 |
|||||
|
28:3 |
LYNX
A Journal for Linking Poets |
||||
 |
|||||
 |
|||||
COLLABORATIVE POETRY
DARK-WINGED MOTHS BREAKFAST TOGETHER ALONG THE BIKE TRAIL FINE FINGERS BLOWN AWAY White Lies by Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu & Lavana Kray AUTUMN FLIGHT HALF AND HALF Haiga Diptychon Wolfgang und Anne-Dore Beutke TANDEM SKYDIVE Sleepwalking Wolfgang und Anne-Dore Beutke SNOWFLAKES Blaze by Maire Morrissey-Cummins ZONSONDERGANG SUNSET OUT IN SOLSTICE THE TALK OF WOMEN Windows by Beate Conrad ONLY BIRDSONG HER DANCE CARD FULL Blackbird's Song by Ramona Linke WE STRAY CATS Leafy Way by Ramona Linke LIGHTLY FORSAKEN |
COLLABORATIVE POETRY
DARK-WINGED MOTHS cold moon ~ in mid-morning sun out for lunch dancing their two-step how does he see Orion into the view-finder dark-winged moths in a pink bucket with the heat on the foreshore a child cries across the patio orb weaver spiderlings
BREAKFAST TOGETHER barely a word it’s never too quiet telephone tears . . . overhead branches ~
ALONG THE BIKE TRAIL sleepless heat first task at a viewpoint locusts whirr
FINE FINGERS the Chinese busker school band ~ on the CD player rough mining town which song plays for me my love as a girl you clasped your guitar the swing
BLOWN AWAY smoldering sunset a couple hand in hand left right left right the hollow curtains spread around floor mirror—
White Lies by Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu & Lavana Kray
AUTUMN FLIGHT swallows on the wire— a sleepy dog afraid boiled corn quiet siesta facing the wind collapsed dam—
HALF AND HALF hot midday– cleaning up the stadium the street vendor's long climb ahead beyond the small iron cross from the floral clock
Haiga-Diptychon by Anne-Dore and Wolfgang Beutke
TANDEM SKYDIVE gentle spring rain ... thrown away the bunch she skips the dentist reflection – on puddled tarmac in the attic who’s that guy beyond joy or pain the caretaker sweeps up bicycle ride – the bag lady admires in the summer sales licking an ice cream cone traveller by train heading back mother’s day by the canal tow-path BBC camera man her automatic hand finds under the cushion a friend’s son has done my dead sister’s brother… bitter frost again today the piano tuner falling apart at the folds dmpd by txt lined up in orange overalls – listen: taking the downward track cutting back ivy delicate needle work keyhole surgery a crumpled sick-note Keukenhof* opens – as sunlight turns to shade
The Keukenhof, situated near Lisse, Netherlands, is the world's
Sleepwalking Wolfgang und Anne-Dore Beutke SNOWFLAKES emerging bit by bit... down on the wind farm during evensong from morning to night *** ruminants in the yard they start pruning we are student lovers after your passing still finding pieces *** sultry night of stars settling by moonlight moving house family & friends look on orange road cones blasts of colour radiate *** at the battle’s start a long swathe of buds behind the greenhouse he unlocks the gates Composed via snail-mail
Blaze by Maire Morrissey-Cummins
SUNSET ZONSONDERGANG The photographs were taken on the 2 nd of October during an exceptional sunsetfrom my balcony. Sunrise came later. From October on John, Han, Silva and Din wrote haiku or tanka for each photograph. * wolken zijn diepzwart the clouds are deep black golvend wolkenbed waving bed of clouds nachtwolken vluchten nightclouds fly
OUT IN SOLSTICE school’s out hot pink and yellow wrappings one more job bright star on top of the tree end of the world before Halloween is over beets uprooted I love my friends but no longer hoping a gift of angel earrings white lace wings stiff and creaking sledding down to my dance routine two thousand thirteen green thumbs poke fun at sunset the light lingers evening glow hot pink spire pokes the sky is it time the poodle must think explaining endless faucet dripping through my new love the cat doesn't come home only he can fix dungeons and dragons online lights a trick of the eye and time lost zodiac sign this circle of emotions trading off ready for some wildness golden beards in a spin the earth tilts Started: December 21, 2012
THE TALK OF WOMEN
rippling twilight's veil
Mimosa Tree the shade Camouflage a gecko steps
Pay Day the mall
Cold Hard Cash my engagement ring Treasure in Heaven on display Overflow a rainbow arcs Forgiveness tentatively Snow Weight young pines heavy with snow Remembrance from ancient days Unwelcome Visitor no place for this traveller
performing Mother’s Moment of Madness couples move in unison
shadow-boxing Lunar Cycles behind the screen Tonight aware the silent silver menace
in the monochrome
in your embrace
Windows by Beate Conrad
ONLY BIRDSONG dawn’s gray light So cold these early summer mornings, before the sky turns blue above the hill. Uncurling from the earth, the tree the carpenter spent two days trying to destroy is sending up fat green shoots. Since he made the steps too short on that end of the porch, I think the little bush will be perfect to fill in the hole. Now how to word a letter to a friend whose cancer has returned. school’s out a man in the moon Poznan. At one corner of the cathedral square, a John Paul statue, bronze robes billowing, his arms outstretched to bless. . . we bow our heads Shorter days, a cooling sun, the children’s scarves and gloves on the hall shelf again. for tea today
She seduces me with homemade goodies. Last week it was Dump Cake. In spite of the name, it is delicious and so easy to make. Grease a dish, add any combination of fruit – fresh or canned. My friend used drained crushed pineapple and cherry pie filling but the local bakery uses only fresh fruit. Over this you sprinkle one yellow cake mix – straight from the package - and dot with 2 sticks of butter or margarine. Bake for an hour at 350 degrees or until the top is lightly browned. how easy to love a woman It's all about healthy living and the heart here. Carbohydrates and sugars are the devils own foods, we oldies eat potatoes and chocolate in secret. Our young, lean in their early forties, seem to live on hard boiled eggs, bananas and turkey, and run miles after a day's work.We just smile and carry on digging the garden and chopping logs. . .we've heard it all before. on rainy days If love is the greatest good, why is it so hard for me to love myself? Even on the brightest, most delightful days, surrounded by every comfort, I will pick at my self-esteem like a scab on my forehead. I gnaw on my heart asking why I am not a better person. I bang on the back of my knees with rods demanding why I am scared to do this? too lazy to do that. I pull on my hair asking why do I let people do that to me. the sun continues to shine A cathartic fifteen mile walk, first in sunshine, and then in driving West Country rain. cold rain loosing control of my life I am like a creature obsessed! A short course in bookbinding has opened a whole new world of creative possibility. At present, tiny books, less than 2 inches square, with painted hard covers, are the favourite. It doesn’t help that I sat on my reading glasses, so straight edges appear curved.... the books become smaller as I scalpel off the edges to even things up working late I have this cat, you see. His name is Bu Kitty. He is out of a champion line of Bengals but was the runt of the litter and not big enough, for breeding so I was able to buy him for $600. He is beautiful, with the gold glitter coat and fantastic markings. In addition, he is smart as all these crossbreds are. It is like living with a very bright two-year old. There is no cupboard or drawer he cannot open, even the ones I have taped shut, and he has and will toss everything out on the floor if he is in a bad mood. Recently he found a new way to get back at me for shutting my door when he howls and I want to think. He got into a storage cupboard and peed on the clothes and boxes. I did not notice it until he had evidently emptied his bladder there repeatedly. Now he is sitting on the bare shelf where his indoor privy was – and howls. reading my horoscope again We have to lock the shed. The contents, sharp knives, nails, a bag of lime, the chain saw... could be lethal in the hands of a grandchild. The same grandchild who 'investigated' my lovely vase, bought for me on my fifth birthday, which looked like a pitcher plant.Now, when they come to stay, my remaining two treasures, a green jug shaped like a fish, and a turquoise Raku plate, are put out of sight. old photo album
Have you met Giselle Maya? A poet, artist, and gardener, she lives in southern France. Because of her need to garden, only in winter does she make books. It is as if the colder the weather gets, the more she is squeezed to make a book out of the poems of summer. Or perhaps it’s a harvest instinct. She prints the text on lovely papers and then uses covers of hand-made papers which she ties down with linen thread. The artist in her wants big pages so that the collection of her work towers alone on the top shelf. machine-age women don’t give up Purple iris by the steps, against a cobalt sky. . .germination of a hundred late-sewn seeds, tiny prayerful hands that pierce the soil to follow the travelling sun. My fingers rough from the garden, spoiled for finer work until winter comes - the cycle of things. oak-warden jay The green warblers have taken the birdhouse again. It was so late we feared that no one wanted to move into the house on our porch. We had noticed the swallows checking it out, talking to the real estate agent – the cat, and scoping out the neighborhood. It was hard not to feel some rejection as pair after pair turned tail to go for the ocean view from the cliff. Finally the other day I saw a warbler fly by the window with a long stalk of dried grass. Under the box were several rejected straws on the ground. Now all is quiet so we have great hopes. the weight of my moods Aya wrote a week ago asking for a tanka sequence for The Tanka Journal. I was so touched that she wanted something from me that the words seemed to flow through the window opened just enough to get the smell of the newly cut lawn. Perhaps I should have written about the beauty of the day, the warm wind from the pines, but I could not. The lines that formed wanted to work with a change in voice, a technique that not many writers use. I have been thinking recently about why writers write. Why we sit down day after day to bend our minds to words instead of lying in the weeds watching clouds sail by. river and sky
Inspiration only comes in the woods.I have to sit perfectly still, leaning against the great oak, until there is no I, no me. . . then the words. . .They arrive on a bird's wing, or rise with the river's tintinnabulation, or filter through the leaves with sunlight. wind five- folded What a gift life is. Life has flowed from one being to another – usually without the notice of any one on earth. Without doing anything other than being, air enters the baby’s lungs and it changes from an animal hooked to another of the species to an independent, still very dependent person. It is always amazing to me that a baby is born, naked and unable to go out to get food or clothes, and yet someone, if not the mother, will provide clothes, food and cuddling. All our lives gifts come to us daily in food, health, companionship and even in poems. the invisible heart Our only neighbours live in the cottage at the end of our field. The are both in their mid eighties and suffer various kinds of ill-health, she confined to a chair or bed following several strokes, he with angina and glaucoma. They welcome a visit for a chat and the opportunity to make a fuss of my dogs. Some days he waits in his garden by the fence, adjusting his teeth and looking me up and down.... my pensioner’s figure It has been said that life is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer to the end you get, the faster it goes. I think of this every time I look out the window and see the red hot pokers already blooming in the yard. Normally these torch lilies, from Africa, bloom in July, turning our humming birds into sugar-jagged warrior maniacs. This year, due to the lack of rain and wealth of sunny days, the bushes have been sending up just a bloom or two since April. So is it spring or is it summer at my house? Or as I slow down do the seasons approach faster? turning up the heat We are a class of seven year olds at Our Lady's Convent School. One August day, in sultry heat, we sweat over long division, which I can't understand. I am hauled up to the front by Mother Mary Bernard as an example of backwardness, and sent to the punishment room, where prints from Hieronymus Bosch line the walls. Dismembered bodies and demons poking people with glowing pitchforks.. a reminder of what awaits the less able mathematician. claustrophobia with
I worked on his letter for several days. Checking my grammar, hiding my gaps in memory and just trying to be interesting. A former classmate had found out one of our teachers, now nearly 90, was in a nursing home so she sent me an address where I could contact him. Days went by. I kept hoping that he was pleased with my effort or that I had brightened his day when he read it. Months later I get an email from his daughter saying he had died already last year. So he never got to read my love letter thanking him for the many memories. But! his daughter continued to write to me so that we have become real pen pals. black squiggles I still track him in dreams, the father I hardly knew. In this strange, dim world he lives just out of sight, just beyond reach. Strangers give me detailed directions, but whenever a dead end is reached, another, completely different route is explained. the voices are clearer Have you ever thought the world would have been better if you had never been born? before I was born That first time in the Nepal Himalaya changed her life. Entering middle age, the children grown, what use was she now? A part-time job, a large house, enough of everything she didn’t want anyway...was this the top of the slide into dotage? The trip put a full stop to the sentence. The poor, the have-nots, we have those too, but not like this. She began to collect them, the sickly ones, the homeless, the unschooled children. Her friends were called upon to sponsor, and she badgered small charities for donations, she made jewellery from lapis and turquoise, carnelian and pearl beads bought in Kathmandu, and sold them in galleries and craft fairs back home. Thirteen years on, she sees the farmer working his own land, the man with donor kidneys playing cricket with his son, and all the other children schooled and healthy, ready for work. a rain of blessings A beader! Another woman who beads! Who would have thought we would meet here under the light of a paper moon? I am so thrilled to meet you! Thank you for telling me your story. It lifts my heart and tells me if I had made jewelry with your purpose, I would still be doing it. Instead my love of placing one bead next to another has slid into pure pleasure. I have given up making jewelry – I almost never wear it myself – only to add sparkle to small stuffed animals. a round moon Making a special card for my husband's seventieth birthday.. an accordion-bound booklet, the boards covered with Chiyogami decorated with fireworks. Ordering online, I look through the other samples, tempted into buying a second sheet, with flying cranes and clouds. these few blank pages The sky is full of rain today. A skein of wild geese passed over the house this morning, soft bell voices fading up the valley. We have decided to sell up and move to a smaller place, with less land and a warmer house. One last great adventure. making plans He was a doctor and his wife was his office nurse. They went to the same church we did so we became friends. They had three children and so did we. One summer they invited us up to spend a weekend at the cabin they had rented on Hamilton Lake in the Sierras. In spite of being bone-tired from the trip, and the tending to three children under three years old, I could not rest. When I had walked into their fantastic A-frame cabin – as big as a house with two stories – it took my breath away. I was torn between letting my spirit soar up into the heights of the sloping ceiling and trying to get a meal and be a guest. Only when the kids were asleep could I that wild free part of my being into those spaces. dawn light remakes the world Searching for evidence of Green Man images in Exeter cathedral. . . The huge columns and fan vaulted ceiling, I was told, represent the wild forest, remnants of the old religion. There is one altar, with crucifix. There are several side chapels, with crosses, but high above, mostly out of sight, there are twenty four green men. Some are gilded, golden oak branches sprout from their nostrils and mouths, their heads garlanded with leaves and acorns. These are not loving gods, but fierce pagan forces, watchful, malevolent. the ring of iron Their wedding, which they called a Hand-fastening, was held in a magic grove of old redwood trees. Anne and Niven were magnificent as Lord and Lady of the Wood in outfits surely made by elves and fairies. Suddenly my matron of honor dress did not seem as outlandish as it had when I wiggled into it at home. Now there was a reason it had twigs and small branches sewn to it. Okay. Adjusting, adjusting. These young people do have other ideas. Okay. I am a hip old grandma. Okay. Then I saw the Best Man in a dress even more magnificent than mine. who calls the spring growing In verse thirty-four, you wrote 'The Best Man in a dress’. . . How my mind leaps to gay weddings, much in the news now, or even Grayson Perry, our famous English-transvestite-Ceramicist! But this is verse thirty-five, and i should settle on a branch sedately in a cloud of pink and white... garlanded with blossom
Father’s Day, in the USA. The day is bright with sun and wind. The bearded heads of tall grass are so heavy that they sway like long-necked animals searching the ground for some enemy. Maybe the fox we have heard barking in the bushes just before we go to bed. Perhaps it was he who robbed the quail’s nest. Mama and Poppa came out the other evening to feed with only one chick left from their brood. It is touching to see how careful they both are. The male stands on the outdoor table to make sure the world is safe for the surviving baby. celebrations yes! but the rub
Started May 19, 2013
HER DANCE CARD FULL
The first day of Spring. Tiny pellets of hail fall from the sky beating the heads of daffodils which again this year have arrived too soon. After the storm I go outside and prop them up, forming a circular hedge of stones around the base of their weakened stems. The earth is wet with the last of winter. A crocus nose pokes through the softened soil.
senior dance voice of my inner critic: Idiot! You stupid nincompoop! What a yuppie scum dweeb you are! That’s what you get for misjudging others. A whole morning wasted and a good idea gone forever. All lost because of you. Maybe in the future you will learn to read more carefully and with a more generous heart. Try not to be so eager to find faults in others and maybe there will not be so many in YOU!
Compiling the new anthology gives new meaning to the word come ,but more accurately to pile. As the paper and the print-outs mountain up on my desk I feel I am creating new geography – one that already contains a monster. No matter how many of my hours I feed it, there are still spots demanding attention. Talk about cleaning up messes! It sometimes seems that my own feeding the monster, makes more crap that I have to correct and retype.
Winters in Alabama are much different than the ones I experienced growing in Michigan. When I tell people down here I’m from Michigan, the first thing they ask is “Don’t y’all get a lot of snow?” I don’t miss the snow. I’d have to say I’m more of a snow bird than a snow bunny. I only miss the white stuff at Christmas. We had a yard-sized light-up manger scene when I was a kid. Sometimes there were four-foot drifts up the sides of the plywood stable. Christmas hardly seems worth celebrating without a baby Jesus swaddled in snow.
There were lots of boys in our church but for me they seemed too much like family to actually date. Besides, by the time I was in high school I was very interested in exploring other religions. Or maybe that was only my excuse. The Mennonite church seemed to bristling with attractive guys. With or without an actual plan I fell in and out of love with the complete roster. It was a small town. I married one.
It’s a little embarrassing telling people you’ve been married three times. I don’t tell most people. The first one shouldn’t count anyway. I was young and stupid—marriages shouldn’t count when you’re young and stupid. He was clingy and possessive and suffocating. The second one was very confident and not the least bit jealous. He gave me plenty of space. At first that felt a lot like freedom, after eighteen years it felt a lot like loneliness. I fell hard and fast for the third one. And even though my hair is now gray, I feel a bit like Goldilocks, having found that bowl of just right porridge. I’m just glad I don’t have to kiss anymore frogs.
two ducks How to tell my daughter I ruined her ipod. She loaned it to me to listen to some of her audible books. They were great! I loved getting a collection of Tom Robbin’s articles and even some of his haiku. Even a book I would never buy about Worm – the first of the digital wars was fascinating. I was deep into terms and speech that was totally foreign to me when I thought I should recharge the battery again. Bing! Every thing is gone. Do I need to buy her a new one? Should I get one for myself? This time I will get the manual.
date night
Date started: March 7, 2013
Blackbird's Song by Ramona Linke
WE STRAY CATS winter rain; This is a minor rewrite of a haiku written earlier this year. The original kigo was "autumn rain", and conveyed the grey depressing mood I often feel in the autumn. By changing the season to winter, the grey mood was deepened. Why the image of a cat? Since childhood, I often feel alone—even when surrounded by my large and loving family. The image of a homeless animal, preferably a cat because they are supposedly independent and very self-sufficient seemed appropriate to reinforce the mood of depression.
slat-thin ribs move I used 'slat-thin' to relate the cat and the boards of the porch. I have seen abandoned cats too weak to cry even though they open their mouths. Because this is the beginning, I want to elaborate on Pete's verse by sticking very close to his subject. the snow falling harder While Jane's link further describes a hungry cat, this link brings back winter and the overpowering silence of a snowfall, not to mention the implacability of nature. Whether the cat is starving or well-fed, the snow and its silence persist. closing an out-of-print book We had had three winter verses and I felt it was time to move away, yet I did not want to destroy the feeling of sadness and the fragility of life and experience. This event could happen in any season, yet its sadness places the link (in emotion) close to winter. the waning moon; The preceding link surprised me completely. This was a moon link so I had to stretch my mind to somehow tie the moon and book-learning and living all together. Once the moon and its traditional association with autumn were clear, the image of a tree shedding leaves seemed natural and made a good complement to the fragility in Jane's link. The word play of "old chestnut" and "leaf" from a book or tree was unintentional. leaving their packs behind Okay, end of page one, and time to shrug off the heavy sadness and depressed mood of this poem. By starting the link with 'leaving their packs behind' I wanted the reader to be able to leave behind the sadness and with the same resolution and exhilaration that mountain climbers carry to the summit, the reader would be encouraged to turn the page and go on with us. breathing deeply This was a recalled experience from climbing to a small peak in Zion National Park. It seemed only the air was there, the air I was so desperately sucking into my lungs and no matter how much I needed, there was more. In fact that was all there was and it was all I needed. I felt very small there, but completely cared for and a certain oneness. during our embrace The air around us and within us. A deceptively obvious thought, which, for my analytical mind, posed a problem. Since it was to be a love verse, I was doubly stymied. Fortunately, my unconscious came to the rescue with the idea of an embrace. Being surrounded by the ubiquitous air or the arms of one's lover was a bit of a stretch but, when the idea of a sudden chill was added, it felt right. weather report I was leery of being pulled into another "downer" by responding with a love gone wrong link, so I moved the chill to the weather forecast and tried to keep the sun shining. The link was (admittedly) pulled from my sleeve, having been written several years ago from an actual experience. on the porch Jane's link brought summer to mind, and, with it, a flashback to my childhood just after World War II —I am 53—when I would sit on the side porch in the late afternoon or evening. Often, I listened from my corner as the grown-ups talked while they rocked gently to and fro. I recall wondering what it was like to be grown up and be deeply concerned about politics and the weather. But that is all in the past, alive now only in my memories. Hence, the two vacant rocking chairs to convey the past and the departure/death of the two grown-ups. the tide ebbs This link was a conscious effort to show something positive arising out of emptiness. My hope was that the rockers were empty because the old guys had gone fishing. The lines came from a stay in a hotel in Holland that bordered dunes and overlooked a long beach. I had the feeling (from their stance and timelessness) that as the water receded one could finally see the fishermen who had been there all the time. Much the same way rocks appear at low tide. The key to Jane's link was its feeling of tranquility. After much brainstorming during which my left brain tried unsuccessfully to construct various storylines, the above fragment popped into my mind. The serendipitous sibilance of its "s" sounds made a further complement to the scene. shaking the moon The rebel in me wanted to say the surf is not a soft sound. The house I live in is about 30 feet from the cliff that drops to the shore so for me, the surf is neither distant nor soft. Thus, I wanted to bring a sound up close and though it is a tiny sound it can sound large. Because I had the moon I wanted to bring it up closer too, and I got the idea of having it in a glass with a drink. At first I had people rocking on the porch! By cleaning up duplicates afterwards, I had to get rid of both of those aspects and substituted my two talkative aunts (whom I love) who talk with their hands and whatever is in them. into the evening calm, Jane's link continued the tranquil mood and the moon provided an excellent hook. This was to be a summer link. For me, summer evenings have always symbolized a time of great calmness. The most appropriate way to depict that peacefulness was through crickets chirping. The hardest part was how to say it simply. But as often happens, my right brain offered the most straightforward solution. sharing a hug Do you see what is happening between Pete and I? He tries to settle the scene down, and the more he does it the more I try to introduce something to jar the tranquillity. I think this 'scene' is one I wish would happen more than something that happens. I sometimes feel I am too eager to be responsible, to do what needs doing instead of staying with the hug. the same old words The repetition of "boils and boils and boils" posed a special problem. After much fretting and fuming, it became obvious that another approach was necessary. So I focused on "sharing a hug". This straightforward image needed only a few sincere words by the two persons hugging. Even though they have been repeated to the point of tedium, the same old words are still true. say it with flowers At the time we were writing this renga, I was experiencing terrible headaches which were being treated with massive doses of ergot. So I do not know where the idea for these lines came from or really who wrote them. Marvelous puns and wordplay as foreplay; something I feel renga needs more of. on the breeze The "fertilizer" is not a comment on the spring flower link. Much as I loved its spirit of word play, I knew I could never match it. So I turned in another direction. The one idea with a common link to flowers and spring was "fertilizer.”
wind chimes The breeze in the previous link dominated my reply. It seemed sufficiently gentle to offset the harshness of the fertilizer's pungent odour. The leap to wind chimes was natural. They have fascinated me since they first made their appearance in my hometown some 40 plus years ago. The little glass panels catching the light, their soft tinkling when set in motion, that and more intrigued me as a child. But more intriguing now are those occasions when the breeze is scarcely strong enough to move the little panels.
small cracking noises It is interesting that Pete writes he visualized those first wind chimes with the glass pieces because, though the metal chimes are all around me, it was the glass ones I thought about. My memory of them, however, was how easily they were broken or perhaps a repressed memory of breaking them. And if Pete was going to have the chimes quietly hanging there, I as going to shake things up by breaking them. But all breaking is not destructive or an indication of loss—I got baby chicks out of the deal.
the overcast thickens The key word in the previous link was "roundness.” Just as the egg shells lost their shape, the sun's roundness can best be seen when the cloud cover thickens. It also provided a contrast between the loss of form allowing new life to emerge and the diminishing of the sun's life giving light. on the white glazed plate One of the lines from William Everson's poems about the San Joaquin Valley, where winter fogs last up to six weeks without letup (it seems) was something about "the pale plate of the sun in the sky". He was the first poet who wrote about the environment I was living in, the first poet I had read who was living in the area, and actually wrote of the simple things he saw. To the 'pale plate' of the sun I wanted to add color and goodness. early march dawn A winter link was called for. But after so much snow and cold and rain in the beginning of the renga, it seemed best to focus on another aspect of the season. Here in southern Quebec, in early or mid March, we often hear flocks of Canada geese honking loudly as they fly north. It is one of the first signs of hope on late winter days when, despite the storms and bone-chilling cold, the geese head back home.
many letters full of plans Taking 'heading home' as my connection I wanted to move from animals back to humans. When our families get together, it seems we have more communication putting the event together. When we are together, so much is happening that it expands the closeness we felt while planning. on the answering machine Everything is neatly planned and hopes are running high. However, something can and did go wrong. Even in otherwise excellent marriages. For example, my wife and I know each other's thought processes so well, we must specify precisely when and where we are to meet. Otherwise, when one of us is late, each of us tries to think like we think the other one is thinking . . . the resulting mental confusion is impossible to untangle. looking in the mirror "Where were you?" Where am I? And what is happening? Pete, who has been so calm and quiet in the renga, suddenly tosses in this surprise! angry voice. He had me scared and I really did not know where to go with renga from here. So I disappeared. the fog not thick enough This is another love verse. Here absence and parting are the connections. Jane sees nothing in the mirror and the fog hides a car which is leaving. In both cases, someone or something invisible is present. The fog which could also be seen as a shroud added a further level of blankness. humans inventing God This is one long leap, I admit. This link comes much more from what I was thinking about on the day it was my turn than as an effort to link to Pete's verse. Perhaps, at a deeper level, I was very angry with how much I have had to "unlearn" in this life that my parents taught me I had to know. With my thought I was having to leave behind so much I had always prided myself on doing and thinking and believing. high overhead This was a particularly hard link to develop. While all the other links offered a relatively easy handle with their clear cut images, this one seemed most vague. This was to be an autumn moon link. Ultimately, the only way to answer the previous link was to focus on the idea of God and to use the prosaic image of distance through height. The moon image allowed for this and the judgment of its decline to insignificance was an example of putting human attributes on an inanimate object. first frost on the pail Something disappearing. Something white. Something almost winter. There it was—frost, milk and the real memory of my Grandpa bundling me up so I could go out with him to milk. Seeing him lift the frost rimmed pail from the dairy room drain board, walking bent the way I now walk, over to the cow wearing the metal hobbles. How he leaned into the cow's side as he spoke to her and the rattle of the first warm stream of milk hitting the bottom of the bucket. mountain evening If you have ever picked huckleberries, you know the purplish blue color your hands, the enamel pan, the wooden spoon all acquire. The same color the sky turns as the last light leaves it. After cooking down the berries for juice, I would add the leftover berries to apples for a pie. Huckleberries are ripe in August so I would just be finishing the whole job at dark. an armload of apples Huckleberry sky was a new term, but the thought of pie cooling on the kitchen table and its aroma filling every part of the house was too strong to ignore. It seemed only natural to carry an armload of apples for perhaps another pie? Indian ponies Dappled was the link for me. From my window I look up a sea meadow where five (six since last month) pinto ponies graze. When the sun shines on them the white spots seem almost golden. the trail of hoof-prints broken Horses running and the winter snows melting and running off. Motion in both links. Spring is to be the theme of this link. The force of the water cuts across the ponies' traces and removes them so effortlessly, just by being itself. Despite the ponies' youth, the snows of last winter, a season often associated with death or old age, gain new force with the warmth of spring, a season usually associated with new life or rebirth. home-grown lettuce It is somewhat of a wonder how our well water, which has a lot of minerals in it, can go into the lettuce and taste so good. In the spring we have lots of water (spring run-off) and are able to water lettuce. Later the garden goes dry and we have to wait for spring again for the goodness of homegrown veggies. perched on the old pump handle, A spring verse to end the renga. One of my favourite paintings by Robert Bateman features a bluebird perched on the handle of an old fashioned pump. The handle's wood is grey with age and much use. I have always enjoyed the contrast between the small apparently young bird and the old pump handle. The painting so fascinated me that I keep a copy of it on my office wall.
Started: Mar. 5, 1996
Leafy Way by Ramona Linke LIGHTLY FORSAKEN so lightly forsaken carried by the wind hidden immortal on feathered spindrift even the moon's face two snakes twined together jealousy locked hanging from the branches river words the sleeve sunset on a wall nevertheless without shadow on bright days if it is you ripple wraith taking has he trees with bare limbs now nothing each day more clearly blood-stained sheets our bed where oysters grow best afraid the pillow nights on the cabin floor Imperial news worshipping the goddess earth in the fifth month screams and banged drums I long to beg you a circle their desires for this even in my dreams artic snowfields it is now pale rain writing letters when Written: June 14, 1990
za¹kripa¹e Branka Vojinoviæ Montenegrin
creaking
| ||||
|
|||||
| |||||
|
|||||
Back issues of Lynx:
|
|
Materials Copyright © designated Authors 2013. Next Lynx is scheduled for February 1, 2014.
Send to: Werner@WernerReichhold.com | |||
|
|||||
