Poetry Train Monday - 188 - The Undiscovered Scream

Day 21 of the A to Z Challenge brings us to the letter U.








This is a found poem, taken from one of my works in progress. It's a scene from my gardener story, which you can check out in my Fiction Excerpt Archives.

I tightened the language of the scene for the poem. Otherwise it reads as it does in the story, which follows this little laundry maid and a gardener from a Victorian country house when they're shipped to Van Diemen's Land as convicts.


The Undiscovered Scream


Helen stood before the gaol
Barred wagon trundled
Towards her

Three more prisoners
Waiting to
Board

How she had longed
To be taken
Last summer

The days since then had
Crawled on famished hands
Exhausted knees

Horses' hooves clapped
On cobblestones
It seemed she

Stepped outside herself
Watching as she moved
Through the hours

Fatigue helped
To blur the moments.
The women beside her

Held hands
The man jumped down
Opened the latch

Impossible
But Helen felt.
Tendril of fear creeping

How certain she'd been
No more feelings
Left at all

She looked down
Worn fabric
Draft curled around

Her ankles. One woman cried.
The other kept patting her.
Near the harbour

Sea birds cried
Reality entered the
Box like a fourth

Passenger.
Waterfront hurly burly
Men called orders

Cargo nets hoisted.
Jagged masts
Sky clutter

Draped with shrouds
Monstrous webs
Of rope

Helen shivered on the
Wharf, the rough men
On deck stared back

The numbness was gone.
An undiscovered scream
That no one seemed to hear

- Julia Smith, 2009

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

As we head into the final week of this month-long challenge, I'd like to say thank you to all of my new followers and I look forward to getting to know you, as well as everyone I've followed during this event. The sheer scope of this over-1000-participant blog carnival makes it impossible to visit and comment the way I'd hoped, but it gives me something wonderful to look forward to.

Poetry Train - 187 - Playground Politics Grade 4

Day 16 - the A to Z Challenge continues!

For new visitors, Monday is usually poetry day, but I had a special interview for the launch of my good friend Kelly Boyce's debut western historical romance - The Outlaw Bride.

So, for this week, Tuesday will be poetry day. This is a reposting of an older poem I wrote in my 20's.

P is for Playground Politics













Playground Politics Grade 4


The insurgents
No longer requiring their
Inamorata
Already regrouped
Taking new positions from
This morning's skirmish
I'd even rushed home
Inhaled my Kraft dinner
And stepped onto the playground
Half an hour early
To find my troops
Already kicking away

The huddled group of boys
Shoved each other toward
The hob-nailed harridans
Seeking to prove their own endurance
A primal quest toward manhood
While all we wanted
Was an excuse
To maim and bloody
Before the bell rang










Inexperienced colonel
I didn't hear the whispers
Ricochet off the walls
A coup erupted from the giggles
I hung from all fours
The girls were gone
And they dragged me
To be their
Signature victim

I couldn't face
My own invention
Far more chilling
The absence of outraged mobs
Defending the founder of their movement

I hoped their lack of action
Was due to perceived shame
I felt the snowy wool
Congeal on my skin
As I bumped along the ground

The procession halted
Mere paces from the slaughter
Dumped
Unceremonious and sprawling

I saw the boys scatter
Two fists
Two feet
A wild mane of hair

My champion dispersed them












As if on cue
Every girl on the playground
Pursued the enemy
I scrambled to my feet
The urge to reclaim The Corner
Swelling in my chest like fear
My previous horror
At what I'd created
Dashed to a pulpy splat
On the asphalt

In the comfort of my desk
As we copied from the board
I stared at this class of deserters
Connie wrote behind me
We never talked
And so were not separated
As all best friends must be
I turned
And wordlessly
I picked up her eraser
Her gaze turned to me

How could her shining armour
Lay so unobtrusively
Beneath a polyester turtleneck
And Levi forest green cords?














Copyright - Julia Smith, 1987

Poetry Train Monday - 186 - In Medieval English Woods

Day 9 - the A to Z Challenge.

For new visitors, Monday is poetry day.





So I've rummaged through my archives for a poem that starts with I.

I is for In Medieval English Woods















In Medieval English Woods


The pound of hooves beginning
Bodies crouching
In the waiting

The hiss of leaves
And popping branches - torn
The rip of moss from earth
The thud of hearts
In night attack

Demon shadows leap
A fear-stained man
His arm to swing at air
While one who sees his moment
Strikes
Their faces kiss
The slipping sliding for the stance
On blood-slicked rocks

The knights astride their mounts
Heavy spathas hacking
Stopped with wrenching force
By parries
Or the shield of breastbone

The sword sucks from the wound
The dying form
Slumps from his horse
And falls

Spirits linger
Cold tendrils hanging
From the shoulders of
The ones still fighting

Weary with the clotting blood
With steaming breath
The horses strain to bolt
Each head dragged by the bit
In the leaving

The knights canter from the scene
Indifference flowing from them
Like a billowing cape

Panting
The others slog
Exhausted through the mire
In confusion

© Julia Smith, 1986

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 185 - When He First Appeared at The Bottom of the Stairs

Here we are at Day 3 of the A to Z Challenge.





Monday is poetry day here at A Piece of My Mind, so I'm reposting a found poem from a year-long project I did two years ago.


This poem is fashioned from a diary entry I made on Jan. 12th, 1980 when I was 15.


C is for Clark Gable


When He First Appeared at The Bottom of the Stairs


Michelle and I
Watched
Star Trek - it was Charlie X

That's so
Funny too
Because
Every Friday night
Michelle and I
Guess
What episode Star Trek will be
And Michelle had guessed
Charlie X

Mom, Dad
Michelle
Connie and I
Went
To the Rebecca Cohn
This evening
To see
Gone With the Wind

So many people came

At intermission, the
Line-up in the washroom was
A mile long

The movie was astounding

It overwhelmed me

Vivien Leigh
Was
So good
As Scarlett

What an actress

Clark Gable, of course
Was
Terrific

When he first appeared
At
The bottom of the staircase

At Tara
During the barbeque

The whole audience
Sighed
And burst
Into applause

- Julia Smith

© - Jan. 11, 2009

Original diary entry - Jan. 12, 1980













For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 184 - How Can I Ache For What I Never Had

It took me literally all day to write the scene for my Weekend Writer's Retreat serialized fiction on Saturday.

There were a few reasons for that.

The main one was providing home care for my mom, who had knee surgery last Monday. She had the surgery and was released on the same day, so I took the week off of work to care for her. She's actually recovering at a phenomenal rate, but it's amazing how much energy - both physical and mental - has to focus on the home care when you're the care provider.

Subsequently, I found I couldn't put myself in the right head space to write the scene, which was an important one for the main character of a work in progress, and the featured character in the backstory serialized fiction which I post each Saturday.

But I persevered. And I'm happy with how it finally turned out.

So here is a backstory poem I wrote for this character when I first began working on his story, nearly three years ago, now.

Scorpius is Chamberlain of the Keep for Lady Elysande. This dark fantasy takes place in a medieval-flavored slave-owning society.
















How Can I Ache For What I Never Had


My bed belongs to my mistress, blanket and all
My keys are to her Keep, safeguarded stone
My ankles drag with phantom shackles
I hear them still, each moment I’m alone

My lineage is suspect, thus my role
My father may have strode before me
As I bowed before my lady’s guests
Wondering every time, could this man be…

My mother may have cried and fought
She may have hoped and schemed
I’ll never know, and never cease from wondering
Am I the man that either of them dreamed?

My tunic is the finest she can buy
My face and form are pleasing, for she smiles
My lips have brushed my lady’s hand, and yet
I long to kiss her foot, to lay in homage on those polished tiles

© Julia Smith - July 27, 2008

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 183 - The Fairy Glen

This a poem previously posted here at A Piece of My Mind, during my first year of blogging in 2007.

It's an oldie but a goodie, in more ways than one. I wrote it in the late 70s when I was 13 years old, quite obviously mimicking a Victorian poetic form I'd been studying in school. I was more of a free verse poet from the get-go, so following this strict metre and rhyming scheme would have been a challenge for me - one I simply had to take up.













The Fairy Glen


As I was walking down the lane,
Streams of sunlight rare
Because the trees had formed a veil,
Shadowing the country trail,
My head empty of care,
My heart empty of pain,

I chanced to find among the grass
An old and tarnished ring.
I rubbed it clean and saw inscribed
Something written by one which'd imbibed
Too much of an intoxicating thing.
It didn't make sense to me; alas!

However, as I stood beneath
The ancient limbs of a giant oak,
There happened to me a curious thing.
I spoke the words on the little ring,
Its meaning quite clear as soon as I spoke.
Magic hung over me like a wreath,

Colors of red and purple and green
Twining around me in an eerie dance.
The tingling of bells greeted my ears,
Calming my wild and anxious fears.
I opened my eyes; in a single glance
I beheld a thing I'd ne'er before seen.














Brownies and fairies, pixies, too,
Stood in a ring around me, so;
Bewildered, I stared, my thoughts awhirl -
How could this happen to an ordin'ry girl?
I guess my thoughts my face did show -
A pixie, clad in shades of blue

Stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear.
Stretching out a friendly hand,
He welcomed me to the circle, thus;
Everyone made a royal fuss
As if I were something really grand.
I looked at the ring that had brought me here.

It shone with golden beauty bright.
Transfixed, I held it in my palm,
My eyes, from it, I could not tear.
A voice spoke from I knew not where.
It said, its tone so soft and calm,
"Home do you wish to return tonight?

Or would you rather stay among
Us fairy folk in this magic glen?"
I asked, "I cannot return again?
Can't I go home and visit when
I wish to?" The pixie shook his head. "Then
It's home to stay that I do long."

The blue-clad pixie nodded slow,
His eyes understanding.
When night encased the fairy glen,
Closing day's petals upon the stem,
The pixies and fairies and brownies standing,
Uneven, row by row,

I took a last look and said my goodbyes,
Feeling my tears well up.
Through a misty haze which blurred everything,
I read the words on the magic ring.
Then I was doused in the color cup,
The tingling of bells and the small fireflies,

Made of the sparks that swirled to and fro,
Taking me from the fairy-ring there.
The colors disappeared, and in their place
The lane uncovered its friendly face.
If it weren't for the ring which I did wear,
That the fairies were real I couldn't know.







The ring again dirty, the sun still a-shine,
I didn't know even if I were real.
Home I went and found time had not passed.
Had I dreamt the bit of the fairy blast?
I only knew what was mine to feel:
My adventure, if true, had been one divine.

© Julia Smith, 1978

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 182 - Uprising

For this week's Poetry Train, I'd like to dedicate the lyrics from this Muse song to the people of Egypt.















Uprising


Paranoia is in bloom
The PR transmissions will resume
They'll try to push drugs that keep us all dumbed down
And hope that we will never see the truth around

So come on

Another promise, another scene
Another packaged lie to keep us trapped in greed
And all the green belts wrapped around our minds
And endless red tape to keep the truth confined

So come on

They will not force us
They will stop degrading us
They will not control us
We will be victorious

So come on

Interchanging mind control
Come let the revolution take its toll
If you could flick a switch and open your third eye
You'd see that we should never be afraid to die

So come on

Rise up and take the power back
It's time the fat cats had a heart attack
You know that their time's coming to an end
We have to unify and watch our flag ascend

They will not force us
They will stop degrading us
They will not control us
We will be victorious

So come on

- Matthew Bellamy

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!



Photo by Lefteris Pitarakis

Poetry Train Monday - 181 - Celestial DNA

This is a re-posting of an early Poetry Train appearance from 2007.




It's something I wrote while in university. I was a mature student, returning to school after having been in the workforce for a decade. So this is the work of a 30-year-old me.

Note: This year I'm alternating Mondays between the Poetry Train and my arts feature, Through the Opera Glasses. Normally, today's post would be Through the Opera Glasses, but I'll be doing a play review next week, and the performance is coming up this Wednesday.
















Celestial DNA


The world we inhabit
Hides its numbers
Shapes
Lines
In the leaves
Rocks
Horizons

While buried in the sinews
Swirling within blood cells
The rhythm of the firmament
The curling of the tides
Tell the tale



















The Young Ladies of Avignon
Standing in their
Crystal congress
Know their geometric afternoon

Amoeba glide
Snowflakes drift
Pollen ride the breeze

A mother feels the flutter
Child turning in the womb
The sweep of the grandiose constellations
In the frightening maw of time

God's fingerprints
And ours



















Copyright 1994 Julia Smith

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 180 - Excerpt from New Year's Morning

This year, after four solid years of Poetry Train Monday here at A Piece of My Mind, I've decided to stagger my poetry posts to alternate with my arts feature, Through the Opera Glasses. My fiction writing schedule amped up this fall, and my arts feature got shelved week after week due to time crunch issues. So sharing Mondays with poetry will help alleviate the disappearing act for Through the Opera Glasses.

To help welcome in 2011, here is an excerpt from ruminations on the passing of one year to welcome in the new by Helen Hunt Jackson, a woman who lived through her share of sorrows. She lost two brothers in infancy, had lost both parents by age seventeen, lost both sons to illness and her first husband to an accident.

Yet she attended college in the mid-1800's with Emily Dickinson, who became a life-long friend. She published poetry and novels. She became an activist on behalf of Native Americans. She remarried in her mid-forties.

To me, her poem speaks of an unshakeable optimism even in the face of personal catastrophe. Her poem speaks to me because I feel the same as she did.















Excerpt from New Year's Morning


Only a night from old to new!
Only a night, and so much wrought!
Only a night from old to new!
Never a night such changes brought.

Each morn is New Year’s morn come true,
Morn of a festival to keep.
All nights are sacred nights to make
Confession and resolve and prayer;
All days are sacred days to wake
New gladness in the sunny air.
Only a night from old to new;
Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old come true;
Each sunrise sees a new year born.

- Helen Hunt Jackson, 1892

Photo by Azareal

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 179 - No Pain, No Gain

I'm on Day 21 of NaNoWriMo.

I had a lot of catching up to do on my NaNoWriMo manuscript this weekend, since I'd planned to be at 37,500 words by Sunday night when I laid out my original word count graph. This year - my fourth NaNo - I had vowed to be finished ahead of time. Not 15 minutes to midnight on the 30th, like last year. Or the other years.

No, this year I was going to finish before the 30th. That was part of my word count plan. And for the first time doing this writing marathon, I was keeping pace with the other writers who'd finished early in previous years.

I'm a year-and-a-half into acupuncture treatment for my migraines and chronic pain issues, and I was having the best writing sessions ever. No crushing pain. No mental fatigue. No having to sleep with a heated Magic Bag on my neck. This NaNo was turning out to be awesome.

Then I went to my every-three-weeks acupuncture session last Saturday. My acupuncturist treated my back (which is always more of an ordeal for me) and then did gua sha.

This is what my back looked like when I got home.















That's my body shrieking. No, really. My office has had renovations recently and I'm highly chemically sensitive. I'm hanging in there, but only because I was able to move to a different desk. Still, I've been exposed to a multitude of things that bother me, and it shows in my gua sha marks.

Gua sha urges the body to detoxify, so with this much internal warfare going on, I felt hideous all week, as if I had a really bad case of flu. I muscled my way through daily word count for NaNo, but I couldn't keep up my previous pace. By Friday I was 10,000 words behind schedule.

But here's the good news. We had a swift temperature drop here in Nova Scotia over the weekend, which usually brings on a migraine for me. I had some signs of an impending migraine on Saturday morning, including the dreaded floating prism visual disturbance, which usually preceeds intense nausea and other wonderful miseries.

But remember my detoxing gua sha from last week? The visual disturbance lasted all of ten minutes or so. Nothing grew. No miseries. No narcotic painkiller.

It's all good.

I've caught up on my missing 10,000 words. My NaNo word count now stands at 36,011. So for the Poetry Train this week, I give you this opus:

No Pain, No Gain


Gua sha stripes are red
They lay you flat like flu
No pain, no gain it's said
But they sure as heck fix you


© Julia Smith, Nov. 21, 2010


For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train - 178 - On That Glorious Day

I'm on Day 14 of NaNoWriMo.

For the Poetry Train this week, here's a teaser from my current NaNo manuscript, currently at 23,000 words.

This is a found poem taken from my prose work-in-progress. It introduces the Lady Elysande, the noblewoman who takes the adult Scorpius - featured each Saturday in my serialized fiction - to work for her as her chamberlain when he is released from captivity along with her cousin, a hostage of a rival royal family.

The events of this poem take place in Elysande's young childhood and just as she comes into womanhood, as a youth. But it's narrated by the man in her life, Xaviero, the captain of the guard at her family's estate. For readers of my Weekend Writer's Retreat, Xaviero is a figure from Richolf's storyline.
















On That Glorious Day


His body trembled
Trembled with the knowledge that it
Was finally over

No more waiting
His beloved approached
With slow
And measured steps
Her skirts rustling as she
Crossed the stone floor

Xaviero dropped to his knees
Beseeching her with
A tormented gaze
“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

He'd knelt before her once before

On that glorious day
When they'd first met
“How do you know how he feels?” he'd asked
Meaning the guard he'd put to the lash

She'd shrugged

“Do you submit to me, darling one?" she asked now
She smiled at him so sweetly
She was like an angel
An angel of vengeance
Sent to make him pay

He could barely see
Past thick tears
He didn’t need to see anything
Not in this moment
Of complete surrender

“Look at me, my lady,” he'd said on that first day
In a tone
That would not tolerate
Anything
But obedience

She'd done as he'd commanded her

“I have a feeling
You’re not like most of
The other little girls. Hmm?”
He'd smiled a secret smile
One that already knew something about her
That she didn’t know herself

“It’s good to feel pain with your pleasure,” she said now.

“Yes,” he whispered

“Most of the time
You don’t feel
As if you should
Have any pleasure at all
Do you?”

“No,” he said
Twisting his face away from her
How could she know that
About him? Why
Did it feel as though she’d
Brought him before a mob
Disrobed him before a thousand condemning eyes?

He'd gazed at her
On that first day
And said, “You think I should have been kinder.”

She'd clutched her ribs
As though finding it tender to breathe
“He’s in so much pain.”

“What were you doing out there?” he'd asked

“I heard…” she'd begun, squirming
“I heard him crying out.”

“The children’s garden
Is a fair distance from
My guard house,” Xaviero had said.
“I have put other guards
To the lash before
And never once did any
Curious little girls
Come to watch.”

“It’s not right
That you should feel pleasure
When you’ve hurt people,"
Elysande said now
"Hurt them so very badly.”

Self-recrimination
Flooded his chest like
A sucker punch
He gasped

“Make no mistake, my dear one,” she said

He pulled hard
At his wrists and ankles
But cuffs held him fast
“You are going to suffer
As long as I am here to make you suffer.”

He shook his head from side to side

“And every time I make you suffer
A little more of that darkness
Is going to come to the surface
Where I can see it.”

“Please don’t,” he said
Turning away from her gaze
Which burned him

“Tell me what you’ve got buried
So deeply inside you.
You know what it is.”

A surge of rage
Coiled through him
He pulled hard
On the wrist cuffs
Raising up to look her in the face

“The proof, you mean?
The proof of my sins?
Oh, I’ve got enough of those
I’ve got enough sins rolling around in here
To keep us busy for a century.”

“Maybe they’ve heard it before
And never came close enough,”
Elysande had said on that first day

“Perhaps,” he'd said. “Perhaps.
But I don’t think so.
Most little girls
Don’t have the stomach for
Military justice.”

“I’m not like them,” she'd said.

“I didn’t think you were.”

Was it true, what she said
He wondered now
If he did as she commanded
Would some of that horror
He’d put other men through
Finally leave him be?

He was exhausted
He hummed with joy in his chest
He felt lighter in so many ways
His beloved was cracking him open
She would not be stopped
Whatever she demanded, he must
Give to her

He’d used his rage
On those people he’d tortured
Rage that was fueled
By the realization that
She’d been the wrong age
When he’d finally found her

“Perhaps
What I should be telling Nurse,"
He'd said to her on that first day
"Is that her little charge has
Cravings
For things that little girls
Shouldn’t want to see.”

Elysande had pulled herself
As tall as she could make herself
And looked him in the eye

“You may tell her anything you wish.
She wouldn’t believe you,” she'd said
In her haughtiest tone

He'd shifted his weight then
Moving smoothly from a crouch
To a kneeling position

“I know exactly
What I’m asking you to do,” she said now

He shook his head
“You don’t know what I’ve
Done to people, Elysande.”

“I’m beginning to
Get the idea.” He gasped
When she took his face
In her hands
Forced him to look
Into her eyes
With the merest tug

“You knew about me
From that very first day
In the barracks yard."

He winced
As if she’d struck him

“Well, you weren’t the only one.
I knew something about you, too.
I didn’t know what to make of it.”

He tried to shake his head, but
She wouldn’t let him
She squeezed his face harder
His eyes grew large with dread

“Nurse has already discovered things
About you, hasn’t she, my lady?”
He'd asked on that first day
He'd bowed his head
As though he were her servant
And not a man who commanded a garrison
“She once suspected
There was something about you
But it frightened her
And – dear thing – she loved you,
Didn’t she?
Didn’t want her sweet little darling
To be taken away.”

“Who would take me away?”
She'd blurted out.

“I won’t lie to you, lady.
Powerful people
Would take you away.
Have you put to death.”

Tears had welled and shimmered
In her eyes
Xaviero had reached his finger
To wipe them from her cheeks
He'd opened his arms
She'd all but leaped into them

His body now trembled
Trembled with the knowledge
That it was finally over
There was to be no more waiting

“I think it’s safest
That we keep this to ourselves,"
He'd said on that first day
Cradling her into his shoulder

“How do you know about me?”
She'd asked finally
She'd pushed back
So she could gaze into his eyes

“I’ve been different, too,” he'd said
“In my way.”

“Always?”

He'd nodded

“And now?”

Now she smiled at him
So sweetly
She was like an angel
An angel of vengeance
Sent to make him pay

He could barely see
Past thick tears
He didn’t need to see anything
Not in this moment
Of complete surrender

“The proof, you mean?
The proof of my sins?
Oh, I’ve got enough of those
I’ve got enough sins rolling around in here
To keep us busy for a century.”

© Julia Smith, Nov. 14, 2010


For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Detail from Roman Centurian, Legio XX, 1st Century AD by Chris Collingwood

Poetry Train Monday - 177 - Excerpt from The Sack of the Gods

As Remembrance Day approaches, here is a poem about Valhalla, where the heroic fallen are collected for the Norse god Odin by the Valkyries. There they become a fellowship of warriors known as the Einherjar, who train for the day when they will be called to fight for Odin during Ragnarok, or the Apocalypse.



















Excerpt from The Sack of the Gods


Ever 'neath high Valhalla Hall the well-tuned horns begin,
When the swords are out in the underworld, and the weary Gods come in.
Ever through high Valhalla Gate the Patient Angel goes
He opens the eyes that are blind with hate - he joins the hands of foes.

They are forgiven as they forgive all those dark wounds and deep.
Their beds are made on the Lap of Time and they lie down and sleep.
They are forgiven as they forgive all those old wounds that bleed.
They shut their eyes from their worshippers; they sleep till the world has need.

They will come back - come back again, as long as the red Earth rolls.
He never wasted a leaf or a tree. Do you think He would squander souls?

- Rudyard Kipling


For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Art work: Valhalla by Fishbot1337

Poetry Train Monday - 176 - Excerpt from In Childhood

Today my grandmother is on my mind, as it would have been her birthday today, Nov. 1st. She was the beginning of the November birthdays, which for my family and friends is jam-packed:

the 2nd, 7th, 11th (twice), 16th, 18th, 20th, 23rd and 25th all belong to someone I love and celebrate.

The 1st still belongs to Gram, though I can't tell her Happy Birthday with a kiss. I'll just wish it to her in my heart.














From In Childhood


the blue parakeet does not return
from the little grave in the fern garden
though one may wake in the morning
thinking mother's call is the bird.
Or maybe the bird is with grandmother
inside light. Or grandmother was the bird
and is now the dog
gnawing on the chair leg.
Where do the gone things go
when the child is old enough
to walk herself to school,
her playmates already
pumping so high the swing hiccups?

- Kimiko Hahn

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 175 - The Hag

Heading into Halloween Week, here's a 362-year-old poem to set the scene.

Happy Haunting!














The Hag

The Hag is astride,
This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
Through thick, and through thin,
Now out, and then in,
Though ne’r so foule be the weather.

A Thorn or a Burr
She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
Through Brakes and through Bryars,
O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.

No Beast, for his food,
Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
While mischiefs, by these,
On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,

The storme will arise,
And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
The ghost from the Tomb
Affrighted shall come,
Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder.

- Robert Herrick, 1648

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 174 - No Courage Left For the Next Time

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.



It's a backstory poem for my falconer character, Richolf, who is featured in my serialized Saturday fiction. I was just brainstorming his storyline over the weekend at my annual real-life writer's retreat at White Point Beach, Nova Scotia.

I've based him on Scottish-Peruvian actor Henry Ian Cusick.














No Courage Left For the Next Time


Cowering in ceaseless dark
He didn't know what was worse
The waiting
The knowledge there was no more waiting
The tiny flame of hope
The hopelessness
The weight of iron on his wrists
The moment of weightlessness
The sound of their footsteps coming for him
The silence of solitary
Were they coming with food?
Would they drag him down the corridor?
Would they break something?
Would he beg them to stop?
He didn't know what was worse
The memory of his cries, his screams
Or the knowledge there were more lurking inside of him
It was hard to say
Hard to know what was worse
It was all worse
He could see no way out
There was no courage left
For the next time he heard their footsteps
For the next time the keys clicked in the lock
But he was so hungry
So thirsty
Maybe he heard something
Maybe they would bring him something
He had to ride the turbulent hope and dread
He had no choice
The iron pressed down on his wrists
The cold seeped up from the stones
The bruises ached from the last time
His stomach growled
He hoped they arrived soon
He hoped he never saw them again
He couldn't take much more
How long did it take to go mad?
Or was it already too late?


© Julia Smith, Aug. 9, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Alice Audrey says I feel his pain. But then, I felt it when Scorpius swiped him from the guards, too. (note: while reading the serialized Saturday fiction.)

Felicity says I love the last two lines. Brilliant!

Poetry Train Monday - 173 - There For the Taking

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.
















There For the Taking


New day
New blade of grass
New whisker

I'll mow
Snip
Pluck
Shave
Tidy

New dawn
New wave breaking ashore
I'll stand
As it washes over
I'll trust
Anticipate
Rejoice
Reflect
Revive


© Julia Smith, Aug. 3, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 172 - The Things That Aren't Things

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.




















The Things That Aren't Things


Things in my room
Castles and Palaces of Europe
Schloss Neushwanstein cookie tin
A red McFarlane dragon figurine
With its crystal ball in its talons

Things in my room
A framed collage of The Arts, signed by the photographer
A framed Taming of the Shrew ballet poster signed by the featured dancer
A dry-mounted poster for my 4th year film screening, including 'Exposed Film' tape to secure the date & time of screening

Things in my room
A pile of photocopied pictures featuring the actor-muses for my fictional heroes from last year's writing retreat
The 'Bravo!' card featuring a single pink rose that Brad gave me when I finished my very first NaNoWriMo
A pile of paperbacks written by fellow members of my writer's group

Things in my room
Two pairs of slippers, one fuschia, one black
An outdated computer tower & monitor
A pile of my dog's stuffed toys she's stashed under the bureau

Things in my room
A pile of programs from special National Ballet of Canada performances
An old cassette tape of my dad talking
Two spiral notebooks containing family stories I've collected

Things in my room


© Julia Smith, Aug. 22, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 171 - Further In and Around the Corner

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.






















Further In and Around the Corner

Maybe not right now
But soon
Maybe not on my tongue
But I can taste it

Perhaps the vision is too
Misty to grasp in my hands
Perhaps the words are muffled
Drawing me further in and around the corner

Maybe the climb is still steep
But at least I have those mountaineering clips
Perhaps I run out of day before I run out of done
This journey becomes more soothing, revealings its own joys, its own insights

© Julia Smith, Aug. 27, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 170 - Defining Moment #2

This backstory poem for Richolf, my falconer character who appears in my Saturday serialized fiction, was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.













Defining Moment #2


Delicious glances as they wove between the other dancers
Three sword points levelled at his face
The searing bite of the blade upon his brow

His invitation to the soiree
Had been heartfelt
By a grateful noble
One of the hunters who
Wanted to reciprocate
The falconer's hospitality

"Go on, go on"
His master had urged
Declining the offer himself
A twinkle in his eye

So many beautiful girls
So many intoxicating ladies
Richolf danced with them all
Smiled at them all
Clasped her hand
Brushed his lips upon her knuckles
Locked gazes
Felt the heat

Until he was called outside
Surrounded and threatened
In the chill night air
The sweat from the party
Turning to the sweat of fear

He'd danced with the wrong girl
He didn't even know which one
Had inspired these three sword points
To level at his face

A kick from behind
His cry hanging in the night air
The distant sounds of the soiree
His heart beating as he realized
All the moments of his life
Would end in this dusty moment

But the hands which held him
Only meant for the sword to
Kiss his brow
A reminder for life
Not to mix his lowly breed
With that of one born to the blood

They left him
Laying in the dirt
Dripping red between his fingers
That still held the thrill
Of all those girlish hands
Those womanly sighs

© Julia Smith, Aug. 25, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 169 - Drawing You In

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment last month, just after my sister's second wedding shower, hosted by her new family-in-law.
















Drawing You In


Your in-two-weeks sister-in-law
Had tears sparkling in her eyes
As you held up the
Handmade
Cooking apron

All the women
In your new family
Have a handmade apron

With her thread
She draws you in
With her stitches
She binds you to her
And to all of them
Even before you say

"I do"

© Julia Smith, Aug. 30, 2010














My sister with her husband and his brothers and sisters. The sister who made the apron is second from left.

There will be lots of wedding pix for Thursday Thirteen - never fear!

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!