Rhonda Poem 7: Postlude: Yule

This is the final Rhonda poem.  There is no happy ever after…there is only memory.

 

It is over.

And whatever we have done

Is buried in snow, vanished in drift;

Winter is merciful.

 

By the time the thaw reveals the past,

I will be ready to look upon what remains

Without desire,

Without regret;

 

Memory undefiled by mourning.

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Rhonda Poem 6: Samhain

We sat in the car outside her house.

She had guests, so I could not go in.

After a time, I switched off the radio,

And we looked out the window

At the full moon and the clear sky.

We dozed.

 

When we awoke, it had snowed;

The windows were covered, the car dark.

As one, we wildly opened our doors,

Stood trembling on opposite sides of the car.

 

That night we kissed a strange kiss;

It would soon be over.

 

When I phoned later, she was out

She did not return my call.

 

We have met since,

But do not speak of our days.

 

Snow, snow on the windshield…

It still saddens.

Rhonda Poem 5: Lugnasad

“All this is ours”

She waved at the hills of grain.

We stood in the farm yard, ringed by poplars,

(All the same height, planted as a wind-break)

Magpies squawked overhead;

We walked to the barn, and waved to her parents.

 

“No, no saddle.”

She haltered the little buckskin, mounted.

I clambered up behind her.

We walked out of the yard, into the fields.

The house disappeared behind a rise.

I let my grip on her waist slip upward;

I cupped a breast.

 

She flailed back, laughing as I fell off.

She turned, sat sidesaddle, took off her tee-shirt,

Then gracefully, whipped off the rest,

Tossing her clothes to me.

“Lead him,” she said, and passed me the reins.

Carrying her clothes, I walked into the grain.

 

I looked back.

She sat tall, golden skin glowing,

Her red-blonde hair floating in the sun–

She seemed to grow from the ripening wheat.

 

“Will he stay?” I asked.

“Yes.”  She slid from the horse.

 

As I lay on her, I said:

“This ought to be in spring, in the furrows,

For a good harvest.”

She squeezed my sides;

“Now,” she said, “for gratitude.”

“Gratitude?  For what?”

“You fool,” she said

And hugged.

 

For: Quotations I Like

This one comes from  “Cypress Grove”, a novel by James Sallis.

I think it is an interesting observation.  It refers to low-budget, often just plain bad movies.

 

“The cheaper the films are,  the more they tell you what the society’s really like,  as opposed to what it claims for itself.”

Rhonda Poem 4: Midsummer

In the afternoon, there is a dazzle

A shimmer in which I walk in trust, blind

To the edge of the stream-cut slash,

Where the tall trees block the sun again,

And the brook lies in sudden clarity.

 

Because it has but recently emerged from light,

It is pristine, it carries nothing, lightly

Run its waves, like children.

 

It moves gently amid the wreck of spring–

Stranded logs, bits of this ‘n’ that from far upstream,

All abandoned to the winds along the banks,

Roots of willow and poplar and spruce,

Trees deep undermined, in a slow topple

Frozen over the water in the heat of summer.

 

Dragonflies in impossible blues and greens

Dart from bank to bank, skimming the waves

On nearly invisible wings.

 

Above, the applause of aspen leaves

In the unfelt breeze.  A single leaf

Falls, spinning, spinning, then caught

And borne off on the breast of the water.

 

For no reason, I raise my arms;

The air is cool as lips.

 

The sunlight flits golden on the waves,

And the water itself seems to float;

It runs through my fingers like hair.

 

The air is cool as lips;

The water, light as hair.

 

Beneath the trees, the heavy scent of humus,

Soft and rich, alive, dappled with sunlight

And violets and the small flowers of wild strawberries.

 

She  and I once lay here together,

And when she stood, I held her hands

When she would brush herself.

She smiled, stained with green and brown,

A sheen of sweat between her breasts,

Her hair hung with leaves and petals,

Transfigured by the sun.

 

We stood in the stream,

And washed away each other,

And this place.

 

But the air is still cool as lips,

The water light as hair,

And the earth soft as memory.

Rhonda Poem 3: Beltane

She met me at the door,

My arms were full of daffodils.

I watched her rummage for a vase.

“Here, this one will do.”

She held an Okanagan wines carafe.

 

She set it on the bedside table,

And drew me down with her.

As we lay, she glanced at the table.

“Look, ” she said, “the label!”

‘Summerland Riesling’.

She laughed.

The Summerland was the celtic afterlife.

Daffodils in Summerland…what symmetry!”

She said, “Springtime to winter…

It’s an omen, my friend.”

 

I already felt cold.

Must it be?”  I asked.

 

Trust me,” she whispered.

 

Out of the corner of my eye

The blossoms shone like the sun

All the afternoon.

 

 

 

Rhonda Poem 2: At Imbolc

Falling in love….what a interesting way of putting it.  Someone once wrote that love gives wings to your heart…you fly!  you soar!  Is not love in its beginning exultant?  And if a love ends…and most things do end…is not that the time of falling? So, in the beginning you do fall in love, as a fortress to a conqueror, but, remember, love, in both its beginning and its ending, is merciless.

Rhonda Poem 2:  At Imbolc

I met her at a party

Where they scattered you among strangers,

Pulled apart every whichway, confused,

Desperately searching for recognizing.

She was standing alone, watching.

A small smile played about her mouth;

I caught her eye, from across the room.

I dodged my way to her.

And then the room contracted

And the talk became a background murmur,

Like a distant brook,

Like a far-off wind,

The lights were on us alone.

All I could find to say was

“I’ve fallen in love.”

Even then, she did not answer, or ever.

She just took my hand and said:

“Let’s go somewhere.”

And when we parted, later that evening,

We did not arrange to meet,

But in the noontime light or midnight

We would call to each other;

We never thought to deny the summons.

For My Quotations I Like page

The heart does many things well, and rationalization is right up there with powering the circulatory system….from Trans-Sister Radio, by Chris Bohjalian.

His skin was as Scottish as it was possible to be without actually being tartan……from End of the Wasp Season, by Denise Mina.

Rhonda Poem 1: The Scarf

I once met a woman named Rhonda.  A remarkable experience.  From it came a series of poems…this was the first.  Much later, I saw a group of people waiting to get in at a museum display.  There was this wonderful rich laugh…I knew it was her.  Amazing!  I knew her by her laugh, alone.

                                              The  Scarf

If you loose your hair from your scarf,

You will bind me tighter yet to you.

It would not be by design,

For you are not that way.

But by an accident of revelation,

As an unsuspected view on a familiar drive,

Or a sudden rainbow at a summer dusk…

Snatching the mind from its ways of habit.

 

You are full of such hazards,

To which I must fall victim.

My capture was so casual a deed for you,

So artlessly done, in such innocence,

You do not know you have me.

 

If I should tell you

Would you make your heart a mirror

For a fool to see himself,

Or a door to welcome me

In some union of terrible joy?

 

While I ponder

Do, please

See to your scarf.