Invitation to Poetry: Reaching Across Time
February 25, 2008 · by Christine
Poetry Party lucky number 13! I select an image and suggest a title and invite you to respond with your poems, words, reflections, quotes, song lyrics, etc. Leave them in the comments or email me and I’ll add them to the body of the post as they come in along with a link back to your blog if you have one (not required to participate!) I’ll add your contributions all week and then I will draw a name at random on Saturday from everyone who participates and will send the winner a set of my new Spring Prayer Cards.
This week’s image is an old family photo I discovered among my things. It is of my great grandmother Erna on my father’s side who lived in Austria, with her second husband. Her first husband died quite young, so the man in this photo is not my blood relation. I continue to do a lot of work with genealogy and family systems theory and this image for me captures a moment in time where they seem to reach out and extend their arms across space, a gesture or invitation to me of some kind.
What does the image stir in you? Take your poem in any direction you feel drawn!
Feel free to post the poem along with my image below on your blog with a link back to this post. Please invite your readers to come join the party too!
*****
In which direction
do we reach,
you to me,
or me to you?
Or do our hands
meet briefly
In some space
outside time?
-Tess at Anchors and Masts
*****
REACHING OUT
As that long tunnel appears
and the blinding flash of light
draws me home, I cross
into a world devoid of color.
I search in vain
for a drop of blood,
to soothe my anxious heart.
But soon, gentle sepia
lulls me to sleep.
When later, I awaken
and open my eyes,
gentle faces greet me,
open arms envelope me
and together we continue
our timeless dance.
-Rich at Pilgrim Path
*****
STANDING BY
I wondered if you were thinking about him as we fed the birds.
Maybe you sat together on those very steps and fed them, back before he died.
I don’t know. But I wondered.
You would occasionally look up at me as if I knew what to do. He probably did. But
I did not.
I was not him, Erna. I was not your first love.
I walked with a cane. Always. And I wore white shoes. Always.
The thought of sitting and feeding birds was so foreign to my mind.
I did what I could that day. I stood and called to them.
And soon they were eating out of my hands.
But not you. No, you waited for another’s voice that day and most days after.
I did what I could for you, Erna. I stood.
-John at The Dirty Shame
*****
The three in the back on the left
cannot believe what they are viewing.
A man with a squire box and veil
tripod…. then flash!
Not one pigeon remains.
The two men conversing
on the right are plotting
not knowing they are part
of history.
-Tom Delmore at Crow’s Perch
*****
She took a photo
Pigeons in Trafalgar Square
Loved ones reaching out
-Matha Louise Harkness
*****
Across Time
They laughed once, sitting there
surrounded by noise and life,
giggling at the absurdidty of it all.
All that remains, a smile
what joke preceeded it,
what kind looked passed
after the flash had gone and
the throng exploded into pounding
wings and indignant cries. Did
he drop there, laughing beside her
heedless of the risk of stains
and take her into his arms?
They laughed once,
they loved once,
they faught, and cried.
I sit, watching their still faces,
looking for their eyes
and wondering, in a moment
will he kiss her?
-Tandaina at Snow on Roses
*****
sepia
captured in sepia
frozen in time
shall i take your hand
or will you take mine?
offering bread crumbs
we move through our days
dressed in our finery
love kept at bay.
feeding the pigeons
who always want more
like love unrequited
that shadows our door.
captured in sepia
frozen in time
shall i take your hand
or will you take mine?
-Kayce Hughlett at Diamonds in the Sky with Lucy
*****
Version I
Flying between
concrete walls and honking horns,
the sound of wingbeat;
“Who is doing the feeding. . .
the people or the pigeons?”
Version II
Flying between
concrete walls and honking horns,
the sound of wingbeat;
people holding out their hands
for the pigeons to feed them.
-b’oki.
*****
ASHES TO ONE
Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
Of ashes you were born
To ashes you returned
One circle
One family
One body
The blood, sweat, toil
The heartfelt prayer
My gift to you,
for your gift to me
A blessing
A sacrifice
A memory
Connections…
Future and Past
The family constellation
A line of strong women
A line of strong men
Numbered like the stars
Inifinite in wisdom
Inifinite in grace
Inifinite in love
That love that connects
You to me
And me to you
Forever bound as one,
And as thousands.
As thousands of ashes
Floating above the flame
Fanning out to return to the earth
To fertilize new life
New generations.
We are one
Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
-Karla MG
*****
Dapper Daddy Doc
And My Little Girl Nana Helen
Feed birds in Paris, Austria and London
Eat Eggs Benedict in the Pump Room
Bring us oranges and ailigators from Florida
Dapper Daddy Doc
Buys his Precious Little Helen
Couture gowns from New York City
Nana Helen and Petey Boy stay home
Guarded carefully by the maid.
Dapper Daddy Doc
Speaks for Nana Helen
Daddy Doc always knows best
He is the king of their castle
He chooses furniture to gild the salon.
Before I knew her, Nana Helen whispered
To my other, more sensible grandmother
“I am really not like this, you know,
I was Phi Beta Kappa
At the University of Michigan.”
My Beautiful Nana Helen
Began to hiss and growl at fifty-eight
Roaring at me, clawing my skin
“Why does she hate me” I cried, silently.
A nine year old does not understand.
My Beautiful Nana Helen
Died, in silence, at sixty-two, leaving us memories of
A glamourous woman in couture satin
Tragic words, “I’m not really like this, you know…”
And of a lioness, imprisioned too long.
-Suz Reaney
*****
Ancestors
They’re within you…
whispering their
yes in your ears.
Keep going,
we’ll feed you
You can fly
with our wings
we no longer have
You give hope
to what
we couldn’t be
across seas
across time
becoming all
“May she
be the one
who breaks
the pattern…”
-Kathy Flugel Colle
*****
Searching Their Faces
Visiting the old folks
I strain forward in my seat,
trying to coax from them
stories of who they are,
where they’ve lived,
what they’re proud of.
Sadly, and too often,
pictures on the night stand
tell the only tale I’ll hear:
him in his uniform,
her in her wedding gown.
Sometimes, the best that I can do
is whisper in an ear,
“You’re beautiful,”
or pat a shoulder saying,
“I’m so proud to know you.”
Later, in the paper, I may read
of an extraordinary life
I never got to know.
Loss of memory, loss of self,
are barriers greater than time.
-Wren at The Winding Mind
*****
Palms open,
arms outstretched towards the world.
Love feeding love
warm winged Spirit alights.
-Cheryl Macpherson
*****
Sepia Tone
Pulling out old family photos,
What are we looking for?
Clues to our past in sepia tone.
Who were these people
with their arms outstretched?
How did they touch our lives?
We scour their faces
for likenesses of ourselves.
Maybe a secret will be revealed.
What would they tell us
if they walked in the room right now?
Would we know them in our bones?
Even though they were gone
before we were born,
the distance is not so long.
Memories of a grandparent
shape how we reach out
to a grandchild.
The span of five generations,
a hundred years,
is invisibly bridged.
We can almost touch their lives
through sepia tone.
An instant in time left for generations to ponder.
-Pamela McCauley
*****
Piazza San Marco, Venezia
How many sunny Sunday mornings
have the pigeons
gathered for communion
in the piazza before the cathedral,
Centuries of socializing
with all who come to
sit or stand or kneel
to recieve with
outstretched hand
a piece of bread,
some wine,
this Holy place of meeting?
-Christine Eleanor Merritt
*****
-Christine Valters Paintner @ Abbey of the Arts
Posted in Poetry Party Invitation | 22 Comments »
February 25th, 2008 at 7:44 am
In which direction
do we reach,
you to me,
or me to you?
Or do our hands
meet briefly
In some space
outside time?
February 25th, 2008 at 7:45 am
[...] Poetry Party at Abbey of the Arts, Christine’s every-other-Monday delight. Today’s theme is the photograph below from her [...]
February 25th, 2008 at 10:20 am
REACHING OUT
As that long tunnel appears
and the blinding flash of light
draws me home, I cross
into a world devoid of color.
I search in vain
for a drop of blood,
to soothe my anxious heart.
But soon, gentle sepia
lulls me to sleep.
When later, I awaken
and open my eyes,
gentle faces greet me,
open arms envelope me
and together we continue
our timeless dance.
February 25th, 2008 at 1:57 pm
STANDING BY
I wondered if you were thinking about him as we fed the birds.
Maybe you sat together on those very steps and fed them, back before he died.
I don’t know. But I wondered.
You would occasionally look up at me as if I knew what to do. He probably did. But I did not.
I was not him, Erna. I was not your first love.
I walked with a cane. Always. And I wore white shoes. Always.
The thought of sitting and feeding birds was so foreign to my mind.
I did what I could that day. I stood and called to them.
And soon they were eating out of my hands.
But not you. No, you waited for another’s voice that day and most days after.
I did what I could for you, Erna. I stood.
February 25th, 2008 at 7:48 pm
I am always amazed at the beautiful poems submitted to your party…….I must coax one out of my head. You all inspire me to experiment with my new found poetry passion.
February 25th, 2008 at 9:07 pm
The three in the back on the left
cannot believe what they are viewing.
A man with a squire box and veil
tripod…. then flash!
Not one pigeon remains.
The two men conversing
on the right are plotting
not knowing they are part
of history.
February 26th, 2008 at 6:26 am
Across Time
They laughed once, sitting there
surrounded by noise and life,
giggling at the absurdidty of it all.
All that remains, a smile
what joke preceeded it,
what kind looked passed
after the flash had gone and
the throng exploded into pounding
wings and indignant cries. Did
he drop there, laughing beside her
heedless of the risk of stains
and take her into his arms?
They laughed once,
they loved once,
they faught, and cried.
I sit, watching their still faces,
looking for their eyes
and wondering, in a moment
will he kiss her?
February 26th, 2008 at 7:51 am
christine–thank you for offering this very europeon photo today. it is absolutely perfect! “place vendome” kept running through my head even though i did not remember ever seeing it. when i looked up a picture, however, it is very reminiscent of this scene. ultimately, my poem went in a slightly different direction although i was still tempted to call it “place vendome”. maybe i will just have to visit the real place vendome and create a poem there
enough of that, here is my submission called “sepia”.
captured in sepia
frozen in time
shall i take your hand
or will you take mine?
offering bread crumbs
we move through our days
dressed in our finery
love kept at bay.
feeding the pigeons
who always want more
like love unrequited
that shadows our door.
captured in sepia
frozen in time
shall i take your hand
or will you take mine?
February 26th, 2008 at 8:45 am
[...] Make sure to visit this week’s Poetry Party [...]
February 26th, 2008 at 9:18 am
Flying between
concrete walls and honking horns,
the sound of wingbeat;
“Who is doing the feeding. . .
the people or the pigeons?”
b’oki.
February 26th, 2008 at 10:22 am
ASHES TO ONE
Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
Of ashes you were born
To ashes you returned
One circle
One family
One body
The blood, sweat, toil
The heartfelt prayer
My gift to you,
for your gift to me
A blessing
A sacrifice
A memory
Connections…
Future and Past
The family constellation
A line of strong women
A line of strong men
Numbered like the stars
Inifinite in wisdom
Inifinite in grace
Inifinite in love
That love that connects
You to me
And me to you
Forever bound as one,
And as thousands.
As thousands of ashes
Floating above the flame
Fanning out to return to the earth
To fertilize new life
New generations.
We are one
Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
++++++++++++++++++++++
As an aside, I love this image! I’ve been in Austria and loved the historic sites, and yes there were pigeons! But what first came to mind is a similar scene in Milan where I too was feeding and being fed by the pigeons flocking around us! (Bette, I totally get your thoughts on that!!!)
–Karla
February 26th, 2008 at 10:46 am
Thank you Karla! Here’s another version of my tanka poem. I’m not sure which one I like best. Christine, feel free to post your favorite version.
Flying between
concrete walls and honking horns,
the sound of wingbeat;
people holding out their hands
for the pigeons to feed them.
b’oki.
February 26th, 2008 at 1:29 pm
Dapper Daddy Doc
And My Little Girl Nana Helen
Feed birds in Paris, Austria and London
Eat Eggs Benedict in the Pump Room
Bring us oranges and ailigators from Florida
Dapper Daddy Doc
Buys his Precious Little Helen
Couture gowns from New York City
Nana Helen and Petey Boy stay home
Guarded carefully by the maid.
Dapper Daddy Doc
Speaks for Nana Helen
Daddy Doc always knows best
He is the king of their castle
He chooses furniture to gild the salon.
Before I knew her, Nana Helen whispered
To my other, more sensible grandmother
“I am really not like this, you know,
I was Phi Beta Kappa
At the University of Michigan.”
My Beautiful Nana Helen
Began to hiss and growl at fifty-eight
Roaring at me, clawing my skin
“Why does she hate me” I cried, silently.
A nine year old does not understand.
My Beautiful Nana Helen
Died, in silence, at sixty-two, leaving us memories of
A glamourous woman in couture satin
Tragic words, “I’m not really like this, you know…”
And of a lioness, imprisioned too long.
February 26th, 2008 at 9:33 pm
Ancestors
They’re within you…
whispering their
yes in your ears.
Keep going,
we’ll feed you
You can fly
with our wings
we no longer have
You give hope
to what
we couldn’t be
across seas
across time
becoming all
“May she
be the one
who breaks
the pattern…”
February 27th, 2008 at 12:02 am
[...] Make sure to visit this week’s Poetry Party [...]
February 27th, 2008 at 7:11 pm
This doesn’t relate directly to your lovely picture, but it reminds me of the search I do daily to find the story, the life, behind a fading face.
Searching Their Faces
Visiting the old folks
I strain forward in my seat,
trying to coax from them
stories of who they are,
where they’ve lived,
what they’re proud of.
Sadly, and too often,
pictures on the night stand
tell the only tale I’ll hear:
him in his uniform,
her in her wedding gown.
Sometimes, the best that I can do
is whisper in an ear,
“You’re beautiful,”
or pat a shoulder saying,
“I’m so proud to know you.”
Later, in the paper, I may read
of an extraordinary life
I never got to know.
Loss of memory, loss of self,
are barriers greater than time.
February 27th, 2008 at 11:29 pm
Palms open,
arms outstretched towards the world.
Love feeding love
warm winged Spirit alights.
February 28th, 2008 at 12:01 am
[...] Make sure to visit this week’s Poetry Party [...]
February 29th, 2008 at 12:01 am
[...] Make sure to visit this week’s Poetry Party — one more day to submit your poem and be entered into the drawing to win a set of Spring [...]
February 29th, 2008 at 7:33 am
Sepia Tone
Pulling out old family photos,
What are we looking for?
Clues to our past in sepia tone.
Who were these people
with their arms outstretched?
How did they touch our lives?
We scour their faces
for likenesses of ourselves.
Maybe a secret will be revealed.
What would they tell us
if they walked in the room right now?
Would we know them in our bones?
Even though they were gone
before we were born,
the distance is not so long.
Memories of a grandparent
shape how we reach out
to a grandchild.
The span of five generations,
a hundred years,
is invisibly bridged.
We can almost touch their lives
through sepia tone.
An instant in time left for generations to ponder.
March 1st, 2008 at 10:24 am
[...] winner of the random drawing for this week’s Poetry Party is Wren at The Winding Mind. Wren, please email me your mailing address and I will send you a set [...]
March 2nd, 2008 at 5:39 pm
Piazza San Marco, Venezia
How many sunny Sunday mornings
have the pigeons
gathered for communion
in the piazza before the cathedral,
Centuries of socializing
with all who come to
sit or stand or kneel
to recieve with
outstretched hand
a piece of bread,
some wine,
this Holy place of meeting?