Waters of the Spleen

 Note: I wrote this tens years ago.  Sometimes I believe "nothing has changed" and wonder "does it ever change?" .... I have no answers, just reflections.

 

It swaggers mightily
Over crossroads of contention
Spewing bitter herbs
Seeded deep
Into the memory of blood
Let into cups of loathing
And
Emptied by the drunkard sons
Of ageless ghosts

It rampages down highways
Of haggard faiths
Beating its chest savage
And spitting cries of revenge
On the lips of fathers
Who blindly usher their babes
Into the arms of pregnant harbingers
Manly wombs
Issuing imps, fear and greed

It feeds in delirium
Upon the hearts impaled by cowards . . .

Hatred

And swiftly returns the noxious beam
Into the eye of the grieved

Hatred . . .

Flowering hatred

It wears a heavy coat of conceit
Upon its bulging back

Carrying hatred

Hatred . . . Hatred

It stalks the voices of compassion
And cowers
Behind sightless justice
Scattering the faithful
Who wait upon the mount

“Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called the children of God”

We beseech thee

Laughing
Hatred 
Spreads its arms
Gathering all who will listen
Feeding them
With loaves of crowning retribution
And waters of the spleen

jeanne rene 3/04

... This Scent of Pine and Meditation

 

 by jeanne rené

 

 

Aside
these boughs twined of firefly lights,
baubles merriment and jubilee,
now lost in the scent of pine and candle wax
I assemble,
my thought
my sense . . . my wit about me

My meditation

demands,
close my eyes.
Bids me listen
to the thunder . . . a voice soundless.
Commands me
release the hours,
pause and inhale a singular breath

. . . pause and inhale a singular breath.
Know me as I bring your lips to mine,
I release my word and swell your lungs,
in your waking . . . in your slumber.
I am the only current,
at once, the same, high and retiring tide

. . . quiet . . . listen
I am the rise and the descent,
holding nothing from your seasons.
I am ever the seeding,
ever the harvest,
birth and death as one

and duality

. . . quiet
I distinguish no celebration
for I am consistent in my bounty.
I credit nothing to translations,
or tongues,
your histories, or crusades
I am undivided . . .
absolute

. . . wordless
Close your eyes.
Hear,
I am the name of the child gone before you,
after you
and standing beside you . . .
the child whose hand you seek

In my rumination, this Christmas come,
midst song and celebration I find,
. . . in the hush, the whisper of the only breath

You are my primary colors,
the mixing of my forest and heaven,
the paints of my red soil and dazzling sun.
You are the blending of all hues and textures,
the threads of our kente,
the fine stitch of our quilt . . .
the laugh of the baboon,
the leap of the gazelle

And you are . . . simply present,
ever waiting
for us to exhale . . . . . 

 

copyright jeanne rené
  

Introduce Yourself by Diane

... us ... in the kitchen ... the heart of the home.

August 30, 1999

 

Inside my head I can still hear:

Grandma telling me to shut the door in Portuguese.

Priests chanting, sing songing and the congregation responding as one.

Music at the fiestas.

Two languages playing charades.

Grandpa swearing in Italian.

Clinking bowls, cups, forks and knives.

Cousins, everybody's children.

Papa's whispered prayers and the creak-crack of the rocking chair.

The stories -- the tell me again stories -- the pass down to your children stories --

stories that give color to your heritage: 

Voices painting pictures of immigrants, stowaways, 

crowded boats and lost identities.

Voices that created underground stills camouflaged with chicken coups.

Bootleggers who went to jail and murderers who didn't. 

Inside my head I can still smell:

The dampness in the cellar.

Cigars.

Grandma's dress.

Apple pies.

Fava beans, linguica and sweetbread with the eggs cooked in.

Biscotti, cuichidadies and pezellies.

Red sauce boiling and pasta, pasta, pasta.

Inside my head I can still see:

So much vino that uncles forgot who they were.

Hands that talked.

Pin striped suits and tipped fedoras.

Great aunts smiling with bright red lips 

and shadowed eyelids through the mesh of netted hats.

Fox furs with the feet still attached.

Aprons and clotheslines.

Candles and statues, holy water and rosary beads.

Poker games, brandy and five o'clock shadows.

I see the women busy ... always.

I see the men in white undershirts and pleated pants - huddled - watching - owning. 

In my head I am:

Whole, with first hand remnants of a culture that is a part of me.

A link connecting my children with themselves. 

... with my cousin, Diane Souza

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Portrait by Monet Uninvited

 

Claude Monet: Woman Seated Under Willows 1880

~by jeanne rené~

Portrait by Monet Uninvited

Breathing oxygen of oils and turpentine,
I waited,
Unfinished shade of monotone,
Left against a dusty wall
Gathering time
And moot dreams.

Until that night
He entered uninvited,
Scattering jars of exhausted brushes,
And crusted palettes in a fury of salvation.
Ripping moth worn drapery,
Pushing out stale air through cracked glass.

Lifting me to an empty easel
He postured gaily,
“Ah, gray child
You have stayed to be my masterpiece.”
And threw colors at my canvas.

“I will paint you as light, my dear,
Place rose red blush to your cheek.
Silhouette drawn with blossom lined path
Under the shade of old yews and muted greenery,
And a delicate bridge to linger the afternoon,
a crossing over lazy water lilies, will be my gift.”

In dreams
He creates without thought.
A dress of purple iris,
A cape of swaying poppies,
And tresses of yellow poplar leaves
dancing on an fitful breeze . . . his eye renders.

“I will give you dainty parasol clouds
Drifting above meandering rivers
And cliffs that greet the crash of sea waters.
I most important, child, I will paint you
As soft grass upon which lovers lie.”

... and when his arrogant breeze tickled my cheek,
Throwing brushes over his shoulder,
He contemplated the image.
Across the lips a smile of satisfaction played.
So to the window,
Looking for daybreak
Monet sent my portrait flying against a sky of brilliant blue.

Copyright jeanne rené 10/04 

 

 

... squirm in your grave

by jeanne rené 

... a poem of man's inhumanity ... a bombing ... at a wedding ... an image of a wedding guest left lifeless in a chair and linen tablecloth placed over his head.  I've never been able to shake the image or the horror of the hatred. 

at the table

the wedding guest
languishes
in celebration
his arm dangles a toast to the times
the glass weeps, purged of its aspirations 
perverted reflections
in the sparkle of shattered desire
and glint of pooling blood
served up in the aftermath
and raised to our perspective
"to life" he cheers

undisturbed at the table
he waits

 ~ to life … to life … to life … to life!

under godly white linens
puckered round the shape of full lips
poised for his turn to kiss the bride
and dance beneath the ballroom canopy
swaying
box-stepping with the rhythm of electrical wires
exposed air ducts
cemented in an irreversible inhale
anxious to daydream in her arms
as they waltz mid the scatter of shard and ashes
"to life" he squeals

from out of the bowels of implausible

"to life, and may you all be left to … "

 

Copyright jeanne rené watson 11.05
Written some time ago ... still applies ...