Replaced by request. Not eligible.
Very long. Includes French.
The children are asleep,
and I their mother, have been
sorting files. Tossing tangled tales
and putative poetry, pausing. . . .
Here's a long one. "Cephalorphan Misfit."
Orphan, cast away, abandoned reject?
Foot-in-mouth, perhaps? Or secret?
With no memory of the poem, I read on:
"That time of week is here again." Yes,
I write. "The whole week holds its breath
awaiting this day; winds hold their blowing."
Hmm, thought I. I remember,
week-ends were the only time to write.
Judging by the date, I taught.
High-school French it was then.
(Flipping pages.) This is rather long.
I settled down comfortably, legs up,
on the couch by the window to read.
"Let my stream of consciousness
flow forth like mountain brook, brooking
no nonsense, to search out," (I read,)
"the golden nuggets from the sands of time,
and like the intermittent breezes,
playful." I release thought, no rhyme.
(Nice, I thought.) There will be no rhyme.
"No rhyme?" My rebellious companion
of solitary times, my Muse, (capitalized
when about to intercede,) retorted,
"But you always rhyme!"
I had to concede I wrote a lot of bad rhyme,
rhyme for its own sake, clever but pointless.
"Not when I was around," Muse said.
"My rhyme's sublime!"
Pushy creature.
"Hmmm. No form? Reform form!
Form again, re-form,
recreate the old
to New."
Remonstrating, reminding me:
"What glitters may be gold.
Alchemy."
And I, the week-end poet, sit back,
pen in hand--
then, all my poems were on paper.
(My Muse nods, remembering.)
I, too, remember. My gentle dad. . .
for I am far from home.
My Muse, prompting:
"The whole week holds its breath,
and yes, the wind, its blowing."
Even now, quiet memories whirl. . .
Muse, why are all your words
quoted here? I ask.
"Because they are not yours, silly girl."
.
That set me back. It's true. For years,
I had been sharing them as my own.
Why had I not thought? I knew my muse
lent wings to my thoughts, and I counted
her help among my skills. A hot wave
of embarrassment came, and shame . . .
My Muse just stood by and smiled.
Awgh! Rude.
What's so funny? I asked, feeling small.
Are you making fun of me? Will I be
going it alone after this? What I surely
deserved. With self-pity, there would be
no more poems to be proud of. I'd miss
her support, so badly taken for granted.
A lump was pushing tears into view.
.
"Nothing's changed," she said. "It's OK.
Over many years we worked together."
.
I understood, and we exchanged smiles.
Wonderfully comforting! To BE.
To be allowed to be as I had always been--
but with a difference. Ah, yes. Oh boy.
She deserved such a lot more respect!
.
Muse repeated, "The whole week holds
its breath, and yes, the wind is blowing?"
Feeling warm now, I had a lovely flow
over me, like love, spirit, Muse, and Dad.
A security like no other, Oh yes, Wind!
I'd miss the swirl, Wind's gentle hand
tousling curl, caressing, messing,
knowing freedom from appearances!
I miss my dad.
.
"A small thing," Muse reminded, "and
a golden grain of sand."
Yes, I thought, feeling strangely light,
and then, oddly transported, lifted to
another time, quite a different place--
.
Muse, what happened? Where am I?
Not alone, not at home, in dappled sun.
On the bank of a river, a low wooden dock,
reaching out over the water, floaters, a
rowboat bobbing in the swells as tide-water
entered from the Great St Lawrence . . .
and I, tongue-tied visitor struggling vainly
to understand people with me, all at once,
talking, gesticulating, laughing, . . Their
rapid French ran verbal circles around my
high-school translations!
.
My muse smiled benignly, reassuring that,
like all good things, comprehension would
find me. Ne traduire pas, do not translate!
...Écoute, pour mieux penser... Think French.
How did I know that?
Their house was on the shore. A short way
downstream a railway trestle ...traversait...
the river...une rivière, pas un fleuve...
they explained. ...Un fleuve est plus grand,
on m'a dit,... and flows into the sea. I was
...encore avec Anita,... in Cap Rouge, ...un village
en Québec... many years ago. I, a schoolgirl,
there to learn spoken French, twelfth grade.
Vivid memory of July ...dans la grande famille
d'Anita..., her nine ...frères et soeurs..., teens to
...le bébé..., 3. Their quick and pretty ...Maman...;
It was just before supper time, amid wild bells
from the church down the road, dear Lord,
I saw as in a dream, a most beautiful man.
.
My silent muse was grinning ear to ear, for
she knew what celestial permutations were
...en route... to my shy and impressionable life.
"Papa!" the young kids sang out, collecting
the warmth of their hugs, and I stood back,
entranced, struck voiceless, in the presence
--the Presence of a Prince! Was this why
I had been thinking of my own Dad? A more
familiar superimposition of the man ten kids
called Papa? Tall, much taller than my own,
bright blue eyes beneath strong brows, and
thick lashes quite wasted on a man! Big smile
as he greeted me, ..."Ah," dit-il,"Voici Thérèse!
Nous t'avions attendu!"... I was expected.
"Oui Monsieur," I stammered weakly, needing
a chair. And so began the biggest crush
since this thunderstruck world began!
.
...Je ne veux pas raconter, encore et puis encore
tes charmes inoubliables. J'y trouve souvent
les pensées, suivant le mème chemin comme le
pieux, visitant les stations de la croix,
nu-pieds, ensoleillés, dévoués, adorant à haute
voix mais en français.
Il est assez....
"Behold
The Gold!"
.
Muse music! It was concentrated
in their mutual family minutes,
I could scarce believe my eyes!
How did I stumble on such a prize?
I find you the lode where it all
originated!
.
I was seeing all the gold dust there,
among their riches. No wonder.
.
I got up and refreshed my coffee,
and thoughtfully returned to my seat.
Reading such excitement took me back
to the month in Quebec, so long ago.
.
The magic time, the kindness, and I
tried so hard to hide what had to show!
I read a lot of stuff. ...Des romans faciles,
avec mon dictionnaire, péniblement....
.
Le Devoir the daily newspaper.
We all rode bikes to visit friends, swam,
boated, sang ...des Chansons de Folklore...._
Awkwardly, I'd from a distance, sigh.
I remember.
It was so awkward. Most embarrassing.
I saw him glance at me, and he knew.
I saw them, a whispered something, and
She knew too. Madame.
She was kind.
And I continued to read the old poem.
With a sigh.
.
My Muse smiled her concern at my
discomfort, smitten, just a kid, new
to feelings that rolled over me by
night when they did not hear me cry.
Too quiet by day. Stupid!
.
"Do you think," Muse asked, "that only
you would stumble, and agonize?
As fortunes dream, fortune also flies."
I nodded as my tears began again
while my Muse went on to explain
historical Goldrush truths
about all my golden dreams:
.
"That claim is staked. It reflects
a prospector without prospects,
and you? Is it a forgotten mine?
Tilted no-trespassing sign?"
I had no trouble reading her mind.
"Hidden in bracken, covered in moss,
Easily forgotten legitimate boss?"
I put the paper down, and said aloud,
Not even close! Memories allowed
another view of that long-ago crush,
thankful that nothing made me blush.
This was a fine man. His kindness,
the respect for me, quiet gentleness
brought to light someone I'd not forget
who forever raised the standard to be met
by all the future guys! Even teens.
He taught me just what Honour means.
My Muse, much amused, went on:
"Penniless pauper, far from home,
floating here aboard a poem
Like some Turk aboard his rug
or wispy genie from genial jug.
It must be stated irrevocably
that neither is the drifter free."
And so the sun-drenched drifter sits,
adding still these few small bits;
that grateful, thankful deposits
surely can enrich the mind--
revive the heart, and there find:
"Downstream benefits."
The Ancient Crone,
Terry
Author notes
"Downstream benefits" were the small nuggets of gold that prospectors found when they took river-sand and water into a shallow pan and swished it around. Specific gravity of gold and sand differs. A metaphor here.
A contest entry
- "MEMBERS OF HUGH WYLES FAVOURITES GROUP ONLY" No. 12 by huguenauties.
750 points, ended May 30, 2007, 19 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - In Honor Of My 50th Gold Trophy On AP by BluesMan.
3000 points, ended February 27, 40 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 24 of 24
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C'est un bon boulot ...
mais je pense qu'il coutera beaucoup trop cher pour soumettre a l'anthologie, "On Viewless Wings".
En outre que cela, je l'aime beaucoup. Je l'ai lu jusqu'à la fin, mais je doute que beaucoup des lecteurs de l'anthologie fera de même, et particulièrement les Américains. Ils sont souvent trop parasseux de le faire.
I shudder to think how much it would cost to print this in the anthology. Of course you may have an extra hundred dollars just lying around gathering dust, and not have to give it a single thought, whereas I live on 733.00 a month, and to me it would be horrifically expensive.
In any case, I'm glad you mentioned this, as I certainly enjoyed reading it. One's first crush is a memory that seems to last a lifetime and it's definitely a universal experience, or nearly so, I'd imagine.
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I like what I have read so far, the inner conversations. It is very long! But I will read more.
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Withdrawn from Competition
To my great regret, even though my two poems were submitted long before I even thought of helping in judging, I must withdraw them from competition.
Enjoy the poems so they may retain at least SOME value. The other was a new poem written for this,
named Jack and Little Bo
Terry -
Thank you for the rollercoaster ride to the Inner sanctum of your mind. This was a wonderful read. I really like how you gave your Muse a life of its own and all the conversations the two of you have had over the years. What a wonderful realation to have
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Lifelong, I think
And real. How else could I have written verse off and on since 1938? It was years before they tried to teach us how in class! Most things come ready-made. What's more important, most people have their own muse, supplying just the right word, once they stop trying so hard!
Thank you for your kind observations!
Terry
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don't that beat all? all that work for a green shiny?
treatise near as I can figger out. elements that include most poetic devices including the Muse.
End-stop rhyme seems arhaic, but not useless, all craft is permissable but not essential to the satisfaction of the muse who, of course, holds the past sacred.
Some in these technolgical athiestic days reject the muse. This too is regrettably acceptable as the poems produced represent the plastic disposible nature of our days and ways. The harsh reality of concrete and abandoned babies. The lonliness that the lack of the spiritual inevitably engenders. Post-modern is defined not by the lack of form, which in the final analysis is a search for meaning; but rather by the lack of the greater reality beyond our own.
At any rate, risking ridicule, I pray to Eratu and to Artemis for poems, after all, what did the Romans ever give us but Catullus, who moaned about Lesbia, and was in the end driven from Rome. A fitting end for the poet, dying for love.
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i had to use Alta Vista's "babel fish" translator but it was well worth the effort...as was the time to read this poetic prose - it would be wonderful to hear you read this aloud - for the correct emphasis . thank you for sharing, it is pure gold. blessings and best wishes, ~richard
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To Richard
This may be out of order when it displays.
Really late, with regrets. I should check this place out more often! I pondered about including the French and decided it read OK even without it, (safe to skip) but better with.
I agree with your expression "poetic prose." We see a lot of it today, that is exactly what all of the strung-out "free verse" is. With no figurative language, what other claim does it have?
Thank you!
Terry
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LOL with thanks, Lute
The "blue" simply means they liked three others more! I congratulate your patience for reading it at all!
Sorry about end-rhymes and archaic forms but you see, I am archaic too. Such forms and Petrarchan sonnets are natural for me. "The ancient Crone" I signed was not kidding.
(Another couple of years and I'll be an octogenarian.)
Enjoyed your views on "Post Modern" It has happened many times, when writing outdated stuff has happened to others too. The Romantic period of orchestral music was already well under way making Baroque decidedly "old hat" when J.S. Bach burst on the scene with what was to become the prolific epitome of Baroque. Nothing written before that came even close to Bach's quality.
Gian Carlo Menotti wrote several operas in the old manner too. His Amahl and the Night Visitors came in 1971 and the Saint of Bleeker Street in 1974, long after even Verdi whose Aida (1871) and Otello 1887 had already pushed the genre as far as it could go.
Artemis is a familiar name, so no "ridicule" at all, kind Sir. The ones who deserve ridicule are the Egos who reject any idea of such help!
Terry
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Thank you for taking the time to enter. We appreciate your talents. Best of luck to you
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This reminds me of a psychology assignment I had to do once (long ago) where we were to write a conversation between two parts of ourselves. Often I've returned to that exercise just to get my muse going again.
I don't know a lick of French, but enjoyed this very much despite that. An epic that was well worth the time to read!
Best wishes,
~J.
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A bit too long for me to take in in one sitting - I will need to return again (& again) to this epic. I can see it contains many "downstream benefits" Well done.
Cheers
Anne
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Easily understood! After all look how long it took to write.
Thank you!
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Dear Terry,
It's great the way you talk to your Muse and how she answers you. A well written poem that I enjoyed reading very much.
Hine.
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Dear Terry,
I did enjoy reading your thoughts (and your Muses) what a very interesting poem it is, very well worth the read, only parts I couldn't understand was the French that needs to be there because it makes the story interesting. Well written.
Jen.
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Dear Terry,
Fortunately, I had printed out and bookmarked your previous entry "Advice for Young Poets" which, although a new poem and not your chosen "best poem I have ever written" was, nevertheless, a worthy write.
Your decision to replace it with "Quebec, My Muse, and Me" provides us with an alternative which I can only describe as a monumental testament to the power of thought - yours and your Muse's (which is tantamount to the same source).
In this poem, you (and your Muse) take the reader on a personal voyage, drifting as you:
"Let my stream of consciousness
flow forth like mountain brook, brooking
no nonsense, to search out," (I read,)
"the golden nuggets from the sands of time,"
Indeed, from your stream of thought there are amply rewarding "downstream benefits" but even the "sand" is worth saving and should not be too lightly discarded.
Thankyou, Terry, for sharing this wonderful piece in this contest.
Applause, love and hugs, and best of luck in the voting. XXX Hugh R.
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The system wont allow me to applaud you again but please know that applause is due
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Long, yes, but well worth the read, every line every minute it took me to read this delightful piece. I'm not usually in to reading very long poems but really, Terry, yours is so captivating, right from the start.
I liked your original entry, too. Hard choice here
Good luck in the contest
Dee
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A very profound take on poetry, Terry and I can agree with this piece. I see poetry in most things and the words are always there, waiting to get out and onto my page.
So may times I've started something, with a predetermined beginning, middle and end... but by the time I get partway through the beginning, it's become something so different than what I'd originally intended... where did it come from? Your guess is as good as mine
But it's more than just wishful thinking or my brain in gear.
Good luck in the contest
Dee
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Thank you Dee, I guess your kind words apply as well to this replacement poem, even though I really cannot see how it could be eligible. A better one, but the rules clearly state "only one entry per member."
Sorry I goofed with my first choice, but with my previous surgery in August, I would still have been in hospital at this point. Home now, doing well.
Your description of the surprising process of writing, not what you intended but something much better, plugs right into this mysterious force, here personified with playful actions, a force that has traditionally been known as the muse. Thankfully too, or what we write would lose a lot of its pizazz and je ne sais quoi that we call originality!
Terry
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I agree, poetry is more than an intellectual exercise, and clever words without wisdom behind them are pointless. I could say more, but basically, hurrah!
Your verse argues the subject clearly and with good metric flow. There is a hiccup at "which the rhymes". I love the humour in "Alas it has no fingers."
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Thanks, M, I see what you mean by hiccup, because even with "which of the rhymes to use" the meter has changed to iambic. Briefly. I'll see what repairs can be done, but am not a contender anymore. I should have seen that.
Thank you!
Terry -
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M, you've seen this before.
I like this one better, and am happy to stand by and see who the winners will be, glad for the mere chance to redeem.
Terry -
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I think you were right to place this poem instead of the other one - it is a wonderful work. Since I have commented to the best of my ability in another place, and I can only wish to applaud again, I'll give you this. Best of luck!
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