A final poem for the Scavenger Hunt, a brace of wayra. Thank you for the round world trip. It’s been a great experience!
A walk
Up the valley side
we climbed, the dogs and I, high,
where the light is pale and blue,
the valleyed folds sea-green,
tree-billows, fields’ embroidered edge.
We watched the spread world
dapple sun and shade, cloud-birds
reflected in still water,
the lofting of herons,
the hawks’ slow glide, wished we could fly.
I wrangled another chueh-chu (the way I pronounce it it sounds like a treat for the dogs) so I’m posting it for today’s Scavenger Hunt. I hope it’s okay to do the same form twice, but I like the chueh-chu, and writing a second one was hard!
Midnight
In the deep dark of the night,
I heard a fox, treading light,
through the meadow, by the house,
heard the blackbirds cluck in fright,
through the window, saw the flight
of a barn owl, ghostly white,
as the night world came to life,
bathed in silver, rich samite.
This is a rai poem, the kind that could go on forever! For the Scavenger Hunt.
Spring daisy chain
The spring wind is cold,
older than mountains,
fountains of lava,
balaclava warm.
Swarming bees hum,
drumming like thunder,
under the rain cloud,
loud as jays winging,
singing their hoarse notes,
throats full of crow-caw.
Raw are the nights, still
chill, not for chick waifs,
safe from winter’s teeth,
beneath mother’s wing.
Spring trees are greening,
preening their feathers,
wethers their wool coats,
goats their dainty feet.
This poem is a chueh-chu for the Scavenger Hunt. I like this form, which works until the stock of words with six sensible rhymes runs out.
I know a place
I know a place, in the wold
Of summer peace, winter cold
Where I can watch, nesting birds,
Plum trees blossom, leaves unfold.
On the hilltop, trees so old
Whisper stories, some untold;
Jay and jackdaw, shout them loud
In bird voices, brassy bold.
It’s a long time since I wrote one of these, so here’s a short ghazal for the Scavenger Hunt.
Sitting by the window
Despite the sun, I always feel the cold these days,
not just because I feel I’m getting old these days.
The calendar says spring, but still the wind blows hard;
hunger stalks the fields, and the wolves grow bold these days.
The fig trees caught the frost last night, leaves shrivelled brown,
always the doubt the wheat will spread its gold these days.
There were so many things I thought that I could do.
I don’t know if the poem will unfold these days.
I used to welcome company to share a meal;
all my Cassandra stories have been told these days.
I have a pantoum up my sleeve to post for the Scavenger Hunt, but I’m taking a break from eastern poetry forms. It isn’t on the round the world list, but this is a Welsh form, the toddaid. Couplets of 10 and 9 syllables, but with a cross-over rhyme (middle of 1/end of 2, end of 1/middle of 2°, straight rhyme consonance or assonance, and alliteration. It’s one that I like. Maybe someone would like to try it out.
Night fears
Must dark succeed the light, night follow day?
Sun-bathed I’d stay, let dark’s tide recede.
The scattered sparks of stars that strew night skies
when day dies, are mute. I’d hear the larks.
And though pale and silver is the moon’s glow,
bathing all below in a soft veil,
the hunting owl, the fox and timid deer,
night fear persists of the wolf’s wild howl.
A than bauk for the Scavenger Hunt. I admit, this one almost defeated me.
Cold spring
Cold bright morning,
red warning in
dawning spring sky.
Flames reach so high
where birds fly, soar,
defy earth-pull.
Pink clouds seem dull
next the bullfinch—
my full heart sings.
Day, on bright wings,
perhaps brings peace—
hope springs ever.
A hyangga for the Scavenger Hunt.
Almost summer
Spring, bird-fragile, eggshell blue,
misted sea-pearl, green blue of oceans,
breaks like foam-fringed waves, birthing summer;
I miss those misty mornings.
Another Antony and Cleopatra poem, this one in the Utenzi form for today’s Scavenger Hunt.
A cautionary tale
She dreamt he was an emperor,
But that was just a metaphor,
His spilt blood was red and no more
Blue than yours or mine. No surprise.
She said his legs bestrid the seas,
But meant that he would take his ease
With whom and wherever it please,
and that meant her, we can surmise.
His face shone brighter than the sun
On every battlefield he’d won,
The last man standing, duty done,
He’d claim the laurels, her heart the prize.
In golden barques, on Nile’s soft sway
They loved a kingdom’s wealth away,
Regardless of Rome’s anger. They
Loved too much, hence their demise.
A sequence of landay couplets in the spirit (I hope) of Afghan women’s poetry, for the Scavenger Hunt.
Landay sequence
Those days are gone, when, where rivers run
beneath the shade of trees, is the place where love is spun.
There’s a lovers’ place, I’ll take you there,
but would you dare the damp, the leaves in your rumpled hair?
A man fights fake monsters on his phone
each woman fights real demons in the dark all alone.
The heart’s place is green as this spring day,
distant now, and blue as dreams, a blue ocean away.
The Four Swans 