Last night
you didn’t come as your youthful self,
my fun, faithful friend.
Instead, bald, broad, and bellied you asked,
your hard question against my thigh:
Why not?
Respect, I said,
Squeamish at your leer.
You lowered your voice to that super serious tone
I remember so well.
Really?
So much doubt.
Yes.
Really.
Even in my dreams I’m over this.
I weep
for the fools who believe lies and hand power
to the deceivers, whose actions cry, “Destroy
me, please! Give
me, me, me what you promise!”
and then blame those
who try to keep giants from grinding fools into the ground,
while fools bless them for the feet
upon their heads.
I am at a poetry retreat, and I have just realized I haven’t posted any new poetry in ages! Here is one that was prompted by discussion around the table last night.
Men are afraid that women will laugh at them.
Women are afraid that men will kill them
~ Margaret Atwood
Confession:
Inside
she is laughing
at his wizened, flapping sword
Ever appreciative
it is not slashing, slicing, dividing
head from heart.
Confession:
Impalement is not a virtue in itself
ecstacy can take or leave it.
Confession:
She desires his desire,
not his possession.
Tears appear;
truth pools in her eyes.
She looks out the window, scenery unseen,
one droplet, breaking free, tracks a slow progress across
cheek,
chin,
neck.
Another makes the parallel journey.
She turns her face, while she waits, wishes,
then slowly grows the knowledge
that what is
will be.
She weeps out the weakness.
While there may be grief,
acceptance brings resilience.
Resilience
is the power of belief
and relief.
Today’s http://www.NaPoWriMo.net prompt is to write a landay. This 22 syllable couplet poetry form is a secret, underground women’s poetry in Afghanistan. I was fascinated by this article about collecting landays in the war-torn land. This secret voice tells us about the real undercurrents, the real experience, of life for these women.
.
.
I am profoundly touched to read these secret treasures that vividly paint a reality we know so little of. This is the hidden power of poetry, to condense so much into a few lines. I like that they’re meant to morph as the lines are seized by others, and the message is intensified or modernized .
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The form is supposed to be 9 syllables on the first line, 13 on the second, but my first lines all kept turning out as 8 syllables, so I just made 14 in the second, to reach 22. (as per my Poetic Licence).
Three powers
of the ancient bards:
to rouse the listener to joyful laughter,
to desolate the listener to sorrowful tears,
to comfort the listener to peaceful sleep.
Three powers
of the harper.
Three powers
of the wordsmith.
Three powers
I seek.
.
.
At four hundred pounds
she filled every room
I am beautiful!
I am amazing!
I am entertaining!
I will help you succeed!
They didn’t question
her self-control
her ugly words
her petty cruelties
her avarice
They accepted every word
and made it true.
The bravest thing you ever did
was open the door of your dark room
and invite in the light.
The bravest thing you ever did
was to believe someone could
hold you in the night.
The bravest thing you ever did
was embrace the possibility
that something might
The bravest thing you ever did
was to look through your window
and claim the sight
The bravest thing you ever did
was to climb through the window
into the light.
Here’s a nice video that shows you some of the scenery in Salmon Arm, the setting for Grace Awakening Power (and where we live, coincidentally). How many places do you recognise from the book?
.
Shawn L. Bird 
Enderby, more than Cliffs! October 2, 2012
Tags: cliffs, enderby, Grace Awakening, Power, tourism
When we moved to the Shuswap, my first job was in Enderby, a small town twenty minutes south of Salmon Arm. In Grace Awakening Power, Grace and Marco hike up to the top of the Enderby Cliffs. This Enderby tourism video gives you a good sense of the area, and the views from the cliffs. Quite spectacular, eh? (Watch for sudden storms!)
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