"SEAGULLS" / The Guardian/ Eyewitness
THANK YOU, Tess...still aloft...Magpie Tales
PLUCK OFF
Part of me knows what's real,
pain lets me know.
If this plucking happens
when I'm awake,
my feathers pulled,
I will say stop.
Cry maybe bloody murder.
But in my comfort,
when a feather
is yanked from my wing,
in the midst of it,
I will fly.
Pain is a concept as yet
unborn in my dreams.
A hand reaches
like a shadow,
made of less than matter,
making mischief,
ruffling my feathers.
I'm bleeding
in a Hitchcock chiller,
no pain.
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THANK YOU, Tess...Magpie Tales
COINCIDENCE
Either odd or expected, coming face to face with this week's Magpie photo.
I love ravens. My daughter loves ravens. We dont know why. This week's Magpie pic seems to be of my daughter. The image of her. Cannot be. But that raven wing...she might just say yes to that.
So she loved my poem last week. She always loves my stuff. We do that for each other. And she comments. Thanks, Dori. She writes a blog for Huff Post. Doesn't accept comments. What class!
Last week I ended my Mag #195 with a raven eruption. My daughter reminded me of the raven that flew down our chimney, years ago, at the ski house. Once we were posh.
I do that a lot, get ahead of myself, project, predict. Seems last week's poem, "Privilege", stood at attention, sort of waiting for this weeks picture to arrive. Nice trick, Tess. But I wrote that last week. This is how the poem ended..
" I'm hoping that my wings
will be a Raven's."
I do play a psychic game, coming up with the slightest glimpse of tomorrow. Still, after all these years. It's natural. it just is. I did it for years. For fame and fortune. Shhh. Short on the fortune part. Come to think of it, what fame?
Still like it when odd "coincidences" occur.
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AUTUMN on the RIVER/ 1889/ John Singer Sargent
THANK YOU, Tess...Magpie Tales
PRIVILEGE
Veiled within my swaddling,
I exhale a wish,
seekng a promise
that I become an icon.
I develop my heartbeat,
imagine what rapture I'll feel
when swathed in spendid regalia.
In the offing,
a chrysalis will peel,
thrust me out,
hang me by a thread
as my blood pumps.
I'm hoping that my wings
will be a raven's.
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As you can see by my header, my heart belongs to JSS.
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THANK YOU, Tess, for Magpie Tales..
DEAR JOHN,
I can't imagine that you will actually receive this. Perhaps you have longevity in you as we do in our family.
By rights, we both could have passed on to our eternal rest by now. This old woman, reading your letter, little resembles the scarlet tressed girl you just proposed to.
Did anyone know your mind? I didn't. We spoke rarely before you left the hospital, poor wounded soul, and yet our tiny flirtation seemed to stir within you a dream of permanence only now uncovered.
Life is so odd, don't you think? I have sadly survived my sister Anne, who introduced us. And she the beauty I was sure you fancied. Yet here am I holding your letter, found neatly folded at the bottom of a faded bundle.
Who unsealed it and then put it aside, for me to never see, until a moment ago, sixty years later?
I led a good life, lost much I loved. Perhaps similar to yours. At the end we are all so much alike. Looking for clues as memory fades. Was this really me?
I wonder now if you survived the war. Or gone perhaps these many years. Maybe my words will just shake up your ghost.
Eyesight faded, I sit daily at the window of my daughter's home, wishing for life to be a dream. Today it became one. If you are still willing, I think I will say yes for you to come to call.
Fondly,
Maggie
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Danseus ajustant sa bretelle, Edgar Degas, 1895/96
THANK YOU...Tess...at Magpie Tales
THE POSE
In the wings,
away from the corps,
Degas
whispers to me,
the way,
and the answer.
An invitation
to pose after the dance,
a gossamer tutu,
a promise for fame,
as I step into a grand-plie',
take on an arabesque,
spin a pirouette.
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RESURRECTION REUNION 2 / 1945/ Sir Stanley Spencer
THANK YOU, Tess...Magpie Tales
ENTER RISING
They say we look alike,
it's the pallor of our cheeks,
the breath we gasp,
when we enter
rising,
wondering
what is this place?
Is it meditation, sleep,
death, exit,
entrance?
Which chakra are we jammed at?
I'm heading for the crown,
stop pining away at Plexus.
My lips already flash
a spank of tangerine,
yours, no question
need a lick of color.
How are we alike?
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le Jardin/ 1962/ Max Ernst
THANK YOU, TESS...for Magpie Tales...
AMULET
My resolve cuts a swathe,
thinks it is the wind,
ceases.
I clutch a handful of detritus,
fools me,
looks like diamonds,
really a shard of glass,
flying,
sculpting an edge within me.
The wind stirs again,
a cloud
blows its cheeks
to comic effect.
Is it yesterday,
today, tomorrow?
Same clutch, release, bleed.
Demeter around my neck,
ancient amulet
caresses my skin.
Promises engorge me,
I'm the mother,
I'm a mother,
afraid that dying will end it all.
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image/ CRILLEB 50
THANK YOU, Tess, at Magpie Tales
ABOUT TIME
Got a minute?
There's one flying by,
looks like a Bird of Paradise,
just sliced itself out
of its speckled haven.
Pure before sin,
living its first minute
as infinity licks it clean.
A free pass,
then life spreads its wings.
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PHOTO/ Mark Haley
THANK YOU, Tess, at Magpie Tales...
LADYBUG
As soon as the daylight
starts to bleed dry,
before red and blue
turn to purple
and die as grey,
I catch the rim of Venus,
reflect a gleam
that isn't mine to give.
Even as we hide
in the multitude of stars
and blades of grass,
we haggle our gifts again,
because memory says
there is a dawn,
and after seizing
the blessed boon,
I can awaken
as a Phoenix.
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THE MOTH and the LAMP/ Cesar Santos
THANK YOU, Tess, at Magpie Tales...
CONSUMED
It's the first singe
that wounds,
an illicit touch,
the pretense
that I will endure
past the ecstatic gasp,
beyond nature's bribe.
Obsessed,
spent again.
I keep forgetting
the game,
as if breath
can be heaved in,
exhaled
in rapture forever.
I stay
to be consumed.
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