On Twitter a few days ago, I posted a photo accompanied by a rhyming couplet. Michele of Divinipotent Daily guessed that there was more to the story, so I’ve added more couplets to make a simple poem – but without giving too much away. Because where would the mystery be then?
.
.
Wanderers we numbered four,
Left the woods to roam the shore;
Splashy suds bespoke the tide –
A soundtrack for the countryside.
Grass and wildflowers led to stone,
Pointing to a place long known;
Nettles leant towards our knees,
Ivy crept from rocks to trees.
In we went, a-hunting mystery;
Muck we found, amidst the history.
Crumbling walls held musty air,
Held us rapt while we were there.
.
[All comments are very welcome, as always; comments in poetic form are especially welcome.]
That is really lovely; Here is my clumsy effort:
Hushed we stood on hallowed ground,
A swallow’s swoop the only sound;
Fragmented dreams rush, recede,
Perhaps not dreams, but memories.
Reading this makes me feel like a child again. Thank you, Stan.
Poetry is already for me
A kind of mystery
Imagining people before us in a house
Centuries ago, people and a mouse
As quiet as in a church
And suddenly you think of the place
As a sanctuary.
Jo: Thank you! I really like your poem, and it isn’t clumsy at all. There is all sorts going on in it, and it captures a sweet moment in a wistful way – or maybe the other way around. And I love that you began with Hushed, since Hush is, coincidentally, Michele’s surname…
Michele: That’s good to hear. Normally I would know better than to post a poem within minutes of writing it (unless it was nonsense or whimsy), but today I was a little impatient. Maybe usefully so.
Alice: Beautiful, thank you. It makes me think that a poem can be a sanctuary in some of the same ways that an old building can.
I also meant to say: anyone who wants to write in another language should feel welcome to.
What a lovely post. I’d like to continue Jo’s rhymes but in German:
Und als wir so
staunten in heiligem Ort
und als wir so
raunten manch magisches Wort
ertönt ein unheiliger Klingelton:
“Hier kein Empfang, kein Netz”
mahnt das iPhone.
It’s too late for me today to give a propper translation.
It goes on these people on this hallowed ground and they were disturbed by an iPhone, “saying” that it’s no network on this place, or something like that.
Precioso poema señor Carey. Gracias por compartirlo.
Beck: Vielen Dank für das Gedicht – ich glaube daß ich es verstanden habe.
Verónica: My pleasure. Thank you for the kind words.
Writing in another language is such a strange thing, when you think about it. There is the first displacement of a world into another another one, and if you add to it the displacement of poetry, you get a double decker of stangeness: that’s why I so much enjoy Rilke’s French poems.
Aventure à la Saint-Saëns (inspired by Stan’s photo)
Des pas dans l’herbe tracent l’histoire
D’une heure sombre. Voyage sans gloire.
Sur le chemin, nous agrippant
Aux rochers durs et menaçants
Dans cette cave couverte de mousse
Nous serpentons le coeur en frousse.
Crainte et angoisse. Délice poignant
Cherchant un hier fascinant.
Et le mystère du temps passé
Va-t-il enfin se révéler?
Yeux grands ouverts, nous découvrons
Un corps brisé, squelette sans nom.
Nous sommes muets. Pas un seul mot.
Ni bruit, ni son, qu’un sourd écho
Le craquement sec d’un amas d’os
Triste aventure. Macabre Héros!
Chantons, dansons un rigaudon.
C.P.G. Août 2010
Love your poem, Stan.
A poem from the past:
AT THE BEACH
Today, at the beach, after a swim,
she built a castle,
and her son, a fortress.
They tamed the sandy land
with roads and fences,
towers and gardens,
lakes and bridges.
Nobody loved in her castle
Nobody fought in his fortress
but their busy and warm fingers.
Does it take more to bring forth life?
Whoever wrote one Creation
says:NO!
Hands, and a dream.
Hope, and a beach.
And the desire to play.
And the will to believe.
C.P.G. 1970
Beautiful poem, Stan, to add to it would be somehow to detract from its beauty. Though I did try. With some help from my temporary guest. Fail.
Instead, here’s a preprandial from tonight:
Tendrils of old music
Twirl around the candles
As she fixes salad
And I cheese zuccini
While the potatoes burble
In the minty sea water
And the mustardy ham
Mumbles on the platter.
XO
WWW
Claudia: Inspired indeed! I love ‘Aventure à la Saint-Saëns’, and I’m honoured that you posted it here. Some of the words I wasn’t sure about, but I will read the poem a few more times before I look them up; it sounds just lovely in my head. ‘At the Beach’, too, is a gem. Decades old now, but new to me; and it might have been written yesterday or a century ago, so timeless are its themes.
WWW: You’re too kind. Mine is a simple, rather rushed work, but not (yet) an obvious disaster. Still, I reserve the right to tweak it, though I’ll try not to, or at least not overdo it! Thank you for your poem. Every image made me smile – and feel grateful that I’d already eaten. I just know that the next time I boil potatoes, they’re gonna burble.
@wisewebwoman : I just love your poem. So cute and funny! I want yo listen to the mumbling mustardly ham.
@Claudia : “nous serpentons le coeur en frousse” : merveilleuse trouvaille.
I love this thread! It’s like Stan’s little gem of a poem gave birth – in several languages! :)
So many thoughts, so much to tell,
and still words would not flow.
Can you imagine? That’s poet’s hell.
Would be easier to write in German? No!
The muck in my head – a mystery?
It’s no matter of English or German!
It might, though, have its history.
Jo-Anne: Thank you! Not only is it a great pleasure to read all these poems in different languages, but it takes the focus away from mine.
Sean: Marvellous, suggestive, and funny! Thank you. If I may advise:
If your brain’s a bit tinglish, try it in English;
When feeling determined, fall back on German.
And if the mood is fey,
Essaie-le en français;
For Whom the Bell Tolls?
Certainement en espagnol!
(ha!)Thanks Stan.
RE: our fascinating linguistics differences.
The heart has no language, no culture of its own.
The moonlight is speechless…
Stars in one’s eyes mean more than
“Je t’aime, beloved”
and two clasped hands across a table
across a warm sea of silence
can tear down
better than a thousand well-chosen words
the tower of babel
one erects everyday in one’s soul.
But it’s so much fun to come here and be encouraged to express our thoughts in our native language. Et surtout (pour moi) d’être comprise et approuvée. Merci de tout coeur, Stan.
Prosaically I will add my conjecture that despite its romantic appearance this is a sewer, and that’s why you found muck in it. A hit?
John: No, it’s not a sewer — it’s the ruins of a small castle. The muck is a result of cows wandering in and disturbing the topsoil (and sometimes leaving deposits).