Rachel E. Watson: poetry

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I have thrilling news to share on the creative writing front!

Some of you might remember that I've been attending Breathe Writers' Conference here in Grand Rapids for the past five years (this year will be my sixth!).

One of my favorite workshop leaders at the conference, Amy Nemecek, who is an extraordinary poet and book editor, decided she wanted to do more for the attendees than provide breakout sessions; she wanted to offer them a venue in which to submit work.

Back in October, as the conference was drawing to a close, she announced she would be starting Exhale: A Journal of the Breathe Writers Conference — a literary publication for Breathe attendees past and present featuring fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry.

I submitted three poems in January and found out last night that two of them, "The Fallow Field" and "Hymn for Hesitation," were accepted for publication in the inaugural issue.

I am beyond excited to hold the journal in my hand this fall and read the beautiful words written by women and men from all walks of life who I've come to know over the past half-decade.

Stay tuned for the big reveal this October!

Update: A link to the journal, where the Exhale issue is available to purchase, is here.

Up toward the Heavens

By Rachel E. Watson

I step my toe over a vine and I wrap my arm

round a branch, swinging myself

upward, higher toward the unassailable height

of the heavens.

I flick my face at a group of leaves

and they care too little to even

flap back at me, until a sudden

wind king forces them forward,

then they bow and rise like

fans in a stadium commanded to wave,

like the tide ordered by the moon to ebb and flow.

This thought shifts to that and before I know it,

dinnertime is here. I’ve whiled away a whole day

doing very little but tree-climbing

and leaf-watching.

What a thing of beauty I am.

What a collector of beauty my soul is.

© Copyright Rachel E. Watson 2015

I usually post my own poetry on the blog on Fridays.

But, today I thought I would take the opportunity to do something a little different and post work by the celebrated American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. I had the honor to quote her work in a college play in which I performed in 2005. (That's another story for another day.)

Here's the poem of hers that caught my eye today:

"Love Is Not All," by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

Isn't that sly? Throwing that last line in to twist the rest on its head.

What say you? Do you think she means love actually is everything? Or is she building a case that it's something but not everything? Are there other options to consider?

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

I Am a Tree

By Rachel E. Watson

I am a cat, graceful and fluid.

I am a cow, sagging and old.

I am a dog, facing the ground,

hinged in the middle, hung by my limbs.

I am a cobra, cunning and low.

I am a gumby, dangling and free.

I am a cross, I am a prayer,

I am a swan, diving with flare.

I am a monkey, with a flat back.

I am a gumby, rinse and repeat.

I am unleashing my animal heat.

I am a warrior sparing the room

my judgment, my glance,

and my weapon of choice:

the seething sound of my voice.

I am a triangle, tinkling with sweat,

I am a pyramid, poised and pointed.

I am a half-moon dancer,

held up by toenails

pinned to the sky.

I am a tree, strong and tall,

quivering with life, passion

and not quite ready to fall.

I am a dancer, a sideways prancer.

I am a monolith, an unmovable mountain.

I am sinking to the floor,

rooted by my sit bones,

resting on the ground.

I am a pretzel,

bending and twisting,

releasing all tension.

I am a corpse.

I am asleep.

I am at peace.

Bring the Light with You

By Rachel E. Watson

When a pile of paperwork calls your name

on a Friday morning,

if you have the freedom,

take the work outside and let the birds

and summer air provide your deep focus

while your pen stays busy.

When a stack of bills needs paying,

unlock the front door,

ignoring the creatures

who try to get in or out,

and pay the bills on your glider

or folding chair

next to the mailbox,

under the blue-gold sky.

When framed art

in a gallery far away

from home calls your name,

bring the outdoors with you.

Carry every memory of the horizon

you've ever made, and put it in your pocket

while your eyes hop from landscape

to still life to starry midnight vista.

You'll remember each sun-swept plain

each green-light storm

and pink-smooched dusk

as you search each painting

for the beauty you know in nature.

Answer each summons.

And bring the rays

of mid-morning

for illumination

along the midnight way.

(Image credit: WorldLifestyle.com)

Today, I would like to share a poem I wrote. It was inspired by the practice of mindfulness, which has helped me cope with depression and anxiety.

I first learned how to be mindful in an eight-week Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction class taught by my husband's aunt, Carol Hendershot, co-founder of the Grand Rapids Center for Mindfulness.

Some of the most helpful techniques I learned from Carol's class included deep breathing, mindful eating, mindful walking, mindful listening, mindful yoga and mindfulness in meditation.

The first practice Carol taught us was called the body scan. Lie down on your back and let your mind drift over your whole body, noticing every part of it. We used a CD recording to help guide us through this practice.

The body scan put me in touch with the areas in which I carry tension; it taught my mind to be attuned to what my body is feeling and doing (or not doing).

This poem is largely based on the body scan, but also includes aspects of other practices we learned in Carol's class.

Meditations on Mindfulness

By Rachel E. Watson

I meditate.

I scan my body,

noticing everything.

My left great toe, my right great toe,

my ankles and joints,

my parts great and small,

the sections that make me whole.

The winter in my heart,

the spring in my brain,

the fall in the pit of my stomach,

when I heard your life-changing news.

The summer I felt when last

we were together.

In noticing myself, I’m here to observe,

not to judge or to blame.

But the factual truth about noticing,

is noticing won’t let me go.

In the rhythm of my breath,

the rise and fall of my chest,

I find new marching orders.

I reach inside and seize my plough,

ripping up those old, worn cow-paths

and seeding the ground

with vibrant perennials.

A garden I sow

in the earth of my mind—

all because of this little thing

called noticing.

About GRCFM

The Grand Rapids Center for Mindfulness was founded by Carol Hendershot and April Hadley, two longtime local yoga and mindfulness instructors.

GRCFM teaches mindfulness techniques based on the work of John Kabat-Zinn at the Center for Mindfulness at the University of Massachusetts Medical School. Kabat-Zinn's work established a scientific basis for using mindfulness techniques to manage chronic pain, reduce stress and promote whole-body wellness.

Free Information/Orientation Sessions for MBSR Classes

The GRCFM's next Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction courses begin the week of June 8. GRCFM will offer several free orientation sessions to acquaint participants with the specifics of the eight-week course, including rates and scholarship opportunities.

When: 6:30 p.m. Monday, May 25 and June 1

Where: Holistic Care Approach , 3368 East Beltline Ct. NE, Grand Rapids, MI 49525

When: 9:30 a.m. Wednesday, May 27 and June 3

Where: Holistic Care Approach 

When: 6:30 p.m. Thursday, May 28 and June 4

Where: Energy Touch Center , 1331 Lake Drive SE, Suite 100, Grand Rapids, MI 49506

Note: I was not paid to write this article; I am not in any way affiliated with GRCFM besides the fact that Carol is my aunt. We took her class and fell in love with mindfulness, and that's why I write. Give it a try! It works.

I would like to dedicate this poem to Linda Russ, Pam Elmore and Melody Wilson. You were my "guardians" this week. May I always remember to reach out and grab the hands that are extended.

(Photo credit: environmentalaska.us)

In the Belly of the Bird

By Rachel E. Watson

The great white shark surges up

to snap my tightrope in two,

plunging me deep into the belly

of the icy upper Pacific—
shark- and whale-infested waters—
and I really, truly,

believe I cannot swim.

But then a rescue copter

calls out to me from above:

“Kick your legs,” the pilot says.

I kick until I feel my legs give out.

Just before my limbs fail me,

the guardian ties a rope

to the chopper’s landing skids

and starts to descend

down to the mooringless waters.

Extending a strong arm,

she pulls me up.

I am now in the belly of this bird,

not in the belly of the waters.

Hours elapse before that sinks in.

A soft, fleece blanket has been wrapped

around my shoulders—who did that?

I’m not sure I’ll be able to thank her
because my whole body is shaking.

I’m not on that tightrope,

I’m not kicking in shark-infested waters.
The stinging smell of the saltwater cannot harm me,
although its briney taste still pierces my tongue.

I have to retrain my brain

to look at the horizon,

to converse with the pilot

and to thank my guardian.

The shore is hours away.

I don’t have to swim there.

And that is enough.

Read more poems and poetry-related blog posts.

(Photo: Free images)

This Holy Week, I have been blessed by passages my husband has read aloud from his copy of "The Book of Common Prayer" at night before we go to sleep.

After hearing the Wednesday-before-Easter reading, I was struck by one particular phrase: "strange blood."

To put it in its biblical context, this refers to the animal sacrifice the ancient Jewish priests made in the tabernacle each year to atone for the people's sins. The priests, as commanded by God in the Book of Leviticus, would take the blood and pour it on the altar as a covering for transgressions.

A strange practice. A strange command.

Christians believe Jesus Christ was the fulfillment of that practice — he is the Lamb of God in human form — and because of the blood he shed, we no longer need to offer sacrifices as atonement.

While pondering this concept, I felt the combined weight of all the things I've been studying and learning start to soak into my skin.

On Maundy Thursday, aka The Last Supper/Passover celebration, Jesus predicted his death, burial and resurrection, and he also predicted Peter would deny him three times. Later that night and into the wee hours of the morning, it happened just as Jesus prophesied.

BUT, after the resurrection, he forgave Peter for his faithlessness and reinstated him into the fold of his disciples. Peter became the rock on which the church is built, one of the most passionate and outspoken apostles of the early church.

Oh, the power of forgiveness.

In the spirit of Christ's atonement and all else I learned this week about forgiveness, I wrote a poem yesterday called "Strange Blood." I won't share the whole thing here, because I intend to submit it for publication.

But I can share the first stanza. In the poem, Jesus is addressing Peter.

This cup full of strange blood,
spilling from my crown, my hands,
my feet and my heart,
is painted across thy lintel,
is poured over thine errors.

If you're going to remember one thing today, this Good Friday, remember this holiday exists to shout from the rooftops that your errors are covered, once and for all, because of Christ's "strange blood" poured over your sins.

Read more of my poetry-related blog posts here.

You'll know you're a '90s kid if you can name this TV show.

’90s Kid

By Rachel E. Watson

I am asked to sing at a ’90s throwback party.
The guests will wear acid wash jeans, unbuttoned
flannel shirts, crop tops, high tops and flat tops,
scrunchies securing towering side ponytails.

I search YouTube for a suitable set list:
perhaps Destiny’s Child or Spice Girls,
Britney or TLC, Smash Mouth, Barenaked Ladies,
'N Sync, Boyz II Men or Backstreet Boys.

I don Hammer pants and a windbreaker,
and try to relax as memories of how very,
very uncool I was then sweep past me
like one of the fast kids at the roller rink.

I cling to one important thing as I ring
the hostess’ doorbell and walk into a
living room that looks like the Huxtables’:
I lived through this once. I can do it again.

Copyright © Rachel E. Watson 2015.

Read more of my poetry blog posts here.

Social Media Blues

By Rachel Watson

I’ve got a deadline. A project due in less than a week.
I open my blank document, start typing titular details,
left-aligned, top of the page and single-spaced.

Then I see a little red “1” on my phone screen, so I go
check that. It’s just a status update from someone I starred.
She was sharing a Buzzfeed quiz.

But oh, wait, I haven’t seen this quiz. Maybe I really need
to know whether I’m a mountain or beach vacation.
It will only take a minute. Promise.

Great. Quiz done. It’s time to focus. Shoot. I just remembered
that last night I finished reading a Neil Gaiman novel
and totally forgot to update Goodreads.

So I go do that, moving it from “reading” to my “read”
bookshelf. While I’m here, though, I might as well check
to see if anyone’s left me a recommendation.

What! How did I not know Anne Lamott had another
book out? Time to hop over to Amazon and order
that bad boy. Omg, I’m getting free shipping on this.

I’ve got to tell my Twitter followers it’s out, that I liked
the Gaiman book, that I’m a mountain vacation
(in the Alps, no less), and see what’s trending.

How did it get to be lunchtime? Where has the day
gone? And then I hear the whooshing
sound of a new text message.

Rabbit trail re-entered. Shuffle and repeat.

Copyright © Rachel E. Watson 2015.

Read more of my poetry blog posts here.

I just attended a poetry workshop at Jot Writers' Conference. The workshop leader, Matt Landrum, of Structo Magazine, asked participants to bring poems to be read and critiqued by the group. I brought my poem "Wildscape," which I shared in my last blog post.

I really, truly appreciated the feedback the participants shared, so I'm reposting the poem, updated to incorporate some suggestions from the workshop.

First, I've played with the structure. The lines run longer before breaking, which I hope gives the dream-like vibe more room to breathe.

Second, I've taken out the parts in which the narrator passes judgment — e.g., "he smiled at me sardonically / and answered me laconically" and "the years had not been kind" — and I've replaced them with more detailed description — aiming to show instead of tell.

Here's the updated poem:

(Photo: Free images)

"Wildscape"

By Rachel E. Watson

I met an old friend last night in the wildscape of my dreams.
It had been at least a dozen years since we last locked eyes.

I saw him sitting at my mother’s aging patio set in a sunny
wildflow’r garden bordered by a treehouse with a ladder.

He leaned back, tipping his chair, with that middle-parted
hair, grinding grooves in the ground as I regarded him anew.

I asked if he recalled basement jams and living room horror
film fests. He stared, lip twitching, and said, “It’s all gone.”

I saw his gaunt, waxy face—his frayed sweatshirt, sleeves
pushed up, baring black veins and cracked, stained nails.

How did such hardness spin from a childhood we shared—
our histories running parallel like train tracks for miles?

For all I knew, he saw the garden, the table, the treehouse
and chairs, and pitied me likewise, for not getting out—

For staying put.

And again, here was the original draft of the poem, to compare. Fun stuff!

About Jot Writers' Conference

Jot is a semi-annual, one-night only conference founded by a Michigan writers' group, The Weaklings. The four-hour event features speakers from all walks of the writing life, from publishers and agents to folks who write fiction, nonfiction, memoir, blogs, poetry and children's literature. The lectures are followed by hands-on workshops in which small groups meet to share and discuss their work.

To learn more about the event, visit jotwritersconference.com, or "Like" the Jot Facebook page.

(Photo: Free images)

Wildscape

By Rachel Watson

I met an old friend last night

in the wildscape of my dreams.

It had been a dozen years

since we last locked eyes.

I saw him sitting

at my mother’s kitchen table

in a sunny wildflow’r garden

next to the ladder on a treehouse.

He leaned back, tipping his chair,

with that middle-parted hair,

grinding deep grooves in the ground

while I regarded him anew.

I asked if he recalled basement jams

and living room horror film fests.

He smiled at me sardonically

and answered me laconically.

The years had not been kind:

I saw it in his gaunt, hollow features,

his spare, worn clothing,

and the cracks and stains in his nails.

How did such hardness spin

from a childhood I thought we shared?

Then I reflected that he held little

of my own family’s story, too.

For all I knew, he saw the garden,

the table, the treehouse, the chairs,

and pitied me in the way I pitied him

for not getting out. For staying put.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

Robin Williams as Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society."

Last night, my husband spent some time reading poetry aloud to me. One of the things he read was Walt Whitman's tribute to Abraham Lincoln after his assassination, "O Captain! My Captain," which was made more significant to our generation by its mention in the film "Dead Poets Society."

The tears rained down my cheeks as I traveled 150 years backward into our nation's history and tried to imagine the heartbreak I'd feel if Lincoln had been my leader and I'd lost him. I commented to Adam that I again felt the transcendence of creativity as I cried over words written so long ago, by a man who is dead, for a man who died. That words should live so long in our collective memory and carry so much power truly is a beautiful mystery.

Do verses penned in our time hold such sway over our souls? For me, the answer is yes.

The other day, my mind was drifting into the past, and a song an old friend wrote came to me.

I googled the lyrics I could remember and was startled to find that there is no trace of the song anywhere online, despite the fact that it was recorded on an album of his from 10-plus years ago. I still have that album, and it's almost unlistenable because I've over-loved it through the years. The latter tracks are scratched beyond repair, which include the song I'm thinking of: "Grieve."

The only place I can play the CD is in my car; it skips too much when I try to use my computer. So this morning, I sat in my car in the garage listening to it over and over so I could transcribe the lyrics before it's totally unplayable.

Since the song's beauty and melancholy have stuck with me, I want to share the lyrics with you today, in hopes they will connect with your heart like they've stayed in mine.

I only wish I could share a recording of it, too.

"Grieve," by Titus Cole

She put her feet on the cold, hard floor

Glanced in the mirror and walked out the door

I wonder, how can she be so sure?

She lives her life as if

She’s a flag on a hill who just can’t catch a drift

Of wind to help her to unfurl

Ooh, I know what I have to do

And I laugh at the pain that we’ve both been through

But, Sunday morning comes and

Though we both know what needs to be done

I just swallow

And the phone sits on the shelf

If God in heaven has changed your mind and

If you now know what it means to be blinded by others,

And the whims of falsity

If the rumors I hear are true

Then why am I standing lonely and blue on the brink?

Hopelessness is constancy

Oh, I know what I have to do

And I laugh to think of such a pair of fools

But, Sunday morning comes and

Though we both know what needs to be done

I just swallow

And the phone sits on the shelf

[Instrumental interlude]

As long as there are tears left to cry

As long as there is any truth left to deny

I now realize

That I will love you still

And if you never give a thought to me

And even if age should come to claim me

I realize

That I will love you still

Oh I know what I have to do

And I laugh every time that I think of you

But, Sunday morning comes and

Though we both know what needs to be done

I just swallow

And the phone sits on the shelf

And I grieve for you

I grieve for you

I grieve

That verse, "She lives her life as if // she's a flag on a hill who just can't catch a drift // Of wind, to help her to unfurl" resonates with me greatly. I remember feeling that way so often throughout my adolescence and young adulthood, and even sometimes still, as I doubt my own abilities to write.

As members of the human race, we know there are gifts inside us, but we need help opening up to them and displaying them for the world. This is what people like Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society" can do for us. They can see our hidden gifts and coax them out into the light.

Today, I'm thankful for the teachers and coaches among us. I'm thankful for artistic talent. And I'm thankful for the transcendent power of the written word.

What about you?

I'd love to hear from you if there's a song, poem, story or artwork that won't let you go, even after years and years. Leave me a comment here or at my Facebook Community page.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

Chicken noodle soup reposes in a bowl.

An Ode to Stock

By Rachel Watson

You’re the essence, the marrow

The life, the core.

You lend your healing power

When my throat’s sore.

You’re yellow, hot and briny

So savory good.

I slurp you straight from my spoon

Like sick folk should.

I find you in the market

Premade for me.

Which means someone spent those hours

And now I’m free.

I add wilting vegetables

With garlic kiss.

Chunks of chicken, loads of herbs

To liquid bliss.

A meal I’ve made from the earth

A pot of stew.

Thanks to your willing bounty,

I just ate soup.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

Making the path wider

Four feet wide, the notice said.

No ice, no slush, no hard-packed snow

Or else your neighbors will slip and fall,

And we will send you a fine.

Seven to ten we shoveled,

Working in shifts to stay warm

One thawing inside while the other

Scraped and salted the walk.

Teamwork, this is what it is

Edge to edge for 25 feet

Removing winter’s evidence

Just in this one spot.

What will tomorrow bring?

Sore shoulders and more snow,

The knowledge we’ve prevailed,

And hopefully a nap.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

(Photo: Free images)

You left me abruptly

Two months ago

Waiting for your next move,

I held my pen

I needed you greatly

In those long days

The air was thick and still,

And you hid well

If I’d known you’d desert me

I would have planned

Instead of waiting here,

Cautious and closed

You’re back now but slowly

My pen resumes

Writing with your guidance,

I toast to you

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

(Photo: Free images)

Gratitude for You

When we say our prayers each night,

We thank God for each other, our home, our friends.

We thank Him for our furry companions,

Our vocations, our callings that intersect.

Over our families we speak a prayer for safety,

And blessing and love and gratitude,

We think of each sibling and parent

However nearby or however far away.

With humor, wit and joy we make our way

On a winding and sometimes thorny path

That is filled with reminders great and small

Of the oneness we’ve pledged to forge.

The winter creeps in and blankets our hearts,

Then the spring renews and cleanses.

The summer is a time of abundance and joy,

And the fall is a harvest of blessing.

Wherever we’re at in one of these seasons,

We’ll have a hand to hold and a heart to cherish,

A home to call our own, just yours and mine,

Because I've got you and you've got me.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

(Photo: Free images)

Snow. It binds us to itself with love-hate intensity. We romanticize it on greeting cards and fantasize about those first, magical flakes each winter ...

... but then we also complain when there's too much of it, when it clogs the roads and bridges and sidewalks, when it falls continuously, windswept from roofs and trees, packed against our cars and homes, multiplying toil and burying all that is living and prosperous.

Let's face it. It IS dangerous. It traps and blinds, it coats and freezes, steals loved ones away, relentless in its quest to cover the northern lands for a season or two.

I don't deny any of that. I don't deny that for me, it announces the dark season, the one that leaves me feeling trapped and blue, affected by the lack of sunlight, pulled into a melancholy not of my choosing.

But I can't ignore its beauty even as I curse its cruelty.

Here's a poem that celebrates that wondrous paradox.

"Snow-flakes"

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

And here is its beautiful theme song, shared with me earlier this week by a blog reader:

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

Recently, I was reminded to take seriously that each day is a gift. I can forget that truth amid the rush of work projects and the worries of life. Because my editing 9-to-5 is so much about meeting deadlines and staying one step ahead of the mountain that threatens to swallow me, I can forget to look around and appreciate the most important treasures in life.

This post is about recovering that sense of wonder. Here are some of the things, large and small, for which I am thankful:

1. The right and privilege to vote in U.S. elections

(Photo: Rachel E. Watson)

This is a solemn responsibility and at the same time a great privilege, one that the women of my 238-year-old nation have only had for 94 years. It fills my heart with a sense of power and pride when I step into that booth after careful research and fill in the bubbles that represent my choices.

On Election Day last Tuesday, I couldn't help noticing the looks of satisfaction on each of the faces in line. Here we are to vote, and here we've just voted. How simple a joy. The smiles were infectious.

2. Poetry and songwriting

In meter and wonder, with rhythm and expression, words and music weave a tapestry that conveys our shared human experience.

How is it that one person can pen a song that moves the hearts of thousands? When we read or hear the lines borne out of the writer's mind, we can't know fully what it was that led to the writing. But we can feel it deeply inside. We can connect. We can welcome the words and sounds into our spirits and carry them with us into the night, a great sustenance through the valley of the shadow.

3. The power of spoken prayer

(Photo: Free images)

I like to be alone, where I may speak my fears to God. I find Him at the zenith of my frustrations outside in nature, where I walk alone and talk to Him aloud.

Speaking my thoughts moves them from the confused cage of my brain into the light of day, where I can see them for what they are. When they are said aloud, though I hear no audible response from God, they lose power over me.

One example last week was when a project took a sharp turn just when I thought it was finished, and I lost my cool.

I gathered my keys and coat and headed for the woods to seek solitude. I remember telling God, "What's going on here is not cool! I'm really angry that you'd let this happen! And then there's the matter of my niece born today. I was really hoping to get out of here early so I could go see her, but then all of this happened. She's not getting any younger, God!"

After I said those words, I just burst out laughing at how I sounded. I was released from anger's grip.

Speaking of my niece ... here's my final item of gratitude:

4. A new life to love

While I was praying on my solitary walk on Friday, I realized that I already loved my newest niece, November "Emmy" Rose, born that morning at 3:30, even though I hadn't met her yet.

Emmy sleeps in my arms. (Photo: Adam Forrest)

And when I did meet her, I couldn't get enough of those tiny features, the small hands with perfect fingernails, the head of thick, silky black hair, the little button nose and chubby cheeks, the personality waiting to be discovered.

What will she love? Who will her friends be? Will she like to read? As her limbs grow strong, will she test their limits in sports and work and play?

I'm thankful to God for her, and for each new breath He allows me to enjoy all of His good gifts.

Read more posts in the Storytelling Sunday series here.

(Photo: Free images)

I came across this beautiful poem today that captures so eloquently how I feel about this transitional time, when autumn's colors quickly fade, the winds blow, and the earth is laid bare, waiting to be kissed by a blanket of snow.

My favorite line from the poem, perhaps, is "The gnarled thorn seems a crooked hag."

The other day, I imagined myself a painter as I beheld a cluster of trees on the horizon. I wondered how my brush could ever capture the twisted blackness of those limbs, layered in the foreground against a backdrop of more limbs, stretching ever backward through the forest, with hints of gray sky peeking through. The winds had all but ripped away the last of the curled yellow leaves.

I'm not a painter, so my brush may never craft that scene. But I'll forever celebrate the blank lined sheet with which a poet begins. The page is the canvas, the words are paint, and the poem is a finished scene.

In that spirit, may I present Madison Cawein:

"Under Arcturus"

By Madison Cawein (1865-1914)

I

"I belt the morn with ribboned mist;
With baldricked blue I gird the noon,
And dusk with purple, crimson-kissed,
White-buckled with the hunter's-moon.

"These follow me," the Season says:
"Mine is the frost-pale hand that packs
Their scrips, and speeds them on their ways,
With gypsy gold that weighs their backs."

II

A daybreak horn the Autumn blows,
As with a sun-tanned hand he parts
Wet boughs whereon the berry glows;
And at his feet the red fox starts.

The leafy leash that holds his hounds
Is loosed; and all the noonday hush
Is startled; and the hillside sounds
Behind the fox's bounding brush.

When red dusk makes the western sky
A fire-lit window through the firs,
He stoops to see the red fox die
Among the chestnut's broken burrs.

Then fanfaree and fanfaree,
His bugle sounds; the world below
Grows hushed to hear; and two or three
Soft stars dream through the afterglow.

III

Like some black host the shadows fall,
And blackness camps among the trees;
Each wildwood road, a Goblin Hall,
Grows populous with mysteries.

Night comes with brows of ragged storm,
And limbs of writhen cloud and mist;
The rain-wind hangs upon his arm
Like some wild girl who cries unkissed.

By his gaunt hands the leaves are shed
In headlong troops and nightmare herds;
And, like a witch who calls the dead,
The hill-stream whirls with foaming words.

Then all is sudden silence and
Dark fear -- like his who cannot see,
Yet hears, lost in a haunted land,
Death rattling on a gallow's-tree.

IV

The days approach again; the days
Whose mantles stream, whose sandals drag,
When in the haze by puddled ways
The gnarled thorn seems a crooked hag.

When rotting orchards reek with rain;
And woodlands crumble, leaf and log;
And in the drizzling yard again
The gourd is tagged with points of fog.

Now let me seat my soul among
The woods' dim dreams, and come in touch
With melancholy, sad of tongue
And sweet, who says so much, so much.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

Rachel E. Watson

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1. The right and privilege to vote in U.S. elections

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4. A new life to love

"Under Arcturus"

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