IN PRAYER

A powerful light shines in the dark.

A light in the dark. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t let my light go out.

That plea haunting at night

When she felt her prana slack, her chi fade

When alone with no one about

 

Don’t let my light go out:

She whispered in the dark

Examined the babble of scribes

The words she now began to doubt

 

Don’t let my light go out!

Not now, not with a life half-lived

Her life-force as yet unspent;

Angry at last she began to shout

 

Curses at the images

 

©Millicent Danker

3 August 2013

INSOMNIAC

English: Grave of Sylvia Plath The grave of po...

The grave of poet Sylvia Plath in Heptonstall, Yorkshire (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

INSOMNIAC

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole —
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon’s rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments–the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue —
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

[only part of the whole; by Sylvia Plath, 1939 – 1963]

A THING OF FAITH

The Hajj kicks into full gear

The Hajj (Photo credit: Al Jazeera English)

That elusive thing keeping us going
That lubricator of motivation
That gives life its meaning
That precious ingredient amply
Bestowed on some, and not all
That seed needing nurturing
To produce belief in the greater god;
The feeling that no matter how
Bad a life, its maker understands
Forgives and loves:
That balm of peace.
That ointment of comfort.
That destroyer of fear.
That redeeming grace.

©Millicent Danker
24 July 2013

AUGUST IS THE M…

English: Little boats on the Thames Having sai...

Little boats on the Thames  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

AUGUST IS THE MONTH

“Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating –
Where will all come home?”

From ‘Where Go The Boats?’ by Robert Louis Stevenson

NOISILY WE LIVE

Moorhen

Moorhen (Photo credit: Sergey Yeliseev)

on the lawns

ice tinkling

Pimms jugs crackling;

in the sky

an airplane drones, then another –

in between, placidity:

on the water

a moorhen’s cry;

this pond, thickly green

like jelly under a crust of glass

a bird’s flight slices through it;

on the courts

the thud of tennis balls

then a triumphant male shout;

from the earth

the summer heat rising –

Life’s noises reprising

day in and out.

©Millicent Danker

16 July 2013

LOVING YOU

English: Cottage Garden with Summer Flowers Co...

 Cottage Garden with Summer Flowers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Thank you O my God for colours

Thank you for the eyes that see them

For the hands that can make them

For the breeze that touches my ears that feel

For the light which removes the shadows from my heart

For the heat of your sun radiating my face

For the energy of my walk

And for the quiet moments.

© Millicent Danker

6 July 2013

IN THE VALLEY O…

IN THE VALLEY OF THE ELWY

“I REMEMBER a house where all were good
To me, God knows, deserving no such thing:
Comforting smell breathed at very entering,
Fetched fresh, as I suppose, off some sweet wood.
That cordial air made those kind people a hood
All over, as a bevy of eggs the mothering wing
Will, or mild nights the new morsels of spring:
Why, it seemed of course; seemed of right it should.

Lovely the woods, waters, meadows, combes, vales,
All the air things wear that build this world of Wales;
Only the inmate does not correspond:
God, lover of souls, swaying considerate scales,
Complete thy creature dear O where it fails,
Being mighty a master, being a father and fond.”

– Gerald Manley Hopkins, 1844-1889

Gerard Manley Hopkins, (poet in bronze), 2005....

Gerard Manley Hopkins, (poet in bronze), 2005. Slightly larger than life-size. Regis University, Denver, Colorado. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)