mermaid
For a fellow blogger and for the Ragtag Daily Prompt: Still. I am thinking of both stillness and of still photography. A photograph. For a still, I think that it is usually posed. I like taking portraits when people are not posed.
The first poem in this trilogy was written in 1984. The next two were written twenty years later. Like ouroboros, the snake eating its own tail.
The first poem popped into my head while I was thinking about flowers. The second two were both problem poems. Most of my poems are problem poems: I sit down with a problem that I am working on and start writing about it. I do not know where the poem is going to go and I am always surprised. And it often goes somewhere that I don’t expect. Often it is a map for where I aspire to go emotionally, but usually I am not there yet when I finish the poem.
This poem is NOT part of the Falling Angels series of poems. This one is fun and silly and rhymes. This one is for today’s Ragtag Daily Prompt: amenable.
Written in 2009.
Set a torch to me
Why don’t you?
It’s not the tearing sound of fabric
A small rip
And now a tear
That I feel
It’s the torch
I’ve been here before
A job where the idealistic came
As moths to the flame
Self-immolation
Because they had ideals
I watched and burned and rose
It’s the torch
The flames that rise
As the witch is burned
Tilts back her head
In ecstasy and knowledge
Eager to learn what she can
From these burning brands
In the burning we learn
In pain we learn
If we can remain open
Ashes fall to the ground
Buckets of water
Wash any remains to grey mud
Gone, punished
Relief for the frightened
An example has been set
No but what stirs at night
Moon or none
What rises from the mud
The ashes
Takes form
Takes flight
Laughing
Set a torch to me
Why don’t you?
And see what is created
It seems to be one of my irritable days
They come rolling round in the month of May
I don’t feel friendly and don’t want to play
It seems to be one of my irritable days
It seems to be one of those days when I’m mad
At nothing particular. I feel really bad
I hate those damn tourists who always wear plaid
I really intensely dislike feeling sad
I haven’t felt quite this bad since last year
But I’m not one to cry. I don’t like weak tears
I’m not one to let myself feel any fears
I haven’t felt this bad for almost a year
It seems to be one of those days when I’m mad
I think I’ll go pick a nice fight with that lad
He looks too damn happy and just too damn glad
When I’m punching his lights out I won’t feel so sad
It seems to be one of my irritable days
Going to work on them just doesn’t pay
My boss’s revenge just goes on for days
Today it’s so bad that I can’t even pray
Helen Burling Ottaway, my mother, died May 15, 2000. I wrote this poem in the early 2000s. Her birthday was May 31, right near Memorial Day. Mother’s Day always falls near her death.
I am putting up a series of poems that I titled Falling angels, after a dream, where all the stars in the sky started falling. I was frightened and then realized that they were all angels. Then I was more frightened.
I think we need poetry and dreams and angels during this difficult time. Even if the angels are all falling.
I took the photograph of my mother. A friend loaned me his 35mm camera and I took one roll of pictures and gave the camera back to him. Almost all of the photographs I took were portraits.
Over and over
I resist
I stand at the edge
I stare at the torrent
The cliff
The falls
The abyss
Over and over
I let go
I fall
Over the cliff
Down the falls
Into the abyss
Over and over
I am sure
I will drown
I will lose my way
I will not surface
Ecstasy is in the air
Between trapezes
I am elsewhere
I am other
No words
No thoughts
No body
No mind
The water is cold
As I expect
When I hit
I knew by the spray
Before I jumped
Submerged
Immersed
Subversive
Over and over
I am born
From the surf
I emerge
From the waves
I am delivered
Fear is my key
Grief is my key
In the places I do
not want to go
That’s where I must go
Over and over I resist
And then let go
I have seen the frogs
in the northwest
all you have to do is be quiet
near the puddles
or a pond
walk there very very quietly
in the spring they are singing
to each other
calling
a symphony of longing and joy
and they don’t hear me
when I walk very quietly
at the end of the world
as a child my father teaches me
to catch frogs
very quietly
approach the pond
or puddle
if the frog hears you
it will duck under water
you will only see a ripple
spreading out
or it will hop
into the woods
and hide
my father
would occasionally use frogs
as bait
to catch northern pike
a live frog on a hook
frogs scream
when you stick a hook through their back
I hope they go into shock then
and don’t feel much
one we’d seen this
my cousins and my sister and I
when my father got his fishing rod
we’d run through the woods
yelling “Hide the frogs, hide the frogs!”
and we would catch any frog
that was dumb enough not to hide
and quickly set it in the woods
to hide it from my father
we would check the puddles, too
feeling in the brownish muck
to make sure no frog was hidden
in the shallow puddle
come out, you must go in the woods
to survive
to catch the smart ones
normally
we would tiptoe to the puddle
hoping a frog was facing the other way
if they saw us, they were gone
slowly bend down, hand out
behind the frog
reach gently
grab just above the back legs
not too hard, don’t squish it
I was under ten
on a canoe trip
when I run to my father
“A frog! A frog! The biggest frog I’ve seen!
Papa, come help!”
My father comes.
An enormous frog is beside the canoe.
“Catch it.” says my father.
“Please! You catch it!” I beg.
My father creeps up on the frog.
His hand moves out slowly.
He grabs the frog, who tries to jump
and croaks, a bass, huge mouth.
“It’s a young bullfrog,” says my father.
“It will get even bigger.”
He hands it to me.
I take it carefully, shaking a little.
“We could eat it’s legs.”
“NO!” I say. I just want to hold it for a minute.
I turn it over and gently stroke it’s throat.
The frog goes limp, mesmerized.
I set it down gently, right side up,
near the water.
I squat by the frog and wait.
I am waiting for it to wake up.
The frog is so beautiful.
I wait until it wakes up
and returns home.
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