I preface my offering for this week’s A – Z Challenge by saying that I am a rare and often indifferent poet. Why I thought to try verse is a puzzlement even to myself. Caveats done. No apologies, no excuses. (And no titles.)
After the end of sorrow comes remembering
Before the first joy comes forgetting.
Caught between lightning and fireflies
Dancing across the skin
Every moment trembles.
Flashes of sweet damask rose
Greet then abandon like campaign
Handshakes at the country fair,
Insouciant visitors from a past when
Jacks clattered across the floor.
Kaddish sung in childhood games.
Language is lost, then found,
Manifestations of days and
One into another.
Pick up a
Quill dripping with Lethe’s ink,
Reclaiming before each papered stroke
Senses: tickled smell and taste,
Touch, sight, and sound;
Ubiquitous memories all, before they
Vanish and the
World is stripped clean to the bone.
Xebecs set their sails across forgotten
Here is my rather Gothic take on the A-Z Challenge #1:
A dark and stormy night hung over the moor like an Elsinor arras. Boughs bent near breaking, the trees whipped and dipped in a wind-tossed tarantella. Crazy for man or beast to be out in a night like this!
Driving down a hedge-lined road, ‘crazy’ Zandra searched for refuge from the torrential downpour. Each cottage she passed was locked tight and empty, as if the inhabitants had long since fled to higher ground. Far across a field, lights flickered through unshuttered windows, beckoning.
“Granville Grange” read the carved plaque to the right of the oaken door. Her hand grasped the massive brass knocker and gave it a solid thunk. Ignoring the rain running under the collar of her jacket, she shifted back and forth, waiting – hoping – for rescue.
Just as she was about to resign herself to weathering the tempest in her car, a pale, wisp of a man opened the door.
“Killer weather we’re having,” he said, ushering her into the front hall. “Leave your coat and shoes and come dry off by the fire.” Madeira and sandwiches were set out in the parlour as if she’d been expected.
“Nights like this have a way of bringing visitors,” her host said cryptically. “Once upon a time the Grange was the only shelter to be found for miles. Pardon my manners: I’m Damien Granville.”
‘Quirky’ did not do the man justice. Rubbing his hands together, he served his guest a glass of wine then, adjusting his waistcoat, struck a Byronic pose by the mantelpiece.
“Sure must get lonely out here,” Zandra remarked, the amber potable muffling her mind like an angora tea cozy.
“Terribly,” Damien replied, “but then the winds always turn. Ubi sunt the days of quiet summer, eh? Voila! Wild and wicked,” he grinned. “Xmas in July.
“You will have this room,” he said, escorting her to a chamber more Wuthering Heights than St. Mary Mead.
Zander crumpled onto the canopied bed, eyes heavy with unbidden sleep, as he closed the door and turned the key.
And another take on A-Z.
The ‘A’ through ‘Z’ Writing Prompt Challenge #1
22nd June 2015
A dark and stormy night…
By Jennifer Kiley
A dark and stormy night brought out the fear in me as I was driving alone on the quiet highway, knowing all the sane people were tucked away in the warmth of their comfortable houses. But not the homeless, they are always out there somewhere searching for some place to stay. Covering their heads is always something they nervously think of and what they want the most. Darkness is always a troubling time. Everything makes them nervous. Fearing harm might come to them in the night.
Getting out of the elements is important. Health needs to be taken care of to keep them strong enough to survive. It is difficult to know how to survive when once you had a home and it was taken from you. Jobs were also taken…
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Dragons and Rilke! What could be better?
“Letters to a Young Poet”
by Rainer Maria Rilke
Part VIII of XXIX
Post by Jennifer Kiley
Post Sunday 8th February 2015
“We have no reason
to mistrust our world,
for it is not
Has it terrors,
they are our terrors;
has it abysses,
those abysses belong to us;
are dangers at hand,
we must try
to love them…
How should we
be able to forget
those ancient myths
that at the least moment
turn into princesses;
perhaps all the dragons
of our lives
who are only waiting
to see us
One of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Homes
Dvorak, New World Symphony – 2nd Mvt Part 2,
Dublin Philharmonic, Conductor Derek Gleeson
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