Category Archives: Poetry

Spider’s Sonnet

Standard

spider web+

I want to shift my shape and stalk

across a jeweled dew-dropped web

spinning a spiral tunnel as I walk

all corners anchored firm to fight the ebb

and push of errant breeze or stormy blow

snug against all tricks Fate might deliver.

When it’s finished I will back on tip-toe

down my chute, stop to sever silken thread

curb my hunger patiently, crouch in a

waiting trance, anticipating nothing.

I rely on heaven-sent sweet manna.

Some hasty flighty creature on the wing

will bumble in my net and stick there fast

to offer me refreshment and repast.

©2000 Christine Irving

Advertisements

Raven Comes Flying

Standard

raven3

Raven flies on two wings

riding the winds of change,

beating  zephyr to gust, breeze to tempest

spinning vortices from each pinion,

tumbling tornadoes of transformation

to make and remake this world.

Old men tell Raven tales –

each wing warrants a season

its own time of telling.

The Wing of Making demands respect. Awe

silences young warriors, stifles the giggles of girls.

Creation myths recount beginnings, touch mystery

summon ancestors, First Man, First Woman.

Such stories require gravitas, solemnity, ceremony.

Solstice passes, season shifts

long nights, colder days cry out for laughter;

 fables to fend off boredom, hunger, rage.

Now, old men flap jaws and arms

send shadows soaring ‑ light/dark, dark/light

The Wing of Mischief craves hilarity,

famished for mirth to shake the belly

   leave the strong men sniggering

awash in helpless tears.

.

Raven flies on two wings

riding the winds of change,

beating  zephyr to gust, breeze to tempest

spinning vortices from each pinion,

tumbling tornadoes of transformation

to make and remake this world.

©2013  Christine Irving

Rabbit as Totem

Standard

Rabbit came down from the moon

and entered my life with a vengeance.

 

A cosmic kick-in-the-butt

delivered by strong Jack-rabbit thighs,

sent me flying, head-over-posterior,

across the landscape of my psyche.

 

Even in the midst

of stomach floating

flip-flops, I saw clearly

how my shadow,

tumbling overhead,

should send me

racing towards a burrow,

I froze instead;

quivering nose

my sole response

to imminent disaster.

 

So Rabbit lent

a leveret-skin; soft give-away

of  babies’ bunting, meant

to line moccasins and lie fuzzy

along the soft contours

of school-girls.

 

Disguised,

I danced to March’s mad fandango,

leapt high beneath a Harvest moon

and browsed sweetly on the dew-freshed

Brussels sprouts of Mr. Mc Gregor, forgetting

my fears till his dog Pluto drove me

down a rabbit hole.

 

Trapped within the Earth’s dim warren,

my ego abdicated, leaving behind

its creature heart whose animal eyes

descried a hidden message

among an emblematic mass

of hieroglyphic roots. Intent

upon unearthing that charactery, I

followed my nose into the briar patch, where

seduced by Luna’s luminescent glow,

I left behind the thorn-entangled fur,

sprang upward to embrace the Moon

and found myself.

 

 

©2000 Christine Irving

COYOTE

Standard

coyote1Coyote might have gone

the way of buffalo or beaver

but  he learned to smell

strychnine in the snares,

taught himself not to eat

the trappers’ tainted meat.

 

Shifting his boundaries

he followed bulldozers

east through razed woodlands,

skulking into clearings,

foraging the up-turned earth

for insect eggs and baby mice

until he wound up on a truck

farm in New Jersey

gulping down blackberries,

stripping the savory bushes

till his chin ran red.

 

Now he ranges around Boston

Pensacola, and Poughkeepsie

lured into a maze of safe sidewalks

by the pull of painted T-shirts

and carved fetishes of thread-wrapped stone.

 

People should consider who they conjure:

dung-eater, prophet-with-no-honor,

liar, iconoclast, thief; Trickster Coyote

casting moon shadows,

haunting suburban hedges,

beating the odds.

©2000 Christine Irving

Coloring

Standard
Pandorawk4color

Coloring

Week #4: Prompt; Color

How does the word color work with Pandora’s Box?  This week I have no insight nor make any connection between the prompt Color and  Pandora’s Box.   What keeps coming up are the words Coloring and Coloring Books.

When I was young, sick and had to stay in bed, my mother would buy me a new Coloring Book and a box of crayons. I loved the dot-to-dot pictures. I loved the new crayons with their perfect points. I decided to turn my previous collages into black and white images. I then colored them using colored pencils. My enthusiasm for coloring did not last long. Perhaps it didn’t work back then either. When I was sick, I often fell asleep mid-page.

I decided to look up the word color in the dictionary. I hoped to find a new definition, something I could expand upon. Something to peak my imagination. What caught my interest is the word coloring. When used  as a verb … to misrepresent, especially by distortion or exaggeration – to color the facts. … I agree.  In the story of Pandora, the subject of  distortion  and misrepresentation  apply … the story colors Pandora and Eve as scapegoats. It’s women’s fault that there is evil in the world.  See my last post … First Sinners.

I looked up Color in my symbols dictionary and read what it had to say. “Color as a symbol is the differentiated, the manifest, diversity, and the affirmation of light. Black and White represent negative and positive, and all opposites. God, as light, is the source of color.” As I colored my black and white collages, I note that whatever is “colored” becomes more meaningful, pops-out, turns into a highlight …the red apples, the red heart, the yellow pears, the flowers, the bird and the Box. Pandora’s face, the butterflies, the blue shirt and the torn paper all take on a special focus. So what do I make of this collage? A Poem.

 Red apples, yellow pears,

Fruit from the Gods

Flowers briefly announce

Spring, Summer and Fall

Temporary, fragile, juicy heart,

Open faces, dot-to-dot the branch

With bird flutter and orange butterflies

Dancing gold coins tossed before the blue

Torn truth, black and white, splashes raindrops

Down to color  the feminine psyche.

The Color of Hope

Standard
Color of Hope

The Color of Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

So says Emily Dickinson.  Knowing Emily as I do (she’s an old favorite of mine), I’m inclined to go along with the traditional rainbow-at-the-end-of–the-flood interpretation of her poem.  Nevertheless, she was well versed in irony and used it to alleviate bouts of frustration, bitterness and despair.  It’s possible “Never stops at all” means “Oh PLEASE, shut the Hell up!”

Do you ever get a tune in your head that won’t quit, just keeps replaying, again and again, no matter what?  Hope can sound like that – a repetitious melody that disallows any other thought and won’t let you rest.

Hope can be regarded as a delusion that keeps reality at bay; a dangerous illusion that can prevent introspection, delight in present pleasure or engagement with the world. Emily’s last line speaks to this when she says hope never “asked a crumb of me.”  In other words, Hope precludes relationship, give and take, mutuality. It can be a lonely pastime. Henry Miller would agree. He said, “Hope is a bad thing. It means that you are not what you want to be. It means that part of you is dead, if not all of you. It means that you entertain illusions.”

Of course there’s no definitive answer to whether or not hope is a blessing.  It remains a word of many colors – some somber, some bright.  Speaking of color, April’s prompt  from Leah Piken Kolidas at Creative Every Day is color.  Rainbow seemed an appropriate association for both color and hope.  Among my Pandora related collage images I found a rainbow-colored box and a rainbow-colored bird and although Michelle had already appropriated Emily’s poem, I wanted to use it, too.

My last collage for this story, leaves the ending as ambiguous as ever .  It answers none of our questions.  Who sent the storm that rained for forty days and nights – and why?  Why must girls be raised in ignorance to be exploited, manipulated and used?  Who profits from promises?  Who does Hope serve?  What lies beneath the surface of this tale built on deceptions?

Hope is the Thing

Standard
Pandora'shope#2c

Hope is the Thing

Pandora’s Box:  Week #2 Positive Aspect of the Story

Hope is the Thing

Emily Dickinson wrote …

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all.

 Hope gives us a reason to believe. Hope moves us forward, lifts us up, and changes us for the better. In my collage, the woman is offering up Pears, a symbol of hope, in the hopes that the gods will favor her goals. In the Emily Dickinson poem, she uses the metaphor of a songbird as the symbol of hope. The songbird sings his song never really knowing if anyone is listening. By singing out our hopes there is a chance they will come true.

The dictionary defines the word “Hope” as the feeling, “that what is wanted can be had or that “something you want to have happen is likely to happen.”  Dr. Barbara L. Fredrickson argues that “hope” comes into play when our circumstances are dire, when things are not going well, and when there is considerable uncertainty about how things will turn out. She states that hope literally opens us up and removes the blinders of fear and despair. It allows us to see the big picture, thus allowing us to become creative and have belief in a better future.

Butterflies and dragonflies are symbols of hope. Psychologist, C.R. Snyder says that hope is cultivated when we have a goal in mind. When we believe the goal is reachable and have a plan on how to reach that goal. We are like “the little engine that could, because we keep telling our self “I think I can, I think I can.”

In the collage, she places her heart on the world axis, opens her self and waits in anticipation. In the human heart, hope endures, defeating despair despite overwhelming circumstances. She sits near her Hope Chest. It is full of needlework, quilts, bed linens, and towels. She is ready to begin a new life and she has Hopes that the desired out come is at least possible.”