... 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 ...

~a woman's notebook~

 by jeanne rené

Two Women by Marie Laurecin 1883-1956

~a woman’s notebook~

this body mine
permissive
soft you say
fine downy flesh
i invite you
run your fingers over my willow arms
brushing back the silk-thin hair
and watch it fall back into perfection

please excuse this smile amused
as to what makes you think
i actually change my mind

child balanced upon round hips
strong pelvis
this body mine
the builder of men
these hands braced upon my physical fortitude
i invite you in

i paint my lips in shades of mona lisa mystery
and rest patience in my lap
until you see my cast iron bone
and ready bayonet
do not turn your back on me
to find i am the enemy of indifference
and that i strike with the intent of drawing blood

come
come surrender in my arms
drink my milk from swollen ready breast
wipe my tears
and bury yours in my hair cast across a scented pillow
let my body be a warmed coverlet
yours to rest beneath
but remember
i live the night with opened eyes

look upon my profile
follow the roman line of my nose
to once again the fine hair over my lip
and if you give touch to my quiet kiss
you will find the quake that lies deep within the earth

please excuse i stare at your look bewildered
to say only this in passing
~ absent the prerogative
i have had many a foot
placed grossly on my stomach
to hold me to a burial
but i am the loam
i am the rock
i am the fallen leaf
the worm
the brush
and the pregnant seed

to answer your question
the difference is
you do not see how much of a man
i am

~to these fathers, sons and husbands
i see all of me
that you hold inside

~and so it goes
with thoughts from a woman’s notebook~

copyright jeanne rené

 
 
 

~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
impels me,
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  11/08

... to have the moss grow over my heart by jeanne rené

 

public domain image

Every once in a while I feel it,
Slippage through a chink of actuality
Into a pinhole passage of the phenomenon,
To know . . . I am dancing.
I walk across the rift
To see. . . I am dancing,
I am waltzing with splendor as my partner.
I sally. . . . I whirl . . . . at times, I even prance
Upon the knolls of God's intent.
Lush, the hills, with bush and brush,
Grass and grain set in soil
And every once in a while I feel them,
I know them
To take root in my soul.

Every once in a while I wear it,
Upon my back a dress of flaxen rags.
In the moment that I stumble over the divide
I wear . . . . I embellish
The light in the darkness.
Throwing my arms in madness,
I am dancing in the gowns of consciousness.
A blink . . . . a flutter . . . . at times, a deep breath
Held beneath the waterfall.
Deep, my feet, sink into the earth.
The moss hunts my heart.
And every once in a while I know it,
I hear it
The reply sounding over the myst. 

 

 Copyright jeanne rené 01/04

 

Dance with Isadora ... by jeanne rené

Isadora Duncan’s dances by Arnold Genthe, 1919

                                           
 Close the distance
I tire
Of racing along side the frenzy
Baiting the magnificent
To consume me
But running shielded
In the sobriety of word and deed
Deadening the propensity of the passion

I must plant my feet in dreams
Let me hold
To the path of the fury
That it might overtake me
In an instant of irreversible finality

Let it snap my neck
In a act of simple punctuation
One by one tearing these flailing limbs
From my sanctity, my sanity
Pitching them upward
And
In the silence of the eye
Dropping onto soft pillows

Let my heart be decimated
Each atom cradled in the arms of the wind
Each dot kissed by the breath of the Almighty
And propelled beyond His galaxies

Torn from regret
Let my soul dance with Isadora
Upon stars undiscovered
Adorned in the rapture of many colored scarves
Whose silken threads kiss the inside of our thighs

And now
Chasing my dreams
Watch me
Surrender to the winds 

© jeanne rené 4/04

  

 Just wanting to include a couple of links for an outstanding poet and his publication The Moral Judgement of Butterflies. Click on links below for more information.

Group Black Spring Press:

The Moral Judgement of Butterflies by Ké Eltinaé 

On Amazon:

 The Moral Judgement of Butterflies: Eltinaé, K.: 9781913606879: Amazon.com: Books

 

Let Me Know It's Only the Wind ... by jeanne rené

 

 

 

Her hands,
etched ...
a legion of delicate lines.
Spotted and raised
with the red-blue rivers.
These hands,
move upward to sweetly caress
the boy's face.
And with love learned well
she stokes his rough cheek.
He bends
and kisses her brow.
"I love you, grandma."
And this his most earnest love,
love returned to love received,
unfeigned and unconditional.

Mama.
Mama.
I'm sad sick hurt Rock me.
On your lap Please.
You don't know what it is,
but you make it feel better.
I get scared, mama.

. . . It seemed you turned an endless summersault. I'd lay a hand upon my belly laughing.
With closed eyes I'd touch the love unexplainable.

Your apron is dirty.
Your clothes never match.
You sing off key.
But when there's something at the window
You let me know
it's just the wind.
You sit on my bed,
'till I fall asleep again.

. . . I buried my face in the feel and smell of baby silk hair.
. . . Fingers brushed your hair away and squared the baseball cap down and sent you back to the field.
A little dirt never hurt anyone.

Mama,
Time flys.
I'm laying in bed sad sick hurt
and it's not about the wind.

. . . Reaching to place the loose strands of hair, you stop my hand.

There is always an inescapable longing
To be there . . . close to your breast.
Breathing . . .
with the rhythm of your breathing.
Rocking . . .
with the rhythm of your rocking.
On your lap . . . your lap . . . mama
Let me cry . . . me cry . . . mama
Let me love . . . me love . . . mama

"Love you, grandma."
He bounds out the door.
She walks to me
and with those well-lived hands
she holds my face
and kisses my brow.

"Don't worry.
He has a good home
and a good heart."

On your lap . . . your lap . . . Mama


jeanne rene