Life Coach: Spirit, Body and Mind » Poetry

Poetry: Greek God on a Tube Train

Margo — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 05:33:49 +0000

As mentioned in my previous posting, Musings- Creativity and Cold! here is the poem that I wrote in September 1980. Perhaps I should set the stage a little. I had returned to live in England in October 1978 having lived the previous ten years of my life on the beautiful island of Sardinia. Sardinia is located about forty minutes flying time due west of Rome in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. It is an Italian island.

The weather there is fantastic. Hot and sunny from mid-May through to mid-September. Delightfully warm and sunny from mid-March through to mid-May and again from mid-September through to the end of November. There are a few exceptions to these time lines but they are just that, exceptions. Winter lasts from December till mid March but is not so cold as to be brutal, nor is it so rainy as to be continuously miserable. I remember sunbathing many times in January and February.

So to adjust to England’s climate when I returned to the UK in late 1978 was difficult to say the least. The culture and way of life was also problematic and frequently I found myself spiraling downwards on the emotional level as I tried to stay positive and live up to my nick-name – Sunny!! One day as I sat on the underground train going to work I was struck by my sense of isolation and felt myself being swallowed up by and absorbed into a daily “grayness”.

Each person in my carriage was totally closed in on themselves. Nobody looked at anybody else. It was as though each one of them was enclosed in one of those glass domes that are used to protect special dolls or statues. I found myself reacting to this by going in on myself – under my own glass dome. But suddenly there was a moment of “aliveness” which brought me back into my real self. The following poem describes that incident.

GREEK GOD ON A TUBE TRAIN

Somber blue, black and gray pinstripes
Seated in uniform regularity
The full length of the carriage,
Like regimental toy soldiers on an assembly line
Waiting to be dispatched, briefcase in hand,
To equally somber banks.
Dead-pan, pallid faces devoid of emotion,
Set above their city suits.
Bored, I stare ahead, merging into the nothingness
That surrounds me.
The train stops, doors open and close,
And suddenly my eyes are shocked wide open
By a non-conformity in this sea of gray monotony.
There he sits, or rather lounges,
A healthy sun-tanned lean Greek god,
In indolent disarray.
Tight jeans mould to his masculinity,
And he wears an open neck shirt from which spills
A heavy gold chain nestling in luxurious hair.
His dark and heavy-lidded eyes smolder
As they roam lazily over my femininity,
And I welcome his bold male gaze in the midst of such insipidness.

London, 24 September 1980

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Shared Wisdom/Poetry: Choosing To Live

Margo — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 03:14:03 +0000

Just a couple of days ago in my posting Musings- Living Life (Lost Treasures), I shared and made comments on several quotations that had come to light as I was going through some old files. Another piece of writing that has surfaced is a poem by Pablo Neruda, a Chilean writer and politician.

He was born in 1904 and died in 1973. Pablo Neruda was actually his pen name, which he eventually made his legal name. He travelled extensively during his life as a consul or in other diplomatic roles for his native country. But he is more famously known for his prolific poetry.

Neruda’s works have been translated into many languages. In the literary world he is considered to be one of the greatest and most influential poets of the 20th century. I discovered this particular poem in an Italian book about ten years ago. It is one of those pieces of writing that at very first reading resonated deep within me. I’m sure there are better English translations of the poem, but here I offer you my own attempt.

To Slowly Die

He who chooses to become a slave to habit
Each day going in the same direction
Never changing gear,
He who does not dare to change the color of his clothes
Or speak to some perfect stranger……slowly dies.

He who chooses to avoid passion,
Prefers black and white and dots every “i”,
Rather than experiencing a whirlwind of emotions,
The ones that bring a sparkle to the eye and turn a yawn into a smile,
The same ones that make the heart beat wildly when a mistake is committed
Or feelings unexpectedly erupt ……..slowly dies

He who chooses not to overturn the table,
Or who is unhappy in his work,
Who does not risk security for insecurity to chase a dream,
Nor allows himself at least once in his lifetime
To ignore sensible advice ……..slowly dies.

He who does not travel,
Does not read, nor listens to music,
He who does not see his own gracefulness ……..slowly dies.

He who destroys his own sense of self,
Who refuses to be helped,
He who spends each day complaining about his own misfortune
Or the incessant rain …….. slowly dies.

He who abandons a project before it is begun,
He who never asks questions about things of which he is ignorant,
Or who refuses to reply to those
Who question him on things he does know …….. slowly dies.

We avoid death a little at a time,
Always remembering that to be alive requires an effort
Much greater than the simple fact of drawing a breathe.

Only intense patience will help us to achieve splendid happiness.

Pablo Neruda

What an invitation to life and living! It makes me think of phrases like, “mix things up a little”. It reminds me of Erma Bombeck’s urging to “don’t save the best china for a special occasion, use it today”. It reminds me to get out there in the middle of things, to get out of myself (that old me-me-me-ism!!!) and help others less fortunate. It reminds me to be oh so grateful to God for the incredible life that I have and for the joy that fills my heart as I awake to yet another day.

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Shared Wisdom: Words Both Past & Present

Margo — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 04:30:20 +0000

In the last week or so I have been presented with some beautiful words of wisdom that span that sands of time and that I would like to share with you. The first piece is the oldest of all of them and was written by Lao-tzu 2,500 years ago. It comes from a translation of part of one of the eighty-one verses that form his book, titled Tao Te Ching.

“63rd Verse

Practice nonaction.
Work without doing.
Taste the tasteless.
Magnify the small, increase the few.
Reward bitterness with care.
See simplicity in the complicated.
Achieve greatness in little things.”

Sometimes I need to remember that not taking action can be as important as, if not better than, taking action. Because I tend to be impulsive a lot of the time this is a lesson that I need to practice.

The opening words in this quotation also reminded me of another great person who lived in great simplicity but had an enormous impact on modern day history. Here is a memorable one-liner from Ghandi that I found tucked in my purse.

“No matter how insignificant what you do may seem, it is important that you do it.”

Another ancient philosopher, Jalal ad-Din Rumi (1207-1273) wrote some of the most beautiful poetry that I have ever read. Most of it is quite mystical and, I think, very spiritual. Just a week ago a good friend passed me this piece of writing by Rumi.

“You were born with wings, why prefer to crawl through life?
Absorbed in this world, you’ve made it your burden. Rise above this world. There is another vision. All your life you’ve paid attention to your experiences, but never to your Self. Are you searching for your Soul?
Then come out of your prison. Leave the stream and join the river that flows into the Ocean. Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love. It will not lead you to stray. Let the beauty you seek be what you do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground. Question the scholars and philosophers, but God is beyond their understanding. Then look in your Heart and it was there where God dwells that you will see; God is nowhere else to be found.
Everything in the Universe is within you. There is a link between matter and Spirit. And your heart is looking for that path.
Consciousness is clear and pure like water.
And pure water is a perfect mirror for moonlight.”

Coming closer to today, a gentleman was at a meeting that I attended a short while ago. During a break he handed out small slips of paper to other attendees. Mine contained the following quotation from Mark Twain. I have been carrying it in my wallet so that I can take it out and read it frequently.

“Three daily reminders: Have the courage to say no. Have the courage to face the truth. Have the courage to do the right thing because it is right.”

I have to constantly remind myself to practice the first reminder!

The last words of wisdom for today were written by a modern day writer/philosopher, Paul Ferrini. I came across this quotation recently “by mistake” (in other words, by God-incidence). There is so much packed into this one sentence that I remain in awe every time I read it.

“The door to the Divine Presence opens when you no longer need to make reality fit your pictures of how it should be, when you can surrender everything you think you know and come to each moment empty of expectations.”

Wow!! Methinks I shall have to get some of Mr. Ferrini’s books. He has written over forty of them. I have never heard of him before but Larry Dossey says of him: “Paul Ferrini is a modern-day Kahlil Gibran – poet, mystic, visionary, teller of truth”. I am always ready to read new (to me!) authors who may open up new doors, new visions on my spiritual path.

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Poetry: Words Painting Pictures

Margo — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 02:14:32 +0000

Words have always fascinated me. The way they march across a page creating people, places, and life stories, or laying down facts and information, excites me to the core. I curl up with pleasure at the sight or sound of certain words while others have the power to chill me to the bone.

Words can be kind and compassionate, soft and gentle. Words can cause love or anger to burst forth in an eruption of passion more impressive than the best orchestrated firework display. They can soothe the soul and warm the heart or they can cut sharper than any well honed knife.

Words light up my own imagination and set my soul on fire. Perhaps for this reason I am always reading. As I already mentioned in my previous posting Musings- Relationships, I devoured books as I child. In elementary school they couldn’t keep enough books on the classroom library shelves for me.

Even poetry pleased me from an early age. Perhaps that is why I began writing my own poetry as I emerged from my painful “past life”. In High School, perhaps my sophomore or junior year, we held a poetry reading contest. One of my class mates, Mary Griswell, read a poem called Snake written by the somewhat controversial author D.H. Lawrence.

I was mesmerized by the second line. I was there, a few yards from the water-trough, in my own pajamas and I could feel the heat all around me. As the poem unfolded I was transported to this hot place in Italy (strange that it was in my beloved Italy!), and I could see the snake, his colors, the texture of his skin, and the slow movement of his body. Let me share the poem with you.

Snake

A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before
me.

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of
the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.

Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.

And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

And I thought of the albatross
And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.

Taormina, 1923

This poem made such an impression on my heart and mind that some years later I was inspired to make a pen and ink drawing of the snake. It sits in my dining room to this day. Whenever I look at it I can picture Mary in the library of the Ursuline High School, and if I close my eyes I can still hear her reciting the poem.

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Italy: My Soul Home

Margo — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 12:08:00 +0000

I have lived for about thirty years in Italy. The very first visit to that country was to Genoa in December 1963. All I can say is that when I deplaned and my feet touched the tarmac, my soul came home.

I eventually came to live in Italy in 1969. My first home was in a place called Santa Margherita di Pula located in the southern region of the island of Sardinia. This island captured my heart. The sea is turquoise, the beaches are pristine, the rocks are unbelievable, the people are delightful, and the food is incredibly good.

The last four and a half years of my time in Sardinia were spent on the island of La Maddalena. If Sardinia was said to be the crown of Italy, La Maddalena would be the diamond sparkling in that crown. In my post Poetry- Sharing My Love of Sardinia I already described this beautiful island and shared one poem that I wrote in nostalgia after I left. Here is another poem that I wrote during the course of a revisit.

La Maddalena

Hot air hanging languidly in a shimmering haze.
Warm brown bodies proffered to the sun,
Splayed on molten sand.
Still waters reflecting glistening gems
Of cool coral edged with mother-of-pearl
Mirrored under translucent turquoise.
Oh island of my heart, my soul, my mind,
Resplendent as a queen you proudly lie
Royally robed in colors warm and bright.
Your elegant form bedecked with dazzling jewels
Enchanting all who dare to gaze upon you,
By nature so generously endowed.
Sept. 1980

In sharp contrast is the city of Naples. I returned to live in Italy after spending five years back in the UK, and by God-incidence I ended up in Naples. Naples is a wild and chaotic city that lives by its own rules, as do the Neapolitans! It is a city of wide contradictions and immense fascination. There is a saying that goes, “See Naples and die”, meaning that nothing counts after experiencing Naples.

In my previous post Poetry- The Urchin From Naples, I gave some personal insights into this crazy and wonderful city as well as sharing a poem that I wrote before I ever physically visited there. The following poem describes how I felt about it after being there just one week. Naples had “grabbed me by the throat” (this is what the locals say about the effect their city has on some people!l).

Napoli!

Faded ochre, dirty rose,
Clothed in webs of ivy green
Spattered with dust.
Crooked cracks, crusted crannies
Creeping in all directions
On ancient walls.
Cars, trams,
Buses, coaches,
Trucks, prams,
Vans, Bikes,
Carts, Horses
In bright profusion.
Bells, shouts,
Whistles, screams,
Laughter, clouts,
Sirens, blasts,
Voices, horns,
In loud confusion.
Napoli…………
City of love and painted passion,
Full of life and sight and sound,
City of song and laughter.
The dust may cling and spread around,
Crimes may take place each day, all day,
But you are throbbing, alive, and gay.
You are a heartbeat unto yourself.
And as you spawn your hopes, your fears
Into your maddening noises streets
You live!!
Napoli…………
July 1982

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Poetry: Awakening to the World

Margo — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 00:54:21 +0000

These are some poems that I wrote as I became aware of the world around me. They were written during the period 1979 – 1981. There were many things changing in my life at that time, the most important being an emerging of my heart and soul from a very dark place. Up until that moment in time I had lived a very selfish, egotistical life and noticed very little outside my own personal desires.

As things changed, it was as though a heavy mist slowly rolled back and I was able to see that I was not the only being on the planet earth. I began to see the beauty and, sometimes, the exquisite simplicity of nature. I awakened also to the glory of man-made art: beautifully constructed buildings, paintings, sculpture, and much more. The poems represent a small part of that awakening.

Madrid At Sunrise

Soft, grey shadows on the far horizon

Leaning against the golden pink glow of sunrise.

And as I watch, she is slowly denuded

Of her vaporous dawn haze,

Revealed in all her proud morning glory,

Waking to yet another day.

Madrid, 1979

Daffodils On My Desk (for Doreen)

Papers piled around you

Haphazardly strewn across the desk;

An empty coffee cup brown stained

Sits beside large files.

Typewriters clack noisily

Churning out an endless stream of words.

Grey clouds fill the window

Which looks out onto other windows.

Yet you bright beauties

Fill an otherwise tedious day

With a splash of brilliant yellow

As bright as any shining sun,

Your trumpets raised in glorious salute

Heralding in the coming summer.

London, 1980

The Bridge At Night

A fragile string of yellow lights

That spans the silver bay below,

Twinkling at its own reflection

Mirrored in the water’s flow.

Italy, 1981

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Poetry: Summer Storms

Margo — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 01:29:52 +0000

As we were leaving Italy to come here in January 2004, many people told us about the Florida weather. We were to expect mainly mild winters that resembled an Italian spring. They warned us about hurricane season and gave us many tips for preparing for them. But mostly people told us of the typical summer climate: hot and steamy with lots of rain and summer storms.

So as summer 2004 approached I mentally prepared myself for hot steamy mornings followed by afternoon summer storms, and clear evenings. I also listened to advise that was given on various TV channels and in the newspaper, and stocked up on water, canned food, and batteries in case of hurricanes. Then I hoped for the best because my husband was deployed!

Well the hot and steamy arrived, and sometimes we had afternoon rain. Some of the rain was pretty torrential and I know that certain areas suffered flooding. Occasionally there were some crazy storms and we even rode the edge of a few hurricanes. But we never really experienced the “typical Florida summer weather” – until this year.

I have never sat through, driven through, huddled in my living room through such storms as we have had this summer. We have had some real humdingers and they have been almost daily. We’ve had a few patches of just really beautiful days in between, but for the most part it’s been sunshine in the morning, cloud build up around lunch time, and skies opening up by early afternoon.

Today was probably the worst storm yet in my opinion. The sky slowly blackened, the wind picked up, and with a sudden explosion lightning lit up the sky and the thunder crashed in quick succession. Almost immediately there was torrential rain, so fast, so heavy I could hardly make out the back yard fence. It was scary and dramatic and reminded me of another storm that I experienced in Italy in the late summer of 1980. A storm so violent that I wrote this poem.

The Storm

A distant rumbling from a blackened sky,

As though some celestial beast of prey

Was growling its deep-throated complaint

From behind iron bars.

Then came a sudden daylight burst of light,

And the heaven-bound lion roared its angry disapproval.

Without warning giant drops of heavy water

Cascaded from the skies,

Tumbling helter-skelter in their haste

To quench the parched ground.

So thick and fast they chased each other to the earth

A never-ending curtain stretched from all eternity.

Then, much later, with a final bellow of rage

And one last blinding flash of vivid blue,

The beast, its anger fully spent

Slinked belly low to a corner of the skies,

Leaving a sweet soft silence hanging in the air.

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Poetry & Shared Wisdom

Margo — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 22:08:33 +0000

I really enjoy the writings of Maya Angelou. One of my favorite pieces is an extraordinary poem that she wrote about a phenomenal woman – and she is! When I read it I feel so much better about myself. I want to walk taller and prouder. I feel as though she is writing about me. As James Brown said: “I feel good.”

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies

I’m not cute or built to suit a model’s fashion size

But when I start to tell them

They think I’m telling lies.

I say

It’s in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips

The stride of my step

The curl of my lips.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally

Phenomenal woman

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please

And to a man

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees

Then they swarm around me

A hive of honey bees.

I say

It’s the fire in my eyes

And the flash of my teeth

The swing of my waist

And the joy in my feet.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally

Phenomenal woman

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can’t see.

I say

It’s in the arch of my back

The sun of my smile

The ride of my breasts

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally

Phenomenal woman

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say

It’s in the click of my heels

The bend of my hair

The palm of my hand

The need for my care.

‘Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally

Phenomenal woman

That’s me.

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Poetry: Journey To Reality

Margo — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 03:13:27 +0000

As I slowly emerged from my “dark ages”, poetry was a medium that I used to express much of what was happening in my life. The free-flowing poem below represents a kind of summary of my downward spiral, followed by my first attempt to “come back to life”. It reminds me of how I desperately gasped for air during my near drowning experience at age nine.

In search of life and love I boldly ventured forth,

Or so I thought; I wanted all and wanting took in greed,

Each sensation grasping with both hands

To then remain dissatisfied for wanting more.

This world to me must yield its very soul

Its every palpitating breath,

That I might live each passion to the core

And drink the cup of happiness that I deserved.

Come vaporous vine!

Take me into your sun-drenched arms,

Enfold me in your warm embrace.

What ethereal Utopia is your gift

Of deep oblivion.

No pain can touch me, nor bitterness

Taint my chalice of perfection,

With you beside me as my constant friend.

III

But what is this that you demand?

You crave attention more than I.

Indeed, not mere attention – this is total slavery!

Where are your magic powers and promised reverie

For those who sip your nectar so divine?

I asked not for this mad confusion

Nor this tormented soul!

Dear God, I feel abandoned and alone.

This kaleidoscope of colors many hued

By children of innocence is perhaps enjoyed,

But my tired eyes and heavy head

Crave not such gaudiness.

Where are my jewels, my crown and scepter gold?

Where is the kingdom that I rule

With all prostrate beneath my very feet?

Why does my head pound to the rhythm

Of a thousand dervish drums from hell?

To me was promised heaven - paradise!

Merciful night comes down upon this nightmare,

But I find not solace in my sleep

As bitter yellow bile rebels within my guts.

Cool hand of death that you were near

To relieve my tortured and tormented soul.

No! No! I do not want to die,

To pass unnoticed into the spirit world.

And yet this is not living -

This agonized confusion in my heart.

Can this be the grandiose person that I was,

Who craved so much for life and living?

Who now grovels at the feet of Bacchus,

Leering god of ultimate rejection.

Dear God where are you in my hour of need?

Dare I call upon you whom I have long ignored?

Your once proud child in new humility

Beseeches your assistance, your support.

I am not strength personified as I believed,

But rather like a motherless new-born babe.

Be my Mother, be my Father too

For this death wish is just another fallacy,

Another road to take, to run, to hide, to flee

From life that I so truly long for.

Lift this veil of visions from my eyes,

And let love flood my soul,

For I would drink no more of Bacchus’ opiate,

But of the cup of life.

VII

And if to gain my freedom I must burn,

Then I am ready to accept the flame

Of your immense and deeply cleansing love.

Knowing that you hold the healing balm

Will give me strength to suffer what I must.

For now I see your hand stretched out toward me

That for so long has waited patiently,

You never did abandon my lost soul,

I chose to wander losing sight of thee.

My life till now has been an emptiness

Of barren spaces void of any truth,

Honest feelings always have escaped me;

Yet no, if truth is what I search, let truth prevail,

‘Twas I escaping everything.

VIII

Now I must learn to take my steps again,

To fall, then rise to fall once more

And ever rise again -

But not lose heart.

For you my Father, Mother, and my Friend

Will walk with me if I but meekly ask.

And in your love so infinite and wise

Will I find strength to seek reality.

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Poetry: The Urchin From Naples

Margo — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 10:56:00 +0000

My first visit to Naples, Italy took place in the summer of 1982, with consequent visits at Christmas in the same year and then at Easter of 1983. I eventually travelled to live in Naples on 1 July 1983. However, I had already “visited” Naples through a book that I read in early 1981. The title of the book was Children of the Sun – The Slum Dwellers of Naples, and it was written by Morris West.

I was taking a year-long night school class at the time and was looking for an end-of-year project to present as my final paper. The book not only gave me the subject for my project, but also had such a profound effect on me that it had great influence on my decision to live in Naples when I returned to Italy a few years later. (I highly recommend reading this book if you are going to visit Naples, Italy.)

The following poem was inspired by the book and became an integral part of the paper that I presented at school.

The Urchin From Naples

Don’t push me aside Mr. Tourist

When leaving your five-star hotel,

I may be all dirty and tattered,

But I have my self-pride as well.

Don’t look down your nose when you see me,

With hand reaching out for a dime.

I’m a person with senses and feelings

In spite of my face full of grime.

I come from a family of seven,

And worked from the ripe age of five.

School didn’t exist for an earner

Who could help keep the family alive.

My mother was busy with babies,

My father was touting for bread,

M sisters were selling their bodies

To make sure we all had a bed.

And so from this ‘home’ I escaped,

To fend for myself all alone,

In the back streets of Naples I wander,

At least what I earn is my own.

I see that you ask why I did this,

Chose my roof as the sky up above?

It’s not just my belly got hungry,

My heart too was starving for love.

At home I was forced into manhood

Before I was ever a child,

My innocence now has long left me,

Broken and wounded – defiled.

But I too must live Mr. Tourist,

So if I am forced to ask alms,

Then give without making me wheedle,

Don’t leave me with cold empty palms.

And when you go home to your children

And hold them within your embrace,

Remember this urchin from Naples

Has feelings as well as a face.

March, 1981

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Poetry: An Italian View

Margo — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 12:46:37 +0000

I lived for many years in Italy – almost half my life actually. So much of my life experience is based on those years. To say that I love Italy is putting it mildly. Italy is my “soul home”. It is where I feel most at home. It is the place that when I arrive there I feel that internal soft sigh and a voice that says, “Ah, I’m home.”

I think the creative Muse was awakened in me during all those years. Or perhaps it would be more truthful to say she was re-awakened. It was during those years that I went back to painting for the first time since my teens, and it was in Italy that I began to write poetry.

Ten of those years were spent on the island of Sardinia. It was actually on a return visit to Sardinia,to the southern part of the island, near the capital of Cagliari, that I had an incredible experience one evening sitting on a beach at Santa Margherita di Pula. It was a dark yet star-studded night and the water was calm and still, like sheet glass. And then I was gifted to see a full moon rise, and this is what I wrote when I went home that night.

Full Moon Rise

It must have been an invitation such as this,

That sent Columbus round the world.

He must have stood upon the shore one summer’s eve

To watch the gentle waves unfurled.

And as he gazed into the dark and distant night,

An orange glow appeared to East.

With bated breathe he sat to watch the shadowy sky,

Yet ignorant of the coming feast.

Amidst that mellow, musky haze where sky meets sea,

There blossomed forth an amber bloom,

A perfect sphere that seemed to hang suspended there

As ripe as woman’s fertile womb.

Then slowly, inch by inch, it left horizon’s line

And started on a slow ascent

Into the violet, velvet dark of August’s night,

Toward the West it leant.

And as it carefully cleaved a path among the stars,

The amber ball to yellow paled,

But t’was a brilliant pallor, clear and lemon-bright,

The splendid, sparkling stars it veiled.

Upward it arched, the heavens high to reign,

While o’er the seas its light was spread,

Like myriads of dancing diamonds on the waves below,

Connected to a single thread.

A wondrous, silver, shimmering street across the sea,

The gate to worlds yet unexplored.

All this Columbus must have seen one summer’s eve,

The morn his sails to set abroad.

August 1982

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Shared Wisdom: Grief

Margo — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 11:00:00 +0000

There has been much grief in my life and my church community’s life recently. Many people’s hearts have been filled with sorrow. Therefore, I thought I would share some special words about this poignant emotion that we all have to deal with at sometime in our lives. None of us escapes the passing of family members or dear friends. Death is the one absolute certainty in our lives and rarely do we die without experiencing the grief of loss.

One of my favorite pieces of poetry is titled simply “Grief”. It was written by Ruth Harms Calkin who, through her poetry shares her on-going private conversation with God, thus revealing the intimate relationship she has with Him.

Grief

Lord, you who permit my grief

Are the only One

Who can assuage it.

I wonder -

Do you permit grief

That I might learn

To be content

With nothing less

Than the comfort of God?

Whatever the reason

One thing I am learning:

You make useful to me

All that you permit.

So, dear God

Though a great ache

Wells within my heart

I ask you to grip my life.

Empower me to go

From depth to depth with You

Until I am a “wounded healer”

Bringing Your comfort to others

As You are now comforting me.

And my beloved Kahlil Gibran writes of sorrow:

“When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow’, and others say, ‘Nay, sorrow is the greater.’ But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when on sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep on your bed.”

Personally I find that both of these pieces of writing invite us into comfort and encourage us into serenity. I hope that any of you dealing with grief right now, or who will be dealing with grief and sorrow in the future, can find some solace in these few words.

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Poetry: Sharing My Love of Sardinia

Margo — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 02:22:29 +0000

I lived from early 1969 to late 1978 on the island of Sardinia which is located in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. Sardinia is a very unique and beautiful place with glorious white beaches, incredibly clear, translucent, turquoise waters, moonscape mountains, and low lying rocks of multi-colored hues.

The Sardinian people have been influenced culturally and through blood lines by the Moors and the Spaniards. They can be very open and friendly just as they can be closed and very taciturn. Sardinians are …… Sardinians! They do not consider themselves to be Italian. Their dialects, of which there are several, are said to be a language of their own and most Italians from the mainland cannot understand them.

For almost ten years I lived among them. To this day I have friends there who would open their door to me in a heartbeat. For ten years I shared the “island life” and Sardinia put her own special hold on my heart. I returned to live in England in 1978 and two years later, as I sat among the concrete buildings of London’s City district during a lunch hour, these words came to me.

Island Voices

The voices of my island softly call me,

Whispering on the welcome spring-time breeze,

My heart responds so eager to their summons:

Come hither little one across the seas.

My eye half close and slowly she emerges,

This wondrous jewel that glitters in my heart.

No man can craft another in her beauty,

That God and Nature made a work of art.

And though she lies the distance of an ocean,

Her voices still arrive on spring-time’s breeze.

Persistently they call me to her bosom:

Come hither little one across the seas.

Margo Hay, 1980

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Poetry: Driving To Kentucky

Margo — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 10:00:00 +0000

Dear God, how awesome is your work!

As we drive through the rolling hills of Georgia and Tennessee,

the amazing canvass that you continuously create

unfolds before our very eyes, mile after never-ending mile.

Oh God, what fun you must have had.

Eyes ablaze with inspiration, sweeping color-laden brushes

across earth’s length and breadth,

perhaps an artist’s black beret perched askance upon your head.

And as the Muse’s smile spread over you face

you laid down all the vibrant hues of Fall.

(A touch of Michelangelo? Da Vinci? or Van Gogh?

You gave them all their talents Lord, thus you own their gifts.)

A rich and glowing riot of red and burnished gold

with blazing orange amidst patches of deep deciduous green.

Then here and there, as if to satisfy my passionate purple soul,

a bush or two in lustrous olive-violet or darkest aubergine.

Fall 2004

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Poetry: Your Love

Margo — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 17:42:56 +0000

It is fitting that the first poem I share here is dedicated to my husband, Richard. Over the 25 years of our marriage he has encouraged and supported me unconditionally as I have travelled all the paths that my spiritual and personal growth have taken me. It has been quite a ride at times with strange detours and unexpected twists and turns. He is not only my husband, he is also my lover, my friend, my companion, and my spiritual partner. I am grateful for his presence in my life.

YOUR LOVE

Your love for me is

the very breathe of my life

the rhythmic beat of my heart

Your love for me is

the joy in a golden sunrise

the awesome wonder of a setting sun

Your love for me is

the silver beauty of the high full moon

the dazzling splendor of a velvet star-lit night

Your love for me is

the beautiful woman who is our daughter

the flesh of our flesh, blood of our blood

Your love for me is

the savory smell of Sunday breakfast

the cup of hot tea beside my bed

Your love for me is

the reflection of all that I feel for you

the care and compassion of God himself

November ‘05

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