Cold April - A Poem

Way back when I was still at school I had a bit of a thing for iambic pentameter for a while, and sonnets.

This isn't a sonnet, nor is it completely faithfully in iambic pentameter wither.  However, I remember well when I wrote it - another cold April, snow among other things...

bland white moments of loneliness i ponder

a concentrated mind allowed to wander

wings its way to far, distorted scenes -

mere creations of these frightened dreams?

tired eyes pursue each short mortality

imagination lost and reaching for reality

the sweet snow falls, these reveries to take -

your face reflected in each transient flake

© Naomi Madelin 1989 


(1989?!?!)

Haiku with parsnips

parents for lunch - 
Dad avoiding the parsnips

among other things

with thanks to the brilliant Michael Dylan Welch  and the introduction to  "Fifty-Seven Damn Good Haiku by a Bunch of Our Friends"

© Naomi Madelin 2013

Autumn Poems

For ten years I missed Autumn.  My favourite season.  Even the damp English days bring me some kind of nonspecific peace.  Something to do with the freedom of nature. Being out in chill air.  The honest smell of mulching leaves. Memories of chilly walks to school when I was small, innocent and unencumbered.

To be honest there are a few too many of these damp days for my liking! Returning to England I realise how much I have become accustomed to the warmer climate of northern New Zealand this past decade.  But in that largely evergreen place I missed the leaves turning, the colours that warm you even when the air is near freezing, the comforting sound of the leaves underfoot and the sheer joy of kicking through them in wellies and warm socks.

I thought I'd gather together a Autumn few poems that resonate with me and share them.  There is one that I found years ago and had taped inside my filofax (that's some pre-iPhone tech!) for a few years, but I can't find it.  I think the poet's name was Mark something... Clues anyone? I'll keep hunting and post it when I find it.

Being a lover of haiku, I had to include Matsuo Basho's delicious little nut at the end.

Enjoy.



Autumn Valentine 

In May my heart was breaking-
Oh, wide the wound, and deep!
And bitter it beat at waking,
And sore it split in sleep.

And when it came November,
I sought my heart, and sighed,
"Poor thing, do you remember?"
"What heart was that?" it cried. 

Dorothy Parker 

Song of an Autumn Night

Under the crescent moon a light autumn dew
Has chilled the robe she will not change --
And she touches a silver lute all night,
Afraid to go back to her empty room. 

Wang Wei






Autumn

Laden Autumn here I stand
Worn of heart, and weak of hand:
Nought but rest seems good to me,
Speak the word that sets me free.

William Morris 



 Autumn
 
October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves
The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood
In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves
For battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feud
Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves
Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown
Along the westering furnace flaring red.
O martyred youth and manhood overthrown, 
The burden of your wrongs is on my head. 

                                                           Siegfried Sassoon



Autumn moonlight

Autumn moonlight -
a worm digs silently
into the chestnut


Matsuo Basho




post by Naomi Madelin

Writing My Heart

I’ll tell where my heart is

I’ll try to.

My heart is sunk,

sad and slow,

lost and unknowing in a maze

of unknowingness.

It left itself behind

back when it was suggested

it might be required. 

Its presence wanted.

It was afraid.

It hid.

I don’t know where I left it.

Here it is.  In the fluff

under the sofa.

Peeking from behind the cushions.

Squashed into the back of an infrequently opened cupboard. 

Misshapen and small. 

There it is in my children,

a glowing sun.
Huge, immortal, bold and brazen.

Taking itself so lightly it floats

in beauty
we watch it

a bubble

in the sun
amazing

and amazed. 

How it grows and shines and lights us. 

Don’t you
pop it.

Don’t you pop my heart
with your selfishness

or take it down and keep it. 

Delicate it is. 

Wanted it is. 

Wanting. 

Wanting your breath

to coax it, blow it, elate it. 

Inflate it.

Confused my heart is, frightened

and yet fulfilled.

How it struggles
not knowing where to settle.

Pacing. 

Pacing. 

Out and in,

up and down. 

What to do with gifts,

it wonders.
Tentatively takes and queries,

examines and puts aside. 

Heart,

heart,

eat those gifts.

Consume them. 

Dare.

Learn as little ones are

not to beware.

Take love as offered

life as proffered. 

Feed yourself
grow.

Here is my heart,

cupboard door ajar

frightened eyes.

I left it here, simply peeping.

Rhymes safe keeping.

NRM 17/11/11

For You

by writing in pen
I hoped that somehow
I'd reach
the part of my heart that reaches
the part of your heart that reaches
mine
Perhaps if I ever saw you
pen in hand too
doodling
I'd learn your map
But your doodles are your eyes
and I find them
hard
to read
like those bibles the church folk have
with translucent pages
full of tiny print
Precious words on paper that tears
so easily
Words you have to strain to read
let alone comprehend
let alone believe
But I believe in my pen
I believe in my heart
reading yours
through unexpected faith
in words and pictures

NRM 14/12/11

Long Hand

Long hand.

I am returning to writing in it. Today I decided to pick up my pen again.  To write long hand.

Long hand is the long, slow way.  The long way round.  Travel for the sake of travel.  Journeying for enjoyment.  Taking time.  The long hand of the clock moves slowest, but marks the greatest measure of time.  So long hand can be the long way to the purest, most reasoned, most considered, most deeply felt words.

Writing long hand forces us to take care of the journey, to take our time, to look at the view, to slow down.

This morning I noticed how untidy my writing was and realised that I was trying to write long hand as fast as I am used to typing.  Impossible!  So writing long hand takes on new meaning.  As I write with a pen I'm thinking about the way I'm forming my letters and words.  Thinking about ink pens and calligraphy.  Perhaps, in a time when most of us clack away on our keyboards, long hand will return to the revered art form it once was.

For years I kept a specially bound plain page notebook into which I carefully copied the poems I'd written that I felt merited keeping for history - to show my children and grandchildren.  A fresh page for each poem, carefully lettered in real old-fashioned ink.  To me I suppose it was a way of honouring my own words, or the words that had honoured me by appearing in that particular order, organisation, understanding.  The long way.

I think our words, poems in particular, arrive via the long way round, even though sometimes they seem to appear as if by magic.  They have travelled, brewed.  A loved one does not appear magically in 'arrivals' at the airport!  Sometimes we write the journey, sometimes it's a long and arduous one we are keen to discard - how quickly do we leap in the shower after a long haul flight.  At other times it's all about the journey and it is this that we show to our reader, rather than the arrival itself.

However words arrive, they have journeyed, the long way round, to be here.

Giving our words, or the words of others, the honour of being written in long hand is, I think, an art form that will not be lost or forgotten, but rediscovered, studied and cherished.

When I grow up, I want to be a scribe.

(c) Naomi Madelin 2011


For more on writing, see my blog post here

On Haiku

I love writing haiku.  Moments exploded into a nutshell is how I see them.  Like the hint of the song of a rare bird, the tiniest taste of something exquisite that fires a million thoughts.  Sometimes a haiku appears just like that - fully formed and ready to go.  Other times haiku morph and merge and turn into something unexpected, or with a change of line breaks the meaning is amplified.

I took the ferry today, to the city - it's a good place and time to find haiku.

I wonder which works best?

1/

leaving thoughts -
on the ferry our flag
twisted around the pole

2/

leaving thoughts on the ferry
our flag twisted
around the pole