Away

While I was away.
The trees have been stretching
still growing
reaching upward, leaves loosing,
crumbling underfoot,
a minuscule mosaic of crackling tiles
blending with earth and grass
and me
needing this space more than
I knew.

Sonnet to Sylvia's Lost Love

Young Sylvia, the earth beneath her soul
And mourning dew all wet between her toes,
She walks beyond the trees and up the knoll
To secret haunts lit by the dawning glow.
There a breeze moves so soft to lift her hair.
There a mist of morn adorns her glist'ning
Gaze, alight with golden rays; eyes aflare.
Yet heart all still, she waits with longing; list'ning
For one soft voice upon the knoll to rise,
Ascending as the breath of fragrant blooms,
For one stayed hand to dry her swollen eyes,
And sooth the ache where lover's spirit looms.
     Here is his hand; it lights upon her cheek
     As wildflowers, sweet balm of love do speak.

R.A. Wittum
August 2010

Ode To a Fairy Wood Beyond the Graveyard

Beyond the graveyard rests a quiet wood
That in the day is still except a stream
Spilling lithely o’er smooth glist’ning pebbles.
Here and there broad footstones mark the path
From daylight to the place where elf-folk play
Lit by soft moonshine ‘neath a fairy oak.
Many a night this sylvan maid joined in
Revelries of dance with nymph and dryad,
Loving the woodland home near as her own.
But youth in time is seized upon by age
And fairy woods where oft’ the maiden strolled
Calls stronger to her own small tow-head sprites.
And sylvan mother treads more slowly now
To honor sleeping souls laid here to rest,
Who walked the fairy trail long years ago;
Mere infants drawn to fay and make-believe.
But stepping ‘neath the leaves time bids farewell;
Twilights filled with child-joys come racing back.
And mother calls to willow o’ th’ wisp,
As little ones step stones to fairyland.

R. A. Wittum
July 2010

Reading the master bard this week...

Sonnet 29
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
     For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
     That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

I have relished in reading Shakespeare for class this week...I never miss a chance to enjoy such classics...or a chance to respond in sonnet :) So just for fun, here's my contribution to class discussion on Shakespeare and human nature, by way of an ode to the bard himself, enjoy!

Full many a ponderous work of art I’ve read
From poets lauding life and love and dame,
But the man, the master here with insight led
Birthing poems of human heart untame,
Plunging to dark depths wherein truth doth lie,
Spinning woeful tales of vanity arrayed,
Stripped of throne and mind, then left to die;
Or else compare thee to summers day,
When Juliet fair sun through window yon
Doth lay her Romeo upon her cheek;
Ay me! Romeo in grief sees no more dawn,
And neither she whose love did faithf’ly seek.
     Who else like Shakespeare plumbs human nature,
     Baring hearts, not sparing earthly stature.

~ R.A. Wittum :)

Poetry Wednesday

Read this while I weep

Your Mother

My mother puts me
in her warm hands
and I smile.
I love her
more than the world.

She is the one
with the warm smile
always on her face.

She is the one
to smile deeply
until you
smile deeply too.

I hug her
and she hugs me back.
I feel as if
there was magic
in the air,
and there is;
it is the magic
of love.


Sophia wrote this for me last night while I ranted about my girls' messy messy room. Need I say more?

There is something wonderfully bold and liberating about saying yes to our entire imperfect and messy life.
~Tara Brach, Radical Acceptance

Thankful Thursday: Remembering

Today I'm thankful for memory...the ability to look back over my shoulder and say "Ohhh...now I get it." True, some memories would seem to be better forgotten, but I can't ultimately feel anything stonger than thankfulness. Why? Because I've chosen the path of listening...learning from what life experiences have to teach me. So when tinges of remorse or humiliation attempt to dampen certain memories of my past, I lift my head again and listen, and remember the joy of growing in spirit.

Like a Hungry Bear

Refuse to fall down.
If you cannot refuse to fall down,
refuse to stay down.
If you cannot refuse to stay down
lift your heart toward heaven
and like a hungry beggar,
ask that it be filled
and it will be filled.
You may be pushed down.
You may be kept from rising,
But no one can keep you from lifting
your heart toward heaven--only you.
It is in the middle of misery that
so much becomes clear.
The one who says nothing good came of this,
is not yet listening.

~Clarissa Pinkola Estes~

The Sacraments

The Sacraments

I once spoke to my friend, an old squirrel, about the Sacraments--

he got so excited

and ran into a hollow in his tree and came

back holding some acorns, an owl feather,

and a ribbon he had found.

And I just smiled and said, "Yes, dear,

you understand:

everything imparts

His grace.

~St. Francis of Assisi~

Translation by Daniel Ladinsky

Love Poems From God: Twelve Voices from the East and West

Something of Value

I rarely sit down to write something that I know will possibly be veiwed by other people without putting some thought into it. I have always insisted that I write for the sake of writing, because I love it. This is true in my own little spiral notebook, but that is not really my purpose here. Don't get me wrong, I love this whole blogging thing. But my thoughts honestly are in somewhat of a whirlwind today so I'll try to avoid what some would call "rambling."
The truth is, I am one of those creative spirits. In temperment I am, as Wordsworth wrote, a poet:

And it would content me to yield up

those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts

of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend!

The Poet, gentle creature as he is,

Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;

His fits when he is neither sick nor well,

Though no distress be near him but his own

Unmanagable thoughts: his mind, best pleased

While she as duteous as the mother dove

sits brooding, lives not always to that end,

But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on

That drive her as in trouble through the groves:

With me is now such passion, to be blamed

No otherwise than as it last too long.

Something very human, very basic to my nature, those "unruly times" of "unmanagable thoughts" sometimes overwhelm this feeling soul:

Humility and modest awe, themselves

betray me, serving often for a cloak

to a more subtle selfishness; that now

Locks every function up in blank reserve,

Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye

That with intrusive restlessness beats off

simplicity and self-presented truth.

Ah! better far than this, to stray about

Voluptuously through fields and rural walks,

And ask no record of the hours, resigned

To vacant musing, unreproved neglect

Of all things, and deliberate holiday.

far better never to have heard the name

Of zeal and just ambition, than to live

Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour

Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again,

Then feels immediately some hollow thought

Hang like an interdict upon her hopes.

This is my lot: for either still I find

Some imperfection in the chosen theme,

Or see of absolute accomplishment

Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself,

That I recoil and droop, and seek repose

In listlessness from vain perplexity,

Unprofitably traveling toward the grave,

Like a false steward who hath much received

And renders nothing back.

~~

from

The Prelude

William Wordsworth

My own words seem really pale in comparison to this great poet but the sentiments are the same. Don't we all have our hang ups? And I feel very akin to William Wordsworth in this sense. Feeling overwhelmed and out of control, perplexed and without a doubt, self-absorbed...but helpless to pull oneself out of this mire... I know what that is all about.

One day this weekend our family took a drive to a neighboring city for the evening. Except for occasions such as this, when we are out driving in the open by farms and fields, I just don't see the horizon much anymore. On our way, we were greeted by a rainbow in the broad fluffy-clouded sky. My breath was stolen away. A promise. Driving home later, the sunset was brilliant. At that moment, I couldn't help but think God was trying to say something, trying to break through my "vain perplexity," my "subtle selfishness" that focuses on "some imperfection..." and finding, "much wanting, so much wanting, in myself." It's that faint whisper of a shout, that gentle yet persistent yank at the heart. For me it's always been colors in the sky that carried the voice of the Creater to this little creature: "I love you." And that is just what I need to know. Value because of One who finds me valuable.

I have much more to say on this topic but that is enough for now. Good night!

A Minor Bird

What true lover of words and language and poetry and life can read the works of Robert Frost and not be moved? How does a man using such common words and simple language create such music of speech and thought? I love nature poetry and Frost was a master. Reading his poetry is like walking into the woods...and I love woods. A recent reading of the following poem especially struck a personal chord with me. I can certainly relate:

A Minor Bird

I have wished a bird would fly away,

And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door

When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me.

The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course there must be something wrong

in wanting to silence any song.

~~

Robert Frost

West-Running Brook

~1928~

How often in our homes does our own dampness of spirit seek to silence those little songs that could bring such delight if only we could rise above our own moods? Yes, I am guilty. Indulging in sullen moods when sweetness surrounds us not only robs ourselves but our loved ones of their beautiful and unique songs.

If you've traveled a lonely path...

Let me reveal a small glimpse of our family's journey in the last few years:

Unsettled, confused, shaken
this is the overgrown road we've taken.
No clear path is set before
just a thick carpet of forest floor.
And this has been my only rest--
knowing that Your way is best.

One of my love-affairs with the written word...poetry. One of poetry's most intriguing aspects is how well it is lent to vagueness. Can you not read some poems and feel that you have been there in your own path? Though really you have little idea what experience has birthed these sentiments in the author, you know what has birthed at times the same in you. That is the power of poetry. That is the power of the common plight of each beating heart...a search for calm, and a place of peace. Never alone...

Choosing the Better (part one)

This is poetry that leaked out onto my page in a quiet moment last week:

The earth is still when a baby sleeps
and mother rests
but the chattering of little children
and the laughter of tiny voices
do not cease.

This, of course was written with the sound of little voices in the background playing quietly while mom took a little rest.

And then....as thoughts progressed:

I do not have the energy to clean
I used to clean because I felt I must
keep home and hearth perfectly spotless.
I used to clean because I thought
a perfect home reflected a peaceful heart--not so.

Now I am older and I long for the younger
Me.

A peaceful self who sat and pondered, sang and wrote
A peaceful self who walked and soaked-in life-surrounding,
then longing more for grace and truth.

My children have not met her.
My husband has not seen her for a very
long
time.