Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Brigid Poetry Festival

It's time, at the hinge of winter, for the Sixth Annual Brigid Poetry Festival. My contribution this year is "Things" by Jane Kenyon from The Boat of Quiet Hours:


The hen flings a single pebble aside
with her yellow reptilian foot.
Never in eternity the same sound --
a small stone falling on a red leaf.

The juncture of twig and branch,
scarred with lichen, is a gate
we might enter, singing.

The mouse pulls batting
from a hundred-year-old quilt.
She chewed a hole in a blue star
to get it, and now she thrives....
Now is her time to thrive.

Things: simply lasting, then
failing to last: water, a blue heron's
eye, and the light passing
between them: into light all things
must fall, glad at last to have fallen.

1 comment:

  1. Bearing Water for Brigid

    Sketches for a water vessel --
    bottle and message elide on waves.
    Voice of Brigid calls.
    All who hear: Imagine.
    Exposed to wind, to grit, to rain
    and hail,
    rock faces erode.

    Designated fixed space
    Sacrosanct container
    Conveyor through fluid
    Creates place, surface to paint.
    diffusement of emotion,
    beatitude, foment of dueling farce.

    Harsh edges polished,
    pure colors
    blend in the dark.
    Brief infusion
    of giddy illusion
    just enough to guilefully entice.
    Sparkling Neural net
    a secret
    clue revealing
    purpose, meaning,
    wild eternal child,
    ages' flamboyant fool,

    (Voice rains from within)

    A wound is a sacred vessel.
    Pain carves into flesh
    sense memory;
    carries the seed
    of its own demise.
    engulfed in life
    learns anew to be whole.

    Wounded with the potential for wisdom
    when eyes are are pried
    from seeping, sucking, suffering
    aching to censure what future we admire.
    Redefine the schizm.
    This wound is our project.
    To heal, discover the vision;
    realign the seam to fit
    self-framed landscape.

    Let loose that genie of desire.
    Ride rushing blood streams.
    Build a roaring pyre of grief,
    insane belief in wrathfilled deities.
    Revile that old refrain: "life is pain" or a game
    to be lost.
    No Faustian bargain.
    Just a
    rambling adventure
    to explore
    essence of ecstasy.
    Don't wait for the rest to see
    and demur.
    Stretch your sail.
    Take sight of your guiding star.
    The only failure is self-denial
    in favor of the vile lie
    that pain is destiny
    instead of faithful friend
    lending energy
    for change.

    Slice vivid memories.
    Exult in the tastes, the textures.
    Enliven your way.

    In the end
    the vessel breaks.
    There the Goddess stirs

    2011 Aquarius