Southern Comfort

I belong to a group called "Friday Poetry", and every week someone from the group chooses a theme for the week. This week was (according to the person setting it) to be about "a Southern Belle's attitude. Southern Belles can make anything sound charming. Even going to Hell."
 
That was a very difficult one to get my head around, and off my regular track for poetry. I don't read any books with Southern Belles in.! I've never read Gone with the Wind, or anything like that. Possibly the closest I've read is "Bring the Jubilee" by Ward Moore, a science fiction alternative history book where the Confederate States of America win the Battle of Gettysburg and subsequently declares victory in the "War of Southron Independence".
 
So how to do this - well, I grabbed bits and pieces from movies, as the Hollywood movies shape a picture of the South and Southern Belles. It's Hollywood, so it is fiction, but it is the only source I could think of to write the poem.
 
Hence there's a bit of Gone with the Wind, the paddle boat sequence from the Danny Kaye version of Walter Mitty, Disney's Song of the South, thoughts about swamps and plantations (grabbed from Universal's Son of Dracula, of all places), and finally a bit of Clint Eastwood style Spaghetti Western and Annie Get Your Gun.
 
It's a fiction, and I've never come across a Southern Belle (or anyone remotely like that), but I hope it amuses.
 
Southern Comfort
 
Frankly my dear, you said to me that day
You couldn't give a damm. Well shucks!
This lady couldn't care what you may say
Advertising for a smarter man, in a fine tux
 
On the Mississippi, I'll find me another man
That paddle steamer, gently chuggin' along
Dressed in lacy finery, with an ivory fan
Oh, Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, here I belong
 
Plantations, and swamps, this is my land
In the Deep South, I can take any man
I flutter my eye lashes, hold out my hand
Capture the gentlemen, those with a deep tan
 
Now rides in a stranger, who smokes a cheroot
I got my gun in my garter, ready to shoot

Heavenly Bodies

And now.. for something completely different. I'm often thought of as cebrebral, intellectual, so for a change I thought I'd experiment with a poem.

Here is a  Villanelle, a poetic form which lends itself to mood poetry, so in this case, something sensual.

Heavenly Bodies

Joy unbound, arise, my sweet
Lovers entwined, eternal flame
Feel the passion, such the heat
 
A joining now, to be complete
Lovers dance, unleash, untame
Joy unbound, arise, my sweet
 
Joy unbound, kiss now to greet
Lovers entwined, and calling name
Feel the passion, such the heat
 
Two now are one, passion meet
Lovers dance, no need for shame
Joy unbound, arise, my sweet
 
Here's lover's lane, and lover's seat
Lovers entwined, call out, exclaim
Feel the passion, such the heat
 
Passion's hunger, good to eat
Lovers dance, and so inflame
Joy unbound, arise, my sweet
Feel the passion, such the heat

 

Blue Moon

For information about the five meanings of a "blue moon", see my historical posting here. The next "Blue moon" is 31 August, according to one definition.

http://tonymusings.blogspot.com/2010/07/what-is-blue-moon.html

Blue Moon

There is a tide in life and death:
Currents flow with passing breath;
Waves break upon the sands of time,
The spray flies upwards, so sublime;
The blue moon has come this night:
Gravity's rainbow, subtle, slight;
In increments, it changes motion,
Slow builds the wave, a cumulation
Of time and change, a tidal flow.
Now gently lit, the flaming glow
Of blue candle, marked with iron
To harness flow, and thereby govern
The breaking crest of time this night;
Drawn down upon this candlelight,
An archetype is born this way,
That Selene may come to stay;
Moon beams fall upon the earth:
Flowing down, here is rebirth.

Threads

A poem about understanding the pattern in our life...

Threads
 
Time weaves a tapestry through life
Of love, of joy, of sorrow, and strife;
Unweave the rainbow, at a peril cost:
All shall be undone, all shall be lost;
So we reach instead to see the whole,
As if to find a way to though to control,
The weaving threads of life; But not so,
Because threads tightly bound just so;
Form one pattern, and we are too close
To grasp the whole. Ambition grandiose,
But doomed to fail, because of chance,
Plays a random factor that can enhance;
The pattern in ways unpredicted, strange,
The even order is broken by this change;
And we can only understand, apprehend,
When it is completed, at our very end.

Interior Castle

Severe autism, where there are no words, no way of communicating, resembles a castle, where the autistic individual is shut away inside a castle, the drawbridge taken up, a moat sealing off the outside world. There is no easy way to sense or understand what is going on inside that kind of autistic mind. It is a million miles from more able forms of autism, which usually are termed aspergers. This poem reflects something of that severe kind of autism, and the sense of loss it gives to parents.

Interior Castle
 
If you had words, you could speak out
Tell us what happens inside your head
But all is silence, from whisper to shout
And words are lost, the sounds are dead
 
What causes laughter, and causes tears
The pattern of your life, a broken thread
Tell us of happiness, and of your fears
But words are lost, the sounds are dead
 
Your mind is a mystery, closed away
It may be so always, such the dread
We see shadow play, and not the day
For words are lost, the sounds are dead
 
With passing years, and no break through
If only I could give my words to you

Anticipating Palm Sunday

As it is Palm Sunday tomorrow, a suitably themed poem:

Palm Sunday

"Hosanna" is the cry, as the man comes this way,
Seating upon a donkey, coming slowly, gentle sway;
And they greet this man with palms in hand,
Perhaps thinking that he will restore their land;
Palms of victory, declaring the advent of the king,
Palms of victory, in such rejoicing they do sing;
But only he knows that he will be crowned indeed;
Only he knows what crown will be decreed;
The ancient prophecy he is now making true:
Sadness in this time of joy so well he knew.

Valentine Memories

In memory of Annie...

Valentine Memories
 
Do people think "Even now, after all this time?"
Yes, even now, for those moments were sublime;
I cannot forget, and even that moment at the end,
When you were still and cold, my lover, my friend,
And I kissed you one last time, cold lips on mine,
The passion remained. You drunk of the dark wine
And were lost to me, in pain, and grief, and tears;
But the memories remain, despite all my fears
Of forgetting, of fading away, all passion spent
I don't hold on, or try to keep alive, in cement
Those times of joy and sorrow. But as a gift
I have moments of epiphany, when that deep rift
Between the living and the dead is suddenly no more,
And it is almost like the opening of a bolted door;
I see you again in my minds eye, feel your touch;
Is it possible to love someone so strongly, so much?
As I see the couples walking on the beach, hand in hand
I see that time trickles away from us, like grains of sand
You were lost to me only yesterday, but at times I know
It feels as if you were lost so very, very long ago.

The Victory of Death

Some Greeks (and Romans) thought death the complete end; most, however, envisaged a continuing, shadowy existence in Hades. Homer, for example, tells of a murky world full of witless, gibbering shadows that must drink sacrificial blood before they can think straight, let alone talk. This poem represents that kind of sensibility, a pessimism that not even atheists have today.

The Victory of Death
 
There we came together, in that place
In which we meet death face to face
Marble columns rising to great height
And here we came to celebrate the rite
Our friends, our lovers, now no more
Into the land of shadows, death's door
And down to that darkest river below
Of forgetting all that they do know
Who shall pay the ferryman? Not I
Until the day comes when I too die
And take my place among the shades
Cut off from life by sharpest blades
And down the tunnel, into the dark
No more the singing of the lark
Night falls, Hades takes his throne
A land of ashes, of defleshed bone
And into that dark land, none return
Whether buried, or bones that burn

The Starry Messengers

A poem for Epiphany and wise men who study the stars...

The Starry Messengers
 
Look for the stars, night shining, the fabric of creation
O behold, look at the signs, the portents of every nation
Listen and hear, stars approach and draw near
A conjunction of glad adoration.
 
Seek the pattern, that over all things so wondrously reigns
The spheres turning, in synchronicity so softly sustains!
Here wisdom has been, we travel to where it is seen
Unfolding what now fate ordains
 
Look for the stars, night shining, wondrous pattern now see
Promise above, now falling to earth, unfolding to be
Not yet tears of grief, but a sign for belief
And a mercy that will set you free
 
Seek the pattern, when tempests their warfare are waging,
And nation fights nation, and all about death is raging
That this may cease, and stars portent peace
And friendships once more be engaging
 
Look for the stars, in the darkness of storm clouds abounding
Words of power open the curtain of night so confounding
Let there be light, away the darkness of night
Stars shine with moonlight surrounding.

The Feast of Stephen

Boxing day is also called "the feast of Stephen", after the death of Stephen by stoning. Here is a poem about it...

The Feast of Stephen

It was a hot day, the dust rising in the air,
The sun so bright, so sharp the glare;
And the face of the man, standing now:
Can't he see the crowd? Their one avow?
Men take off their robes, strip to the waist;
Clothes cannot be soiled, or so debased,
And this will be a day of wrath, of fire;
I see the anger, their fury, all their desire,
And the sweat trickles down their back,
As they lift stones, stumble on their track'
They cry out, baying for blood this day,
And the young man still goads, still to say:
Talks of stiff necked people, deaf with pride;
Can he see that there is no place to hide?
The face of an angel, some said of him,
But the mob is enraged, such faces grim;
And I just minded their clothes, sat there,
I too was angry, and I did not care;
And I let them stone him, heard the thud,
As stones rained down, an unleashed flood
Of fury; heard groans of pain, then no more;
It was as if he slept, opened heaven's door,
And the stones still hit him, piling high,
But his breath long departed with a sigh;
And why should I recall him, now long ago,
A man I barely had seen, and didn't know?
Called Stephen, so I was told, in later time,
And I sat and did nothing, my only crime:
Thinking the time of prophets is long past,
Until on a dusty road, I saw a light, at last.

.

Twas the night before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas
A festive poem for St. Breladiase

(This was written by me for the Parish of St Brelade magazine, La Baguette, which has since come out, so I'm re-using it here as my Saturday poem)

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through St Brelade
Not a creature was stirring, from house to boatyard
The double decker had gone, the final bus fare
Long gone were shoppers from Quennevais Square

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
And the allotments were quiet, no light in their sheds
Now St Aubin's was sleeping, with no geese in a flap
And beach shops had closed for a long winter's nap.

When in Reg's Garden, there arose such a clatter
He sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Glimpsed a red sleigh there, which went in a flash
Not speeding past 30, but still making a dash

Santa was coming, from La Haule to Corbiere
And his red sleigh sped by, with the tiny reindeer
Bouan Noue, he cried, as it passed every house
Where no creature was stirring, not even a mouse

And in the morning, while church bells rang out
The children exclaimed, with glee and a shout
As they saw presents, by the Christmas tree light
And the stockings of toys, that came in the night.

The Dry Land

In keeping with the weather of late and warnings over water...

The Dry Land
 
Land cold and dry, no water flows
And we shall thirst, and thirsty be
Rain may come, but no one knows
A clear night sky, no cloud to see
 
Land cold and dry, no water flows
Parched be throat, and dry is skin
The wind is rising, cold she blows
Days grow short, the light is thin
 
Land cold and dry, no water flows
Ghosts of summer haunt us still
Trees are bare, no leaf now shows
And Winter brings a bitter chill
 
And we shall dance on moonlit night
And dance for rain to end the blight

Whistle for the Wind

And for a windy day, perhaps the folk-belief that it was possible to whistle up the wind, and summon the spirits of the air and the ghosts of the ancestors...

Whistle for the Wind
 
The wind is rising along the beach,
Sand blows past the sea wall's breach;
Ahead, there is the half-ruined pier,
And some say there was buried here,
A whistle of strange design, carvings,
Of runic design, beneath the shifting
Coastline it was placed, perhaps lost,
In distant ages, beneath the permafrost,
Of colder clime, wrought from bone;
And meant perhaps for tomb of stone,
But left behind, forgotten, down deep,
Holding fast a secret power to keep;
Beware the stranger who comes across,
The whistle that called to the albatross,
With this, you would conjure the wind,
A mighty storm, not easy to rescind;
And more perhaps, O foolish man,
To call the note that sounds the clan,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad,
A shadow semblance drives you mad.

 

Weather Days

BBC Radio Jersey's challenge - a poem with three of the words - ubiquitous, sorry, Jersey and car.

My first poem, Sooner than You Think is here
http://tonymusings.blogspot.com/2011/10/sooner-than-you-think.html

This uses ubiquitous, Jersey, car

But I couldn't resist another - so here it is.

This uses sorry, Jersey, car!

It's a reflection on the halcyon days of Jersey tourism...

Weather Days
 
Do you remember fine summer day,
In August, sunshine and sand to play,
And not the rain we had this year;
Tourists came then, without a care,
To enjoy the weather, bucket, spade,
Flared trousers, shoes of suede;
Those were the days, in Jersey past:
The Sixties heyday, that didn't last;
With Hire Car, the Grockles came,
But leaving litter, all the same!
But come the evening, Jersey night,
We'd sneak out, so fleet and quiet,
Beachcombing the golden sands,
And pick up lots, it was so grand!
We were not sorry, collecting trays,
Buckets, spades. Those were the days!

Deathday

(tomorrow is now 2 years since Annie died)

Today is the day, my dear, when you left me;

I still remember that phone call, a shock to me:

So sudden, and I had spoken the night before,

And emailed. Now this – the sudden door,

Closed in my face, the news of your death:

So swift, the ending of a life, a final breath;

How I always worried when we slept at night,

Whether you would live through any night;

But it still came a shock, a thief stealing in, unseen,

All the lost time, regrets of what could have been;

Then my hand trembling, fumbling key in lock,

I remember driving, weeping, still in shock,

There to the hospital, to where you lay so still,

As if sleeping, and I wished that by an act of will,

I could say, awake, and you would rise and walk;

But I wept bitterly, no more conversation, no last talk;

And time has eased the burden, year by year,

That sensation of grief, almost so much like fear;

But the loss remains, the photo of you and me,

Still on the bookcase, a reminder that I see,

And so happy memories, your sharp mind,

Those are still there, not shut behind a blind:

Your love of Star Trek, and when I see it today,

I think of you, and I rejoice, this is our way;

My life changed the day we met, never the same,

And the day you died, it was as if I became lame;

I will remember you, until the day that I too die,

And may our ashes be scattered, so together lie.

Sooner than you think.

BBC Radio Jersey's challenge - a poem with three of the words - ubiquitous, sorry, Jersey and car.

I could have added sorry, but that might have been showing off.

And so - a poem linked to peak oil, and the prospect that one day petrol cars will be defunct...

Sooner than you think.

Ubiquitous rusting shells, as I pass by,
Once the glory, joy of salesman's eye;
But now, no more, those days no more;
And I see the hungry faces at the door,
As I ride by a house, brickwork decayed;
Didn't they listen? Peak oil to be paid:
A future cost, and so one dreadful day,
The pumps ceased, petrol went away;
And Jersey fell to silence on the road,
Where once the motor car bestrode;
No more fumes, and no more speed,
And I ride by upon my trusty steed.

Fifty Years

My Annie would have been 50 today...

Fifty Years
 
This was your fiftieth birthday, but it was not to be
And I remember you last, memories by the sea
The restaurant, the meal with all your friends
A last supper, a portent of the coming ends
But there was no pain, just a sudden moment
The morning death came, and you swiftly went
 
I watched Bill Bailey today, you so loved him
A surrealist improviser, humour built from whim
And I felt you would be there, watching, too
I could see your laughter, tears fall like dew
Time of joy, of memories mellow that I had
Yet tinged with loss, the parting still so sad.
 
Heat waves, and how you would have been
I can imagine you, on the lounger, a scene
Of rest and refreshment, you loved the sun
And colder winter weather did best shun
But you also enjoyed sunset, across the bay
And there your ashes went, scattered away.

 

Autumn Weather

Something for the weather outside, overcast skies, wind, rain...
 
Autumn Weather
 
Leaves fall from trees and blow away
When comes our Autumn Fall
Of golden browns and reds we spy
Till strong winds take them all
 
The waves grow ragged, fierce the swell
Across the sands so bare
The rain is beating down on us
And summer's end declare
 
The tide is high, the harbour walls
Can barely keep it in
Autumn storms, and heavy rains
Can soak us to the skin
 
But when the storm has come and gone
Where strongest gale blew
I walk and pick the blackberries
And make the jam for you.
 
At home, the logs are burning in the grate
And make the room so warm
When Autumn days are here again
A shelter from the storm

On Golden Sands

A poem reflecting on summer days gone by...

On Golden Sands
 
Along the beach, across the sand
Not here the stranger on the shore
But lovers, walking hand in hand
In touch connect, and so adore
 
Along the beach, across the sand
Sandcastles, and flags a waving
Then we stop, and there we stand
Kisses quench the lover's craving
 
Along the beach, across the sand
Seaweed beached, and limpet shell
And how it feels so good, so grand
And eyes reach out in lover's spell
 
Along the beach, across the sand
This was a heartfelt joy unplanned

Sweet Joy

Of happy memories of times past...

Sweet Joy
 
Sweet joy, to be so near
And hold you close to me
And kisses too, my dear
 
When loneliness comes so near
I cannot always clearly see
Sweet joy, to be so near
 
Once again, remove my fear
Memories of loving thee
And kisses too, my dear
 
Time to stroll along the pier
And walking by the sea
Sweet joy, to be so near
 
Stars in their appointed sphere
Tell lovers of the joy to see
And kisses too, my dear
 
Sorrow weeping but a tear
Forgets how it could be
Sweet joy, to be so near
And kisses too, my dear