LAMENT
“My mouth is stretched –
A soundless wail of anguish
For the sorrows of the world
An eye into hell
In the corner of my room
Cry out your lamentations
Prostrate yourselves
And weep, and weep, and weep.”
I wrote this poem long ago, but I am revisiting it now for Ukraine. What’s happening there is inconceivable.
Skinny, bony, bare
branches, twigs, stretched in pale death
amid vibrant green.
Be still; half-close your
eyes, and listen to the sound
of the universe.
A dream in scarlet
twilight gently falls, and blooms
glow with inner light.
I was here before
you came, and when you are gone
I will still be here.
I’m quite new to writing haikus, and here is what started me:
Cyphers is a literary magazine produced here in Dublin. It’s been on the go for around fifty years and has a great reputation. In 2015 I bought this edition, and there I found two wonderful haikus by Lorraine Whelan, which I will include here:
The crimson apple
with bitter chromium leaves
glowed in her pale palm.
and:
The avenue of
neon trees remembers no
specific season.
These haikus stayed in my head for weeks and I re-read them to this day. I began to write them myself then, and took photographs along the river to go with most of them. But I’m not in the same class as Lorraine, or D. W. Peach who posted several beauties last week, together with photographs; I’ll include two of them here – and her picture of her lovely muse!
hidden glades of light
sift through mottled canopies
a glimpse of magic
and:
fiddleheads unfurl
green curlicues and whimsy
crowning last year’s fronds
Aren’t these all wonderful? I’ll just have to keep trying!
In full, lively bloom
yellow weeds absorb sunlight
nod to the river.
Tangled weeds throw out
a scent of earth and summer
each supporting each.
The last one, and perhaps the one that hurts the most; my younger sister and one of my best friends ever. Thank you for reading these poems; For me, May is time set aside for remembrance.
FRANCES
Here I will rest
My ashes falling
Into swirls of bog-brown water
In Spring perhaps
The river quiet
And the birds gone mad
My ghost will hover –
A shape in powdered white
Casting chills on my attendants
Willows hang their leaves
Across the rush of water
Such an airy, fragile green
And I think of you –
Your airy, fragile spirit
Gone out of turn before me
Our childhood memories
All lop-sided now
A pulse of anger yet –
Why aren’t you here!
You should be here!
The mystery of your absence
Plagues me
I kneel beside your grave
Bend low to sense your soul
Breathe in the smell of earth.
I wrote this poem for my mother some years before she died. She was 91 when she died and had had a long, happy life. This poem celebrates her light heart.
I remember the rustle
Of the red, exotic petticoat
The pick of a parcel
From America
Delight crackled in her hair
Exploded in a sudden flush
On her alabaster skin
The lighthouse sweep and beam
Of her glad eyes
Lit us all, haloed the room
Where we stood in a row
To admire
Long left that room, that house
The woman has gathered her years
Carefully, tucked them primly away
Scented and folded neatly
Facing the rest
With a lifted chin
A grin and a new hat
The glow of the red petticoat
About her still.
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