Between Seasons

There is definitely a nip. The air has gone crisp. I needed to put on a pair of socks for my walk. I am shaking out sweaters and greet them as old friends. Yes! Autumn in on its way. September is one of my favourite months – along with May. They are Goldilocks months. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just right. Cool enough for porridge for breakfast. Warm enough that the rain doesn’t chill your marrow when you get drenched during a walk. It’s a season of rainbows and intense shots of light and then a lowering dark. It is a season to believe in miracles. The Poetry Daily began in this wonderful month and it will conclude the cycle of 365 days of a poem a day in September.

The nights are drawing in.There is a greater chance that I may wake in the amrit vela, the ambrosial hour, when the day is not yet born. It is a very special time, when you can feel the pulse of the earth. And while I was up, our internet had been knocked out, but was swiftly restored by our great local, rural internet provider Groupnet.


Between Seasons

It’s not full on
like midsummer's bright
clap at the crack of dawn.
No. It’s much more mellow.
The new day yawns.
It stretches. There is a chill
 
in the air. Time to pull on
a wooly or a fleece
to drink tea. To just sit
facing the blank day,
to see if my mind
can be empty
 
of the world’s cares,
its need for prayers.
It’s not half-light nor full dark.
Soon the days
and the nights, too
will know the perfect poise
 
the betwixt, the between,
have the equilibrium
and grace of ambling spider
pirouetting capers in its nets -
this time out of time,
the bliss of not yet.
 
Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved

Call And Response

The prompt from #30DaysOfSummerWritingChallenge visits Campground Sessions. I found myself awake in the ambrosial hours, otherwise known as stupid o’ clock, and finally gave up on sleep, cracking on with the writing prompt for the Poetry Daily. Having written, I managed to get a nap after dawn. Although I am far from sporty, I am familiar with the campground summer experience. Camping is a relatively inexpensive way to have a holiday. For over five years post-recession, we spent nine days under canvas in Ireland each year. (Never say I am not hardy. Yes, sometimes it rained hard.) Then the desire for comfort overtook the desire for campground cameraderie. But I know what it’s like.


Call and Response

Seeing you all in huddled shadows
of flickering flame,
the spray of stray sparks
as the logs crack and fall into embers.

Hands clutch hot chocolate in enamel mugs.
Smoke slowly kippers
the congregation.
The murmur of soft spoken talk at night,

it's quiet back and forth. A laugh  echoes
across the campground
where most almost sleep.
Drifts of distant infant's wails gone midnight.

The treads of late night loo visitor's thud
is muffled by dew.
Canvas zips screech loud
when the only sound is the rise and fall

of hundreds of campers dreaming under
canvas under sky
calling each other.
Their dreams are deep. Their responses in sighs.



Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved

In three weeks time I will have crossed the 365 day poem a day finish line. I am beginning to look back in the archive for poems that need some tweaking and polish to pull together my first solo poetry collection. Do you have any memories of stand out poems you have especially liked that you read on the blog over the past year? It would help me immeasurably if you would let me know which ones were the most effective and affecting. Pop the title in the comments section, please. And thank you!

Featured Photo by Joris Voeten on Unsplash

The Chaste Moon

I mentioned in yesterday’s post that the March Full Moon, which arrived at 1:42 am this morning my local time, is known by many names. Indigenous people have called it Storm Moon, but it is also known as the Worm moon and the Chaste Moon. This was also the last of a triiumverate of Supermoons, where the full moon is seen as super close to the earth. Where I live in Ireland each of those nights has been shrouded in cloud cover.

But this,in itself was very beautiful. The Old Dog had a restless night, which meant my sleep has been broken. I gave up all pretense of getting back to sleep before dawn. I also realised that this was the first time in a long while that I was writing the Poetry Daily in darkness, the holy hours before dawn known as the amrit vela. I checked back last year and found that the full moon seems to disrupt my sleep pattern and make it more likely for me to writing in those ambrosial hours. https://sojourningsmith.blog/2018/11/21/ambrosial-hours/.

But less historical rumination and down to the daily poem, inspired by the ghostly twilight that fell over the landscape at full moon.

The Chaste Moon

When moonlight lies like a mist
upon a wetland drenched
in ghostly twilight,
there is a restless pulse
beyond the clouded veil.
It casts a milky caul.

This chaste moon delivers
the gift of sight
as it gently beams through
a scrim of bridal tuille,
chiffon and voile that's laced
across the night skyline.

Is that why they call this
the Chaste Moon?
A virgin is called.
An angel is announced.
She's made a mother
by Lady Day.

The full moon is making
Her Magnificat.
The egg is laid.
The seed is sown.
What all could hope
is now set to be born.


Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved.