As we end National
Poetry Month, and NAPOWRIMO for 2020 I turn to Dylan Thomas, and the two poems
of his that subconsciously, and not so subconsciously, color my work. "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"
is almost a mantra with me, so much so, that I borrowed the phraseology to tell
people at my Humor and Well-Being presentations "Don't go gently! Go
Laughing!" And the second meaningful poem "and death will have no dominion" casts a long shadow over yesterday's poem. As I once spend a
summer reading all the works of Shirley Jackson, to discover the broader scope
of her work, with one foot in humor and one foot in horror, it may be time to
rediscover Thomas, and add another literary root to my creative tree.
This year, as every
year, I title my April poems "The Cruellest Month," and for the most
part, it has been a metaphor. However, this year, April was indeed cruel,
bringing death under her wings like rain, raising up the flowers of mourning.
Her sister May could end up being just as merciless at worst, and a valley of
tears at best.
So, tonight I bid April
2020 farewell, she the bringer of a personally significant birthday, amid
anxiety, fear and anger, and the balancing power of love. The stuff of my
poetry for sure.
“I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam.”
Frodo
Baggins to Sam Gamgee― J.R.R. Tolkien, The
Return of the King
"The
end...is just a little harder, when brought about by friends..."
Andrew
Lloyd Webber, Tim Rice, Jesus Christ Superstar
"Oh
what a world.."
Margaret
Hamilton, as the melting Wicked Witch of the West, The Wizard of Oz
The Sacred Heart
iconography of childhood
the heart of Jesus encircled by
thorns
representing the pain we cause
felt for all eternity
even while living in Paradise
an image to shame our sins
inspire us to holy lives
yet,
the Immaculate Heart of Mary
encircled with flowers
is pierced with seven swords
because the heart of a mother bears
the blossoms she tendered in her
garden
alongside the wounds of maternity
sorrows too painful to bear
so,
hanging side by side in the church
like grandparents in old
fashioned clothes
not smiling just staring
their hands levitating their hearts
outside of their bodies
flaming like the candles
we light for special intentions
but,
all I can think of is
falling on the thorns of life
ten swords impaling me from behind
my mother heart stitched many times
over
my feet stomping on serpents and
legos
refusing to say good-bye
when they leave, one by one
since,
icons are only as valuable
as the jewels with which they are
encrusted
eyes expressionless and dead
peering out from bodies
from which the heart has been
removed
unlike my heart, which bleeds every
day
pain born of love, not sin.
©2020 Noreen Braman
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