Profile of a Woman in the Window by Odilon Redon, 1905-09, pastel on cardboard
Whispers Beyond
I dream in moon-murmurs, a language smooth and cool as rain, and if I try, I understand its meaning,
how after-aches, like storms, bring a luscious curtain of mist, that once raised reveals bare boughs, newly clothed in sparkling diamonds, while shadows dance beneath
still and full of movement, like a thought, there, gone, twinkling from beyond–the light of dead stars time whispers, an endless sea.
My message from the Oracle. It took a bit of work. I’ve had a couple of strange days, and I am catching up on posts and comments.
Moon setting in sunrise glow over the Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield.
Smiles of a December Dawn
The winter sky is red-suited, Santa on a flaming chariot,
in almost-light, river spirits dance and deer leap with a flash of silent white–
if I say leave, the dream goes, a soul secret–
it is all about perspective, vast spaces defined in a frame,
within my head, a universe, and that universe a speck–
see how the moon is merely a smile beckoning the geese onward?
My message from the Oracle. The photo is from last January, but it was good to see the sun rise today after days of rain and clouds. And I am often aware that my dreams are dreams.
after the storms, moon-shadows danced to fiddle tunes and dreams swirled in the air, dressing the forests in purple light, the gowns made of love, lust, hope, and fear.
These, the pictures that dangle beyond reach in an endless gallery– though I will recall some, if I can, before they vanish in the apricot sky, in the susurration of the river, and the cries of ospreys carrying them far into the clouds.
This seems like something I’d share in my Monday Morning Musings, but one doesn’t argue with the Oracle.
After the horrible heat and humidity, we finally got some rain—not enough—but we had a beautiful day yesterday and beautiful weather that will last through the weekend. And there was a full moon. Last night, I had some interesting dreams. The Oracle knows everything.
I’ve written of the river ghosts, but what about the dreams
that drift, twinkling like stars beyond reach—as far as
the eagle that soars so high, blink, and she’s gone–yet seen–
Bald Eagle flying over the river
or the shy deer with quivering ears who disappears—
but some dreams are like herons still and waiting to pounce,
A heron at Red Bank Battlefield, and two heron photos by Doug at Pittman Golf Club.
remembered with a sigh, a shudder, or a smile,
some–you want them to stay awhile.
History slogs, then leaps, slings arrows of love and hate.
Light and Shadow at Red Bank Battlefield
We are cool—then hot, here, then not. But
in a world where bees may think and feel, and trees whisper deep underground,
why is it strange to believe that stars sing, or that dreams might come true?
It’s been very hot and humid. We didn’t go anywhere this week, but we did celebrate Shabbos virtually with our children and their spouses.
Shabbat Shalom!
I had access from Focus Features for a free streaming of Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris. It’s what I think of as a “comfy” film. You know that there will be some upsets, but somehow it will all work out in the end. It’s sort of a fairy tale. The acting is excellent and the film looks beautiful. The Dior gowns, of course, are gorgeous. I thought later that though the dream to go to Paris to buy a Dior gown is not something I can relate to, most people have dreamt of doing something, so in that way, her seeking the gown is a sort of symbol and the movie a quest. It’s not deep, but it’s charming. A definite feel-good movie.
We also went to our video backlog and watched another play. This one was Pipeline on Live from Lincoln Center. It was excellent—both the play itself and the performance. The poem “We Real Cool” by Gwendolyn Brooks is referenced several times in the play. I found this wonderful video about Brooks and the poem by Manual Cinema on the Poetry Foundation site. We’ve seen Manual Cinema performances live twice, and their shows are wonderful.
And if you missed it, there was an amazing discovery at Red Bank Battlefield, the park where I walk nearly every day, that I wrote about here.
I’m very pleased to announce that I received Third Place in the Word Craft Poetry Syllabic Poetry Contest. The theme was Dreams, and the required form was tanka prose. I think tanka are very difficult to write, so I was especially pleased to be a winner. Congratulations to the winners of the First Place, Second Place, and honorable slots: D. Wallace Peach, Ken Gierke, and Jude Itakali. You can read all of the poems here.
My dream poem begins Between a sonnet and an ode, I can’t remember the rest, it’s vanished in the universe of my mind, a star to black hole or a comet to return with a blazing tail— but me without the telescope to see within
this galaxy of thoughts, my past, the fragments hurled through time, and filtered through the space debris of memory.
I’m left trying to determine what I meant, a borderland of form and matter, formal structure and rhymed connections, an abab skip to u– the meter set by moon rise and the rhythm by dawn choir.
I could sing the praises of a leaf of grass, the beauty of the vulture’s glide,
the river tides, or the scent of spring rain rising
Cloudy morning at low tide, Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield
the volta of each season, expressed in a grand reveal, or a subtle exposition
Peonies in bloom, Whitall House
unexpected, yet familiar, everything
may change in a flash light to darkness to light— while we dream, whether we remember . . . or not.
Sometimes I watch him dream
Movies, Books, This and That:
Good morning! A couple of nights ago, I dreamt an entire poem, and “Between a sonnet and an ode” was really the beginning.
April was quite a month of poetry, wasn’t it? Even though we still seem to alternate warm and cold days, the flowers say it’s now May, as do the goslings, and rabbits.
We fortified ourselves with bruschetta and roasted asparagus from a local farm stand to begin watching the final episodes of Ozark (Season 4, part 2). We watched two episodes—it’s intense, but no spoilers!
We had Chinese food and watched a Chinese movie (of course). 😏 Here is one that most likely few of my readers have seen,Gone with the Light. You’re welcome. The plot will sound familiar—there’s a flash of light and some people all over the world vanish. Trust me, that the movie becomes something quite different, a meditation on love. I enjoyed it very much.
I’m reading A Woman of Intelligence by Karin Tanabe. I just couldn’t quite finish it last night, but I’m really enjoying this novel of a woman who feels trapped in her life as a housewife in 1950s NYC after working as a translator at the newly created UN. One day she agrees to become an FBI informant, also becoming involved in Cold War spying—and feeling more alive than she’s felt in a long time.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 