no hens

No Hens

almost nightly as the evening descends

i stop myself from heading to the chicken lot

no hens there

the yard is a cloud of white

tall wild asters

summoning the ghosts of my hens

to a wild reckoning

Mary North

from the motion sensitive camera in the woods

Like a Woman

if I find the words

will I change, will I

not panic at the small

will I not jump

at surprise

if I can speak the lesson

of my life

beating

can I open up enough

to read the hieroglyphs 

on my inner screen

can I wake from

this heavy handed

voice

zen master

with a stick?

Mary North

title is odd, but trying to make suitable for a theme in a journal which i hope doesn't know i have a blog....it is a soaking kind of scene outside, an excellent day to seek discipline and work on some scraps of poems. 

Trying a little discipline

Twin

my sister wrapped herself in all the family karma

(a psychic said within the womb, you think?)

she gulped the dark, as if the best chocolate

(like granny hid for herself)

she wore the garment drama

(a twin dressed in rainbow scarves on Mardi gras)

false joy, teacher’s pet,

a dare

there was no reward

but death

(the kamikaze suicide, the single car wreck)

I had no words 

but felt the blast of raw undress.

Mary North

a small poem for March first

Ode to Poached eggs and toast

I do like a glass of wine

and I do like a square of dark chocolate

and I’d love an artichoke

or fresh papaya, but

what I do have -

fresh eggs

are awfully good

poached

on Dave’s Killer bread

toasted and buttered

the yoke oozing all over

and down my throat.

3/1/18

mn

A Reading, flurries and chilblains

Chelsea Adams and Parks Lanier asked me to join them for a poetry reading with Kevin McDaniel at a coffee shop in Pulaski. Kevin is a young former student of Chelsea's and of Park's. He's quite good and I liked his poems. Chelsea read mostly from her fine Coffee poems, fitting for the setting and Parks read some very wonderfully funny poems. I was hesitant to follow with my choice of heavy pieces. But it seemed ok with the small audience. Diane and Elizabeth and Jack came which was a treat for me! Parks remembered that years ago (35+) when he and I and Chelsea read at University Mall, Blacksburg - I had read a poem with fuck in it and the mall had hooked us to a loud speaker which traveled everywhere including where Santa was holding court. The rest of the poets were banished to the bank to finish the reading! The memory was kindled as I read a poem "Below Sea Level" with the words, "fucking shit." Parks also remembered that when I first met him I had said that his Sydney Lanier ancestor had known my poet ancestor Paul Hamilton Hayne. 
Now I am trying to keep my fingers warm in the house with flurries and icy particles falling all about the house. Jennicksa sent pictures of snow in Houston! Sharon texts from Ocean Springs that it is sleeting a bit north of her. I suspect I'll not go to town to join Chris and Elizabeth at the movies - phooey. And I've eggs that need distribution. I have deduced that I suffer from chilblains, fingers and toes suffer from the cold by swelling and turning red and sometimes developing small blisters. I'm taking a homeopathic remedy (Agaracus) and trying to keep warm - gloves on inside - except now as I try to type. I think I need seriously to consider more time away in the winter. I am so rooted to this place, but not all of my physical self agrees with its associated weather. 
And here's a photo of big head reading! ha.

Mother's Day

Pearl's card for me! My children, their families, are my presents - I am blessed.

So here, a poem for my mother:

To My Mother as I Feel the First Snow


all questions lie like the sages' red hairs
on the white hills
                        slight flames
unconquerable tickling
                                 I want to ask you
when my father's birthday was
when he died
                  when you first tried suicide
but my throat plugs with the skull and bones
excavated under the room where we slept
                                                              voodoo
I do not ask
                  the silence
the fire sizzles
                  sleet down the chimney
the snow draws a blanket mind.

cold than warm, than cold - so on...

Picking up the detritus of the dead

Bending to a thin lock of hair, inhaling the musty

laundry of the home bound, an open

book there by the chair. I could never

retrieve the stories my mother left on her

computer, the house and its contents left to my brother -

i abandoned it all after the months of care.

returned to my mountain fastness, sealing

the doors.

Thinking of a friend who died while retrieving a lock of my dog's hair on the rug. Odd how the memories sprout in the head. Working on a long poem i wrote several years ago and urged by friend, Susan, to assemble for a video. Mercilessly cut and at half the length it reads much smoother - fun to look for photos which we may use. A project to take the news of the day off the neocortex. 

Far Niente

Far Niente

I wake to the night squalls of Playa Bonita

in my bed in the loft of the house, Far Niente,

and I hear the wind as if I am inside conch shell;

the rustling thatch.  

With the light skies, I idle with the shadows

of coconut palms as the house fills below me.

My son slides the heavy louvre doors,

opening the mouth of Far Niente to the day; 

the smell of coffee.

Still I am lulled by the surf as my grandchildren stir,

rubbing their eyes into the vision of here,

all together in one house: dads, cousins, moms,

and me who lingers upstairs dreaming the dream of us,

wave upon wave. 

2016

mhn

A Second Poem

11/10 A natural death?

this is the hardest hour as the evening descends like a coat, 

to not go out to call my hound home,

to stay with my soup

to leave him out where he has wanted to go

to die.

I carried him home once this morning

not able to stand his frozen stance

hesitating on his quivering hind legs

not circling down

not coming home. 

He slept hard, but

this afternoon he stood at the door

and i let him out.

he bent to the river path.

(He was born on the river, son of a plot hound and who knows dad,

elegant mutt, sitting with legs crossed in front, a

Cary Grant, and the best ever with kids.)

I’m leaving the outside light on,

I hate to think coyotes might roam,

please no,

It’s cold tonight, will hyperthermia speed him away?

I always imagine my self following this road

when I’m old, stiff, unable to eat,

taking off ever so slow, but full of intent and a pull from another domain,

curling into the leaf litter,

and tucking down close.

I’ll probably fail to stay

hobbling home, until I can’t manage the stairs

as Mojo has these past two days. But today he was

Ready.

Today I’m letting him go.

Mourning dog, Leonard Cohen and election

Mojo

I defecate on three raisin size ticks sunk in the bowl 

I try not to hate

but I hate ticks, these

who clung to the skin over bones

of my dying hound.

I gently rub along his ribs, not too hard

his hips, his gentle dignified nose

which still turns his head

on our slow slow walks, I

pick up each ear and scan

for a parasite, I freeze

on a thought of Mojo

out in the evening, gone too far,

curling down in a round of grass

and I cry.

But he’s not dead yet, I coaxed

a bit of food into his mouth this morning; 

perhaps yesterday was not the last time 

he will stand in the river

sniffing the wafting scents from the other bank.

Last night I woke to hear Mojo stir from his bed

get up like a new born colt, all legs

throwing his head as a weight, all motion down to intent,

I thought to gather a blanket around my shoulders,

go lie with my dog. But I haven’t yet.

Maybe tomorrow.

mh north 11/6/2016

time of pumpkin, skeletons

I plan to bring the lonely pumpkin from the blue house steps down to my front porch, add a candle. Far too spooky to venture down my 4/10 of a mile road, i presume on Halloween; I have never had a trick or treater at my door! 
But there is spooky news. Trump prompting cohorts to show up at polls "to watch." And scary that there are so many people who will vote for the orange man who has been endorsed by the KKK. Now this is a dangerously frightening pumpkin.
I have a rationalization dance i make in my mind: don't give power to that which is evil by fretting about the subject. Stop and imagine a good outcome. Transform the pumpkin into a deflated hot air balloon. Meanwhile address the complaints of his minions - jobs and audience. I do know how hard it is to just be hanging on with a salary that barely pays the bills, single parent and two kids. But i don't grasp the hate spewing from Trump or motivating some of his followers. 
On another note, a beautiful day!

the sycamore has leaves

the tulip popular does not

the oaks are holding on

the black walnut is bare

pine needles and cones cover path

i shed; i horde

the sight of the burning bush

April Afternoon

still under red bud
crazy with neighbor's bees, a
levitating dome.



young rabbit at door
in mouth of cat
in shock.
i would not let them in
suppose under the deck
the slaughter begins
later a token left
of guts and fur.



Spring in the hollow. Scent of the flowering wild plum in the evening air as i walked up the road for the mail. 

careening wind - bones cold

Crazy April, snow flurries until this late afternoon; bundled up for walk with dogs - but not warm, nor could I warm to walk. Tried in the wind to cover raised beds, but the wind fought me off - i managed only one of the four. Hay covers small plants, but I think all will survive the 20 degrees - or pray this true. Reading a book, White Dog Fell from the Sky, Botswana in the 70's - beautifully written. A good day to fall into another world of a book - although I suffer the horror of that time, I learn. 

gratitude

this home that has not been a shell

out-grown, but has coiled inward

creating sound or capturing it

until at heart the center

aligns with nothing

more than me

and all that is 

not-me,

the universe, i suppose.

Down from the Cabin

I love the old logging road up to the cabin, down from this spot you can hear the roar of Big Bear Falls. And this afternoon we could hear the geese on the river honking. The dogs and I didn't make it to the cabin as I didn't want to exacerbate the sciatica in my right hip. Maybe tomorrow.
Working on a poem this morning:

Good Friday

light rain, my cat’s fur damp as she nudges my arm,

pushing me further from the dream

my bed a door to the other house

where my twin lives

deja vue cathedral ceilings, 

a transposed room with odd configuration

i see a diary on a shelf

i can’t find her,

flowers heavy scent

i find myself looking for keys.

working on poem with rabbit

the porcelain blue lady on the shelf

once quiescent in a window of my grandmother’s house

in a Pennsylvania town of 50 coal miner families, blue lady

welcomed my sister and me each summer

with endless stories.

I don’t remember a one, though I know the words

run in the facia of my life,

waking me to the stillness of the rabbit

halted in the yard

nose twitching to know the world.

Sunday, Sunday

Enjoyed reading in the paper that Alma brought with her last night when she came for soup and cornbread, an account of Richard, Larkin and Stefan's TAT adventure of last summer (I had followed Larkin's blog). Reminding me of my need to take on the adventure of life and dampen my anxious stay home mind. I especially liked that the article included a Larkin reminder to BRFWA (breathe, relax, feel, watch, allow!). I do tend to fall into trip mode easily once I am on the road; but I tend to rehearse and repack. Not necessarily a bad thing, planning for the TAT took much thought with such little space for baggage. Often Larkin wrote about drying out what clothes she had with her and rearranging the provisions in the morning. 
And this day I will use to find 3 poems to send to Artemis, an adventure of another sort. Perhaps something with a hollowed out center, covered with moss and lichen will present itself. 

trying to bait a poem!

new machine, new clean look, i hesitate to make my mark

gold finch at the feeder near the window

close enough that I am familiar with frequent visitors, a male

now sleekly golden, with bandit black crown, like a beret that his slipped.  the birds a distraction

i hadn’t sought this morning waiting for grandchildren to boom

into the quiet kitchen. and always, baiting a poem

from the pool of the sky.

Changing Calendars

For several of the last years, it has occurred to me as I found a new calendar for my kitchen counter (choosing from the assortment of free nature ones from organizations I have been cajoled into donating to) that this whole New Years thing is arbitrary - what happened to the Aztec calendar - at least each day would have a name. I have an affinity to the Aztec world; almost every year I get into the habit (albeit short lived) of naming the day after something noticed, such as broad shouldered hawk over the chicken yard. Or two snake day. I fall into silliness or lose imagination after a month. I like the idea of a painting every day - or a poem. A poem a day got me through much of last winter - certainly some poems were only fit for wood fire fuel, but it was kindling to the rest of the day. I like the notion of making something of the day; it could be a meal as well as a walk. Anything from keeping the days from running away, as they tend.
My possibly deeper connection to the Aztec people is my past life as an Aztec warrior. This was the first life I connected with while doing past life regression; I felt my whole body changing into that of a large, muscled man (no, I didn't go so far as to feel that I had a penis). My family consisted of my twin as my wife and my mother and father were our children. I died by having my heart taken in sacrifice, my body rolled down the pyramid - it felt so very cold. I couldn't come up with a name while under hypnosis. When asked what I learned in that life, I said, "that you really can't hurt another." I sometimes dwell on what exactly I meant by that. I think that I am saying that we have to take responsibility for our pain, perhaps for our karma - I'm unsure. Perhaps, poppycock!
Heavy thoughts for the second to last day of the year; wintry mix out of the window, small piles of snow/ice in the grass, on the deck, in the crux of limbs.I told a friend on the phone, who on Pilot mountain got much more snow, that the snow here was just the crest of the waves.
Here are pictures of my day, new hoodie, new shoe day! A friend who takes qigong gave me a gift certificate to Fringe Benefit in Blacksburg; thus the hoodie; the shoes, I splurge on!

long distance hugs

we Skype

I look at Pearl, she smiles her gap tooth smile

and I remember the lost teeth which remain in my heart's photo of her

the one I look at to say goodnight to,

and True, he's grown, such a sweet face, I want to touch. I am at a loss

for words, just wanting to look and look

until I can't consume enough of the flesh and bone

to turn away.

Valley Voices

Stuffed Pastries

It doesn't seem linear, this transit to nearly 70,

I am as old as the friends of my great grandmother,

bosomy flowery perfumed stuffed pastries,

calling out for a hug.

I ran from

as if they might capture vital particles of joy

or fatten the sleekness of my limbs.

Now I understand their summoning,

merely seeking commingling

of their spirits which were not pastries,

but vigorous still

and wanting out.

It was an accomplished group of readers and an entertaining afternoon! I must say, I enjoyed it! Stories by Lucy Adams, Tom McGohey, KT Torrey and Rob Neukirch were particularly fine. Rob's story had us all in stitches; New Floyd in the form of a middle aged massage therapist meets Old Floyd in the form of middle aged suppressed farmers wife. I liked Lucy's story of a high school boy trying to change the trajectory of a development and to honor the memory of his mother. And KT's story of a gay couple was very interesting and i thought masterfully done. Tom's was a literary description of bystanders at the death of a dog on the side of the road.