Poetry 2

 Having read the history of the Hudson River ( which reignited pleasant memories for me of many years ago) I decided to write this poem.

Harry

“Muhheakunnuk"
(muh–he–con-nuk)

The Hudson River, USA, was known to the Beothuk Indians by this name.
Roughly, it translates as “Great waters constantly in motion”
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An Ode to my Love

Flowing constantly in motion
As my love forever and devotion
Yours to own and mine to give
For as long as we shall live
Sometimes shallow sometimes deep
But always there for you to keep
Sometimes stormy sometimes calm
Yet never will I do you harm
And as the night falls upon your crest
I lay my head upon your breast
That I may listen to the motion
Of your river of devotion

Harry, the Beothuk Indians lived on Newfoundland and nearing the end of their culture ~(having been murdered off by English, Scottish and Irish whalers and fishers...)  one of few remaining ~ Mary March....and there is a film ( Finding Mary March )made about her story...you may be interested to discover...

http://www.answers.com/topic/finding-mary-march ~ film

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Demasduit ~ about Mary March

I

I  wrote this some time ago. It was in Italian originally and for slightly different circumstances but Diana's recent loss has pushed me to a vague attempt of translation. 

THOSE WHO REMAIN

Today has been a special day 

and as the evening sun slowly sets 

and a jealous sky fights the pressing darkness,

I look in the distance, leaning at the window to bear the memories.

I can already feel the pain, 

the unharmonious din of a time made of silences and regrets,

of rancours that force new mistakes.

A time when I, indifferent to any call, any offer, any plea

I, with the shoulders to the world, 

would only see all the shades of my self-love.

I built a delirious universe all around myself,

where everything had tiredness of exisiting and wide open sorrow.

I look way up high at a star and I can see myself in that suffering,

in that weak and useless gleaming.

The victorious darkness towers contemptuous now 

over a sun won and beaten like our brief happiness.

Wait a moment before leaving,

I want to look at you again,

wait a moment before turning around,

I want to graze you again

and imagine of you having nice dreams only

where we are happy and we never die.

Dream of me, my missed love, I am the time we have never had, 

the unsaid words,

I am the shards of your absence.

And then, suddenly and quiet, the sky wears all its colours and its infinities on again.

The darkness fades away and I do stay.

Every gesture weights differently now, every thing has got a new value.

Dream of me, my grateful love, I am the time we have lived, 

the shared words,

I am the strength of your absence.

Mari,

This is a truly wonderful piece of work, especially translated from the Italian. So lyrical and moving. your talents know no bounds.

Ray.

OMG, Maria, I'm sitting her sobbing.  Your poem is so moving and so beautiful.  Anyone who has suffered great loss in their lives can relate surely.  Thank you so much, my friend.  You are a bright light and a sweet spirited person.  God bless and thank you for sharing that.

Hi Ruth,

That is a wonderful piece of writing isn't it?

Maria ~  gorgeous and memorable poem containing it's own heavy heartbeat of ruin, regret ..missed opportunity to fully love and therefore to fully be alive~ living....a sort of pond ( emotions = water ) with faintly shining droplets of hope ( that we will eventually be brave enough and wise enough to know love )reflected from the " weak and useless gleaming" of a star.. the cold and merciless death..waiting.

Brings me to retrieve John Fowles~ The Aristos...

page 209  ~ 87: " Poetry is often despised because it is not art with an 'international language' like music and painting. It pays the penalty for having the precisest tool. But it is this tool that makes it the most open art, the least exploitable and the least tyrannizable."

The following poem ~ a love affirming visit to a studio in 15C Florence

Black & Red Chalk

Black & Red Chalk

Sifting clues, movement of warm stars

circling on their skin

where are they now? grains of sand

their compass needles stilled

on a tattooed map of miracles where

hexagrams, wheels and weights etched

across a Florentine drawing

common ground of aviators

in monasteries

palimpsest fingertips brushing

quietly now, your silent code

bowing in prayer as you enter

silhouetting a shape remaining

humanist impression forming there

on the planes of your bed by the sea

engraving seal imprinted when

your dusty, coloured hands held me