Tuesday, October 31, 2023

All Hallow's Eve

 



Samhain

BY ANNIE FINCH

(The Celtic Halloween)

In the season leaves should love,

since it gives them leave to move

through the wind, towards the ground

they were watching while they hung,

legend says there is a seam

stitching darkness like a name.

 

Now when dying grasses veil

earth from the sky in one last pale

wave, as autumn dies to bring

winter back, and then the spring,

we who die ourselves can peel

back another kind of veil

 

that hangs among us like thick smoke.

Tonight at last I feel it shake.

I feel the nights stretching away

thousands long behind the days

till they reach the darkness where

all of me is ancestor.

 

I move my hand and feel a touch

move with me, and when I brush

my own mind across another,

I am with my mother's mother.

Sure as footsteps in my waiting

self, I find her, and she brings

 

arms that carry answers for me,

intimate, a waiting bounty.

"Carry me." She leaves this trail

through a shudder of the veil,

and leaves, like amber where she stays,

a gift for her perpetual gaze.




Annie Finch, "Samhain" from Eve, published by Carnegie Mellon University Press. Copyright © 1997 by Annie Finch.  Reprinted by permission of the author.




Monday, October 30, 2023

Approaching Halloween, Part Five

 

October Full Moon


 

All Hallows

BY LOUISE GLÜCK

Even now this landscape is assembling.

The hills darken. The oxen

sleep in their blue yoke,

the fields having been

picked clean, the sheaves

bound evenly and piled at the roadside

among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

 

This is the barrenness

of harvest or pestilence.

And the wife leaning out the window

with her hand extended, as in payment,

and the seeds

distinct, gold, calling

Come here

Come here, little one

 

And the soul creeps out of the tree.



Aron Wiesenfeld     Liminal States



Black Cat       Kristen Elwell







Sunday, October 29, 2023

Approaching Halloween, part four

 

Full Moon  Cape May   photo by Tommy Peters

A Rhyme for Halloween 


BY MAURICE KILWEIN GUEVARA

Tonight I light the candles of my eyes in the lee

And swing down this branch full of red leaves.

Yellow moon, skull and spine of the hare,

Arrow me to town on the neck of the air.

 

I hear the undertaker make love in the heather;

The candy maker, poor fellow, is under the weather.

Skunk, moose, raccoon, they go to the doors in threes

With a torch in their hands or pleas: "O, please . . ."

 

Baruch Spinoza and the butcher are drunk:

One is the tail and one is the trunk

Of a beast who dances in circles for beer

And doesn't think twice to learn how to steer.

 

Our clock is blind, our clock is dumb.

Its hands are broken, its fingers numb.

No time for the martyr of our fair town

Who wasn't a witch because she could drown.

 

Now the dogs of the cemetery are starting to bark

At the vision of her, bobbing up through the dark.

When she opens her mouth to gasp for air,

A moth flies out and lands in her hair.

 

The apples are thumping, winter is coming.

The lips of the pumpkin soon will be humming.

By the caw of the crow on the first of the year,

Something will die, something appear.



Maurice Kilwein Guevara, "A Rhyme for Halloween" from Poems of the River Spirit. Copyright © 1996 by Maurice Kilwein Guevara.  All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260.  Used by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press, www.pitt.edu/~press.


Will Moses     Girls' Night Out




Moonlight, Cape May


Night Song by Lisel Mueller



Among rocks, I am the loose one,

among arrows, I am the heart,

among daughters, I am the recluse,

among sons, the one who dies young.

 

Among answers, I am the question,

between lovers, I am the sword,

among scars, I am the fresh wound,

among confetti, the black flag.

 

Among shoes, I am the one with the pebble,

among days, the one that never comes,

among the bones you find on the beach

the one that sings was mine.

 

 


Saturday, October 28, 2023

Approaching Halloween, part three

 


this, from the inimitable Emily Dickinson:

Under the Light, yet under

949

Under the Light, yet under,
Under the Grass and the Dirt,
Under the Beetle's Cellar
Under the Clover's Root,

Further than Arm could stretch
Were it Giant long,
Further than Sunshine could
Were the Day Year long,

Over the Light, yet over,
Over the Arc of the Bird—
Over the Comet's chimney—
Over the Cubit's Head,

Further than Guess can gallop
Further than Riddle ride—
Oh for a Disc to the Distance
Between Ourselves and the Dead!

 

Emily Dickinson










Friday, October 27, 2023

Approaching Halloween, part two

 


Aron Wiesenfeld    Bride on Cloud




Here is a ghost poem:

Ghost

BY CYNTHIA HUNTINGTON

At first you didn’t know me.

I was a shape moving rapidly, nervous

 

at the edge of your vision. A flat, high voice,

dark slash of hair across my cheekbone.

 

I made myself present, though never distinct.

Things I said that he repeated, a tone

 

you could hear, but never trace, in his voice.

Silence—followed by talk of other things.

 

When you would sit at your desk, I would creep

near you like a question. A thought would scurry

 

across the front of your mind. I’d be there,

ducking out of sight. You must have felt me

 

watching you, my small eyes fixed on your face,

the smile you wondered at, on the lips only.

 

The voice on the phone, quick and full of business.

All that you saw and heard and could not find

 

the center of, those days growing into years,

growing inside of you, out of reach, now with you

 

forever, in your house, in your garden, in corridors

of dream where I finally tell you my name.



Cynthia Huntington, "Ghost" from The Radiant. Copyright © 2003 by Cynthia Huntington.  Reprinted by permission of Four Way Books.

 

I'm including more of Wiesenfeld's eerie art here:

Girl, Cat, Autumn, Wood


The Lighthouse




The Pond

 


Fog One and Fog Two



Thursday, October 26, 2023

Approaching Halloween

 

Janet Lee Munro



I have always loved Halloween, since childhood.  Loved the trick or treating, the dressing up, the sharp cold smell of late October in the air.  Later, as I loved the ghost stories and the beckoning of the supernatural, I loved the poems for adults, like some of these:


The Witch

BY ELIZABETH WILLIS

A witch can charm milk from an ax handle.

 

A witch bewitches a man's shoe.

 

A witch sleeps naked.

 

"Witch ointment" on the back will allow you to fly through the air.

 

 A witch carries the four of clubs in her sleeve.

 

A witch may be sickened at the scent of roasting meat.

 

A witch will neither sink nor swim.

 

When crushed, a witch's bones will make a fine glue.

 

A witch will pretend not to be looking at her own image in a window.

 

A witch will gaze wistfully at the glitter of a clear night.

 

A witch may take the form of a cat in order to sneak into a good man's

chamber.

 

A witch's breasts will be pointed rather than round, as discovered in

the trials of the 1950s.

 

A powerful witch may cause a storm at sea.

 

With a glance, she will make rancid the fresh butter of her righteous

neighbor.

 

Even our fastest dogs cannot catch a witch-hare.

 

A witch has been known to cry out while her husband places inside her

the image of a child.

 

A witch may be burned for tying knots in a marriage bed.

 

A witch may produce no child for years at a time.

 

A witch may speak a foreign language to no one in particular.

 

She may appear to frown when she believes she is smiling.

 

If her husband dies unexpectedly, she may refuse to marry his brother.

 

A witch has been known to weep at the sight of her own child.

 

She may appear to be acting in a silent film whose placards are

missing

 

In Hollywood the sky is made of tin.

 

A witch makes her world of air, then fire, then the planets. Of

cardboard, then ink, then a compass.

 

A witch desires to walk rather than be carried or pushed in a cart.

 

When walking a witch will turn suddenly and pretend to look at

something very small.

 

The happiness of an entire house maybe ruined by witch hair

touching a metal cross.

 

The devil does not speak to a witch. He only moves his tongue.

 

An executioner may find the body of a witch insensitive to an iron spike.

 

An unrepentant witch may be converted with a little lead in the eye.

 

Enchanting witchpowder may be hidden in a girl's hair.

 

When a witch is hungry, she can make a soup by stirring water with

her hand.

 

I have heard of a poor woman changing herself into a pigeon.

 

At times a witch will seem to struggle against an unknown force

stronger than herself.

 

She will know things she has not seen with her eyes. She will have

opinions about distant cities.

 

A witch may cry out sharply at the sight of a known criminal dying of

thirst.

 

She finds it difficult to overcome the sadness of the last war.

 

A nightmare is witchwork.

 

The witch elm is sometimes referred to as "all heart." As in, "she was

thrown into a common chest of witch elm."

 

When a witch desires something that is not hers, she will slip it into her glove.

 

An overwhelming power compels her to take something from a rich

man's shelf.

 

I have personally known a nervous young woman who often walked in

her sleep.

 

Isn't there something witchlike about a sleepwalker who wanders

through the house with matches?

 

The skin of a real witch makes a delicate binding for a book of common prayer.

 

When all the witches in your town have been set on fire, their smoke

will fill your mouth. It will teach you new words. It will tell you what

you've done.



Elizabeth Willis, "The Witch" from Address. Copyright © 2011 by Elizabeth Willis. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.







Sunday, October 22, 2023

In Retreat at Cape May

 We've had lovely blue-sky days, even as the temperature drops into the low fifties, with blustery winds.

I've spent a lot of time sleeping; still recovering from COVID.



The Golden Hours  come so much earlier


John Atkinson Grimshaw



Paul Evans