Poetry Fragments

Posted on February 18, 2008 by Sarah

(Originally posted on LiveJournal)

So, I was going through some more papers in preparation of either putting them in an accessible file, or boxing them up to go to the storage unit. This particular collection turned out to date from when I was in grad school. And amongst them were a couple of poetry fragments.

Piled clouds

The first one here, I don’t know what I was intending to do with it. It seems to have been heading somewhere. But all that’s there now is the imagery. And I had to laugh as “high-piled clouds” is something of a private cliche for me – it crops up in my writing from time to time. Heh.

It doesn’t have a title attached to it, though —-

From waking sunlit hours of childhood’s days
Where breezes held a secret —
No idle or imagined comfort-friend,
But rather the Lord racing with my play–
From days of sighting high-piled mounds of clouds,
Their builded whiteness flaming with the sun,
and fingers of that glory shot to earth,
falling through the shadows of the sky-thrones –
for there, in fancy, I would seat the Lord,
his feet upon the clouds, his face behind the sun-
From winter’s snow-falls in the night
the midnight blue and silver a cloak upon the world
And silence swept the rounded snow-clad shapes….

FRIVOLOUS FRIDAY VERSE

Of all the trials of our times
the worst are Friday’s final hours,
when each dull moment drags its feet,
reluctant to approach the end.
And we who travel on time’s stream
are prisoners of its sluggish flow,
so fellow filers in this boat
pass the supplies and let’s get low.

(I was supervising some clerical workers at the time, hence the “filers” reference.

Not perfect — “filers” in a “boat”… and “let’s get low”? What was I thinking with that?

Still, amusing to run across ancient fragments.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Poetry From a Dream

Posted on January 14, 2008 by Sarah

(Originally posted on LiveJournal)

Several years ago, I had a dream that had very vivid imagery … of the end of the world. I suppose it should have been a nightmare, but there was a curious detachment in my brain’s reaction to it all. The detachment made me suspect that the imagery was more a spiritual assault from outside than something dredged up from my own subconscious. But really, how can one “prove” that sort of thing?

In any case, when I woke in the morning after the dream, the oddness and vividness of the dream was such that I wrote it down in my journal. And not long after that, turned the extraordinary imagery into a poem.

I figured I’d post that poem here, rather than with a fancy background image on my website. Just because I find the process of getting to the poem interesting, and possibly worth discussing. I mean: intense dream, to journal, to poem. Turning the subjective personal experience into an objective work of art for others to partake of. If “partake” is the word for reading and reacting.

Anyway…. The poem follows. I’d be interested in reactions in any way. Having now the distance of years from its writing, I can look at it a bit more objectively.

WORLD WITH END

I stood beneath a greening yellowed sky,
alone within a frightened, trembling crowd,
a restless mass which had no place to run,
as all locations now drew to their end.
No drowning rain would end the world for us,
the radiance and radiation fierce
blown from the sun would break apart our world.

The green sky

The speeding sibling planet, Mercury,
the dying star already had consumed,
as if devouring orbiting off-spring
could long delay its own drawing demise.
That world was gone. The knowledge filled our minds
as wonder, fear and terror raced the wind.
Our eyes turned upward, there to see the fate
of the next planet. Through some vision strange,
the Venus-shape was clear in that wild sky,
the sphere a darkened disc, which to our eyes
was near. And as we watched, large fragments broke
away around that circle’s fraying edge,
the chunks of mass held in by gravity
although the streaming sunlight fingered through.
A moment did the fragments circle round,
a deadly darkened necklace for the core,
and then the planet’s heart exerted force
and pulled the crashing masses into it.
One instant, falling inward, to compact,
and then exploding outward in a burst,
but not of fiery brilliance, only dust,
the lifeless dust of matter blowing free.
That fabled, shrouded planet was no more,
and with our eyes we’d watched our coming doom
for none could doubt that our own earth would die
just as we’d seen the Venus-light destroyed.
Fear filled their hearts, and I could hear their grief
that nothing would remain, no blade of grass.
The folly of the human race they knew
and thought that if the world should ever end
destruction’s wave would roll from human hands,
and when the world was purged of erring life
the world itself would still go on alone.
A consolation, small though it had been,
that something still would stay, of earth remain,
was cast away in Venus-dust. They wept,
a bitter raging weeping at world’s end.
As for myself, no tears of mine did fall,
alone within that weeping, grieving mob.
I looked above and wondered at the power,
the inexpressible creation’s might.
How vast! How awesome! Far beyond the reach
of my mind’s comprehension! And I knew
the ending of the worlds lay in God’s hands.
My heart flew up, as if to sail on wind,
a dancing kite upon the breath of God.
I raised my voice to praise the mighty Lord,
from whom all blessings flow to us below.
My voice sang strong, and I could feel the crowd
with halting sounds turn fear to praying songs.
Praise Him! Praise Him all creatures here below,
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost aloud!
The earth had started shaking. Twice the song
was shouted at the sky, an urgent plea.
I shook my head. Could they not see God’s hand
had closed upon the frame of matter here?
Why would they want to keep this world they knew,
when for our souls a glorious home did wait,
not seen by earthly eyes, but hidden there
within the heart of God, our gracious Lord.
The shaking stopped, and tears of joy did fall:
perhaps the earth would not crumble apart.
I could not share this thought, for clear to me
was how the weight of glory’s coming hence
would crush the fragile bonds of matter’s form.

The riddled moon

As if a sign of preparation grim,
the moon rose from the west, a blackened orb
to cross before the face of the fierce sun,
and deepening the eerie sunlight’s green,
cast an eclipse upon our upturned brows.
No consolation there, our friendly moon
stood riddled through with holes, sun-acid scarred.
Fear ruled the crowd again. No true-home this,
though much beloved, earth: I yearned for God,
and sang loud of that place where we shall come,
our race completed, to our homeland true.
The face of God will shine more constant fair
than this stark, world-consuming star. My home
lies there. How can I stop the songs which rise
within? The beating of my heart will not
in silence end its task. Before the end,
the breaking of the world, my song goes up.
And then full darkness fell. The veil of clouds
was stripped away, and all could see the stars
so clear and bright, the dazzling display
of all creation’s glory, never seen
as long as earth’s air-shell had hugged the world.
The end was near, and silence claimed all life.
And where the border fell between the worlds
I do not know, for I looked on God’s face.

Comments

sartorias – Jan. 15th, 2008

Lots of vivid images there!

scribblerworks – Jan. 15th, 2008

Really vivid indeed. The end of Venus in particular (very dream like knowledge, to know it was Venus we were looking at), and the rising of the Moon, from the west, riddled through with holes like Swiss cheese – those were intense.

Like I said, it should have been a nightmare.

sartorias – Jan. 15th, 2008

But it has that whole The Last Battle under-structure to keep it from being nightmarish, or at least so I perceive.

wild_patience – Jan. 15th, 2008

That is just stunning. I loved it.

scribblerworks  – Jan. 15th, 2008

Thank you! It’s one of the things I love about being a writer/artist – turning odd dreams and things into “art”. 🙂

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Story Fragment – Stormchild

Posted on October 20, 2007 by Sarah

(Originally published on LiveJournal)

So, I promised to post that fragment I unearthed. It’s been an adventure attempting that, between an old computer that didn’t want to deal with things, and a new laptop I’m not used to yet.

Anyway, here it is. I’ll be interested in your reactions. Especially since I have no idea where I was going to takethis story. Not a hint or clue. No notes at all with the fragment in the notebook.

Storm over a farm

“Stormchild”

_____The night raged around the wood-frame house, battering it with harsh rain. From time to time the darkness shattered away from the blinding belts that cracked from sky to earth, and the dark’s reverberating cry of fright would rattle the glass windows. The wind screamed round the corners of the building and ran madly off across the flat farmland.

_____Jeffrey stood in the living room, looking out at the storm and prayed that the fields would not be drowned. Planting had been completed three days before, the seeds laid down in the dark earth. If they were drowned, if they were washed away, he would be wiped out. There would be no way to cover his financial losses.

_____Jeffrey Bronstad lived alone on the farm his great-grandfather had settled. He hired help in town, but the boys and men all lived elsewhere. His friends considered him a pleasant, peaceable man, steady and reliable. The women, the single women, considered him steady but passionless: good for settling down with, if not for love. But everyone liked Jeffrey — in a mild sort of way. Jeffrey himself liked everyone — in a mild sort of way, for he never really gave likes and dislikes much thought. Until the night of The Storm.

_____He stood at his living room window, and his fingers curled up tightly into his palms. His jaw tightened. His clear grey eyes stared out at the lightning-shocked night, an intense light of their own growing as the rain continued to pelt downward to the soil.

_____Suddenly, he shook his fist at the storm. “Are you so sure you can defeat me?” he shouted. “My father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather held on in spite of you and your like! I will too!” He stepped back abruptly from the window, astonished at himself.

_____Almost immediately, a powerful shaft of lightning struck the single tall pine in his yard. White light rolled down the trunk from the top branches and splattered on the ground. The crash of the immediate thunder broke on Jeffrey’s ears. Even as he staggered from the sound, he clapped his hands over his ears trying to protect them. His body shuddered with the vibrations.

_____Silence. Then the shishing of the continued rainfall. He shook his head and stared out the window. The pine tree smoldered in the precipitation, and still-glowing cinders dotted its branches. The heavy storm-clouds still hunched in the sky, but their definition was melting. Pale sheets of high lightning bounced across the tops of the clouds, but no further spears were thrown down at the earth. Jeffrey stared out at the sight in wonder. He had never experienced such an abrupt ending to a storm.

_____Something thumped on his porch and he spun from the window. The door to the porch stood in the middle of the wall opposite the huge window. He crossed and pulled it open.

_____The grey mesh of the screen door distorted the picture he saw. The single lamp on the porch, aligned as it was with the door, poured a pool of yellow light onto the painted wood floor. In the middle of that pool lay a heap of grey and black and paleness. It moved and a sigh like a heavy wind reached Jeffrey’s ears.

_____Streamers of black lifted from the heap and a piquant narrow face turned upwards toward him. The eyelids opened and her stormy-dark eyes looked into his.

_____He thrust open the door and knelt quickly beside her, lifting her to a sitting position. Her pale limbs were covered by some sort of shredded dress of a grey fabric. It felt strange under his fingers but he did not think about it. He simply stared into her face.

_____She stared back at him, almost not breathing. Then she shuddered. “I was so hot just a moment ago,” she murmured, her voice barely audible underneath the hissing of the rain.

_____He felt the goosebumps on her chilled arm, and drew her closer. She rested her head on his shoulder, and sighed.

_____Suddenly, his own skin contracted, sprouting its own fields of goosebumps. His throat tightened. His heart fluttered for an instant and a chill of panic ran through his veins.

_____He shook his head, as if that would shake off the whole effect. She pulled away from him slightly, but his arms tightened about her. “No,” he said. “Come inside.”

_____With that, he rose up and guided her into the living room. She stumbled a little bit and he noticed she had not shoes on. He settled her into a deep chair and went into action as a solicitous host.

Posted in Short Stories | Tagged | 1 Comment

Narrative Poetry – The Marble Don

Posted on July 14, 2007 by Sarah

I’d been meaning to post the opening of the long (over 400 lines) narrative poem that I’m planning to eventually publish, with illustrations. So I finally got my act together this morning.  (The actual title of the poem is “The Marble Don”, but I occasionally subtitle it “The Damnation of Don Juan”.) The inspiration for it came from a confluence of sources.

When I was growing up my parents frequently took me and my younger sister to “cultural” programs: pianists, dance companies, the occasional opera. We lived in a smallish city, which had no civic auditorium, so these concerts were held at the local high school. My dad was an opera buff, so without a doubt, we would see the operas.  On one occasion, a touring company performed Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Mozart was a big favorite of Dad’s. So we went.

For some reason, that night the stage curtains were not working, so the audience got to see all the scene changes being made. The crucial scene in the graveyard came along – where Don Giovanni invites the statue of a man he’d killed (because he was trying to seduce the man’s daughter) to come to dinner, and the statue accepts. Well, in this production, the statue was portrayed by some poor guy in full plate armor. He had to be helped up onto the statue base, stand absolutely still through the whole scene, until he bowed his acceptance of the invitation. And then he had to be helped off the base. The stage setting was atmospheric, and lit with blue light. And the audience gave the Statue Guy a round of applause when he got off the base – interesting what happens when you get to see “behind the scene”.  Anyway, that occasion stuck in my head.

Churchyard for The Marble Don

Years later, when I was in graduate school, the Metropolitan Opera was doing a production of Don Giovanni that was going to be broadcast on TV, and TV Guide had an article on the Don Juan legend. I remembered the earlier occasion, and kept the article, thinking “This could actually make a cool narrative poem”, meaning the whole “invite the statue to dinner and it comes” bit.  Little did I know.

Not long after, when my brain was being very stimulated by studies, and when I should have been working on two major papers (one on Beowulf and one on the Aeneid), I instead started composing “The Marble Don”.

I have never felt so inspired about a piece of writing, nor have I worked quite as hard at finding just the right word, just the right phrase, just the right meaning. But it was exhilarating.  Well, there you have the genesis of the piece.

And here are the opening 40 odd lines of the opus.

THE MARBLE DON

Beneath dark sulking clouds of haughty night,
the graveyard stood, o’er-shadowed by the church,
whose massive blocks of solid stone gave form
and substance to the faith its makers held
within their breasts, as much protected there
in flesh and blood as in the stone and rock,
high rising toward the heavens, of that old shrine.
___The moon was hid from sight, her pale sheen grasped
in clutching mounds of clouds, weighed down with rain.
Cool moisture unprecipitate lay soft
like mists of floating feathers in the air
about the tombs and markers of the dead,
the silent sentinels of earthy gates
into the world beyond; odd shapes, devoid
of mercy for the living, yet in praise
most strong for those who walked the world no more.
The silence of moist soil sat still and watched
in vigil crosses carved of stone, and saints
and angels, masters, warriors, frozen forms
of leaders and of heroes of the town.
___The newest of the guardians, freshly shaped
of milky marble, carven with respect,
up-rose between two trees, whose drooping limbs
bowed down before the graven countenance
of Don Alfredo, Magistrate of law.
The mass portrayed the vigor of the Don,
the peaceful strength which filled his stance in life,
and wisdom molded on the features firm
proclaimed the justice sharp he wielded long.
Between the hands made durable in stone
which had, in life, inviolate, passed down
the judgements fair, there rested now a sword;
the heavy robes of law, now shaped in rock,
encased the shoulders broad, and fell in folds;
the marble declaration of a man
kept watch before the vault, where lay the form
which once had breathed, had loved, had laughed, had wept.
___The silver mists encircled the tall shape,
a moving shroud which veiled each small detail
of sculptor’s art; the statue stood serene,
awaiting, ever vigilant, some doom
unseen by those whose blood runs warm in flesh.

Comments

jpantalleresco   Jul. 20th, 2007 07:53 pm (UTC)

First a compliment. Not everyone can write in this form. You’ve got a good start to it. I want to read the rest though before I comment though on any suggestions. Still, quite bold. I like the start. JP

scribblerworks    Jul. 20th, 2007 08:25 pm (UTC)

Thanks for the compliment. As I said, it was a lot of work, but also exhillerating. As for it being “a good start” — oh, the piece is done, and has been for a long time. (I’ll email you a copy of the whole tonight, when I get home.)  That’s one of those things that comes with doing something that is “out of fashion”. Nobody publishes stuff like this much anymore. So this has sat in my files for years, and only been seen/heard (I’ve read it aloud on a couple of occasions – it takes about a half hour) a few times. Hence the recent decision to go the print-on-demand route with illustrations. Still… I love playing with words this way. I have another attempt sitting around, partly done – Odysseus and the Sirens. But it got stalled out and I haven’t gotten back to it. I know the manuscript is hidden in my papers somewhere.

(This was originally posted on LiveJournal.)

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments