosmetic surgery,
and the fake parts glued here and there.
They sigh how sad it is
that you feel you need to try so hard
to be a plastic doll
instead of you.
True beauty is not
about artificial expectations
it’s about being confident
as you are
and celebrating
that your uniqueness
is beautiful.
poem- alone February 7, 2014
Alone
in the spare bed
preserving the sleep
of the regular bed mate
thankful for the heat of
canine companions
who don’t complain
when I cough.
poem- now February 6, 2014
You’ve been waiting,
watching,
wondering,
but now
it’s time to act.
Stop planning,
scheming,
dreaming,
and do.
Face the task.
Make it happen.
Decide as you go along.
It’s time,
now.
poem- blood February 5, 2014
She smells the metallic tang
iron
copper
inhales the essence
life
death
dreams the future
rock
paper
scissors
blood.
.
poem- aubade February 4, 2014
Your limbs
spill from silken sheets
shimmering in the glimmer
of morning squeezing between
window slats,
striping you like a convict,
but I am your prisoner.
Your lips
curl as you murmur,
conversing with lovers
in your dreams,
Your hips
burrow deeply
on the rhythm of your sighs
and I long to lie beside you,
lingering in the light,
but as dawn drives day
so must I away.
.
.
An aubade is a French leaving poem. It’s the opposite of a serenade, and is the song of a lover leaving his beloved in the morning. I’d never heard of the form before, and on the same day, I discovered it by accident (when I looked up a French lingerie company by the name and the definition came up) I found an aubade in the WordPress poetry feed. Quite a coincidence! Here is my first one. I should add, that I am unlikely to ever write one from experience, since generally I’m going to bed at dawn, while my husband is getting up! 😉
poem-who knew? February 3, 2014
Who knew
when love first entangled
that rapture yields both
blessing and anguish?
Anticipated joy
dashed by disability,
disease, dread,
death.
Watching beloved baby
suffer
and the love that begat
all the suffering
lies so tangled
in anguish
that it’s difficult to
find it at all.
poem- wall whispers February 2, 2014
Listen
to whispers,
stories in the wall.
Poems found,
Titles titillate,
tease, and
tantalize.
Writing on the wall
whispers
through the room.
.
.
.
Last weekend I started wallpapering my dining room with pages from a book. I was given a copy of Diana Gabaldon’s Drums of Autumn last fall. I already have a copy, and the gift had a broken binding, so I pondered ways to use it for practical purpose. Today I’m putting the finishing touches on. Most of the wall layout is fairly straight-forward, but I had 9 extra inches that I centred, and there I’ve been playing. I’ve included copies of autographs we have in other Diana Gabaldon books (copied onto a blank page of the book to match perfectly). I’ve cut graphic bits from Part divisions and used them decoratively. I’ve taken chapter titles and made them into little poems. I’m really liking my very unique wall!
This is a close up on a ‘poem section’ made with section and chapter titles:
Je t’aime
beaucoup
passionnément
pas de tout.
Blame
Forgiveness
The toss of a coin.
Here are the dedications (John’s is actually in the copy of The Scottish Prisoner and says “For John- No one looks better than a man in a kilt!” Mine is in The Exile and says, “To Shawn, Wonderful to meet you in person!”):
Here’s a step back at the wall. The diamond medallions spaced across the top were from dividing pages:
haiku-hiding January 31, 2014
Fence around our snowy
yard, bound by snow laden trees
Somewhere a white dog.
.
.
He’s hiding in plain sight. Where are you OJ?! Good thing he always comes when I whistle for him!
poem- gifts January 30, 2014
It’s a moment
a tiny time gift
break for a breath
a rest,
closed eyes.
Empty space
on this snowy day
to fill as you will
or
not.
Shawn L. Bird 