Hearing Your Words … in memory of Welsh poet Anne Cluysenaar

HEARING YOUR WORDS
For Ruth Bidgood, reading in Aberystwyth

I used, as a child, to imagine my death, or rather
beyond it. A ship setting out, in flames, at dusk,
counteracting the planet’s roll, on the sunrise path
to a waveless far horizon lit from beneath.

This came to mind, just now, clicking on close-up
through the café window – sea meeting that sky,
distantly smooth, arching high, up above
a jumble of chimneys and roofs backlit at sundown.

I found myself catching my breath, gravity’s curve
seen through such a small frame, from here where we sit
with our cups of tea. Vastness out there, our past.
But on planets elsewhere, other seas, other lives beginning.

Later, among the books, hearing your words,
it was waves I thought of – from land we may never see
reaching across the bulge of this little earth
to break, not one the same, on familiar shores.

– Anne Cluysenaar, © 2013, All rights reserved

taken from the poem diary From Seen to Unseen and Back by Anne Cluysenaar, Cinnamon Press, 2014; originally published on this site in February 2013 with Anne’s permission and that of Second Light Live, the publisher of ARTEMISpoetry, the magazine from which it was excerpted 

Anne Cluysenaar, Welsch poet
Anne Cluysenaar, Welsh poet and painter

Welsh poet, Anne Cluysenaar (b. 1935 – 2014) died under tragic circumstances this past November. Anne was born in Belgium and migrated  to Britain before the start of World War II. She was graduated from Trinity College at Dublin and became an Irish citizen in 1961, living there on a small property she owned and managed with her husband, Walt Jackson. She is the daughter John Edmond Cluysenaar (1899-1986), Belgian artist.

Anne had worked as a visiting teacher of creative writing at the University of Wales at Cardif and taught literature, linguistics and stylistics at a number of other universities. She was a Fellow of the Welsh Academy.

Anne’s poetry was included numerous anthologies and literary magazines and among her many poetry collections is  this year’s: From Seen to Unseen and Back, Cinnamon Press.

Anne was editor for many years of Scintilla, a journal of literary criticism, prose and poetry in the metaphysical tradition. She was active in and well-regarded by Second Light Network of Women Poets (UK). Her poetry was shared in their magazine and poetry collections and she was a tutor, mentor and often a judge in their poetry competitions. Anne Cluysenaar has left behind a stream of uplifting poetry and a legion of appreciative readers.

Anne’s portrait courtesy of Second Light Live.

– Jamie Dedes

© rights as indicated above

In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, a Celtic blessings from Irish poet, John O’Donohue

The Irish poet and writer, John O’Donohue (1956-2008) was as moved by the landscape of the soul as he was by the landscape of his country with its Celtic spirituality. An ordained Catholic priest, he eventually left the priesthood, but he never abandoned the mystical roots of his Christianity. He was a Hegelian philosopher, did doctoral work on Meister Eckhart, was fluent in Irish and German, was an environmental activist, and wrote several best-selling books (both nonfiction and poetry). His most notable work was Anam Cara:A Book of Celtic Wisdom. (Anam Cara meaning soul friend.

HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY

normal_saint_patricks_day_Shamrock_Pipes

– Jamie Dedes

Last Cast of the Day

I wonder what would happen if we just
ran into one another someday.
It’s not going to happen, but what if?
Would your chest jump a little,
gassed on adrenalin or maybe bile?
Would you get all prickly around
your ears and face as blood
pushed all the elevator buttons?

Would you turn and cross the street,
like you meant to do that all along,
never looking at me, rather than
present your face to mine in a guarded
“Hi, old friend” moment?
Would we even recognize one another,
after age and life and lies have made like
locusts or glaciers on our my faces?

Would you be okay with an every-five-years
reunion of our class of two? I’d be the one
with the sticker on my chest that said
“Hi, my name is …” since I seldom know
who I am anymore other than old.
I don’t know why I wonder these things
from time to time. Maybe it’s the hopeful,
unworthy masochist in me.

You know, the one who each day
casts lines of memory and imagination
into the dark ocean of time,
never knowing what I’ll haul in.
Today it’s been muddy, writhing
questions and wonders. That’s how it goes
when you fish for words and hope.
There’s always another chance tomorrow.

– Joseph Hesch

© 2015, poem, Joseph Hesch, All rights reserved

Overlooking the Obvious

IMG_6220I’m open to your suggestion,
I said to the sky.
And the wind replied with a sigh,
giving me the cold shoulder
and a shivering, withering brush-off.
I’m willing to look at things
in a new light, I told low winter sun.
She blinked behind a wisp,
a sky-borne snow scarf,
ducked behind a gray curtain,
making shadow puppets
of the passing clouds.
C’mon, Nature, fill me
with inspiration,
I whispered to the cardinals,
these pennants adorning
skeleton maples.
An empty mitten oak leaf
scurried across virgin snowpack
to its slushy demise.
And Nature said, “I just did.”

– Joseph Hesch

© 2015, poem, Joseph Hesch, All rights reserved; 2014, photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

Feast or Famine

feast or famine

with the light
of the new day
he began
his fasting
knowing surely
that the gates
of heaven
had opened
but
wondered if
those of hell
were closed tight
for war
was all around
he could hear
the sounds
of death’s cruel voice
wailing throughout the day
embraced by dry desert winds
while
the songs
and
promises of peace
were
as empty as the plate
before him

© 2015, poem and photograph, Charles W. Martin, All rights reserved

Going Fast

When I was young, fasting meant
PBJ or grilled cheese at lunch,
creamed tuna or fish sticks for dinner
on our meatless Lenten Fridays.
The priests and nuns said God
willed us to change up the menu,
but never explained why, just that
once it was complete we earned our
Easter candy and a week of ham.
Now you tell me you’re forcing
a spiritual, a physical hunger
upon yourself, because you long
for some abstraction, an ideal,
not something tangible like
a Coney Island hotdog
or carne asada burrito.

Maybe if I knew how hunger
would bring about “better,”
I’d understand how this sacrifice
of gustatory satisfaction works.
Will you recognize it on
your tongue when your sacrifice
brings the fabulous prize you seek?
When your fast for a greater good
is finally sated, when the world’s
bêtes noires negated, could you
please tell me one more thing?
Peace, does it taste like
chocolate bunnies?

– Joseph Hesch

© 2015, poem, Joseph Hesch, All rights reserved

a portrait in February …

IMG_3809there’s a portrait in February of percale sheets
and the tempting rondure of warm shoulders
tucked under a pink duvet and late mornings,
coffee in bed, playing your hips like the strings
of a harp, the lively marl of a true love’s honor,
soft, the whiff of spring, the meadow violets
their heart-shaped leaves and felicitous flowers
promise of summer peace in damask gardens
wealth of silver roses, tart lemons, frisky mint
finger tip the faded hillock of hair on your neck
and let go of all that is false and mean for this –
the warmth of our ardor, the trust in our kiss

– Jamie Dedes

© 2015, poem and illustration, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

Crunch of Time

Chapati

There was a long proofing, but
you’d never know from looking
at this unleavened life.
Its Kansas prairie topography
hints at a plainness
in flavor and texture.
But you don’t know
the ingredient list populating
this old family recipe.
I don’t need to know yours either.
That’s because the product’s
more than a list of parts.
The height of your crown,
the crispness of your crust
doesn’t impress me very much.
I want to taste you,
see what seasoning of life
added to your individuality.
There’s pepper and thyme
in this piece of me.
Please forgive
the piss and vinegar.

– Joseph Hesch

© 2015, poem, Joseph Hesch, All rights reserved; photo credit ~  Fotografiert in Udaipur im Oktober 2003) upload to Wikipedia by Christian Köhlar under CC – A-SA 3.0 Unported license

A Natural Talent

I’ve sat here since Wednesday
watching a story unfold
on that snowy, tree-margined page.
Each new track a sentence scribed
by rabbit, deer or squirrel.
Each trail another chapter.
Today, an editor strode
from the north and scribbled
blue-penciled shadows across the hill.
With a great howl, as some editors
are accustomed to speaking,
this one deleted three days work,
scouring that page into
right-from-the-ream
immaculate readiness.
I just saw a squirrel plop
into the snow with a powdery The.
That’s where I differ from Nature.
She doesn’t fear rejection
and never gets writers block.

– Joseph Hesch

© 2015, poem, Joseph Hesch, All rights reserved

dealer’s choice

dealer's choice

wouldn’t it
be
something
if we could decide
what others
give up
for lent
i’d surely
ask
that men
give up
war

– Charles W. Martin

© 2015, poem and photograph, Charles W. Martin

Strangers We Meet

IMG_4650We meet
And who said we would never meet
Know nothing about love

Here we are
You, rooted in your Canaanite land
Me, a Berber gazelle
Descendents of revolutionaries and martyrs
With our pale letters full of absence’s ache
With the weight of days on our foreheads
And our secret fields of desire
Still green

When time suspends in your presence
I say your name like I recite a verse
With my eyes closed
I discover its shape in the light
Listen to the music of its letters
You repeat mine over and over
Like a secret spell
Or a song you learned in your tender childhood
That still echoes in your memory

Like two strangers we meet
After a hundred years of love
Our bodies forget their borders slowly
And our solitudes annihilate each other
When we touch

– Imen Benyoub

© 2015, poem, Imen Benyoub, All rights reserved; photo credit ~ 2015, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

Feast Days of the Heart

IMG_6835the gentle coasting of a blue dragonfly, and
this, the pulsing peace of a quiet afternoon,
Bach on the radio, dinner simmering
on the stove of my tranquility, my day
chasing night, my night chasing day,
rhythms caressing my face, love-bites
on the leg of my being, heart beating
at one with the ocean sighs and
only gratitude for the gift of life,
no more scandalized by the news of
death, baptism into heaven, whatever
that may be, but the reports center on
Kiev, Syria, Palestine, Afghanistan –
easy to foment flash-points for horror

easier to forget just how sweet it is
to breath with the sun and grow
with the cypress bending by the shore,
obeisance to the seas and sky and
living on the edge of Eternity: time to
give it up, give up strife for Lent, only
celebrate resurrections with steaming
sweet greens, scented with onion,
over shared bowls of rice, knowing the
the ground of being* is a feast-day of the heart
stirred by the breeze of Spirit winging

– Jamie Dedes

* “being” as in Tillich’s third role of being: Christ manifesting as the “New Being,” the acutalization of the work of the Holy Spirit (as I understand it and I’m not a student of theology or divinity except in a most casual auto-didactic sense)

© 2014 poem, 2015, photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

Oranges

OrangeBloss_wb

They outnumber the visitors clambering
from coaches, the huge crowds of flowers peering
from gardens. We point at them nested in trees,
hammocked in net bags hanging from door knobs,
bedded cheek to cheek in baskets outside gates.
El Greco, who the inhabitants insist was born
in this village, is dimmed by their multitudes.
.Sevesdiana nods as she leads us into a café.
How eagerly a pair of weathered sisters
open their arms to hug her. How warmly
they greet us, her charges. How quickly
pressed orange juice, little breads and nescafé
are laid on a round table. The brown counter,
fading walls and metallic zigzags on the freezer
whisper the musty past but the talk glitters.
Before we leave we’re each given an orange
English supermarkets would boo and bin,
a giant orange with bumps, dents, niggles
and an offbeat attempt at rotundity,
a fruit quite unabashed by its rusticity.

In the blue morning light that’s swum
into our room overlooking Chania harbour
you and I each peel one – a mother-of-oranges.
I expect the pith to be thick, the heart of the matter
small and maybe tart, but the skin is thin,
pliable, the segments vast. Sprawled on the bed,
I cram one into my mouth. Its juice spurts
over the sheet and the tangy sweetness tastes
of Fodele’s trees creeping from the streets
to clothe steep slopes, of laces white as frost
and homewoven rugs hung from strings
to attract tourists. It tastes of a solid back
bending to scrub a carpet splayed on the road,
of the women holding out the sugared breads
that were blessed in church for a friend’s birthday.
It tastes – it tastes of those rare moments
when a silence suspends the ordinary
and the unattainable seems within in reach.

– Myra Schneider

© 2014, poem, Myra Schneider, All rights reserved; photo credit ~ Ellen Levy French via Wikipedia under CC BY-SA 3.0

Gentleman of the Old School

The Madonna in Sorrow Giovanni Battista Salvi (1609-1685)
The Madonna in Sorrow
Giovanni Battista Salvi
(1609-1685)

gentlemen of the old school
those devotees of Mary …
Mother of Christ, Handmaid of the Lord
seeing her in every woman
….. generously
even me – daughter, mother niece, friend –
protagonist, antagonist,
on-again off-again wife
simmering slowly in the broth of the cosmos
never quite done, never quite done
but they were, they were
gentlemen of the old school

© 2013, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved Photo ~ via Wikipedia and in the U.S. Public Domain

Tree Cathedral Acrostic

"Tree Cathedral" © Corina L. Ravenscraft 2013
“Tree Cathedral” © Corina L. Ravenscraft 2013

Deep within an overgrown, ancient wood

In solitude, lies the earthy peace I seek.

Voices of the sacred Mother’s brood

In whispers of wind and burbles of creek.

Nature always calls her dear children home,

Ever connected, though they may forget.

Fertile ground found in fern green and black loam,

Elder trees march in dark jade silhouette.

Mossy fingers float, to caress passers by,

Infusing each visitor with reverence and awe.

Natural cathedrals stretch spires to the sky,

In celebration of the Earth Mother’s law.

Nearer, in the wilds, to the Divine Feminine.

Eager is this child to commune once again.

~ © C.L.R. ~ 2014

The Divine Feminine

So much of our languaging about the Divine is centered on maleness that it is easy to lose the feminine representation of the Divine. Especially in my tradition, Christianity. Over and over

  • God is God, not Goddess,
  • Father not Mother
  • Abba not Amma
  • Adonai not El Shaddai

It is sad. The imagery is there but centuries of patriarchy have taken the feminine away from the church. I won’t let that happen on my watch! On my personal altar, I have a feminine depiction complete with candle. It sits alongside my traditional Christian imagery, my little otter, and my favorite poetry book, “Women in Praise of the Sacred.”

I have a photo of her below. And I have to tell you, it was fun doing a photo shoot with little Gaia! I love her and the orange candle that she holds. Orange is the second chakra, feminine, creative, joyous, adaptable! We all have a little Gaia within.

But now, I will share one of my favorite poems from my favorite book with one of my favorite symbols.

Evening Star who gathers everything
Shining dawn scattered –
You bring the sheep and the goats,
You bring the child back to its mother.

-Sappho, 7th c. BCE

DivineFem2

What image of the Divine calls to you? Where do you find images that inspire? What sits upon your altar?

Amen? Amen!

Shalom,

terri

Notes on photo: Using my computer for the backdrop of gold sparkly stuff, I put saran wrap on the computer screen, put Gaia on a board covered with fabric, propped some flashlights so she had the lighting she needs, and snapped photos from a bunch of angles! This was a fun project!

© 2015, words and illustration, Terri Stewart, All rights reserved

While Listening to Mozart’s “Requiem”

Arabic-manuscriptAmid the falling stone I walk
The sky unfolds itself pearly gray
Almost within reach, its beginning is beyond vision
Fields of immaculate white
Stretching in front of me like a sea of clouds

An eternity rests here in a decaying graveyard
For nothing seems alive but my breath
Stone graves groan under snow, guarded by disfigured stone angels
Old, crumbling and beaten, their carvings are barely visible

Between the white and the gray
I am a black butterfly
I listen to the stillness throbbing and palpitating around me
And contemplate an oak tree

Its branches entangled and entwined©
And columns of smoke rising from a far chimney
Quivering against the pearly gray
I am alone in the whiteness
All alone

A wilted daffodil shivers on your grave
I take it; leave you the warmth of my touch and a secret wish
Sleep distant star; no light shines from your face
No sound escapes from this mute stone
Nothing but the whiteness
Nothing

– Imen Benyoub

© 2014, poem, Imen Benyoub, All rights reserved; illustration, the angel Gabrail from the 14th Century “The Wonders of Creation, The  Oddities of Exhistance” Zakariya al-Qazwini, public domain

if you would still believe

if you would still believe
in things you cannot see
there’s no room to deceive

here on this new year’s eve
as fortunes interweave
if you would still believe

in all you can conceive
in all you long to be
there’s no room to deceive

last year’s transgressions leave
with Iemanja sail free
if you would still believe

in grace in a reprieve
to live on happily
there’s no room to deceive

give heinous doubt the heave
trust in January
if you would still believe
there’s no room to deceive

– Marilynn Mair