Poetry Archives

Poetry Train - 178 - On That Glorious Day

2010-11-14T20:15:00.000-08:00

I'm on Day 14 of NaNoWriMo.

For the Poetry Train this week, here's a teaser from my current NaNo manuscript, currently at 23,000 words.

This is a found poem taken from my prose work-in-progress. It introduces the Lady Elysande, the noblewoman who takes the adult Scorpius - featured each Saturday in my serialized fiction - to work for her as her chamberlain when he is released from captivity along with her cousin, a hostage of a rival royal family.

The events of this poem take place in Elysande's young childhood and just as she comes into womanhood, as a youth. But it's narrated by the man in her life, Xaviero, the captain of the guard at her family's estate. For readers of my Weekend Writer's Retreat, Xaviero is a figure from Richolf's storyline.

On That Glorious Day

His body trembled
Trembled with the knowledge that it
Was finally over

No more waiting
His beloved approached
With slow
And measured steps
Her skirts rustling as she
Crossed the stone floor

Xaviero dropped to his knees
Beseeching her with
A tormented gaze
“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

He'd knelt before her once before

On that glorious day
When they'd first met
“How do you know how he feels?” he'd asked
Meaning the guard he'd put to the lash

She'd shrugged

“Do you submit to me, darling one?" she asked now
She smiled at him so sweetly
She was like an angel
An angel of vengeance
Sent to make him pay

He could barely see
Past thick tears
He didn’t need to see anything
Not in this moment
Of complete surrender

“Look at me, my lady,” he'd said on that first day
In a tone
That would not tolerate
Anything
But obedience

She'd done as he'd commanded her

“I have a feeling
You’re not like most of
The other little girls. Hmm?”
He'd smiled a secret smile
One that already knew something about her
That she didn’t know herself

“It’s good to feel pain with your pleasure,” she said now.

“Yes,” he whispered

“Most of the time
You don’t feel
As if you should
Have any pleasure at all
Do you?”

“No,” he said
Twisting his face away from her
How could she know that
About him? Why
Did it feel as though she’d
Brought him before a mob
Disrobed him before a thousand condemning eyes?

He'd gazed at her
On that first day
And said, “You think I should have been kinder.”

She'd clutched her ribs
As though finding it tender to breathe
“He’s in so much pain.”

“What were you doing out there?” he'd asked

“I heard…” she'd begun, squirming
“I heard him crying out.”

“The children’s garden
Is a fair distance from
My guard house,” Xaviero had said.
“I have put other guards
To the lash before
And never once did any
Curious little girls
Come to watch.”

“It’s not right
That you should feel pleasure
When you’ve hurt people,"
Elysande said now
"Hurt them so very badly.”

Self-recrimination
Flooded his chest like
A sucker punch
He gasped

“Make no mistake, my dear one,” she said

He pulled hard
At his wrists and ankles
But cuffs held him fast
“You are going to suffer
As long as I am here to make you suffer.”

He shook his head from side to side

“And every time I make you suffer
A little more of that darkness
Is going to come to the surface
Where I can see it.”

“Please don’t,” he said
Turning away from her gaze
Which burned him

“Tell me what you’ve got buried
So deeply inside you.
You know what it is.”

A surge of rage
Coiled through him
He pulled hard
On the wrist cuffs
Raising up to look her in the face

“The proof, you mean?
The proof of my sins?
Oh, I’ve got enough of those
I’ve got enough sins rolling around in here
To keep us busy for a century.”

“Maybe they’ve heard it before
And never came close enough,”
Elysande had said on that first day

“Perhaps,” he'd said. “Perhaps.
But I don’t think so.
Most little girls
Don’t have the stomach for
Military justice.”

“I’m not like them,” she'd said.

“I didn’t think you were.”

Was it true, what she said
He wondered now
If he did as she commanded
Would some of that horror
He’d put other men through
Finally leave him be?

He was exhausted
He hummed with joy in his chest
He felt lighter in so many ways
His beloved was cracking him open
She would not be stopped
Whatever she demanded, he must
Give to her

He’d used his rage
On those people he’d tortured
Rage that was fueled
By the realization that
She’d been the wrong age
When he’d finally found her

“Perhaps
What I should be telling Nurse,"
He'd said to her on that first day
"Is that her little charge has
Cravings
For things that little girls
Shouldn’t want to see.”

Elysande had pulled herself
As tall as she could make herself
And looked him in the eye

“You may tell her anything you wish.
She wouldn’t believe you,” she'd said
In her haughtiest tone

He'd shifted his weight then
Moving smoothly from a crouch
To a kneeling position

“I know exactly
What I’m asking you to do,” she said now

He shook his head
“You don’t know what I’ve
Done to people, Elysande.”

“I’m beginning to
Get the idea.” He gasped
When she took his face
In her hands
Forced him to look
Into her eyes
With the merest tug

“You knew about me
From that very first day
In the barracks yard."

He winced
As if she’d struck him

“Well, you weren’t the only one.
I knew something about you, too.
I didn’t know what to make of it.”

He tried to shake his head, but
She wouldn’t let him
She squeezed his face harder
His eyes grew large with dread

“Nurse has already discovered things
About you, hasn’t she, my lady?”
He'd asked on that first day
He'd bowed his head
As though he were her servant
And not a man who commanded a garrison
“She once suspected
There was something about you
But it frightened her
And – dear thing – she loved you,
Didn’t she?
Didn’t want her sweet little darling
To be taken away.”

“Who would take me away?”
She'd blurted out.

“I won’t lie to you, lady.
Powerful people
Would take you away.
Have you put to death.”

Tears had welled and shimmered
In her eyes
Xaviero had reached his finger
To wipe them from her cheeks
He'd opened his arms
She'd all but leaped into them

His body now trembled
Trembled with the knowledge
That it was finally over
There was to be no more waiting

“I think it’s safest
That we keep this to ourselves,"
He'd said on that first day
Cradling her into his shoulder

“How do you know about me?”
She'd asked finally
She'd pushed back
So she could gaze into his eyes

“I’ve been different, too,” he'd said
“In my way.”

“Always?”

He'd nodded

“And now?”

Now she smiled at him
So sweetly
She was like an angel
An angel of vengeance
Sent to make him pay

He could barely see
Past thick tears
He didn’t need to see anything
Not in this moment
Of complete surrender

“The proof, you mean?
The proof of my sins?
Oh, I’ve got enough of those
I’ve got enough sins rolling around in here
To keep us busy for a century.”

© Julia Smith, Nov. 14, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Detail from Roman Centurian, Legio XX, 1st Century AD by Chris Collingwood

Poetry Train Monday - 174 - No Courage Left For the Next Time

2010-10-17T07:47:00.000-07:00

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.

It's a backstory poem for my falconer character, Richolf, who is featured in my serialized Saturday fiction. I was just brainstorming his storyline over the weekend at my annual real-life writer's retreat at White Point Beach, Nova Scotia.

I've based him on Scottish-Peruvian actor Henry Ian Cusick.

No Courage Left For the Next Time

Cowering in ceaseless dark
He didn't know what was worse
The waiting
The knowledge there was no more waiting
The tiny flame of hope
The hopelessness
The weight of iron on his wrists
The moment of weightlessness
The sound of their footsteps coming for him
The silence of solitary
Were they coming with food?
Would they drag him down the corridor?
Would they break something?
Would he beg them to stop?
He didn't know what was worse
The memory of his cries, his screams
Or the knowledge there were more lurking inside of him
It was hard to say
Hard to know what was worse
It was all worse
He could see no way out
There was no courage left
For the next time he heard their footsteps
For the next time the keys clicked in the lock
But he was so hungry
So thirsty
Maybe he heard something
Maybe they would bring him something
He had to ride the turbulent hope and dread
He had no choice
The iron pressed down on his wrists
The cold seeped up from the stones
The bruises ached from the last time
His stomach growled
He hoped they arrived soon
He hoped he never saw them again
He couldn't take much more
How long did it take to go mad?
Or was it already too late?

© Julia Smith, Aug. 9, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 173 - There For the Taking

2010-10-11T07:56:00.000-07:00

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.

There For the Taking

New day
New blade of grass
New whisker

I'll mow
Snip
Pluck
Shave
Tidy

New dawn
New wave breaking ashore
I'll stand
As it washes over
I'll trust
Anticipate
Rejoice
Reflect
Revive

© Julia Smith, Aug. 3, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 172 - The Things That Aren't Things

2010-10-03T07:52:00.000-07:00

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.

The Things That Aren't Things

Things in my room
Castles and Palaces of Europe
Schloss Neushwanstein cookie tin
A red McFarlane dragon figurine
With its crystal ball in its talons

Things in my room
A framed collage of The Arts, signed by the photographer
A framed Taming of the Shrew ballet poster signed by the featured dancer
A dry-mounted poster for my 4th year film screening, including 'Exposed Film' tape to secure the date & time of screening

Things in my room
A pile of photocopied pictures featuring the actor-muses for my fictional heroes from last year's writing retreat
The 'Bravo!' card featuring a single pink rose that Brad gave me when I finished my very first NaNoWriMo
A pile of paperbacks written by fellow members of my writer's group

Things in my room
Two pairs of slippers, one fuschia, one black
An outdated computer tower & monitor
A pile of my dog's stuffed toys she's stashed under the bureau

Things in my room
A pile of programs from special National Ballet of Canada performances
An old cassette tape of my dad talking
Two spiral notebooks containing family stories I've collected

Things in my room

© Julia Smith, Aug. 22, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 171 - Further In and Around the Corner

2010-09-26T07:50:00.000-07:00

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.

Further In and Around the Corner

Maybe not right now
But soon
Maybe not on my tongue
But I can taste it

Perhaps the vision is too
Misty to grasp in my hands
Perhaps the words are muffled
Drawing me further in and around the corner

Maybe the climb is still steep
But at least I have those mountaineering clips
Perhaps I run out of day before I run out of done
This journey becomes more soothing, revealings its own joys, its own insights

© Julia Smith, Aug. 27, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 170 - Defining Moment #2

2010-09-19T08:59:00.000-07:00

This backstory poem for Richolf, my falconer character who appears in my Saturday serialized fiction, was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.

Defining Moment #2

Delicious glances as they wove between the other dancers
Three sword points levelled at his face
The searing bite of the blade upon his brow

His invitation to the soiree
Had been heartfelt
By a grateful noble
One of the hunters who
Wanted to reciprocate
The falconer's hospitality

"Go on, go on"
His master had urged
Declining the offer himself
A twinkle in his eye

So many beautiful girls
So many intoxicating ladies
Richolf danced with them all
Smiled at them all
Clasped her hand
Brushed his lips upon her knuckles
Locked gazes
Felt the heat

Until he was called outside
Surrounded and threatened
In the chill night air
The sweat from the party
Turning to the sweat of fear

He'd danced with the wrong girl
He didn't even know which one
Had inspired these three sword points
To level at his face

A kick from behind
His cry hanging in the night air
The distant sounds of the soiree
His heart beating as he realized
All the moments of his life
Would end in this dusty moment

But the hands which held him
Only meant for the sword to
Kiss his brow
A reminder for life
Not to mix his lowly breed
With that of one born to the blood

They left him
Laying in the dirt
Dripping red between his fingers
That still held the thrill
Of all those girlish hands
Those womanly sighs

© Julia Smith, Aug. 25, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 169 - Drawing You In

2010-09-13T08:55:00.000-07:00

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment last month, just after my sister's second wedding shower, hosted by her new family-in-law.

Drawing You In

Your in-two-weeks sister-in-law
Had tears sparkling in her eyes
As you held up the
Handmade
Cooking apron

All the women
In your new family
Have a handmade apron

With her thread
She draws you in
With her stitches
She binds you to her
And to all of them
Even before you say

"I do"

© Julia Smith, Aug. 30, 2010

My sister with her husband and his brothers and sisters. The sister who made the apron is second from left.

There will be lots of wedding pix for Thursday Thirteen - never fear!

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 168 - Son of Whispers

2010-09-05T08:50:00.000-07:00

Well - I did it.

Starting on the night of July 31st/Aug. 1st until the night of Aug. 31st/Sept. 1st, I wrote a total of 31 poems for the 3:15 Experiment.

"Founded in 1993 by poets Danika Dinsmore and Bernadette Mayer, the 3:15 Experiment is an annual 'collective consciousness' writing experiment.

Each year a menagerie of poets scattered across the globe wake EVERY August morning at 3:15 am and write. An epic conversation, this exercise explores hypnogogic and hypnopompic states (between sleeping and waking), challenges writers and provides insight into the collective sleeping/dreaming mind."

- Gwendolyn Lawrence Alley / Danika Dinsmore / Tod McCoy

Technically, the idea is to set your alarm for 3:15, wake up and write a poem, but I had already decided that the alarm thing wouldn't be necessary, as I generally get up at least once a night. The poets who run this event also insisted that the exact time wasn't important, as many people who would participate in this event are naturally awake at 3:15 am.

The important part was to write in that sleepy, half-awake state. And to be honest, I feel that I've never written poetry so easily or so vividly.

I've definitely been learning over the years to ignore my inner editor and just write. It's never been easy for me. But I've kept at it. In fact, writing this blog has been an instrumental part of learning to let go and just post it, already.

For the month of August I posted five of my 3:15 poems - in their raw state, as scribbled in the hazy dream state:

At Least

I Love Your Desire

Expecting Someone Altogether Different

You Reached Out

Defining Moment #3

I'll be posting all of my 2010 3:15 poems on the Poetry Train, as they appeared in my bedside notebook. If I work on any of them in the future, I'll state the transformation status.

This is a backstory poem for the adult Scorpius, whose childhood I'm exploring for my serialized Saturday fiction. I did a series of poems exploring this period in Scorpius' life, and it brought on an actual nightmare for me - an unusual and jarring experience.

Son of Whispers

Dragged to the room of torment
He expected to see
The man whose unlimited creativity
Drew the sounds he most despised
From the darkest parts of himself
He expected to see
One lord or another
Who stood in the gloom
To question him
He did not expect to see
The fellow captive

This man
Was definitely
Of the blood
Though just as pale
Just as frightened

Yet it wasn't the noble prisoner
Who howled
When the lord
Would not answer their questions
Dragged to this room whenever
Their captors needed privileged information
He watched the
Tears collect and fall
In the eyes of the nobles
Who fought to keep their secrets
At his expense

Over time
There were things he
Expected to see
But when his fellow captives
Were freed by ransom
He did not expect
To hear the voices raised
Beyond his cell door
The negotiating
The keys jingling
The door creaking open
Yet no guards to drag him
To the rendezvous with agony

He did not expect
To see the face of the noble
Pale
Haunted
Resolute
He did not expect
To see the lord's hand
Reach out to beckon
To coax him forward
Who could expect
That their freedom
Would demand his own?
The shock stole the strength
From his legs
Which refused to work
His head swam
His heart beat too fast
But freedom would not be
His undoing

He dug past the point
Deep inside himself
The point which always
Slammed hard into resolve
The point his jailers knew
So many routes to uncover
He grabbed fast to that part of himself
He made his legs move forward
He ignored the tipping
Of the walls and ceiling
He crossed the threshold
Into the corridor
Not dragged

He knelt before the noble
Who had wept at his torment
Who'd never given up his secrets
Who'd come for him now
When his own freedom
Would have made it easy
To leave the son of whispers
To perish on the damp stone floor

© Julia Smith, Aug. 11, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 167 - Defining Moment #3

2010-08-29T08:43:00.000-07:00

Danika Dinsmore inspired this poem when I read her post about creating defining moments to develop your characters.

This 3:15 poem takes a look at Richolf, the falconer from my serialized fiction which appears on Saturdays.

Defining Moment #3

the sound of the slap
the wildness unleashed behind her mask
the lips he wouldn't kiss for some time yet

Like every man
He'd heard the tales
Of beholding a maid
And feeling thunderstruck

When he heard the crack
Of her hand upon the boy's face
His head snapped to follow the sound

He crept through the trees
Silent hunter's feet
Keeping his secret

There she was
Tall and broad as a dragon
In her fury

The youth curled low
Hands protecting his head
As her blows pelted like coals

He waited
Till her hand ceased the striking
And latched onto the boy's collar instead

He waited
Till the blade-edge bite of her voice
Finally reduced the boy to tears

He watched
As the fire never dimmed from her eyes
Merely spread from her gaze, from her hand

Till she wrapped the crying youth
In her arms
Till his sweat and tears stained her breast

He never stirred
From that tangle of branches
Which shielded and held him

She never knew
Till much later
So many days and nights it took

But he'd fallen for her
The moment he'd heard that slap
In the echoing wood

She never knew that he would gladly
Have taken the blows
Just to feel her hand upon him

That the sight of her parted lips
As she spoke the words
That drew the tears

Had robbed his legs of strength
He could have fallen to his knees
Before her wrath

He was glad he waited
A hunter has patience, after all
Her lips were so much sweeter

When they finally parted
For his sighs
And all her heat was for him

The boy had not known
What to do with such a storm
So why provoke it?

But he could ride this hurricane
He loved how it felt
To have limbs snap off, rooftops torn off

© Julia Smith, Aug. 26, 2010

How to participate in the 3:15 Experiment

Starting on the night of July 31/Aug. 1, set your alarm for 3:15 am, wake up, write a poem in the midst of your sleepiness and go back to sleep. Repeat each night for the month of August.

Visit the originators of the project for more information:

Danika Dinsmore

Gwendolyn Alley

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Detail from Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses by John William Waterhouse

Poetry Train Monday - 166 - You Reached Out

2010-08-22T08:38:00.000-07:00

Les McKeown Week wraps up here at A Piece of My Mind with this poem written a week ago for the 3:15 Experiment.

How to participate in the 3:15 Experiment

Starting on the night of July 31/Aug. 1, set your alarm for 3:15 am, wake up, write a poem in the midst of your sleepiness and go back to sleep. Repeat each night for the month of August.

Visit the originators of the project for more information:

Danika Dinsmore

Gwendolyn Alley

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

You Reached Out

When I first read about
Your ordeal
I felt as though
My girlhood joy
Had contributed to your
Thirty years of torment

At first
When I gazed once again
Upon your face
From those old photos
When I realized
What had happened
I looked down
I saw blood on my hands

I wish all of those
Girlish hearts
Had been enough to shield you
But I'm grateful
That one woman's heart
Was your haven
That your son
Helped you to see
That boys should be cherished

You spoke against your attacker
But no one would listen
How could a boy
Ward off a predator
Who'd built such a web of terror
Who carved misery
Into so many psyches

You grabbed your own life back
From the chasm's edge
I know that's why
My girlish heart
Thrilled to you
When you gazed into the camera
And reached out

Reached out

Somewhere inside me
I knew that pain lurked
Somewhere inside you
But I also recognized
The courage
You have shown
Have always shown
In the face of it all

© Julia Smith, Aug. 15, 2010

Poetry Train Monday - 165 - Expecting Someone Altogether Different

2010-08-15T08:28:00.000-07:00

Last week I mentioned my husband's suggestion that I write a sexy poem. And several of you wondered if I'd written one.

Here it is - it may actually be more romantic than sexy, but who's quibbling?

Expecting Someone Altogether Different

On my day off from work
I threw on my shapeless
Comfy black pants
My slightly-too-big
Cotton top
My grass-stained garden clogs

I shuffled into the car
To pick you up from work
And because the timing
Had been so close
With Mom not knowing
If she'd be back from the store
If you'd have to call a cab
I parked the car
I went in the store

With my day-off-from-work
Unwashed hair
Stained clogs
Shapeless clothing

How many women
I thought to myself
Would enter their
Husband's workplace
Looking like this?

When you saw me
Your eyes lit up
Your smile was not
For the customer before you
And she could tell
She turned to look
I'm sure she was expecting
To see someone
Altogether different
Attached to the smile
To the look
You gave me

© Julia Smith / Aug. 14, 2010

How to participate in the 3:15 Experiment

Starting on the night of July 31/Aug. 1, set your alarm for 3:15 am, wake up, write a poem in the midst of your sleepiness and go back to sleep. Repeat each night for the month of August.

Visit the originators of the project for more information:

Danika Dinsmore

Gwendolyn Alley

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 164 - I Love Your Desire

2010-08-08T08:20:00.000-07:00

So far, so good with The 3:15 Experiment.

The 3:15 Experiment? What's that, again?

Starting on the night of July 31/Aug. 1, set your alarm for 3:15 am, wake up, write a poem in the midst of your sleepiness and go back to sleep. Repeat each night for the month of August.

I haven't set my alarm at all for this event. I seem to wake up naturally at about that time anyway. Likely the originators of the event realized that people's sleep cycles do these things and set the wake-up time to coincide with it.

For today's Poetry Train, here is my eighth middle-of-the-night poem, in its raw stage, as written at 3:00 this morning.

I Love Your Desire

"What time is it?"
I ask
Returning from the bathroom
"Quarter to three"
My husband answers
Kissing me
"Time to write
A sexy poem"

- Julia Smith, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

For more information on The 3:15 Experiment, visit Danika Dinsmore and Gwendolyn Alley and they'll fill you in on all the details.

Poetry Train Monday - 163 - At Least

2010-08-01T14:33:00.000-07:00

I'm taking part in The 3:15 Experiment for the first time ever.

It began back in 1993. I signed up to do it last year when I first heard about it, but I was only a few months into my acupuncture treatment, and at this point last year I was still struggling through my days with chronic pain issues.

I enjoyed reading the poems that emerged from this poetry event over at Art Predator's blog, however, and this year when it rolled around again, I made sure I was ready for it.

For more information on The 3:15 Experiment, visit Danika Dinsmore and Gwendolyn Alley and they'll fill you in on all the details.

The Coles Notes version:

Starting on the night of July 31/Aug. 1, set your alarm for 3:15 am, wake up, write a poem in the midst of your sleepiness and go back to sleep. Repeat each night for the month of August.

For today's Poetry Train, here is my first-ever middle-of-the-night poem, in its raw stage, as written at 3:30 this morning.

At Least

Tried to get home
But it had snowed
Tried to return
But the snowfall was epic
Tried to get inside
But the front of the house was plastered
Tried to clear the way
But there was no shovel
Dug in with my two hands
My two mittened hands
Snow shot up inside my sleeves
Tried to get in
Long hours ahead
Two mittened shovels

At least
The porch light was on

- Julia Smith, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Photo by Steve Gallagher

Poetry Train Monday - 161 - The Snags of Life

2010-07-18T14:31:00.000-07:00

Having spent wonderful hours in the yard this weekend, and looking forward to more on my time off this week, here's a Loop Poem inspired by my garden.

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

The Snags of Life

Standing in the garden
Garden opened wide
Wide enough for all
All to step inside

Treasures peek from corners
Corners beckon sweetly
Sweetly spiced and tempting
Tempting me completely

Shadows cool and knowing
Knowing boughs that wave
Waves of color flicked by breezes
Breezes gather seeds to save

Garden beckons, gathers
Gathers butterfly and bird
Bird takes refuge here
Here the snags of life are cured

© Julia Smith, 2010

Poetry Train Monday - 148 - American sentence 6

2010-04-18T06:13:00.000-07:00

Just got back from the first of three intense evenings of choral singing:

Sunday evening rehearsal, the first with Nova Sinfonia and our guest conductor, Dr. Mark Shapiro, from New York.

Monday evening dress rehearsal

Tuesday evening - concert!

I confess I was a bit nervous all day, knowing that he would make us work hard. We're a combined choir of amateur singers ( my choir, Dartmouth Choral Society and the Chebucto Singers) and he's used to professional singers.

However, he turned out to be extremely forgiving, yet at the same time took hold of us and yanked us up to stand tall and let loose our inner divas.

For today's stop on the Poetry Train, I give you this American sentence:

First violinist introduced conductor to director - old charm.

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

For any of you in the Halifax area, my concert is on:

Tuesday, April 20th
St. Matthew's Church
1479 Barrington St., Halifax, Nova Scotia
7:30 pm

The concert program:

Schubert's Mass No. 2 in G major
Vaughan Williams' Antiphon from Five Mystical Songs
Schubert's Symphony No. 9 in C major

Tickets are:

$15 adults
$10 seniors
$5 students

Poetry Train Monday - 147 - Something Which He Knew and Which I Did Not

2010-04-11T08:14:00.000-07:00

This poem began as a writing exercise from this afternoon's workshop, given by Renee Field.

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Something Which He Knew and Which I Did Not

I stood in the great hall
In my best doublet
My doublet stiff and musty

Sweat collected along my brow
A draft blew the tapestry behind me

I stood in the great hall
My feet both heavy as stone
Well drilled in court dances

Roland and Stuart entered
My relief loosened a loud guffaw

In the great hall, those around me
Stopped their conversations
Stopped to stare at me

I hurried to join my friends
I wiped the sweat upon one brow

In the great hall, Stuart's voice broke
It broke as he said, "There you are, old man."
Roland grabbed my arm, dragging me

Out of earshot
"We've news."

I stood in the great hall
As Stuart said, "She's here,"
"She?" I said

My heart stuck in my throat
Roland nodded toward the end of the hall

I stood in the great hall
As Roland said, "Yes
And he is also here."

Something told me not to look
Just then

In the great hall, I stood there
A glance and
I locked gazes with Guilford

Why don't I ever listen
when something tells me not to look?

I stood in the great hall
And Guilford smirked over something
Which he knew and which I did not

- Julia Smith, Apr. 11, 2010

Poetry Train Monday - 146 - No Cure

2010-04-04T08:56:00.000-07:00

Hard at work on the second draft of my vampire story, this long weekend. It's inspired this assessment of the affliction I suffer.

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

No Cure

Story attacks like a virus
No cure except to write
First attempt inside out
Like the transported fly

Years of workshops
Tears of surrender
When it just won't make sense
When it won't leave you in peace

Light bulb moment
Only leads to dissection
Your story's scenes sliced bare
Moments amputated on the floor

Rebuilt version sent out
Fragile as spun sugar
The heart bruises
With every rejection

An offer is made
A contract is signed
Champagne cork popped
Dreams now stock on a shelf

Someone you've never met
Stays up all night
Reading your story in one gulp
As another story attacks you

- Julia Smith, Apr. 4, 2010

Poetry Train Monday - 145 - Make Me / Take This Tune - 1

2010-03-28T13:58:00.000-07:00

For today's Poetry Train Monday, I'm taking a prompt from the Take This Tune meme, which posts on Friday's for a Monday meme. Take This Tune is hosted by Jamie from Durward Discussion and Fairweather from Fairweather's Red Mud Inn.

Here are the Take This Tune guidelines:

A video will be posted each Friday as a theme. Write anything you like based upon that video, the lyrics, or just a story that in some way ties in with the idea. You may use a written piece, photography, or poetry. Post your contribution on your blog the following Monday (the official day, but everybody cheats with any day of the following week) and link back here so that others can read what you have created. Have fun.

This week's prompt is Red Staggerwing by Mark Knopfler. Here are the lyrics I'm using for my prompt:

If I was a Fender guitar
A Fender painted red
You could play me, darlin'
Until your fingers bled

If I was one of them Gibsons
Like a '58 or '9
You could plug me in
And play me anytime

- Mark Knopfler

And now, my poem for both memes:

Make Me

No woman ever held me
The way I hold my guitar
No woman's curves fit into mine
The way my Dobro sighs

If only you could hold me
Coax the sighs from me like that
There's a song inside me yearning
For the right fingers
For the right pressure on my neck

Pick me up
Strum me
Coax me
Make me sigh
Make me sing

- Julia Smith, Mar. 28, 2010

Poetry Train Monday - 143 - American sentence 4

2010-03-14T08:22:00.000-07:00

I've been working on two stories this weekend, my vampire story and my convict gardener story. Since one of the supporting characters has been on my mind a lot, here is an American sentence from his point of view.

Mr. Bent is a settler on Van Diemen's Land in the mid-1840's. When he hears that Robbie once worked as a gardener at an English country house, he takes Robbie off the road party to work as a convict laborer on his farm.

I always cast my characters, and Bent is based on English actor Ray Winstone.

Neck cloth soaks with sweat, but hides the scar from the iron one I once wore.

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Poetry Train Monday - 142 - Delighting in Our Tribe

2010-03-07T08:43:00.000-08:00

Another meeting of my writers' group this afternoon. Something I look forward to with both arms outstretched.

Thanks for a lovely lunch, thanks for the wisdom of craft, thanks for the example set, thanks for every laugh.

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Delighting in Our Tribe

Delighting in our tribe
We draw our strength from words
A kinship undescribed

Laughter peals, we imbibe
Conversations spun, heard
Delighting in our tribe

Affection slung with jibes
Guffaws at the absurd
A kinship undescribed

Rx so sweet prescribed
Embrace our inner nerd
Delighting in our tribe

Inhale creative vibe
Our dreams, here undeterred
A kinship undescribed

No one to circumscribe
Our muses stroked, chauffeured
Delighting in our tribe
A kinship undescribed

- Julia Smith, Mar. 7, 2010

Poetry Train Monday - 141 - American sentence 3

2010-02-28T13:20:00.000-08:00

*insert crazed war whoop*

I composed this latest American sentence mere seconds after Sidney Crosby scored the tie-breaking goal for Olympic gold in the most stressful hockey game ever.

Hats off to uber-amazing US goalie Ryan Miller and the agressive American team who forced me to physically hold a hand over my view of the Canadian net throughout the entire game. Interactive audience participation - what can I say?

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Olympic gold so tough to grasp, making victory all the sweeter.

Poetry Train Monday - 140 - American sentence 2

2010-02-21T13:07:00.000-08:00

I waited until the hockey game was over before writing this for the Poetry Train. I was hoping I would have a much different American sentence to craft.

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History always repeats itself, even if it takes fifty years.

Photo by Harry How

Poetry Train Monday - 138 - Falling With Abandon

2010-02-07T06:19:00.000-08:00

With Valentine's Day approaching, here's an ode to love, which I wrote this evening after indulging in watching ballet pas de deux on You Tube.

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Falling With Abandon

Love yearns
Yearns like the sea
The shore always slipping through
Fingers of foam

Its absence cr-
-acks
cracks the heart
Cracks like a dry lake bed

Love refuses
Will never give in
Love scrambles like tiny turtles
Scrambling from the sand for their watery refuge

It stalks with lethal prowess
Stalks like the panther gazing
From the shadows

Love competes
Love collides like
Tangled antlers

It shyly flirts
Flirts like the cocked head of a kitten

Love swirls
Swirls in the pit of the stomach
Swirls like dervish snow squalls

It bursts from the breast
Bursts like startled flamingos

Love burns without warning
Love burns like orange flame
Flame wrenched from trees by blue lightening

It falls with abandon
The abandon of a glacier calving
Into the open arms
Of the sea

Love kicks with springy delight
Rambunctious delight
The springing leap of young goats

It protects
Love protects like a bear's
Swiping claw

Love soothes like the tongue
The tongue of a doe nudging her fawn

Its joy spreads
Spreads through the cosmos
Spreads like smiling stars
Stars revolving in the vast night

- Julia Smith, Feb. 7, 2010

Panther photo by Liorah_Lleucu

Poetry Train Monday - 137 - American sentence 1

2010-01-31T10:39:00.000-08:00

Last week was the first time I didn't post a poem since I started riding the Poetry Train on May 14th, 2007.

It felt weird. But I decided to leave up my protest against Stephen Harper instead, since there was a national initiative to introduce the prime minister to actual ordinary Canadians, rather than the ones he thinks populate this country.

I had intended to give a new-to-me poetry form a try, so a week later, here is my first American sentence.

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Jockey for spot at frigid gas pump not like fight for rice in Haiti.

For a trip down memory lane, here's my first-ever post for the Poetry Train: The Artisans

Photo from Monsters and Critics

Poetry Train Monday - 136 - She Was Too Strong For Me

2010-01-17T06:26:00.000-08:00

Here's a backstory poem for one of the characters in the story I worked on during NaNoWriMo in November.

Cavan is the grown son of the village wise woman in a 6th century Welsh village. He spends his days hiding his own sorcerer's power from his mother. He both adores her as a son and fears her power as a witch.

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She Was Too Strong For Me

My cries filled our hut
My cries
Mother roused long enough to soothe me
I was too distraught to fight off
Her quick charm

I slipped back into sleep
Slipped back for
More torments

Sat up
Whispered words of my own charm
Sadly, I whispered
With a seething anger

Did all mothers try so hard
To care for their sons
Did all mothers force sons to be cruel
To break away from so much caring

I jerked awake

Mother stirred

I moaned
Tried to force myself
Past Mother’s whispered charm
She was too strong for me

An eerie comfort, her strength
"No…" I moaned
Sweating with effort
I fought her
Fought the invisible bonds

I lay
As though deep in sweet slumber
I sensed Mother rising
Sensed Mother creeping over
To look

Felt her soft fingers brush
A sweaty tendril of
Hair from my forehead
I moaned

Mother bent down
Mother kissed me
She whispered a soothing charm
Thinking to keep her son safe
From dream demons

Couldn't she hear
That my moans were really screams?
Her charm muffled them
Like thick cloths stuffed hard in my mouth

I fell into dreams
Down and down
To places no one should be made to go
“Hush, now,” Mama said

Forcing her breast in my mouth

I shook my head from side to side
Protesting this outrage
She guided my face with
Immovable hands
I was made to suck

In a while it comforted me
But I had sharp little teeth

I watched as Mama’s face
Lined with the pain of feeding me

- Julia Smith, Jan. 17, 2010

Poetry Train Monday - 135 - The Sheer Terror

2010-01-10T15:59:00.000-08:00

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The Sheer Terror

I listen
I listen to two friends
I listen to two women
Two mothers

They worry
They worry with their mother’s hearts
They worry over their teenaged children
Their children

Nothing to worry about, I say
They sound like wonderful kids, I say
Remember what you did, I say
Remember when you were their age

That’s when panic rises in their mothers’ hearts
That’s when they remember the things they never shared

But aren’t you sitting here today? I say
They will get through it, I say
That’s easy for me to say, with my woman’s heart
Easy to say with my friend’s heart

I will never know the sheer terror of their mothers’ hearts

- Julia Smith, Jan. 10, 2010

Poetry Train Monday - 134 - Holding Christmas Near

2010-01-03T15:56:00.000-08:00

Welcome to a brand new year aboard the Poetry Train!

Here is my newest poem, freshly crafted this evening. For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Holding Christmas Near

Not yet ready
To put Christmas away
Not yet ready

Mom whipped up a
Huge pasta dinner
Mom gathered us to her
Not yet ready to put Christmas away

The tree remains
Stands at a safe distance from
Neighboring eyes
The tree remains
Behind closed blinds, brightly shining
We still hold Christmas near

My husband and I clear the way to this table
Clear the way through the fresh page of snowfall
My husband and I clear the way for fresh starts
Mom gathers us round the table
Still holding Christmas near

My sister and her honey bundle up through the cold
My sister and her honey bring news and laughter
Mom gathers them round the table
Still holding Christmas near

Not yet ready to put it all away
Auntie and Uncle bundle up through the cold
Auntie and Uncle bear smiles and hugs
Mom gathers them round the table
Still holding Christmas near

Uncle bears salad greens
Grown in his greenhouse
Grown with no heat source but the sun
We eat the earth’s bounty
Freshly picked this January day

The tree remains
The lights still shine
The laughter still erupts
The appetite for family never wanes
Still holding Christmas near

- Julia Smith, Jan. 3, 2010

Poetry Train Monday - 133 - The Latest Year of My Life

2009-12-27T13:30:00.001-08:00

Here it is - the final found poem for 2009. I'm using the villanelle form, but without rhyming, as that would interfere with the found poem status.

This is taken from my diary entry for the turn of 1980 into 1981. This was a big year for me - first onstage roles in high school where my theatre bug was activated, and of course my first boyfriend, so my first taste of what it meant to be in love.

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

The Latest Year of My Life

Looking back, the latest year of my life
I listened to records most of the day
I opened dams, debuted, changed, conquered, loved

I finished Life Before Man, got dressed, packed
I packed to go to Windsor for the night
Looking back, the latest year of my life

We left as soon as we were all ready
We girls had hamburgers and french fries, laughed
I opened dams, debuted, changed, conquered, loved

We girls retired to Julianne's room
The Top 100 on CJCH
Looking back, the latest year of my life

Read magazines, talked about guys, listened
We laughed and laughed and laughed like maniacs
I opened dams, debuted, changed, conquered, loved

We rang in the New Year with screams, kisses
Screams, laughter, kisses and lots of hugging
Looking back, the latest year of my life
I opened dams, debuted, changed, conquered, loved

- Julia Smith, 1980

Poetry Train Monday - 132 - All Morning, Most of the Afternoon

2009-12-20T13:24:00.000-08:00

For my second last found poem for 2009, I've returned to my diary from 1980, when I was in grade eleven.
My high school years were wrapped around the Prince Andrew Chorus, and I still cherish my friendships which have continued from this sparkling time in my life.

We used to go caroling at Christmas time, heading towards the home of whomever hosted a party afterwards.

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All Morning, Most of the Afternoon

It took me all morning
Most of the afternoon
To clean all the party mess away

Dad and Michelle had driven me
Up to the portable
Quarter after seven
They'd come inside
We'd waited for everyone to come

I didn't mind it, though
Cleaning the party away
Cleaning gave me the opportunity
To think about last night again

Last night Dad and Michelle
Piled all the munchies people brought
Piled them into the car
And carted them home

Dad was laughing so much
Laughing at how crazy the portable is
I felt so happy
Happy to see him enjoy himself so much

We'd all set out at 7:30
To sing our little Christmas songs
It was absolutely freezing
I'd had two layers of everything on

Cleaning the party away
It took me all morning
I thought about last night again

We'd gone a little ways down Spikenard
Down Farquarson and Shawinigan
Down Guysborough and Mount Edward to Kelly
And then to my house

We'd sung two verses of one song
Then We Wish You a Merry Christmas at every house
At Ted's house where
We'd gotten molasses candy
At this other house where
They'd passed a box of Turtles among us
We'd sung a verse of O Come All Ye Faithful
Besides

We'd sung two verses of
Joy to the World
Under the carport at my house
Mom had laughed
At all of us frozen carolers
As she stood in the doorway

Most of the afternoon
It took me to clean the
Party away, but I
Didn't mind
I thought about last night

Everyone had piled in
Had peeled their coats off
Mom had dished out the
Hot mulled wine
I'd scurried to my bedroom
I'd changed into my new dress

I'd danced
Danced
Danced
We'd all gathered around
The piano

As people wrapped their
Arms about each other to
Sing, how it made me
All warm inside

It took me all morning
It took me most of the afternoon
I cleaned all the party away

I thought about last night
How we'd all set out
How we'd sung our Christmas songs
How freezing it was
How I'd worn two layers

How it made me all warm inside

- Julia Smith, 1980

Poetry Train Monday - 113 - Special Indeed

2009-08-09T13:10:00.000-07:00

Fresh on the heels of my step-niece's wedding yesterday, I thought I'd share a memory of my dad from another wedding 16 summers ago. The piece of found poetry is taken from a prose piece in my family history book.

This took place at the pre-wedding breakfast for my cousin, Julianne.

Special Indeed

The morning of
Julianne's wedding

Julianne's wedding to Stephen

The family gathered
Gathered in the dining room for breakfast

Breakfast in the mansion-turned-hotel
The hotel rented out completely
To the wedding party

Dad had arranged
On the morning of
Julianne's wedding
Arranged for a floral delivery
That morning of Julianne's wedding to Stephen

Dad gave all the special women in his life
A beautiful red rose

A red rose for the bride-to-be
A red rose for his daughters
A red rose for Mom
A red rose for Auntie
A red rose for Gram

On the morning of
Julianne's wedding
All the women in Dad's life
Felt very special indeed

- Julia Smith, Aug. 9, 2009 / original text 2000

Poetry Train Monday - 112 - Before They Went Up the Stairs

2009-08-02T12:15:00.000-07:00

I have a collection of family stories which I coax out of as many relatives as I can. For today's found poetry, I've taken a prose entry from this collection and turned it into a poem.

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Before They Went Up the Stairs

Great-Grandpa Meuse would take
Two weeks' vacation

Would come home
To see his family
During the 'teens and 20's

"No wonder
The children were born
Every second year,"
Gram chuckled

Eugene Meuse
Travelled throughout Canada
Picking up work
Wherever he could find it

He worked
On a ranch in Red Deer, Alberta
On the Welland Canal construction
In Ontario
In a logging camp
Deep in the winter woods

He worked many jobs
In the days before
Social safety nets
It was find work
Or
Your family starved

He took out insurance
When he travelled on the train
Insurance so his family would be
Taken care of
If anything should happen to him

Once he got home
Gram remembers her parents
Retiring to their room

At the time
She didn't realize
What they were
Up to

"I remember them
Goin' up the steps, you know,"
Gram said
Putting her hand over her mouth
Laughing at the thought

But before that
They would head over to his mother's

Gram remembers seeing them
Walk over, arm in arm

"They went to see his mother
Before they went up the stairs,
I think!"
Gram said

Laughing again

- Julia Smith, Aug. 2, 2009 / original text 2000

Poetry Train Monday - 111 - In His Neighbour's Boat

2009-07-26T12:08:00.000-07:00

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For today's piece of found poetry, I'm heading back into my 1980 diary.

That summer I lived the thrill of my first romantic relationship. This is from an afternoon and evening spent at my boyfriend's house. He lived on a lake and was one of seven kids. Coming from a family of two sisters myself, I just adored being gathered into the mob of his large family.

In His Neighbour's Boat

Mr. Savage found me a
Bathing suit

Philip, Barney, Brigie and I
Went swimming

The water was
Warm

I stayed for supper
Clam chowder, which was
Good

Pat lent me his
PA High School grey sweatpants
And an orange jacket

I went sailing
With Philip
In his neighbour's boat

While the neighbour
- Peter -
And Philip
Set up the boat

I held onto Hannah
Peter's delightful little baby

Sailing
Was a lot of fun
We had to
Watch out for
Speedboats
Skiers

The waves
They made
Were fun

- Julia Smith, July 26, 2009 / original text July 22, 1980

Poetry Train Monday - 110 - Forest Bed

2009-07-19T12:03:00.000-07:00

Saturday would have been my friend Pam's birthday, so I was thinking about her all day. She passed away a year ago last week.

Today's found poem is taken from a prose writing exercise from March of this year at my writers' group. We were doing a workshop on color, and I had to write something focusing on the color green.

Who else could I think of for green but my Eco Hero friend, Pam Langille?

Forest Bed

Deep
In the Acadian forest
I sit

Under the canopy
of fir trees
Deep

Green needles sway
In the breeze
Filtering the light

Through greyed
Brown branches
Emerald green leaves

Poke through the firs
Beech and birch
Bright moist green moss

Coating fallen trunks
Gathered back
Into the soil

Soft feathery green
Lichen clings
To rock

The rock that marks your place
Your place is among the roots
Of the shining ancient hemlock

Soft
Little
Green

Needles draped
Over
Your forest bed

- Julia Smith, July 19, 2009 / original text March 2009

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Poetry Train Monday - 108 - A Saucer and a Jar

2009-07-05T08:50:00.000-07:00

This piece of found poetry is a journal entry from six years ago.

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A Saucer and a Jar

Noticed a loud war whoop outside
Mom called
Said there was fire in the woods
Just behind our house

Brad called it in
We quickly dressed
Put our dog in the kitchen
I grabbed a saucer and a jar

We ran out around the house
To the ball field
A garbage can on its side
Contents on fire

Dead tree
One end in the can
Underbrush smoldering already
Brad and I set to work

Threw sand from the ball field
Onto the fire
I went under the trees
Rolled the can with my foot

Out from the trees
Onto the grass
Kids lurking in shadows
Behind school

Kids called out to us
Said Fuck you
We returned the compliment
Brad told them to come out

So he could kick
Their fucking asses
Cowards I taunted
No one came out

Fire truck
Eventually arrived
Brad sprained ankle
Running to meet them

Three firemen
With foam spray-can
Put out remains of
Smoldering fire

They said they get called
To this area repeatedly

Washed soot
From my arms and face
Put our smoky clothes
In a bag

Put a cold cloth
On Brad's ankle
An hour later
Heard crashing in the woods

I shouted
I wouldn't stay there
If I were you
Heard a bird-type cry

Brad called it in
I got dressed
Stood in front of house
To wait

A mountie pulled up
To talk to me
She drove around the school
Told me doors were bashed in

She said I'll be
Working on that tonight
At any rate
Got a call

Have to act on that
She said
Drove off
I headed inside

Sat on the couch
Brad's sore ankle
On my lap
Our dog all tired out

Next day
Went to ball field
Rolled garbage can
Across the grass

To the brick school
Left it standing on gravel
Appealing to laziness factor
Hope they won't want to move it so far

- Julia Smith, 2009 / original text August 2003

Photo by Ralph Maughan

Poetry Train Monday - 107 - Squandered

2009-06-28T08:47:00.000-07:00

Continuing on with my year of found poetry, this is a short piece of prose fiction that I wrote as an exercise when I belonged to a writer's group in Yarmouth. I've reworked it here as a poem.

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Squandered

Terry glanced down
At the worn felt
Yellow, purple, blue monster sitting
On his right hand
Tusks bent for lack of stuffing

Terry had a sudden
Stabbing memory
An especially windy street performance
Wonky torn from his hand and Bill
Had actually chased the puppet
Into traffic
Nearly getting crushed
In the process
He returned with a
Drippy Wonky

Terry had felt
A ridiculous urge to
Hug Bill
For his heroism

Thank God
Bill would have thought
It was just
Terry's creative personality
Effusing over
Normal social boundaries

Terry had often
Wondered
How he'd ever been
Friends
With such a
Conservative straight arrow like
Bill

Or how Bill managed
To religiously meet with Terry
For workshop sessions
Bill the editor
To Terry's throw-another-one-out-there style

He supposed
Those afternoons
Were Bill's only forum for
Creativity

He tried to take it
From the top

One more time

The old routines
Were not
What he was
Looking for

It was hard
To shake himself up
To natter to thin air
How was he to
Bounce things
Off himself?

He supposed he'd have to learn how

Bill was gone

Bill was dead

Now
All he had left
Was a schizophrenic puppet
Who had holes for an identity

Wonky was trying his best
Wasn't he?
But all his ideas
Were duds

- Julia Smith - June 28, 2009 - original text 2001

Poetry Train Monday - 104 - I Can't Handle It All

2009-06-08T08:40:00.000-07:00

My computer's still in the shop, so my blog schedule is a bit of a challenge right now.

Here's my latest found poem, taken from a diary entry from 1980 when I was in grade ten, my first year in high school. All through the school year I'd had a crush on Philip, a guy one grade level ahead of me. We were both in choir together.

This poem follows a memorable moment for me, one which helped me to decide that he was perhaps as interested in me as I was in him.

I Can't Handle It All

I can see it in his eyes
Can sense it when I'm next to him
So much happened to me today
I can't handle it all

While walking to Math
He saw me
Backtracked through the crowd
Told me he'd see me
The last two periods in the afternoon

At the beginning of Study
He came right out to
The Music portable
To work on Romeo and Juliet
With me

Fate must have been with me

I learned from Mike
That I'd be getting last period off
Phil had last period off
I forgot Romeo and Juliet at home
We got our books and walked
To my house

I didn't have the key
I had to crawl through the window
And run to unlock the door
To let him in

He'd had to carry his sax
All the way to my house
The saxophone is heavy

We listened to Dave Brubeck
He got out his own saxophone
And played along to the record

We went in the kitchen
And worked on Romeo and Juliet
It's going to be funny
I can't wait

My sister came home
He helped her clean the fishbowl
He made himself and me
Some good British tea

He asked me to come see him perform
With the jazz band at 7
So Connie and I went
We came in just as
Phil was doing a solo

The movement caught his attention
His eyes flashed
As he looked around Mr. March
At me

His excitement to see me
Danced all over his face
Over the top of his music

When I waved at him
He gave me a wave back

When the band finished playing
He hurried over
To sit beside me

It's so wonderful

- Julia Smith, 2009 / original text June 6th, 1980

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Poetry Train Monday - 103 - Taste Life

2009-05-31T08:33:00.000-07:00

Continuing with a journal I wrote seven years ago, where I examined positive and negative reactions to people, things and circumstances, here is my latest found poem. I've taken a section of my notes concerning positive emotional reactions, and have reworked them into a poem.

Catch other poets - Ride the Poetry Train.

Taste Life

Roses
Any and all kinds
Fill me with
Serenity
And joy

Shrub cutting
That first tiny green shoot
Dormant buds in spring
Intense thrill
Goes through me

Physical exertion
Being able to
Work my body
Not accompanied by asthma
Makes me feel strong and very happy

When I dance
Get into the dance trance
Extreme feeling
Of empowerment
The funkier the better

When my dog
Cuddles up to me
When we're on
The couch
Deeply-felt well-being

Eating
Densely satisfying things
Rice, beans, oatmeal
Lentils and bread
Taste life

Encircled with family love
Being hugged
Having a rub
Husband's sexy voice
Beautiful smile and deep blue eyes

Admire
Melt inside
Delight
Almost unbearable
Exquisite feeling of being truly alive

- Julia Smith, 2009 / original text 2002

Poetry Train Monday - 102 - Does It Ever End?

2009-05-24T17:57:00.000-07:00

Last week I turned part of a journal into my latest found poetry. I'm going to continue with the same journal for awhile.

Here's a look at some of my negative emotional reactions to situations and things.

Ride the Monday Poetry Train Revisited.

Does It Ever End?

I often get
Scenes which include
Flogging
They come to me
In my writing
It's like being haunted

Raw meat
Really hate looking at it
Handling it
Rarely cook meat at home

Flogging scenes
Come to me
Haunted by the
Sounds of it

Human musculature
Really, really hate
Anatomy drawings
As long as there is
Skin present
Dancers, athletes
I'm a big fan of
Well-developed muscles
But not the raw-meat variety

Flogging
It's like being haunted
By the sounds of it
By the cries of pain
Apparently
I try to work this out
Through my characters

Circumstance in life
I complain about:
Manager who tries to
Demean me
Put me in my place

Faults I notice most
In others:
Scapegoating
Blaming
Self-interest
Cowardice

Injury or disease
I fear:
Any pain purposely
Inflicted.
Torture.
Re-injuring my knee

Circumstance
I purposely avoid:
Won't beg
Or plead
For anything
Had to learn
To ask for
Help

Still difficult

Not keen
On addressing crowds
Don't really like it
When
Everyone's looking at me
Waiting
For me to speak

Experience or activity
I especially fear:
Having to bear
Horrible pain
Loss of the esteem
Trust
Respect
Of those I love
Truly losing control
When I'm
Enraged
I fear
Hurting someone

Haunted
By the sounds of it
By the cries of pain

Apparently
I try to work this out
Through my characters
They come to me
In my writing
It's like being haunted

- Julia Smith, 2009 / original text 2002

Stills are from the Russian film 1612.

Poetry Train Monday - 101 - Greatly Enjoy / Great Fear

2009-05-17T16:34:00.000-07:00

For today's found poetry, I'm heading into a workbook journal I started in 2002. It's a past life journal, following the exercises in You Can Remember Your Past Lives, a used paperback I picked up when I was out with my husband. We were on our way to see Black Hawk Down, which is something I noted in the journal. Coincidences should always be noted when you're dealing with past life stuff.

I've always believed in reincarnation, even when I was young and hadn't really been exposed to the concept of it. Likely because I've personally had break-through memories come up for which I had no explanation as a child. My recovery of past life info has been a constant thread in my life. I saw a past life therapist while I lived in Toronto and had five sessions with her.

Once I moved back to Nova Scotia, I did personal meditation work and mindful observation of things in my life. When I found this book, it really helped me pull my personal work together into something I could look at and learn from.

My poem today is taken from the results of a rating-system quiz called Reactions to Stimuli. Ratings from 5 to 1 were given to various cultures, people, animals, weather and environments to take stock of my natural attractions and repulsions. This is a beginning marker to see where I have past life issues and strengths. 5 represents greatly enjoy, totally comfortable. 1 represents great fear, distaste, discomfort.

Greatly Enjoy / Great Fear

Greatly enjoy
Totally comfortable
British gentry accents
Scottish accents
Swedish accents
Russian accents

Enjoy kings or queens
Enjoy Catholics
Enjoy liberals
Enjoy teachers

Dancers, musicians greatly enjoy
Writers, directors enjoy greatly

Brunettes, totally comfortable
Blue eyes greatly enjoy
Grey eyes
Toned muscles
Correct body weight
Tall - enjoy greatly
Long hair, comfortable

Babies to 3 years
Enjoy, enjoy
Little girls and little boys
Adults aged 20-40
Total comfort

Dogs
Enjoy, comfort
Panthers
Totally great
Wolves
Enjoy. Great
Horses
Comfort - total

Being in water

Being alone outdoors

Being

Total comfort

Crowds, part of the masses

Books and reading

Enjoy greatly

Great fear
Distaste
Discomfort
Evangelical faiths
Fringe groups

Fear conservatives
Fear fringe political parties
Fear fundamentalists

Bureaucrats - distaste
Corporate executives - distaste
Salesmen - distaste

Thin body types
Hunger
Discomfort

Bulky muscles
Cold
Discomfort

Mice as pests
Distaste

Arid climates
Distaste

Loud noises
Discomfort

Great fear - tornado
Great fear - lightening
Great fear - sensation of falling
Great fear - crowds as mobs

- Julia Smith, 2009 / original text written 2002

Ride the Poetry Train! Click HERE.

Poetry Train Monday - 100! - Don't Give Him What He's Fishing For

2009-05-10T16:28:00.000-07:00

This post feels very special to me. It's my 100th offering on the Poetry Train.

The original Poetry Train was started by a blogger named Rhian/Crow woman. She's a photographer and fine artist who also gathered a lively group of poets around her for a wonderful season of creativity. When her artistic pursuits took her in a new direction, the Poetry Train derailed for awhile.

I chugged along, naming my posts Poetry Monday. I couldn't hop off this thing.

Miracle of miracles, Gautami Tripathy began the Monday Poetry Train Revisited. Bless you, Gautami! Even my poetic words cannot express what the Poetry Train has meant to me.

I'd like to thank all the readers who stop by this blog on Mondays. Your comments are sweet as raindrops to me.

I'd like to embrace all the poets I've encountered on this journey. Your work has never failed to inspire and intoxicate me.

I look forward to the next 100 posts with hunger, passion and awe.

You can check out my previous posts in my archives. Click HERE.

Today's found poem is a writing exercise I did at one of the writer retreats at White Point Beach in Nova Scotia. I've reworked it into a poem.

Don't Give Him What He's Fishing For

"Beep. Beep. Beep.
Mrrm. Mrrm. Mrrm."

Little plastic wheels rolled
Back and forth, back
And forth
Across the cement floor
"Taran, honey," she mumbled
Turning onto her side

The rolling continued
Without sound effects
For some reason
That made it seem worse

Anya flipped the worn blanket
Aside

Sat up

Head swirled for a
Long moment
She waited

The spots in her vision
Fizzled away

Taran knelt
Rolling the moon mobile
Around himself
Scooting to keep up with the toy
He wasn't so
Pale this morning

It made her growling stomach
Easier to bear

"What are you doing?"
She asked
As if they were in the playroom
And not
This cell

"My guy is
On his way to
Lunar Space Station 12."
Taran didn't look up

"What's he going to do?"
She asked
Rubbing her arms
Trying to get some
Circulation going

"He's going for help."
Little plastic wheels rolled
Back and forth, back
And forth
Anya's heart hollowed
In her chest

"Is there help
At the space station?" she asked
Glad her voice didn't shake

"Yeah," Taran said
Hair falling over his eyes
She was glad he didn't look up
Just then

Anya's pulse quickened
The low rumble of the outer lock
Made its way into the
Cell

She reached down
Marvelled that Taran
Slipped onto her lap without
A word
He'd never come to her
Without cajoling
Before the soldiers appeared
In her dining room

Footsteps
Echoed down the
Hall. She
Swallowed

Chest rising
Falling rapidly
No air reached her lungs
Anya's grip
On Taran tightened
The inner door unlocked
Swung

Open

Martinus stood

Looking at them
An uncomfortable moment

He carried no food
A slave brings bowls
If Martinus appeared
It would be a long morning

He entered, turned
Shut the door. Then
He dug in his pocket
Pulling out a small toy
Anya pressed

Her palms across Taran's
Chest
Hoping he would
Somehow
Absorb the
Warning of danger
Through her
Touch

Martinus crouched

His face level with Taran's
He allowed her son a good look

At the toy
Please, Taran, don't
Give him what he's fishing for
She begged silently

"Have you ever
Seen this before?"
Martinus asked

Taran shrugged

"What is it?" Martinus' gaze
Bored into her son's face
Anya held him
As if she could
Make this
All go
Away

"It's a Hoozelie Draw-Engine,"
Taran said

"Is it yours?"

"No. Hoozelie
Is for babies."

"Do you know any
Babies
That might like to play with this?"

"I'm five. I don't play
With babies."

- Julia Smith, 2009 / original piece written 2007

Illustration - Azureus Rising - Prison Cell by Hideyoshi

Poetry Train Monday - 99 - Smiles Saved For the Banquet

2009-05-03T08:09:00.000-07:00

Here is my latest found poem. I've taken this from a writing exercise I did almost a decade ago, when I found a wonderful writers' group in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia.

We met at one another's homes, once a month. We would do writing exercises, and then share pieces of writing we'd been working on. I so enjoyed finding this group. They helped me stay sane when I'd moved from the Big City of Toronto to a fishing town of 8000.

This poem visits one of my favorite stories - the King Arthur/Guinevere/Launcelot love triangle.

Ride the Poetry Train! Click HERE.

Smiles Saved For the Banquet

Arthur
Turned in the archway
His face shadowed
By the lowering sun

"It is said
You are often found weeping."

"By whom
My lord?"
Guinevere asked
Her tone flat

"By the court.
The servants.
By most,
In fact."

"It is a lonely time
For me, these
Wet months. It
Turns my mind
To my own home."

"So many years away.
It still brings tears?"
Arthur
Took a step into
The room, still feeling
The heavy distance
Between them.

"A woman's world
Is her home,
My lord.
I have no children
To comfort me
Here. My mind
Turns to those days
When I thought
A child was part of
My future. That
Is all."

"So you
Do weep
Then?"

"All women weep
Sire.
Especially
In our rooms
When we are left to
Ourselves.
We save our smiles
For the banquet
And the garden.
We allow our sighs
When we are
Private.
Tis of no
Consequence."

"It is to me,
Lady."
Arthur
Walked to his queen
And stood before her.
"I should like
To take you from
These shadows
If they wring such
Sorrow
From you."

- Julia Smith, 2009 / original piece written April, 2000

Painting: Queen Guinevere by William Morris

Poetry Train Monday - 97 - As Prisons Go

2009-04-19T15:38:00.000-07:00

This is the next in my found poetry series, which I've been doing since the new year. I've taken it from one of my manuscripts, featuring Jocelyne, Lady Moncrieffe, the Dowager Countess of Kinnoull. It's the early 1820's near Crieff, Scotland.

Guthrie Carmichael is a Highland Scot working on her lowland estate as the gamekeeper. His decision to stop poaching from her estate requires one last delivery of game in town.

I've based Lady Moncrieffe on Canadian actress Neve Campbell. Guthrie is based on English actor Sean Bean.

You can read a previous poem about Jocelyne HERE.

You can Ride the Poetry Train by clicking HERE.

As Prisons Go

I arranged to be taken into Crieff
Meet up with my sister coming in by coach
First time in four years. Four years!
Disheartening thing - if not for Finlay’s death

Would this visit even take place?

The MacDougal resentments
Only stretched so far, thank Heaven
Whom did I see seated across the square
But the gamekeeper, Carmichael

Soldier stopped before him

Gaze traveled up to the red jacket
Before he had a chance to blink
One of those booted feet kicked
The pipe from Carmichael’s mouth

Scarred hand reached down

Took up the sacks. Carmichael
Kept his gaze trained on the soldier
“What would this be? Eh?
You wouldn’t be the lord of these parts, now?”

Carmichael neither moved nor spoke

Soldier lifted grouse from sack
Dropped the rest into the dust
Dangled bird from taloned feet
Too close to Carmichael’s face

“Name!” the soldier barked

Black boot planted on Carmichael’s hand
“Stop! Stop, I beg you! What is going on here?
Let him be!” Pulled at red-jacketed arm
Sergeant shook me off angrily

Until he saw who it was

Guthrie snatched hand to chest
Soldier saluted sharply
“This man is poaching from the estate.
I’ve apprehended him for you.”

I recalled these very sacks

Fixed to the back of the gamekeeper's saddle
That morning after the storm
That morning when he'd found me
Wet, bedraggled, desperate

Had seen me safely home

I'd sleepwalked but
He'd found me
Found me with these sacks
Fixed to the back of his saddle

Carmichael hung his head

Cradled his hand
I stared at his crumpled hat
Lying in the dust
“You have made a rather unfortunate error, Sergeant.

This man is my gamekeeper.”

Carmichael looked up
Soldier’s bravado paled
“Can you stand, Mr. Carmichael?”
I extended my hand to him

“Don’t be too concerned, Milady.”

Carmichael's voice so ragged
“Where is your regiment stationed
Sergeant?" I asked
"I should like to have a word

With your commanding officer.”

Soldier colored till his face
Was indistinguishable from
Scarlet fullcloth of jacket
Bead of sweat trickled its way

From under black-plumed bonnet

Down his rough-skinned jawline
It vanished in the gap between
Neck and stiff white collar choking throat
“May I speak to you privately, Ma’am?”

“By all means, Sergeant.”

We stepped aside, walked a few paces
Along the wall. Stopped
Bent our heads together
In rapt discussion for some minutes

Soldier broke away abruptly

As though he’d been stung
He saluted, then moped from the square
I turned toward the carriage
Carmichael helped me up the step

My sister waiting for me

Carmichael withdrew his hand
Cradling his sore one
“You had better get in,” I said
“You have been injured, after all.”

He nodded toward his horse

Waiting patiently across the square
“Then be quick about your business.
Make a point of stopping at the castle
When you return."

He opened and closed his mouth

Like a fish in the grass
He nodded his assent. His hand
Moved up to tug at hat that wasn’t there
His fingers hung suspended in midair

For an awkward moment

Then ran through his hair
“Drive on, Willis,” I called out
Old man clucked to the horses
Carriage lurched forward

Carmichael stepped out of the way

Before wheels ran over his toes
I stood, my back to him
In the pale green drawing room
“Thank you for coming,” I said

“Your servant, Ma’am,” he answered

Bowing slightly
“Are you?”
“I am.”
I broke from where I stood

Moving slowly round the edges of the room

“I would question your definition
Of ‘servant’, Mr. Carmichael.
You have been using my late husband
And me to suit your own purposes.”

“Ma’am?” he croaked

I halted, turned and faced him
“If you were poaching that morning
After the storm...why
Did you come to my aid?”

Carmichael spluttered

As if he’d swallowed a
Gulp of water down the wrong pipe
“I couldn't very well leave you out there!”
“Another man might have done just that.

Well, we are in a fine pickle, are we not?”

“Aye, Milady. We are, that.”
“You should be turned over to
The magistrate, and have done with you."
He returned my gaze, giving himself over to me.

I shuddered

“Why did ye tell that lie for me?”
He asked
“Laird Moncrieffe - he would have
Had me in gaol by now, sure.”

“Perhaps. The man who fancies himself

The new lord of Kinnoull
Would be even more severe than that.
Think hard, now, and consider carefully
What I am going to offer you.

I once offered you a room here

To recuperate from your wounds
But you refused. I’m afraid I must
Make that offer again
And I beg you to accept this time.

I have need of your cottage.

As prisons go, I hope you’ll find
This one to be exceptional.
I, myself, have always considered this
To be a home.

Mr. Carmichael, I possess information

You would prefer me not to pass along.
You likewise hold secrets of mine.
‘Men do not despise a thief
If he steals to satisfy his soul

When he is hungry.'"

He looked as if he'd just
Dashed the contents of an upset stomach
Extending my right hand, I said
“I believe we must shake on it.”

Carmichael rallied

Taking my hand in his
After one shake for form’s sake
We let go with expediency
“I’ll ring for Kearney,” I said

Picking up the bell to shake it furiously

- Julia Smith, 2009

Poetry Train Monday - 96 - Not After That Look

2009-04-12T11:53:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter to all who celebrate this springtime holiday.

Continuing with my found poetry series, here's a poem I've taken from my very first attempt at writing a novel. It's my only completed manuscript to date, and it needs a lot of reworking. But as with many writers, since this is the first novel-length character to inhabit my thoughts and my heart, this character will always be the most special to me.

Guthrie is a Highland Scot in the early 1820's, working on a lowland estate as the gamekeeper. The lady he serves is a newly-widowed countess, whom he recently helped return to the castle when he discovered her out on the grounds in only her sodden nightdress after a storm.

A terrible miscalculation has convinced Guthrie he must stop poaching from the estate, as he's been doing to save money for a new life in the Canadas. Guthrie informs his best friend and poaching partner that he won't be taking part in it anymore.

Click HERE for a previous poem about Guthrie.

I've based him on English actor Sean Bean. Lady Moncrieffe is based on Canadian actress Neve Campbell.

You can Ride the Poetry Train by clicking HERE.

Not After That Look

Guthrie left Lundy’s room
Above the storehouse
Headed back over fields
To his own rough cottage

No one about at this late hour

Just as well be noon
All the sleep he was likely to get
Worked up as he was
Paused in the night air

Head back, look at the stars

What he needed was a smoke
Boulder ahead a little ways
Sit himself down, light up his pipe
Collect himself

Smoke rising gracefully into the night

Nice to sit here
Only man awake in all of Scotland
Just God and Guthrie Carmichael
Sitting together and having a smoke

Thoughts like bait in a swollen stream

Sooner or later, these thoughts
Would arrange themselves
An actual plea
For forgiveness

Movement in the distance

Turned slightly
Peered into the gloom
Unholy shiver pure fright
Ran through him head to foot

Liquid movement, gliding paleness

Took pipe from mouth
Slid off the rock
Quiet as the ghostie there
A spirit loose in these parts?

Could well be a brand new ghost

He might be scared witless
If he was the first to see it
Wouldn’t that be something?
Crept along, gained steadily

Could make out a dress, a white dress

He raced ahead
More noise with increased speed
Skin along his neck crawling
Dare not steal a look behind him

Might lose footing in the dark

It would be upon him
In all its ghastly menace
Leaped down a small rise
Close to turf, eyes level to ground

Perhaps he would give this ghostie its name

Figure’s approach inexorable
Guthrie’s winded breathing quieted
Its face
He had to be imagining

It couldn’t be

The ghost was his mistress
Lady Moncrieffe
Had the lady died in the night?
Remorse for the injury he gave her

Flared hotly in his chest

Impossible
She had mended from that wound
An accident?
He followed again, wondering

Heaviness of her movements

Manner fluid, dreamlike
Dreamlike
Guthrie stopped cold
That morning he’d followed her on horseback

The morning after the storm

No one had spoken of it
As if it hadn’t taken place at all
Eventually this path would take her
To the road where they’d first met up

She was sleepwalking. Had to be.

Increased his pace a little
Didn’t take long to catch up with her
Stomach lurched again
Her eyes were wide open

She took several trancelike steps

She slowed and stopped
“Ma’am.” Guthrie touched the edge of his tam
She crossed her arms in front of her
“I don’t think he’ll be coming, after all.”

And she turned to walk back along the path

Guthrie dashed smartly to overtake her
Slowed to a walk
She looked at him
Her gaze traveling through him

Smile flittered across her lips

Eased next to Guthrie
Slipped her hand between his arm and waistcoat
He crooked his elbow
Arm and arm with Lady Moncrieffe

Nearly dragging him along with single-mindedness

The long walk to Kinnoull an unsettling stroll
Her bosom pressed against his elbow
Her hip brushing his thigh
Was she awake or asleep?

How could he be so fortunate among men

Coming across her each time
She took these strange odysseys?
Perhaps this worked as a penance
For not putting an end to his poaching

Sooner

If the Good Lord meant to show him
What it meant to be a shepherd
Who was Guthrie Carmichael to argue?
He would see his wayward lamb home

No harm done

No one the wiser again if they were lucky
Outline of castle loomed
In faint light of approaching dawn
No word had passed between them

They reached a door he'd never seen before

Could see that it gaped there, still open
Why the turmoil swirling in his stomach?
He led her to the doorway
Opened it a little wider

And passed her through

Extending the arm she’d been clutching
Till she was over the threshhold
He watched her feet
Assuring that she didn’t trip

Then he looked up into her face

Before he knew whether he was up
Down or turned on his ear
There she was - planting her lips on his
Lady Moncrieffe stepped back

Eyes trained on him

In the most unnerving manner
Shining with languorous flame
Before he had a chance to stammer anything coherent
The corners of her lips curled

A provocative smile

“I’ll wait for you,” she purred
Beginning to walk inside
She turned her head to glance at him
Lips closing over invitations unspoken

Lashes dropped to hide desire in her eyes

Then she was gone, swallowed into the shadows
Guthrie stood there for a long while
Unable to move out of the doorway
The words she’d spoken

Commanded him against any will of his own

Like a man from the old tales, her spell cast on him
And nothing he could do to resist her
Come now, lad. She’s dreaming.
That invitation was not meant for her gamekeeper

For whom, then?

Her poor husband, that’s who.
He reached into the darkness of Kinnoull
His fingers groped for the doorhandle
As if reaching into a hive

Crawling with bees

Carefully, he pulled the door shut
He would post himself on watch not too far away
Keep his eye out
In case she wandered again

He’d light up his pipe, finish his smoke

There’d be no sleep
Not for him
Not after that look
Into his ladyship’s eyes

- Julia Smith, 2009

Poetry Train Monday - 95 - God Knew Her Pledge

2009-04-05T18:45:00.000-07:00

Today's found poem comes from my vampire WIP, featuring a Dark Ages Welsh warrior named Peredur. This poem introduces Tanwen, Peredur's betrothed. She waits for her warrior to return from the fighting against the raiding Irish - only to receive news she does not want to hear.

Ride the Poetry Train - click HERE.

God Knew Her Pledge

Fighter from Peredur’s war band
Stood with Father, talking
In a low voice
The two looked towards her

Tanwen’s pulse stopped

Mother stood near
Tanwen didn’t want her there
Didn’t want to hear words of comfort
Could not bear an embrace

That was not her beloved’s

Horrid shuddering started
Her teeth knocking together
Brother, sisters stared at her
One look in Father's eyes

And she knew

Tanwen turned, walked calmly from them all

Path before her shimmered
Tears balanced on lashes
She knew these dips, rises blind
Feet carried her to crag overlooking the bay

Dampness beaded her hair

Awash in tears, inside and out
Seeped unbroken stream
Thought her heart had broken
If she had a heart left to break

Sea birds glided between coast and surf
Crying out her anguish with their shrieks

Why?
Why love such a proud man?
Peredur never listened
She told him he was all she needed

He kept leaving her to fight

To win a name for himself, he’d said
So Father would agree to a match
Where did that leave her?
Betrothed to a corpse

Sobs punched their way through her chest at last

Curled into herself, clutched tight
With arms that could not stop the mourning
Could hear noises, wondered where they came from
Even as her throat ached from crying

She saw nothing except his green eyes
Felt nothing but the whisper of his breath
This couldn’t be real
He was too powerful

Too swift, too expert a fighter

To go down to a spear
The man was mistaken
Peredur was alive somewhere
He couldn’t be gone

Why did she totter on rocks
Slick with mist? Why did she want the
Pain in her chest to stop squeezing? Why
Wasn’t it Peredur arrived at her father’s door

To finally ask for her hand?

Wiping sleeve 'cross her face
Tanwen emerged from the darkness of shock
Felt a presence behind her
Tanwen paused as she turned

Cavan, son of village wise woman

Pale gray eyes gazed upon her
As though he knew
What lay screaming in her heart
Shaking her head, tears starting anew

“It can’t be! It can’t be true!”

Cavan gestured to boulder behind them
“Come and sit with me awhile.”
Cavan helped her to sit
Tanwen’s face felt pummeled

By so much crying

Where could tears come from
When she felt so numb inside?
Cavan turned object in his hand
Her gaze rested on a ring

The ring Peredur’s father had given him

“Where did you get that?”
“Peddler sold it to mother.
She held it in her hand
She saw it all before her.

Everything that happened."
Tanwen fought the urge to grab it
Cavan held it out, dropped it
Onto her outstretched palm

Metal touched her skin
She thought of the ring slipped
From Peredur’s cold hand
Reality ripped a gasp from her throat

Ring nearly tumbled onto scraggly brush

Cavan wrapped solid hands around hers
Ensuring her grip with his own
Tanwen sagged till forehead touched her wrists
If Cavan were not there she would pass out

Crying started again

She could not listen to it
As though
She were someone else
She would not hold her beloved’s ring

If he still lived

She never spoke her pledge of fidelity
Before the village
She’d said it often in her heart
God knew her pledge to be true

He knew that today she became a widow

- Julia Smith, 2009

Poetry Train Monday - 94 - Judgement and Acceptance

2009-03-29T16:39:00.001-07:00

Today's found poem comes from my vampire WIP. You can read an excerpt HERE. I've used the villanelle form, but once again haven't tried to rhyme anything, as that would interfere with the found poem format.

Peredur is a Dark Age Welsh warrior who becomes a vampire. This poem is taken from two scenes where Peredur struggles with his new state of being. I've based Peredur on Scottish actor Gerard Butler.

Ride the Poetry Train - click HERE.

Judgement and Acceptance

The sun went down. Peredur opened eyes
Filled with dirt. Staggered to his feet - the grave
Is this what had become of him? Hunger

The blood lust took him hard. Had never known
What true need was, when he’d lived as a man
The sun went down. Peredur opened eyes

Smell of man came to him on a faint breeze
"Who’s there?" rang out before Peredur leaped
Is this what had become of him? Hunger

Yet how could he grieve when he could not cry?
Let loose an unnerving howl of anguish
The sun went down. Peredur opened eyes

Beat fists gainst ground. Saw two feet, hem of gown
Scrambled to knees, bent deeply, head to earth
Is this what had become of him? Hunger

I AM SENT BY ALL THAT IS. YOUR ANGEL
A look held both judgement and acceptance
The sun went down. Peredur opened eyes
Is this what had become of him? Hunger

- Julia Smith, 2009

Poetry Train Monday - 93 - Her Palm Stung But It Was Worth It

2009-03-22T11:29:00.000-07:00

A very special hello today to Gautami Tripathy, who restarted the original Poetry Train when it got sidetracked. Many, many thanks! I hope you know how much that means to me.

Here is a found poem I crafted from a prose scene in one of my WIPs. Last week's poem introduced Scorpius from my dark fantasy story. Today's poem introduces Lady Elysande, whom Scorpius serves as Chamberlain of her keep. You can read an excerpt HERE.

Her Palm Stung But It Was Worth It

He just made it through the doorway
Into the Great Hall
A silver chalice sailed past his face
Bounced noisily onto the flagstones

Scorpius halted

The Master-at-Arms ducked
One arm shielding his face
Lady Elysande stood, knocking her chair over
“Rephrase that, Pahlmot.”

“I cannot recommend the Ball be held, my lady.”

Grabbing another goblet, she dashed
Its contents across the table
Into Pahlmot’s face. Scorpius caught the goblet
Square in the chest.

“The dragon sighting is confirmed. I saw it myself.”

“My guests have already set out.
They cannot backtrack now.”
Scorpius took a step forward. “My lady
The Master-at-Arms merely reports on developments.

As you requested.”

Pahlmot shot Scorpius a look of gratitude
Pulled himself up a little taller.
“I’ll continue to send patrols. Intercept
Guests we find and bring them to safety.”

“Excellent,” Scorpius said.

Lady Elysande looked from one to the other
Her chest rose and fell rapidly
Pahlmot bowed stiffly. “If there is nothing further
My lady.” She simply stared at the Master-at-Arms

Scorpius gave him the slightest of nods

Pahlmot backed away several paces
Turned to exit the hall
A slave picked up her chair
Lady Elysande sat as Scorpius began the

Long walk around the table to join her

Her chamberlain made his unhurried way towards her
For an employee in her household
He had an insufferable arrogance about him.
She wished very deeply he was one of her slaves

He and that stuffed-shirt Master-at-Arms

Their assumptions about what this
Dionysian Ball was really all about
The man had balls. Stepping in for
Pahlmot like that. Nearing her now

As though she wouldn't haul off and slap him

Across that perfect face of his. She waited
Till he sat in the chair beside her
The sound of it rang through the empty hall
Her palm stung, but it was worth it

For the hand print she’d left him

He took a moment to recover
Pulled his chair in
Looked her straight in the eye
His own danced with icy rebuke

His dark hair fell across his brow.
“Lady Elysande,” he said, his voice like silk
“You do have guests en route and
Alternate arrangements to make. I suggest

We address that.”

She reached for another goblet
Replacing the two she’d thrown
A slave filled it for her
And she sipped the dark wine

Entertainment. That’s what he thought of it

Goodness knows he must not suspect
What the nobles were truly up to
Why stage such an outrageous festival
If it wasn’t to distract everyone? Really –

Did handsome men have to be so thick?

“What is the point of throwing
Half of a Dionysian Ball?” she asked
Petulantly, thinking to herself that
Half was better than none for their purposes

“You forget, my lady,” Scorpius said

“I promised you your debaucheries
Whether any guests showed up.”
A thrill erupted through her. Why would her
Chamberlain’s words give her

Such a reaction? “What did you

Mean by speaking for me
To the Master-at-Arms?” she asked
Trying to get her mind off the image
Of Scorpius grabbing her for a forceful kiss

Where did that come from?

Scorpius took a breath before answering.
“Forgive me, my lady. I knew the
Urgency of his situation.”
“There is no excuse

For putting words in my mouth

Before another member of this household.”
She turned to look at him
Scorpius kept his head up but
Cast his gaze down. “My apologies.”

He swallowed and braced himself

Elysande’s heart beat painfully
She looked at her dark-haired, blue-eyed
Chamberlain. A delicious plan
Formed in her mind. A plan that

Surprised her by how quickly it excited

The deepest part of her.
“This keep is my home. I have no
Husband to help me run it. I have only
An endless betrothed. He’s been fighting in

Some battle or other far more than

He’s been inside these walls.”
She stared at Scorpius, willing him to
Meet her gaze. After a long moment
He looked up. She saw the dread

Lurking behind the bravado

“We will discuss the plans for the
Ball’s replacement now. But tonight
We will discuss how you will
Make it up to me - your insufferable behavior

Before the Master-at-Arms.” Scorpius flushed

Though his face registered
Almost no change in expression.
She felt the thrill of recognition
At this discovery. Why had she not

Realized it before? He’d been here all along

Right under her nose.
“Yes, my lady,” he said, the sincere
Regret in his voice coursing through her
Like a drug. She had freed him from bondage

His gratitude made him ripe

For the kind of relationship
She liked best. A besotted chamberlain
Was precisely the ace she needed now
When dragons of all things threatened to

Pull apart a secret

Noble alliance built
Painstakingly
Behind the scenes while
Fathers and husbands-to-be

Played at war

- Julia Smith, 2009

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Poetry Train Monday - 92 - He Followed His Master

2009-03-15T11:35:00.000-07:00

So far, I've introduced four characters from two of my works in progress by creating found poetry from reworked prose scenes. Continuing with this format, here is the main character from a fantasy story I started last summer at my writers' retreat.

You can read a prose excerpt about Scorpius HERE.

He Followed His Master

Fostering relatives' children was common practice among the nobility
The nurses treated Scorpius as they did the others
Some had beautiful mothers scooping up their darlings
Sometimes handsome fathers took their children out for the day

No one ever came for Scorpius

He never asked where his parents might be, didn't want to
Hear the words spoken, words to confirm the gut-gnawing truth
He learned to be a little lord - until the other boys
Transfered to their own Houses. Formal schooling began

No one sent for Scorpius

At last, as babies arrived, a whole new crop of children to the nursery
Scorpius watched a stately man, a man with a scar across one temple
Approach the head nurse. Scorpius saw him glance over. The man with
The scar strode slowly across the courtyard, his movements

Like a great predatory beast

Finally. It was happening. Someone really had come for him
Crouching down so his face was level with Scorpius'
The man looked deeply into his face. Scorpius stayed silent
Returned the gaze without flinching. Hard, piercing glance

Raked across Scorpius' soul

Bowing as he'd been taught. Returned his gaze as was proper
Between family members of the noble classes. The man's expression
Changed, darkened with disapproval. Scorpius dropped his gaze
Fear prickled his back. "I'm the falconer," the man said

"I have need of a boy."

"He's a very helpful young man," the head nurse said, proudly
"Very respectful." Scorpius noticed she stressed the qualities
Of a good servant. His heart seemed to weigh a hundred pounds
"I'll take him off your hands, then." The man rose to his feet

Turned expectantly toward Scorpius

"Come along," the man said, striding off the way he'd come
Scorpius looked up at the head nurse in a panic
Was she releasing him to serve that scarred man? One look
In her eyes and he saw that she was

A sob lodged itself in his throat

He would not give her the satisfaction. All his
Dreams of meeting his parents one day shattered in a
Blinding instant. Forcing his feet to move, Scorpius refused to
Let the nursemaids see how their silence at his fate

Pierced him to the quick

He followed the man who was to be his master
With a swirling mix of emotions. For the first time
In his young life, he would belong to someone
A part of him rejoiced. The other part

Remembered the scar

- Julia Smith, 2009

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Poetry Train Monday - 91 - A Place to Start

2009-03-08T06:12:00.000-07:00

This may be an entire year of found poetry for me - I'm having so much fun doing it. I've found quite a few poems in my prose fiction, and here is another one from my WIP about the aftermath of the Battle of Culloden, which took place in Scotland in April, 1746.

Last week I turned a scene from my story into a bit of an epic Naisaiku Challenge. This week I'm introducing Emma, the daughter of a clan chief who will cross paths with Jock, the narrator of last week's poem, a little later in my WIP. You can read some prose excerpts HERE.

A Place to Start

“Soldiers! Run! Go to the hills!”
Emma looked up from her stitching
Thomas ran toward the house from Nairn road
Mother quickly made the sign of the cross

Emma raced down the back stairs
“We must fly from here, now!”
“But the pies, Miss-”
A dozen of them moved into the trees

Then she heard it - a low rumble
A shout. Emma tried
But she glanced over her shoulder
Red-coated soldiers swarmed

Hens and pigs turned out
Horses tried to avoid the hands
Cattle dogs barked angrily
Washstand hurled from third-floor window

“Saints preserve us,” Enid said.
“Keep moving!” Thomas called.
Emma turned from the ruin of her home
The English had won the day

Her father, clan chief of MacBean
Did he lay broken on the field?
Her brothers...fiance...
Emma refused to hear the crackle of flames behind her

What of the oil portrait
Charred and blackened now?
Her brother Murray stared with eyes
Haunted by second guesses

“Come, Murray,” she coaxed.
She turned to look with him
Black smoke rose lazily from barn roof
Animals wandered past silver and crystal glinting in the grass

The rest lay twisted in death
“Murray MacBean,” she said. “You mustn’t
Stand here while your women are going alone
Into the hills.”

Murray looked at her, swallowing hard.
So dejected he’d been, left behind at fifteen.
Look after the manor house, while the other men
Fought for the Stuarts

“You may be the only MacBean left
To us. Be sure that your women and servants
Get safely away. Come, now.” Emma
Began walking, slowly so he would follow

Murray turned wordlessly
Scanning the trees
He strode quickly up the low slope
Emma peered hard between trunks and branches

Searching the gloom for a flash of red
This forest, the scene of countless
Family outings filled with basket lunches and games
How sinister it now seemed

Enid’s pies. The English had devoured them by now.
It was cold out here without a shawl
Her slippered feet wet in the April afternoon
Was she walking toward safety here in the hills

Or merely putting off the inevitable?
Would tonight be the night she would
Dwell in the house of the Lord?
And was it wrong to wish with all of her heart

She might see her Douglas once more?
“Come, Emma!” Murray called.
She ran, trying not to think. More important things now.
Staying alive was a place to start.

- Julia Smith, 2009

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Poetry Train Monday - 90 - Take One More With Him

2009-03-01T06:07:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the Poetry Train.

For today's Poetry Train, I'm continuing my found poetry series, and returning to the character I introduced last week. We find Jock MacKeigan fighting in the Battle of Culloden, near Inverness in Scotland, April, 1746:

Take One More With Him

The horse and rider
Bore down on Jock like phantoms
THROUGH CHOKE OF POWDER
Bore down on Jock like phantoms
The horse and rider

Sword over head, swung
Down in a murderous arc
HIS BLADE SLICED SWIFTLY
Down in a murderous arc
Sword over head, swung

His blade sliced the arm
The dragoon's arm so swiftly
HAND STILL CLUTCHED SABRE
The dragoon's arm so swiftly
His blade sliced the arm

Clutching the sabre
The arm fell on battlefield
JOCK PANTED FOR AIR
The arm fell on battlefield
Clutching the sabre

Blinking back the sweat
How long, in the thick of it?
BLUE SMOKE ARTILLERY
How long, in the thick of it?
Blinking back the sweat

He felt the killing
Frenzy begin to lift off
FOCUS GOT HIM THROUGH
Frenzy begin to lift off
He felt the killing

Blocked out everything
All but weapons aimed at him
GOT HIM THROUGH IT ALL
All but weapons aimed at him
Blocked out everything

He heard it now - groans
Shouts. Rasp of steel. Musket fire.
NOW THE PAIN SET IN
Shouts. Rasp of steel. Musket fire.
He heard it now - groans

Always - frenzy's lift
Meant the danger was past. But -
NOT THIS EXHAUSTED
Meant the danger was past. But -
Always - frenzy's lift

Movement caught his eye
He turned. But it was too late.
BOUNCING FOUR-POUND SHOT
He turned. But it was too late.
Movement caught his eye

Hit a clump of grass
And veered up into the air
STRIKING JOCK'S ANKLE
And veered up into the air
Hit a clump of grass

He lay and writhed there
Screams all knotted up inside
SCREAMS FOUGHT PAST HIS LIPS
Screams all knotted up inside
He lay and writhed there

The sky above him
Was hazy with cloud and smoke
CHORUS OF WOUNDED
Was hazy with cloud and smoke
The sky above him

Heard tramping of feet
Cries of men rose up in pitch
ENGLISH STABBED SURVIVORS
Cries of men rose up in pitch
Heard tramping of feet

Bayonets would take
What foot and horse left behind
SCREAMS WERE GETTING CLOSE
What foot and horse left behind
Bayonets would take

It was clear to Jock
Before he took leave of life
TAKE ONE MORE WITH HIM
Before he took leave of life
It was clear to Jock

His fingers wrapped round
Handle of the dirk. No fear.
SOLDIER ENTERED SIGHTS
Handle of the dirk. No fear.
His fingers wrapped round

Sat up. Grabbed handful
Scarlet coat. Held fast. Thrust hard.
HIS CRY NO DIFFERENT
Scarlet coat. Held fast. Thrust hard.
Sat up. Grabbed handful

Jock's head rocked forward
Hit from behind. Took more blows.
NO STRENGTH LEFT. LAY STILL.
Hit from behind. Took more blows.
Jock's head rocked forward

This was it. Eyes shut
Prayed. Lord, I commend to you -
"GO TO BLOODY HELL!"
Prayed. Lord, I commend to you -
This was it. Eyes shut

- Julia Smith - 2009

I did The Naisaiku Challenge for this poem. Check it out!

Poetry Train Monday - 89 - Turned in the Road

2009-02-22T11:18:00.000-08:00

This is my latest found poem, taken once again from one of my works in progress. This story follows Jock MacKeigan, who survives the Battle of Culloden in Scotland, 1746. He comes across the family of the MacBean chieftain, whom he saw fall to several English dragoons. He is taken in and tended, discovering the daughter who nurses him so protectively is the fiancee of his commanding officer.

I decided to go for a bit more form this time. I've used the villanelle, but didn't hold to the rhyme scheme. I wanted to stick to the found poem category.

Turned in the Road

He felt a shudder erupt at images sprung to mind
The soldiers - the soldiers, if they fell upon them
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

Lieutenant-Colonel Montford, engaged to Miss MacBean
Her intended was a good man, as officers went
His voice booming through the clamour of musket fire

Not one to tolerate any loafing. No sloppiness. Unreadiness.
Jock and the others pressed on through the night march to Nairn
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

Montford’s regiment a fit one, not like some, plagued with desertions
Incredible folly, tiring them to the breaking point before battle
His voice booming through the clamour of musket fire

Surprise the English camp - their march halted so often
The grey light of daybreak came before they reached Nairn
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

A weary messenger appeared and Montford bent low in the saddle
So very long before he turned the Scots Royal in the road
His voice booming through the clamour of musket fire
He could hear Montford barking orders even now

- Julia Smith - 2009

You can read excerpts from this story here and here and here.

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Poetry Train Monday - 87 - For Helen He Would Do It

2009-02-08T11:23:00.000-08:00

Continuing my series of found poetry, I've taken this latest scene, just tappety-tapped on my keyboard over the weekend, from my gardener work-in-progress and molded it into a poem. I've posted prose excerpts from this story previously. You can find them in my Fiction Excerpt Archives.

My poem last week centered around the other main character from the gardener story. The story begins in 1840's England and moves across the sea to Van Diemen's Land, which is now known as Tasmania, just south of Australia.

I've modelled Robbie, my gardener character on Scottish actor Ewan McGregor. I've modelled Hezekiah Bent, the former convict who takes Robbie to serve out his sentence on his farm, on English actor Ray Winstone.

For Helen He Would Do It

Robbie trembled
Two years a convict
Somehow he’d managed to escape this. He pulled

His shirt free
Shrugged it over his head. Mr. Bent grabbed
It, tossed it on the workbench. “Your hands,” Bent said.
Robbie held them out

Watching Bent tie the rope
His master pulled him forward, tossing
The other end over the beam. A firm yank
Stretched Robbie onto his toes, the rope biting
His wrists. He gasped

A sickening chill spread through him
Bent’s footsteps crossed the floorboards. Robbie knew
Every item in this work shed. Bent walked toward
The bundle of poles and sticks Robbie used
To support vegetables and flowers.
His gaze roamed over the farm yard

To the paddock beside it
Out to the wood and the hills beyond.
The image of his father, his mother loomed
As they’d done when he’d landed on the stone floor
Of the first gaol cell. What would his father think?
His son sporting scars across his back. And his mother
She’d be unable to look him in the eye

Feeling slightly horrified from this moment on.
If he ever did see her again.
Robbie bowed his head, shame finally
Crawling over his skin. “You’re right about me
Sir.”
“Am I?”

Robbie heard
Bent’s shirt slip off, heard it land
On the workbench with all the rest
“I was raised to regard
Myself as one thing.

But I’ve turned out to be
Quite another.”
His master walked around him
Slowly

He passed into view
Cane in hand. Robbie saw
For the first time

Criss-crossed grid of scars
That formed Bent’s back. He’d always
Wondered why Bent never took his shirt off when they
Worked in the hot sun

Together.
Robbie swallowed hard
Bent turned. Hard muscles told the story
Of agonizing days. He looked like he could break Robbie
In two. Robbie trembled as he

Hung there.
“I wouldn’t have taken you
For someone in need
Of a hard lesson, Flynn.”
Robbie thought about
Morrison’s Indian army walking stick

Clipping him in the chin
Brigadier-General Chase’s cruel slaps
Until he hung in Morrison’s grip. The kicks
Of the gaolers, the ropes’ end
Of the warders aboard the hulks, the shoves
From the sailors, the weight
Of the shackles on the road crew. And

Never a blow from his dear father. Not
Once.
Tears stung his eyes
His throat closed tight
Robbie clenched his fists above
The rope holding him in place

For the lesson
His master meant to teach him
“Why don’t you respect me?”
Bent asked. Thinly-veiled
Pain haunted his gaze. Robbie

Looked away. “It’s for
The master to make me
Respect him.
Sir.” Bent walked up close

“Did you
Respect your
Master back home?”

Robbie met his
Gaze. “I did,
Sir.”
“Did he make you

Respect him?” Robbie lowered his
Gaze. “Yes,
Sir.”
Bent took a deep breath. He
Walked behind Robbie. He touched the

Tip of the rod to
Robbie’s back
Robbie resisted flinching
“Your back
Is not marked.”
“No,

Sir.” Bent
Pulled the rod away
“Then how
Did he make you
Respect him?”
“He was British Army,
Sir,” Robbie said.

“Brigadier-General
In India. Everyone respected
Him.”
“A poor master I
Must make, after
Him.”

“Why,
Sir? He gave me
The only thrashing I ever
Had. So it must be me,
Sir.”

Bent said nothing, only
Took another deep breath
Took a step back. Robbie’s heart
Twisted, a surge of

Fear took flight
Inside him like a
Flock of startled birds. He must not

Disgrace himself.
He realized with sudden
Clarity
This moment would be his last.

Robert Flynn of Cheltenham
About to join the ranks
Of men he’d dreaded
Joining from the
Night he was led from Ashbury Downs

In irons.
Elkannah Bent would
Baptise him into the
Robbie Flynn of Van Diemen’s Land.
As he’d done so many
Times before

In the shivering dark of the gaol, standing
Faint in the dock before the Quarter Sessions, in the
Stench of the hulks, battered by
The sea on the crossing, disoriented by
Heat on the road crews
Robbie asked himself the same
Question once more.

If he’d known
Then
What was to
Come, when he’d
Waited for Helen in the
Conservatory – if he’d known all of it

Would he have left Helen to be
Used so
Cruelly by
Zachary Chase?
Or would he

Still plant his fist in that
Wanker’s face?
Nothing had happened to Robbie until
This moment

That ever made him change
His answer. This
Flogging would be no

Different.
For Helen he would do it

All over again

- Julia Smith - 2009

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Poetry Train Monday - 86 - The Undiscovered Scream

2009-02-01T18:01:00.001-08:00

This is another found poem, taken from one of my works in progress. It's a scene from my gardener story, which you can check out in my Fiction Excerpt Archives. You'll find it in the 2007 entries.

I tightened the language of the scene for the poem. Otherwise it reads as it does in the story.

The Undiscovered Scream

Helen stood before the gaol
Barred wagon trundled
Towards her

Three more prisoners
Waiting to
Board

How she had longed
To be taken
Last summer

The days since then had
Crawled on famished hands
Exhausted knees

Horses' hooves clapped
On cobblestones
It seemed she

Stepped outside herself
Watching as she moved
Through the hours

Fatigue helped
To blur the moments.
The women beside her

Held hands
The man jumped down
Opened the latch

Impossible
But Helen felt.
Tendril of fear creeping

How certain she'd been
No more feelings
Left at all

She looked down
Worn fabric
Draft curled around

Her ankles. One woman cried.
The other kept patting her.
Near the harbour

Sea birds cried
Reality entered the
Box like a fourth

Passenger.
Waterfront hurly burly
Men called orders

Cargo nets hoisted.
Jagged masts
Sky clutter

Draped with shrouds
Monstrous webs
Of rope

Helen shivered on the
Wharf, the rough men
On deck stared back

The numbness was gone.
An undiscovered scream
That no one seemed to hear

- Julia Smith, 2009

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Poetry Train Monday - 83 - When He First Appeared at The Bottom of the Stairs

2009-01-11T08:12:00.000-08:00

For today's Poetry Train I'm doing the first in what will be a series of found poems. This one is from a diary entry I made on Jan. 12th, 1980 when I was 15.

When He First Appeared at The Bottom of the Stairs

Michelle and I
Watched
Star Trek - it was Charlie X

That's so
Funny too
Because
Every Friday night
Michelle and I
Guess
What episode Star Trek will be
And Michelle had guessed
Charlie X

Mom, Dad
Michelle
Connie and I
Went
To the Rebecca Cohn
This evening
To see
Gone With the Wind

So many people came

At intermission, the
Line-up in the washroom was
A mile long

The movie was astounding

It overwhelmed me

Vivien Leigh
Was
So good
As Scarlett

What an actress

Clark Gable, of course
Was
Terrific

When he first appeared
At
The bottom of the staircase

At Tara
During the barbeque

The whole audience
Sighed
And burst
Into applause

Copyright - Jan. 11, 2009 - Julia Smith

Original diary entry - Jan. 12, 1980

Poetry Train Monday - 64 - The Meaning

2008-08-31T16:42:00.000-07:00

The Meaning

The words that make me think of you are these
Soldier – for you had my back and I, yours
Department – with Cedric’s West Indian ease
For retail was our battleground, our shore

Kids – our tiny clientele… and parents
Lollipop – abandoned doll from glorious Oz
Thumbs in suspenders, kick, ‘We represent’
Leaving us bent and gasping with guffaws

‘Yarp’ – the Hot Fuzz joke is our souls bared
A laugh – it’s not a word. A laugh’s a sound
But laughter weaves through every hour we’ve shared
And every hour we’ve shared is treasure found

The words we say, the meaning of a phrase
Like ‘love’ that we write on a birthday card
The words for you embody all our days
The yarpy days and those that felt so hard

You’ve walked 500 miles for me and more
You’ve comforted and healed. You lift me up
I’ve hugged you tight when you shook to the core
Because we laughed soon after at the ‘Yarp.’

Copyright - 2008 - Julia Smith

In the photo: me, my friend Lisa and my husband Brad

Poetry Train Monday - 62 - I Can’t Be Your Captive If I Give Myself To You

2008-08-17T21:43:00.000-07:00

Here is a second backstory poem about my latest character, Scorpius. I've been writing about him all weekend, so I did up a poem that delves deeper into his psyche. Scorpius is Chamberlain of the Keep for Lady Elysande, in a fantasy world that combines medieval society with technology. You can read the previous backstory poem and catch up on excerpt 1 and excerpt 2. I've modelled Scorpius after English actor Richard Armitage.

I Can’t Be Your Captive If I Give Myself To You

My tunic covers scars upon both wrists
Their silent witness to the blows I bore
I pulled and writhed but he would not desist
Until I would have crumpled to the floor

The manacles prevented my escape
They also meant I somehow kept my feet
The manacles preserved my pride from japes
Which never pulled the screams as when he beat

My tunic covers scars that she’s now seen
My lady with her cuffs chained to her bed
Her fingers lock me into place, between
Two posts, my clothing gone – those words I said

I hand myself to her, to be her slave
Surrender is my only hope...or grave...

Copyright - Julia Smith – Aug. 17, 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 59 - How Can I Ache For What I Never Had

2008-07-27T21:47:00.000-07:00

I've done a backstory poem for my new character, Scorpius. It helps to get a handle on his inner dialogue.

Scorpius is Chamberlain of the Keep for Lady Elysande. The story takes place in a medieval-flavored slave-owning high-tech society.

How Can I Ache For What I Never Had

My bed belongs to my mistress, blanket and all
My keys are to her Keep, safeguarded stone
My ankles drag with phantom shackles
I hear them still, each moment I’m alone

My lineage is suspect, thus my role
My father may have strode before me
As I bowed before my lady’s guests
Wondering every time, could this man be…

My mother may have cried and fought
She may have hoped and schemed
I’ll never know, and never cease from wondering
Am I the man that either of them dreamed?

My tunic is the finest she can buy
My face and form are pleasing, for she smiles
My lips have brushed my lady’s hand, and yet
I long to kiss her foot, to lay in homage on those polished tiles

- Copyright - Julia Smith - July 27, 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 54 - Bluebird

2008-06-22T21:51:00.000-07:00

After receiving longed-for news that I am no longer Pinnochio, but a real live boy at my job, I went joyously to see the Royal Ballet's Sleeping Beauty, broadcast in HD from Covent Garden and shown at a cinema theatre in Halifax on Saturday. Not only is Sleeping Beauty one of my favorite ballet scores (the soul-touching Tchaikovsky), but it showcases one of my favorite pas de deux - the Bluebird pas de deux.

I love this piece of dance so much, I set out to make a short film focusing on the choreography's attempt to replicate flight. I was even shortlisted by the Canada Council for the project, but alas, did not get the grant. Someday.

The dancer who agreed to be in the film if it got the green light was Johan Persson, at left. He danced for the National Ballet of Canada when I worked at the theatre as an usher. He was the best Bluebird I've ever seen. His powerful masculinity inhabited his performance like a shapeshifter. He was shivery-awesome to behold.

He's now retired from dance and is a photographer specializing in theatre photography, as well as portraits. He's definitely spoiled me as far as Bluebird performances go. The Bluebird pas de deux takes place near the end of the ballet, so part of me is waiting and waiting for it to start, even though I'm reveling in the rest of the ballet.

Imagine my dismay when the Bluebird started and the guy absolutely sucked. She was great - he sucked. I won't even tell you who it is. If I can't say anything nice, I won't say anything at all.

*crickets chirping*

If you want to see what the Bluebird should look like, check out this wonderful performance I found on YouTube by Vitali Tsvetkov from the Mariinsky Ballet Theatre.

The Bluebird Pas de deux begins at the 2:40 mark. His solo variation begins at the 6:10 mark.

Bluebird

Don’t wish it all away, I always think.
The overture begins. The ballet starts.
Anticipation drags me to the brink -
The tale unfolds, each luscious scene departs.
And then the prince and princess are to wed.
I long to see one very special guest,
And when that music sweetly fills my head,
The pas de deux begins that I love best.
So masterfully he steps upon the stage,
No longer man, but fiercely vibrant beast.
More than any war with earth-bound waged,
These variations let us mortals feast
Upon the victory this dancer scores.
The man who dances Bluebird truly soars.

- Copyright - Julia Smith - June 22, 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 45 - Discovered Too Late

2008-04-14T21:11:00.000-07:00

Here's a backstory poem for the husband of last week's poem narrator, and the step father of this narrator. Luther is a fur trapper in the northern New Brunswick woods. It's the 1830's, and he lives an isolated life in their cabin, especially when winter sets in and they are unable to leave for weeks at a time.

Discovered Too Late

I vowed to be the hero of her life
The morning that I saw her with her son
Tears rose inside as she became my wife
No longer widow - bride again, fears done
I showed the little fella how to hunt
We waited till he was asleep to lay
Together. Or I took her, to be blunt
The months passed, still not in the family way
I thought he’d be a brother to my own
The years passed, for the two of them and me
How easy it would be if he were known
The ghostly man between us she could see
Much easier to swing and hear the thwack
Each time I eased my hatred cross his back

- Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Painting - At River's Edge by Russ Docken

Poetry Train Monday - 44 - The Supplicant

2008-04-07T21:17:00.000-07:00

Since I've currently got my mind wrapped around the story for the screenplay I'm working on, here's another backstory poem. This time we meet Kate, the mother of last week's poetry narrator.

It's the 1830's in northern New Brunswick. Kate was widowed at 23 when her husband, a stevedore, was crushed beneath a crate of textiles being offloaded from a merchant ship. She had a five-year-old son, so she remarried to ensure a home, food and clothing for him. She had no idea the man who took her for a wife could be so hard on her son.

In the twelve years they've been married, she has never grown heavy with child. Each year with no offspring of his own, her new husband is more and more cruel to her son. She spends all her energy stepping between the two of them before violence erupts, but she's not always successful.

The Supplicant

I call on Mother Mary
I call on her grace
She cried, did she not
As she gazed on His face?

I call the Holy Spirit
I call for Your strength
In the silence between blows
He hands out at length

I call on my son
I call him - beware
His mood's dark today
The fury gleams there

I call on my knees
I call with head bowed
In the distance I hear it
My son cries aloud

I call to be spared
I call without hope
Wish my rosary was not
Beads but a rope

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 43 - That Dream Again

2008-03-31T21:22:00.000-07:00

This is a brand new poem, a backstory poem for one of my fictional characters. Arlen is a 17-year-old boy who lives in a cabin in the woods with his mother and step-father. It's the 1830's, and Arlen works the traplines with his step-father.

The relationship between Arlen and the step-father is strained at best. They are rivals for his mother's affections, and the step-father is a hard man. This story is from a screenplay titled The Penitent and the dream opens the film.

That Dream Again

In dreams I turn
Snapped twig reveals
Two eyes watching
Forest shadow moves
Breath seizes throat
Neck beads sweat

No time to reach
Musket hangs useless
Cool autumn air
Lacework gold above
Crunching leaves below
Bear surges forth

Your shot rings out
Heart nearly fails
Bear drops, tongue
Lolls from snout
You stride up
Lower musket

In dreams I turn
Your gaze moves
Up from kill
No time to run
Musket recoils
I jerk awake

In dreams I turn
I start awake
I clutch chest
No wound gapes
But sweat beads
On bowed neck

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 42 - Where I'm From

2008-03-24T21:25:00.000-07:00

I found this wonderful poetry template at Candid Karina's and couldn't wait to do one of my own. Here is Karina's beautiful version. I played with the form slightly but followed the content of the template.

Where I'm From

I am from ballerina jewelry box
from Capital Records 45's and Grandpa's fiddle
his stomping foot a-dideley-dideley-dideley-dye.

I am from the packed-up house
the rumbling seat in the truck with Daddy
his hands on the steering wheel tapping to Maggie May's mandolins.

I am from the piles of crisp leaves he raked to the steps
so I could jump and land and laugh
the granite bedrock edging the sea where we climbed and ran
the silent snowfall and the tug-swoosh of the sled
over the buried street.

I am from crouch, focus and shutter click
from fingers pressing piano keys
from Great-Grandpa Meuse's old photo postcards from out west
Grandma Doucet's bread rising under the tea towels
Mom picking up smoothed rocks from the beach to turn over in her hands.

I am from the stubborn Acadians and the teasing Mi'kmaq.

From Come tell Mommy what's the matter
and Hello, Sweet Pie.

I am from shh so quiet in my ear
I had to be quiet to hear it
standing still in the aisle of the packed church.
I'm from piling into the car and Dad driving
to the woods, to the beach, to the ocean.
I'm from entering these wonders of Creation like cathedrals
hearing prayer in the waves and on the wind.

I'm from the marshes of Poitou
from a morning twelve generations back
sailing from France with hope, with skill
unwavering and unstoppable.
I'm from river trout sizzling in the cast iron fry pan
from baked beans simmered for hours
blending the tartness and the sweet.

From the wolves howling
in the frozen moonlit night
chasing Grandpa's horses as they
pulled the sleigh through the dark spruce
towards home.

From the despair of my uncle lost
in the snow-laden woods with a friend
logging road to follow at dawn
hut where a man fed them peanut butter sandwiches
the look on my grandfather's face
when he saw his son alive
friend's dad clipped his boy in the head
my grandfather pulled his boy into his arms.

From the wind that came up
while my sister canoed with Dad
his calm instructions to paddle hard
her sense of danger helping her girlish arms
to dig into the choppy water with the oar
her adult body climbing onto the hospital bed
Dad struggled to let go of his last breath
her hands cupped his face
you don't have to paddle anymore
you can see the shore
go to the shore Dad.

I am from the mirror carving of The Bluenose
Dad knew I would want
his landscape shots I used to skip past
and now linger over.
Our Family Tree which my grandfather bought
but never filled in, now mine
the generations recorded by my hand.
The perfect photo deliberated, showing
the essence of me
my parents, my grandparents
my husband
his parents, his grandparents.
And the collage beside each face
showing the passions that drove us through our days.

Copyright - 2008 - Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 41 - To Comfort You, Shelley

2008-03-17T21:29:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem for my friend Shelley when her mom passed away. We were in our mid-20's and not really prepared to lose a parent. I realize one is never really prepared - my uncle can't believe his 93-year-old mother is actually gone. But Shelley's loss was the first time I came face-to-face with the chill of that reality.

Now, of course, my own words reach out to me from across that 20-year divide.

To Comfort You, Shelley

The tide moves up
To hide the gash
Along the shore

Hole ripped from your life
Waves attempt to wash it clean

Sand resettles
Shifts
Hole is not so deep

When the tide moves out
The wound can still be seen

Sun bakes the salt
So it shines in the sand
These moments glisten like diamonds

When the whispery foam
Seeps in once more
You know

Though the wind has lifted her soul beyond reach
She'll return
In the way that you'll cradle your child
The songs you'll sing to her
A look in your eyes
A phrase
A gesture

She will be there
In generations you won't even know
Just as you are a part
Of those women you've never met

How fitting
That on Mother's Day
She gave herself the gift of peace
And gave you an anniversary
That will celebrate the woman she was

The tide of time
Will carry the tears out to sea
And leave behind
The wind-fresh memories
Of her strength
Her smile
Her wit
Vivacity
Charm
Command
Her beauty
And the generosity that you share

Look for her
In the raindrops
That dance upon the sea
She will be where you least expect her
And know that her love for you
Did not leave with her
But is hiding in the air that you breathe

Copyright - Julia Smith - 1988

Shelley

Photo by Maureen Kemp

Poetry Train Monday - 40 - When I Remember My Dad

2008-03-10T21:35:00.000-07:00

Last year at this time, my family and I were spending as much time as possible with my dad, Norman Phillips. He was in his last few weeks of life, passing away on March 24th from kidney cancer.

Of course, he's on my mind a lot. I'd like to share this poem which I wrote 20 years ago when I had moved to Toronto, spreading my wings and finding out who I was as a newly-fledged adult. I gave it to him for Father's Day, 1988. He carried this poem around with him for years, and showed it to all of his friends. More than once, I'm sure.

When I Remember My Dad

I remember
At the silliest times

Struggling with a jar of applesauce
I remember the annoyance
When I brought you a
Similar stubborn jar
You coached me to
Open myself
Rather than prove your brawn
"What if I wasn't here?"
You'd ask
"I'd eat something else instead - "

Yet the baby patiently waiting
For her lunch
Leaves me without glib options
I strain
Fuss
Burst blood vessels
Run it under hot water
Tap it with a knife
Until the lid pops
And I feel your hand on my shoulder

The panic I felt
When I looked behind me
Expecting to see you running
With one hand on the back of my bike
Instead you were half a block away
Waving and laughing
I hopped off
And stopped
Enraged that you should trick me
It wasn't until you caught up
That I realized
I no longer needed training wheels
I was free to pedal the streets
On my own

How well you were cast
As Mom's foil
Christmas morning and Easter
You were up with us before dawn
You let us roam ahead on the rocks
The menacing sea below
I felt your trust
Heard you quiet Mom's fears
And felt your gaze keeping tabs
Through the boulders between us

I listened and watched
You taught me to
Pitch a tent
Snorkle in the sea
Change a tire
Mow the lawn
Pack a truck
Wishing I was your son
For your sake

By showing me
How to dismantle a bedframe
You freed me from the yoke
Of depending on men
Leaving me the time
To be myself
The race to find my protector
Cancelled on account of independence

When you taught me to drive
You kept your hands off the dashboard
I assumed your air of confidence
Your hand on the emergency brake
A secret safety net
You gave me room
To make mistakes
Your blood pressure remained stable
Even when I stalled in third gear
At a lunchtime rush hour intersection

How hard it must have been
To put the transmission in drive
Press the gas
One last wave out the window
Leaving me to make my way
So far from you
When I've known all along
How you wanted to cradle me
Safe against your shoulder
How that hand
Must have bled
As you pulled it back through the window

Copyright - Julia Smith - 1988

Poetry Train Monday - 39 - Expectation

2008-03-03T21:40:00.000-08:00

This is another backstory poem, this time for Jocelyne, the young Dowager Countess of Moncrieffe. I posted an excerpt a few Poetry Mondays ago introducing her and the Scottish gamekeeper.

Expectation

My father gazed down at his first born
Hopeful still for sons, enamoured of me
My mother and I welcomed sisters
Giggling together at pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake
But no son arrived - no heir, no legacy

My father ran his father's linen mills
Who then to school, to pass the reins?
My mother tutored us in grace and wit
While father hoped for sons-in-law
And the beaux arrived - an heir yet for legacy

My father never looked for landed sons
Yet they courted us the moment we debuted
My mother cried with joy the night I shared my news
Though "I do" made me a countess, she mere 'Mrs.'
But no child arrived - no heir, no legacy

My father vowed that grandchildren might show
The hunger for his mills, and well they might
My mother travelled to my sisters' childbeds
The years went by. No Mother's trip for me
No child arrived - no heir, no legacy

My husband, earl and lord, a solid man
Companion through my days, a kiss at night
And I wandering asleep - searching - someone
Until God called him home and wrenched from me
For no son could grieve - no heir, no legacy

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 37 - Gold That Burns

2008-02-18T17:56:00.000-08:00

At the request of Susan, here is a bit of backstory for Guthrie Carmichael, the Scottish gamekeeper from my excerpt posted last week.

Gold That Burns

At my birth, my father bid his love goodbye
She slipped away, my sister clutching to her breast
Five boys - poor Jean a wee thing and all
No girls to wash and peel and mend
Five boys too young to work. Too young
To stop the men with fists who took him off

I pulled upon her hand yet on we trudged
She knew our father's cough would never heal
The damp, the rot, the gaol's stone walls
Took on the spectre of his hollowed gaze
My sister raised us all with his firm hand
With mother's gentle kiss, and so we thrived

While Jean seemed yet a girl, so slight, so worn
No suitor, only brothers grown and safe, in service all
Though it would hurt her to the quick to know
Her dearest Guthrie poached from the estate
Putting guineas by to sail from these cruel shores
Determined that I be the man my father dare not dream

Risking stone gaol and iron door with every snare
Am I seeking life and fortune with my plan?
Or do I run from father's dying grasp, gaining no ground
Seeing only Jean's trusting gaze each time I
Lift the false shelf to hide the gold that burns

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 35 - Writers' Lunch

2008-02-04T18:05:00.000-08:00

This one is so new it's barely wrapped in swaddling clothes.

Tomorrow is the One Year Blogiversary of A Piece of My Mind. Drop by and celebrate with me!

Writers' Lunch

Real faces
I could touch
If I reached across

Words tumble
Not in my mind
But over the pasta

Morsels nourish
Even on my fork
As heads nod

I carry souls
In my heart
In my mind

Clink and clack
Drown them out
For an afternoon

Hungry muse
Happy with laughter
Plucked like a brass ring

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 34 - The Look That Passes Between Them

2008-01-28T18:12:00.000-08:00

This is a reworked poem from my high school years. The original version is quite long. One might even say overly long. I had a look at it recently and decided a much shorter version could be picked out of it.

The Look That Passes Between Them

Even then
She chipped away
The cornerstones reduced
To so much rubble

He grabbed the hammer
The chisel
Dashed them to the ground
Screamed and spit
Grabbed her by the hair
Dragged her to the door
Kicked to smash it open

She landed upon jagged edges
The stones she'd chipped from the tower
The pain was blinding

Trembling
She rose to her feet
Her skin raw
Without the shell
He'd pried free
Still buried in a pocket

One day they'll meet again
His blue eyes no longer charged
With desperation
No shutters to keep a breeze
From tussling his hair

In his outstretched hand
A shell
In hers a polished stone

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 33 - Pedigree

2008-01-21T18:16:00.000-08:00

This poem was inspired by the relationship my late father-in-law suffered through with his father. I've been thinking about that a lot since he passed away. I admire him for working through his own pain enough to raise three sons who grew into caring men.

Pedigree

Word-stones bruise. Clammy face, chill with pale fear,
Washes over with hope for escape. Hands
Grab, shove till boy sprawls, choked by dust. By tears.

Leather whistles through loops. Skin prickles. Stands
Over him - snaking back, father's coiled strength -
- washes over with hope for escape. Hands

Grip the straw. Body curls. Jerks. Yet arms' length.
Slash/burns. Grits teeth to bite back howls. He fails.
Over him - snaking back, father's coiled strength -

Granite fury geysers hot. Leather flails.
What trigger for this scalding? ...many names.
Slash/burns. Grits teeth to bite back howls. He fails.

No action, word appeases him, nor tames.
His mother's horror serves a new rebuke.
What trigger for this scalding? ...many names.

A bond that festers, flares as quick as puke.
Word-stones bruise. Clammy face, chill with pale fear -
His mother's horror serves a new rebuke.
Leather whistles through loops. Skin prickles. Stands -

Copyright - Julia Smith - Jan. 2008

Warning: link to clip shows blood and some violence.

Photos are stills from the 2003 Swedish film Evil (Ondskan) by Mikael Håfström, starring Andreas Wilson. It was nominated for an Oscar for Best Foreign Film. I've only seen parts of it, but it's on my to-watch list.

Switching gears entirely - just think of all the hotties out there that we don't even know about...

Poetry Train Monday - 30 - The Test

2007-12-17T18:20:00.000-08:00

Since we're tucked into our house riding out a major snowstorm tonight, I felt like posting this older poem I wrote when I was still in high school.

The Test

Winter moon
White and clear
Snowy dune
Icy spear
Silver wisps
Line the sky
Patient stars
Wolfen cry

Haunting hush
Waiting wood
Powder crush
Soft wool hood
Anxious turns
Shuts the door
Stands outside
Full heart sore

Slanting square of white lamplight
Cuts the sameness of the night
Out before the rough hewn house
Vigil flame I pray to douse

Don't fret so
Tighten cloak
Loosen then
Twist and choke
Doubts arise
Hopes spin/fall
Lonesome claws
Poise to maul
Gaze pans night
Worried sighs
Dark beneath
Sharp cold skies

Flat gray fields stretching silent
Streams of ice floes ripped and violent
Clumsy fences trailing far
Clutching branches grasp and scar
All is still and all is screaming
Emptiness and fury teeming

He'll get through
I can feel
Snow beware
He's of steel
Gaze won't leave
Icy road
Sparkling shine
Eerie bode

Body shakes
Not from cold
Heart awakes
Life takes hold
Winter moon
Shines on two
Run embrace
Love is true

Poem Copyright 1980 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 27 - The Fairy Glen

2007-11-26T18:25:00.000-08:00

Here's a real trip down memory lane. Believe it or not, I wrote this when I was 13. Obviously, I was channeling my inner Victorian poet.

The Fairy Glen

As I was walking down the lane,
Streams of sunlight rare

Because the trees had formed a veil,
Shadowing the country trail,
My head empty of care,
My heart empty of pain,

I chanced to find among the grass
An old an tarnished ring.
I rubbed it clean and saw inscribed
Something written by one which'd imbibed
Too much of an intoxicating thing.
It didn't make sense to me; alas!

However, as I stood beneath
The ancient limbs of a giant oak,
There happened to me a curious thing.
I spoke the words on the little ring,
Its meaning quite clear as soon as I spoke.
Magic hung over me like a wreath,

Colors of red and purple and green
Twining around me in an eerie dance.
The tingling of bells greeted my ears,
Calming my wild and anxious fears.
I opened my eyes; in a single glance
I beheld a thing I'd ne'er before seen.

Brownies and fairies, pixies, too,
Stood in a ring around me, so;
Bewildered, I stared, my thoughts awhirl -
How could this happen to an ordin'ry girl?
I guess my thoughts my face did show -
A pixie, clad in shades of blue

Stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear.
Stretching out a friendly hand,
He welcomed me to the circle, thus;
Everyone made a royal fuss
As if I were something really grand.
I looked at the ring that had brought me here.

It shone with golden beauty bright.
Transfixed, I held it in my palm,
My eyes, from it, I could not tear.
A voice spoke from I knew not where.
It said, its tone so soft and calm,
"Home do you wish to return tonight?

Or would you rather stay among
Us fairy folk in this magic glen?"
I asked, "I cannot return again?
Can't I go home and visit when
I wish to?" The pixie shook his head. "Then
It's home to stay that I do long."

The blue-clad pixie nodded slow,
His eyes understanding.
When night encased the fairy glen,
Closing day's petals upon the stem,
The pixies and fairies and brownies standing,
Uneven, row by row,

I took a last look and said my goodbyes,
Feeling my tears well up.
Through a misty haze which blurred everything,
I read the words on the magic ring.
Then I was doused in the color cup,
The tingling of bells and the small fireflies,

Made of the sparks that swirled to and fro,
Taking me from the fairy-ring there.
The colors disappeared, and in their place
The lane uncovered its friendly face.
If it weren't for the ring which I did wear,
That the fairies were real I couldn't know.

The ring again dirty, the sun still a-shine,
I didn't know even if I were real.
Home I went and found time had not passed.
Had I dreamt the bit of the fairy blast?
I only knew what was mine to feel:
My adventure, if true, had been one divine.

Copyright 1978 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 24 - A Donna Poem

2007-11-05T18:42:00.000-08:00

I enjoyed a wonderful trip to Toronto a few weeks ago, when I was so happy to spend an afternoon with my friend Donna. We share November birthdays, and since I'm just back from a family dinner celebrating the six November birthdays on my side of the family, I'm also thinking of Toronto November birthday people.

When I first moved to Toronto in 1986, I was 21 years old and very lucky to be hired by Donna to be her daughter's nanny. I lived with them for two really special years. Here's a poem I wrote for her just after I turned 22.

A Donna Poem

Your lashes drift awake
Your eyes see a different view

Not the red of your mother's womb
Exploding into the anticeptic green
The latex palm in which you were cupped
The cheesy residue of your old life
Erased as gently as those who have forgotten
Can manage

First impressions
A blessing
That newborns are half blind
In that way
Every mother is beautiful
Her smile wide
Words a tonal haze
Floating past the insular life
Of hunger, confusion, sleep-escape

This date looms out from the year
The anniversary of your entry
The letters, numbers have no bearing for the rest of us
They were your co-ordinates
You chose midnight
Riding the cusp between days
You knew even then
Essential freedom
Would be immeasurable

This day finds you
The former channel
Your own daughter sleeps downstairs
Her crib housing her thoughts
Her emergence spun you around
One destiny fulfilled
Leaving you open
How many more before you

What you understand today
Took years of interpretation
Each survived second
Unrecognized victory
You scan the molecules
Swimming transparent
Unlike the murk of past practical jokes

You've learned that a greased pig is hopeless
The days ahead have their own plan

Why not lay in bed
This time to yourself
It really is yours
People will sing you that song
While every nerve is attuned
The earth vibrates with your frequency

It's your day

Copyright Julia Smith 1986

Poetry Train Monday - 23 - The Red Joy at Last

2007-10-29T18:46:00.000-07:00

The Red Joy at Last

On battlefields he'd watched it spray
Spattering cross his face
Slickening his hold on the
Pommel as he swung

His horse's hooves swirled the
Russet color of it
Sucking through mud and men's sodden hair
Floating facedown

The smell of it
Clings to his memory
Slime of a man
Swiped from his cheek

He'd seen this look before
Most often from a height
The solid weight of warhorse
Dearer than a lover

Now he steps close
Fear rich as lust
He hears the heart clench
Pulse like rain on his tongue

Shining terror turns
Blue eyes into torch flame
Lighting his way
To the feast

Fangs descend against lips
Curling back
Arms pull the trembling man close
Dearer than a lover

The night's battle looms
No sword for such as he
Could this man have been
A shield brother once?

His worth shines like gold
Twin points sink deep
He sighs as he tastes of
The red joy at last

Copyright - Julia Smith - October 28, 2007

Poetry Train Monday - 19 - Vertical Narrative

2007-09-17T18:50:00.000-07:00

This is another one from my university days. I've chosen one of my mom's paintings as a companion to the poem. Titled 'Ships at Sail', the painting and the poem were created within a few years of each other. I'll be showcasing 13 of her pieces on my Thursday Thirteen this week.

Vertical Narrative

When I was five
I looked to the heavens
Unsure of 'forever and ever
Amen'

If everyone wanted that
Ascention to paradise
Why should that lack of
Closure
Unnerve me

Why did everyone point
And ask if I could
See the face
The Man in the Moon

Why did they gather
Gazing upon canvasses of
Blobbed color
Splatters
Even holes torn

Twisted bronze
Sculpture or
Snicker

'Eraserhead'
Conundrum

How I remember that night
When two eyes
Cheeks
A smile emerged
From the lunar surface

Riddles of design
Recover from their sojourn
To the Tower of Babel

I am left reaching for
The face of Creation
Happy for now with
My stake in the
Garden of
The very
First
Morn

Poem copyright 1993 Julia Smith

Watercolor ink and sand, copyright 1995 Paulette Phillips

Poetry Train Monday - 18 - Liberation

2007-09-10T18:54:00.000-07:00

Believe it or not, I wrote this in grade 11 after recovering from my first broken heart. My first boyfriend and I broke up and I spent a year being single before starting a new relationship with my second boyfriend. Clearly, not a casual dater!

Liberation

How freed my soul
With blinking eyes
That smart at light
Weep tears at day

My soul, whose cell
Carved far below
Dripped with mildew
Rats and cold

Clung fast at first
To slimy stones
With unworn nails
Afraid

To breathe the dust
And not let go

Now bent, my soul
Could feel the sun
Shrivelled flesh
Sprung pink with life
My trembling bones
Felt sick with joy
Stumbling clear
Before I knew

I think of you
But dream no more
I wonder
Would I rush
Back to the dust
At your late call

Who knows at all
To fall

Copyright 1981 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 17 - Citadel

2007-09-03T18:57:00.000-07:00

Here's my very latest poem, finished today. It feels so nice to have a few in the works. I find poetry to be more like sculpting. It's a very different process for me than prose. I often write a stanza and then leave it for a bit, standing back to see how it wants to reveal itself to me.

Citadel

I've built my own keep
Brick by smiling brick
No room at the inn
How they suffer
Bottomless and vast
I kick fresh straw
Free another corner in the stable

I'm greedy with compassion
My outstretched hand
Beacon of sanctuary
They see a wave of cheer
Though it flails to break a fall
I limp and soldier on
Grimace or grin, hard to say

I'm pilloried by pride
So many heads
Invited to my shoulder
My neck stiff with them
Progress is glacial
Boulders uproot to be
Dragged, scouring the bedrock

I've built my own fortress
The bricks all made of smiles
The bedrock is compassion
The moat was dredged by pride
My arms stretch wide like ramparts
Chains release the drawbridge
I am their refuge. They are mine.

Copyright 2007 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 16 - Celestial DNA

2007-08-27T19:02:00.000-07:00

Celestial DNA

The world we inhabit
Hides its numbers
Shapes
Lines
In the leaves
Rocks
Horizons

While buried in the sinews
Swirling within blood cells
The rhythm of the firmament
The curling of the tides
Tell the tale

The Young Ladies of Avignon
Standing in their
Crystal congress
Know their geometric afternoon

Amoeba glide
Snowflakes drift
Pollen ride the breeze

A mother feels the flutter
Child turning in the womb
The sweep of the grandiose constellations
In the frightening maw of time

God's fingerprints
And ours

Copyright 1994 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 15 - McGregor Bay

2007-08-20T19:06:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to Toronto in the late 80's, I spent the first few years as a live-in nanny for a family with whom I had an outrageous amount of fun. If you can believe how great this was, each summer they went up to the Georgian Bay area north of Toronto to spend a week at their family cottage. And they brought me with them! And paid me my week's salary to basically be on vacation with them.

Sure, technically I was there to still keep an eye on the little girl, but in reality her mom was on duty and I think she just wanted me to have an opportunity to have some fun with them. Which I did!

Here is the poem that resulted from the first visit:

McGregor Bay

The envelope is opened
And the breeze chilled with rain
Opens on my skin as I
Separate the double prints

Slimed sunscreen and Muskol
Returns to my skin
Remembering becomes
The rustle of the pines
The hollow thunk of deck shoe on root

The hanging schools of rock bass
Under the shadow of the boat
Sharing the lake
I emerged from
Dripping

The pictures time tunnel me
B-52 bomber drone of deerflies
Interrupt the pleasant giggling
Of blueberries hidden
In the springy shrubs
As they give themselves away
To be cradled in my hand like jewels

Smoke erupting skyward
Wine poured on skewered grill
Lake swallowing CD strains
And after the baby's safely asleep
To think we piled around that tiny screen
When we could have
Sacrificed some blood
For a look at the star show
Playing this location only

Copyright 1987 Julia Smith

Photos of McGregor Bay by Liz and Andy Betterton

Poetry Train Monday - 14 - The Flautist

2007-08-13T19:09:00.000-07:00

Saturday night I attended my 25th high school reunion. That led to yearbook reminiscing, where I found this poem.

It's printed at the back of the year book along with five other poems by other student poets. For a middle class high school attended by children of working class parents, we had a thriving arts education when I went to P.A. (short form for Prince Andrew High School.) We had Drama classes, Art and Music (split into choir students and instrumental students.) We had one play and one musical per year, plus assorted choir or band concerts.

This poem was inspired by a friend of mine who took music class with the choir students even though he played the flute and was in several bands. 25 years later he sings with the basses in the Canadian Opera Chorus in Toronto.

Photo by Michael Cooper, 2001 Cavalleria rusticana

Here he is, third from left holding the basket - Michael Downie. This poem came to me one cold day when he came into the music portable (a satellite classroom on the school grounds, adjacent to the main building which was overcrowded with Generation X-ers) to stash his flute in its case first thing in the morning - first thing for me, but I knew he'd already been at school for awhile at band practice. And I knew that later on he'd have choir rehearsal with me because we were both in "Oklahoma!"

I trimmed this down a bit - all my early stuff is a bit longwinded.

The Flautist

Sagging sky
Purpled puffs
Punched in and held
By unseen threads

Tensed and grim
The chill, the wary gusts
Stir the hairs
Upon his neck
Soaked shoes
Trailing jets of rain
Sidesteps sopping
Crunchit bags
That skit sporadic
Cross the lot

Circle of uneasy light
Fluorescent beam
Retreats from
Morning's hazey glow
Rounds the corner
Dented metal sides
Versed with coin-carved words
Of youthful fun
Filmed with heavy mist
Mounting hollowed
Metal steps that shudder
With his sleepy weight

He grips the freezing handle
Jerks the blue door open
It takes a moment
He pulls his jacket off
Puts his books down
Flicks the water from his hair
Just sits

Numbed and red, his hands
Unclasp the case's lid
To lift it

The morning's bite releases

Her slender form rests languidly
Her lips as rich and sweet as fruit
She lies on crushed blue velvet sheen
Her flowing fingers long and lean
As with her hand she stretches, Queen
Of Woodwinds reaching up, his flute
To greet her servant graciously

Humbly then her servant bows
And takes her hand to kiss it soft
Reverently he watches her
He sees her rise and hears her purr
Surrenders to her strong allure
She in his arms and held aloft
He weak with all that she endows

So cool and clear the voice that sings
Dame Flute in song professes joy
To all who hear and all who feel
Such lightness, airiness - unreal
The glacier's freshness, ice-cool peal
That chills and melts the trembling boy
Who sets her down by crystal springs

This is the time for which he lives
He lies upon the deep green grass
His arms about Dame Flute, whose voice
Floats up among the leaves, the noise
Of birds stilled by her sound, their choice
To stop and listen to the lass
Is taken up by most, as more she gives

Pulses flit and dart, sweet pain fills
Him as he takes her, trembling soft
The glory of the honor she
Bestows on one such man as he
Drunk in the heat of victory
He holds Dame Flute up high, aloft
And in his mercy. Now the wills

Of both stand fused as one. He plays
Her body with the deftness of
The greatest lover, with the grace
Of the most humble servant, lace
And satin thrown without disgrace
On top of coarse wool cloth. Their love
Bared to the world, greets proud new days

Rehearsal's done
The bell has rung

Startled
He looks around

Disappointed
He places her back in the case
And leaves

Copyright 1982 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 13 - Playground Politics Grade 4

2007-08-06T19:13:00.000-07:00

This is the second part of a two-poem piece. The first one recounted a grade 1 experience of mine. This one happened three years later.

The friend to whom I refer in this poem is the same friend who is the subject of Precious Friend from a previous Poetry Train post.

Playground Politics Grade 4

The insurgents
No longer requiring their
Inamorata
Already regrouped
Taking new positions from
This morning's skirmish
I'd even rushed home
Inhaled my Kraft dinner
And stepped onto the playground
Half an hour early
To find my troops
Already kicking away

The huddled group of boys
Shoved each other toward
The hob-nailed harridans
Seeking to prove their own endurance
A primal quest toward manhood
While all we wanted
Was an excuse
To maim and bloody
Before the bell rang

Inexperienced colonel
I didn't hear the whispers
Ricochet off the walls
A coup erupted from the giggles
I hung from all fours
The girls were gone
And they dragged me
To be their
Signature victim

I couldn't face
My own invention
Far more chilling
The absence of outraged mobs
Defending the founder of their movement

I hoped their lack of action
Was due to perceived shame
I felt the snowy wool
Congeal on my skin
As I bumped along the ground

The procession halted
Mere paces from the slaughter
Dumped
Unceremonious and sprawling

I saw the boys scatter
Two fists
Two feet
A wild mane of hair

My champion dispersed them

As if on cue
Every girl on the playground
Pursued the enemy
I scrambled to my feet
The urge to reclaim The Corner
Swelling in my chest like fear
My previous horror
At what I'd created
Dashed to a pulpy splat
On the asphalt

In the comfort of my desk
As we copied from the board
I stared at this class of deserters
Connie wrote behind me
We never talked
And so were not separated
As all best friends must be
I turned
And wordlessly
I picked up her eraser
Her gaze turned to me

How could her shining armour
Lay so unobtrusively
Beneath a polyester turtleneck
And Levi forest green cords?

Copyright 1987 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 12 - Playground Politics Grade 1

2007-07-30T19:16:00.000-07:00

This is the first part of a two-poem piece recounting significant events that happened to me in elementary school.

Playground Politics Grade 1

Change
Imperceptible
Even to my Third Eye
Turned me into a bad kid
In the space of a hundred yards

Upon waking that morning
My cells had replaced themselves
Overnight
Otherwise
I remained the same girl whom
My daddy had kissed goodnight
My body fit my clothes
As Mommy helped me with the
Zipper at the back
My friends recognized me
And walked with me to school

On the playground
I crawled with the others
Through tunnels we carved
Through the bushes
Leaving the others to swing and slide
Preferring life at the edge of the concrete
Past which
Lay unknown terrain
The teacher on duty
Would have to send search parties
Decked out in space suits
To poke among the craters

The mutating gene
Accelerated
I looked down the path
And
Hearing the cries leaking through
From the other dimension
I checked for Mrs. Sturman
The wind screamed past my ears
The sound of my steps on the packed earth
Reverberating in my chest
I felt two others behind me
All it took was one step
And my rebels bolted
On the coattails of their liberator

We reached the edge of the trees
To my horror
We stood at the foot
Of a manicured lawn
Intruders in some backyard
The others fled
Frightened by the skull-socket windows
I dawdled
Turning my back
Hoping that the presence of
My comrades had played the trick
And the voices
Might yet beckon through the green

I emerged from the solace of my sylvan interlude
An angry hand gripped my arm -
Stand against the wall
Until the bell rings!
The universe as I had come to know it
Suddenly splintered

Slowing my vital signs

All I could do
Was stand there
As if I were a
Bad Kid

And suddenly
The ones playing hopscotch
Seemed like long lost sisters
Instead of the
Whining dullards
I had always known them to be

Copyright 1987 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 11 - Spatiotemporal Limits

2007-07-23T19:20:00.000-07:00

This poem came from a creative cycle while I was in university.

Spatiotemporal Limits

Antigone only guessed at the voices
Which whispered their laws
Though Kubrick's apes
Swayed to the music of the spheres
Gazing upon the implacable
Face of the monolith

Were these the same angels
Who mixed the paints
For Kandinsky to dip his brushes
His planetary musings
Were they actually cells dividing
Could these forms
These colors
Be molecules
Or solar roundabouts
Obelisks
Or untabulated laws
Did Sophocles feel them too
On that Meditteranean morning
So many rotations ago?

1993 Copyright Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 10 - For So Long

2007-07-16T19:23:00.000-07:00

This was written about a week after my husband and I found ourselves in a major relationship transformation. We met while we both worked at a Famous Players movie theatre, became best friends and were very close for two years. All of a sudden things began to change between us. Once we figured out that our friendship couldn't contain our true feelings, it seemed very shocking. We started telling everyone, "You'll never guess who I'm going out with." But absolutely everyone guessed it was us.

For So Long

I saw you and
Recoiled in horror
I knew who you were
Even as we were introduced

You patrolled
On the outskirts
Sensing the danger
Sending yourself out on reconnaissance

Your affable grin
Generosity
Insight
All made it easy
Your barbed humor
Your penetrating stare
Gave rise to whispers
And I heard them
Each time we parted

What was it that told you
To step to the right
As I moved to pass you
One step
One kiss
I dropped my purse
Waved the white flag
How could I resist
When I knew who you were

One touch of your hand on my body
I feel the terror, the serenity
How I long for the sting of
Your palm against my skin
I could draw back, then
Keeping my sword
Already offered up
My fingers wary of the cutting blade
Your fingers outstretched
The pommel a perfect fit

My rage was easy
But when you kissed me
I cried
It was so hard
Your soft lips
Ripped the clothes from my body
I moved to deflect
What was merely the glass of champagne
You poured for me

Two scorpions facing off
Stingers arched above our backs
The poison dropped instead
Upon our shelled spines
Blinking away the sweat
To find it's only
You and me
Entering the lion's den
Martyring the known
For the unknown

It's hard to beat back the Destroyer
When he's your Lover

Copyright 1989 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 8 - Polly Cove

2007-07-02T19:27:00.000-07:00

With yesterday being Canada Day, I was drawn to this poem about my favorite spot on earth. Polly Cove is just a little ways along the coast from Peggy's Cove in Nova Scotia. My dad and uncle used to go scuba diving on a wreck there, and my mom and aunt would hang out at the picnic blankets having chick time while my cousins, my sister and I would run around on the rocks. The coastline there is nothing but giant boulders and endless stretches of rock.

It's quite a trek from the road to the cove. Everyone had to carry supplies for the day, and the path wound down a very steep cliff. It's not merely a childhood-only place. It's a 45-minute drive from where I live, and I return every summer if I can. But my best memories are from those days when I could still run and leap over that incredible landscape.

Polly Cove

The slow dip
A seagull skims
The clouds slide

We leap from the crag
And the lichen springs

Below yawns the whispering seethe of the salt
The drop looks enticing

The lazy coil of the seaweed
A maid's demure flirtations

Behind us
Scraggling pines huddle
The cliff face

Far beyond
The frightening power
Of swelling froth

While here
The air skids to a stop
Your eyes look at me

And the sun snags in the tangly growth

Copyright Julia Smith 1985

Poetry Train Monday - 7 - Precious Friend

2007-06-25T19:30:00.000-07:00

In honor of my best friend's birthday - today - here is a poem I wrote this past March, during my dad's last week of life.

Precious Friend

My heart can't find words
Your eyes fill with love
Your steps fall in with mine
My heartbeat lightens
You leave behind your day
Gather your own fear
You cross the threshold
Smile at my father
He reaches for your hand
Knowing for certain
He need never worry for me
With you there

Precious friend
The heart of the Happy Prince
The swallow who would not leave him
Nothing will stop the wave of loss
You merely place yourself
So my knees won't buckle

Copyright 2007 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 6 - In Medieval English Woods

2007-06-17T19:33:00.000-07:00

This one is from 1986. Twenty-one years later, and I've still got the same images playing through my mind! (Current novel takes place in Dark Age Britain)

In Medieval English Woods

The pound of hooves beginning
Bodies crouching
In the waiting

The hiss of leaves
And popping branches - torn
The rip of moss from earth
The thud of hearts
In night attack

Demon shadows leap
A fear-stained man
His arm to swing at air
While one who sees his moment
Strikes
Their faces kiss
The slipping sliding for the stance
On blood-slicked rocks

The knights astride their mounts
Heavy spathas hacking
Stopped with wrenching force
By parries
Or the shield of breastbone

The sword sucks from the wound
The dying form
Slumps from his horse
And falls

Spirits linger
Cold tendrils hanging
From the shoulders of
The ones still fighting

Weary with the clotting blood
With steaming breath
The horses strain to bolt
Each head dragged by the bit
In the leaving

The knights canter from the scene
Indifference flowing from them
Like a billowing cape

Panting
The others slog
Exhausted through the mire
In confusion

Copyright 1986 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 5 - 100% Humidity

2007-06-10T19:37:00.000-07:00

And it's raining, right now!

This is from my June 1987 burst of poetry writing.

100% Humidity

Why do I feel like
Running out of the house
When the rain explodes over the
Seeds clogging the drainpipe
Obscuring the view
A camera's blurred focus
Flashing me backwards

If foundations should be
Swept away
I want to feel it on my skin
Want the danger
Of being smashed against the rocks

I've never yearned for wings
To split the speed of sound
No, I was the kid
Who dipped her boots
In all the puddles
Watched as Mom
Pulled the stopper from the tub
Sat till the last swirl down the drain
Left me run aground
Turned willingly into a prune
Unready to leave the water's embrace

Perhaps I suspect
This collection of raindrops
Will wash me out to sea
My powerful tail
Will kick off the cumbersome garment
My sisters will dress me in pearls and coral
My hair will sway with the tide
And I'll dance with the mermen
At King Neptune's court

Copyright 1987 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 4 - Awaiting the Unicorn

2007-06-03T19:40:00.000-07:00

I've been looking through my old poetry notebooks since I boarded the Poetry Train, and I noticed I had a big spurt of creativity in the summer of 1987. I had been in Toronto for a year by then, getting to know the real me. My best friend had just visited me for a week from Nova Scotia, and we'd done some shopping for her upcoming wedding later that fall.

She gave me a beautiful 'Writer's Notebook', a journal with quotes and lovely Arts and Crafts graphics, plus lots of space to write. And I filled it with poetry.

Here's one from June of 1987. At this point I was a few months away from meeting my husband-to-be.

Awaiting the Unicorn

Let those women
Dream of Prince Charming
Kneeling beside the bed

I shall wade into the wilderness
For I await the Unicorn

A feathery breath at the shoulder
Leaves me with thoughts of ghosts
Branches spring back into place
I happen upon his glade
But carry no sword
The pool of light cascading
Through the red veil of maple

My foot has no shape
To slide into slippers of glass
My bare soles
Curl beneath the folds of my snowy gown
My back settles gratefully
Into solid gray bark

Wind seeps in
While someplace beyond
The water trips, collects and plunges
He lifts his neck
Blue eyes scan the forest
The brook dripping from the perfect mouth

Twig snaps
Under careless hoof
His face lowers to my lap
An invitation to the arrow
Murderers could creep
To his very shoulder
Releasing the blue from his neck
Till it soaked the flaming bed of quills
On which we lay

His gaze through the forelock

Who needs chandeliers
Crowns or cotilions
When death
Blood
Surrender
Blue eyes
A perfect mouth
Await by the brook
In the wood of the silver-white stallion

Copyright 1987 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 3 - Skewed Landscapes

2007-05-27T19:44:00.000-07:00

I thought this one was in keeping with the American Memorial Day weekend. Though I found myself wondering, why does the US have Memorial Day when they also celebrate Remembrance Day on Nov. 11th?

At any rate, here is a poem I wrote in 1994 while I was in university.

Skewed Landscapes

As Darwin's hairy men
Turned and strode from
Adam's gentle brow
Begloved matrons
Swooned in their seats
Overcome by Stravinsky's dissonance

A democracy of junk
Ripened into collaged provinces
Turner's spectral train
Retreated to Romantic gloom

Europe turned to mud
Its watery trenches
Inheriting the fallen

Big Bertha spewed hard death
At the Somme
Gallant bayonets faltered
As noxious clouds robbed the
Divisions of their glory

Braque's Portuguese man
Disintegrated
While Picasso's Harlequin
Shouldered his sliced violin
Digressing into the angular fragments
Of a modern age

Copyright 1994 - Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 2 - The Poem of You

2007-05-20T19:47:00.000-07:00

Here's a reworked poem that first drew breath in 1981, but which I edited this morning.

The Poem of You

I feel a poem starting in me

Silken spider trappings
Fall gently in my breast
At your soft breath

Music fine and clean
Shepherd minding flocks
Stretching sky holding my world
Wide as life
Your voice tinged with morning haze
Settles itself about my tingling skin

The darkened depths
The coves and eddies
Teeming in your eyes
The secret hiss of foam
I dive and lose myself
Among the folds and swirls
Of water worlds uncharted
Ringed by stones
Alight with salt and age
Your gaze promises
The endlessness of sea

I float on the kiss
Your touch brings fanfares
Banners flying long and true
My willingness
To step outside this moment
Trampled under hooves that tear up ground

Your sighs fell the flimsy forest
Rays of warmth break through
Slanting rays shine on fern and moss
The untread ground
The magic wood
Of me

Voices whisper
Unseen hands guide my pen
Words flow over
The imagery of you

The poem of you
Dazes and stands ready

Copyright 2007 Julia Smith

Hopping Aboard the Poetry Train - 1

2007-05-14T19:50:00.000-07:00

Well, it was bound to happen. Let me dust the notebooks off and see what I can dig up.

Oh, here we go. Something I did for my grandparents' 45th wedding anniversary, the year after I graduated high school (24 years ago!) This is the grandma I live with, who plays piano and had the fiddler and guitarist come over for a kitchen party a few weeks ago.

My grandfather was a portrait photographer, oil painter of landscapes and Cheticamp rug hooker.

The Artisans

Time fashions its pearls
Beneath crusted grey shells
The milky white salve
Lifting sand from the tender flesh
A simple act of survival
Creating precious jewels
To be opened
Polished
Strung together
And displayed
A wonder of time preserved

Spears of light pierce the trees
Penetrating the transparent pane
Of transformed sand
The grains quickened to molten elixir
And frozen in a thin sheet
Looking in on two
Who greet the day
As two living pearls
Their time together, creating treasures
From the grains of the world

Two hands that clasped on a morning
Two faces that turned to a future
Overlooking a sea
They jumped into without answers
Waters that raged
Inlets becalmed

Two pearls who emerge from the ocean of time
To see with the eyes of that morning
The wonderful ripples their plunge could create
To feel the remarkable pulse
Of those whose existence
Began first with them
With the smiles they gave each other
With the echoes they felt
When they first looked in each others' eyes

Days spent
Time shared
Lives fashioned
From the grains of the world

Copyright,1983 Julia Smith