When I wrote ‘Winter walk‘ poem, I tried it with a final stanza to answer the poem’s questions. But then I could not tell if I had closed down the poem too much.
Here is the stanza I wrote, so you can judge for yourself.
If I make the world
stop for a moment,
and listen,
I can hear the sap
stirring, feel the
explosions of the
tiniest seeds,
almost reach out and touch
the promise of spring.
The trees are dying
Leaves yellow, brown,
drop, rot on paths,
trodden underfoot.
The air is dank,
Sullen November
skies weigh
wearily on the eye.
Passers-by,
preoccupied,
gaze into middle
distance, dodge
all greetings.
The birds have
given up and gone
south; anywhere
but here.
Is this what my
summer beauty has
come to?
Dare I ever hope
for more?
We were wild women
that night, when the
trees waved, whistled
and wove their spectral
shadows in the night.
Howling, a gale
streamed past our
spindly lines. We called
out to each other, another
runner shrieked in my ear.
I jumped higher than you
might think.
Dark, though only
early, but blackest
winter made the
lamplight dim. A
late-walked dog a tripping
hazard that might prove fatal;
the head-torch glare
seared my night-sight.
‘Whole trees in motion,
effort needed to walk
against the wind.’ All
ordinary cares cast
sideways; office politics,
lacklustre lovers, let
loose and hurled about.
An eye, a calm, a
freedom borne of
drama outside the
domestic sphere.
We were wild and
free, we ran faster,
we ran
like the wind.
Note: The quotation in the third stanza is the description of ‘land conditions’ for number 7 on the Beaufort scale. This scale has captivated me since I learnt it as a little girl. Now I realise this is because it is all poetry: ‘Large branches in motion. Whistling heard in overhead wires. Umbrella use becomes difficult. Empty plastic bins tip over.’ (number 6, but it wasn’t dramatic enough for the poem).
Exhaustion?
A sneaky virus on yet another train?
A cold morning run, who knows.
Silence overtakes me;
A sign.
Patience, patience,
Unexpected space
among commitments,
parting a to-do list thicket.
Stillness;
the beech trees hold their
breath too.
Patience dans l’azur.
Aside from life,
days slide into blur.
Voiceless, those with me
whisper back.
Chaque atôme de silence
I give into mystery,
tumble into poetry.
Est la chance d’un fruit mûr.
Wait.
Note: The lines in italics are taken from ‘Palme’ by Paul Valéry,
To our heroes.
The unicorn doesn’t take the bus.
It flies from star to star.
Do the same.
Love life. And smile.
On May 14th 2009, a young sequoia
from the family garden
dead from an unknown disease
is cut down.
May it please the One who Is to
open the human heart to the
full measure of all life.
A thunderous landing
manifests its weight for a final time
as it falls
prostrate.
To enter into the unknown
involves a willingness
to fully experience and study things we don’t understand
and to embrace that lack of understanding.
I have a dream.
Restoration of networks
of energy and public illumination.
Do you?
Sources: War memorial near Les Etangs d’Ixelles; sign on lamp-post near Ixelles; description, Royal Museum of Fine Arts; engraving, Marguerite Yourcenar Park; book in museum gift shop; advertisement; street sign; advertisement.
All translations mine.
extraplorer 