Saint Patrick’s sister voices her opinion

For the Thursday Treat prompt at imaginary garden with real toads:

 

Saint Patrick’s sister voices her opinion

Statue of St. Patrick in Aughagower, County Mayo

Statue of St. Patrick in Aughagower, County Mayo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What can one say about a brother?

Everyone knows
they are not saints.
Patrick was no different,
although time and its passing
have made him so.

The truth of it?
There were no snakes
on the island.
How would they have come?

Patrick would not
have driven them out,
he would have sat down
to tea and crumpets, a peat fire,
perhaps a wee whiskey
and blarneyed the snakes
into swimming to France.
Yes, so he would!

A poet, a charmer,
but no saint.
He was Irish, after all.
And that’s the truth of it.

Carol A. Stephen

I enter the Museum of London expecting the usual mummies

So the prompt for Open Link night over at dVerse suggests city poems, the unexpected.http://dversepoets.com/2012/08/14/openlinknight-week-57/

And I am thinking about my visit to London. I’d travelled a lot by then, seen a lot of cities,

British Museum

British Museum (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

but this was the one where my father was a child, where his ancestors had settled upon emigrating from Belgium (and before that the Netherlands). I had visited the British

Museum, overwhelmed by the antiquities stacked up like so many boxes of inventoried goods. I’d never even heard of the Museum of London. But as soon as I entered, something was different. Well, here’s the poem, written years and years later, and the memories of that visit still so vivid.

Roman mosaic found in London, Museum of London

Roman mosaic found in London, Museum of London (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

That’s how strongly I was struck by this place.

I enter the Museum of London
expecting the usual mummies

Greek gods cast in marble,
friezes that capture a moment
centuries ago. But here is a
clear glass pillar, its core is
geology’s construct revealing
layer on layer; sediment
marks eras, detritus trapped
in soil, grave markers for past
lives of the city.

Chill bathes my arms in wonder
so strong I catch my breath.
Here are roots of family and
history: this place, this city where
ancestors walked. Connection.
My shoulders soften into the
sense of yes, of coming home.

Twenty-five years have passed
yet I still see the diorama
of a Roman villa, plates on table,
banners of kings and princes,
red glow, crackle of the Great
Fire of 1666, the frightening
sound of air-raid sirens:
World War II in a bunker
under the streets.

This is not a place of dusty
bones and broken bits of
bygone days. Here the old
city lives within new, here

above the graves of ancients
are papers scripted in flowing
hand, great-great grandfather
David’s petition of naturalisation
to George Grey, baronet
whose family name graces
packages of tea.

David died here:
I hear his voice,
I can almost touch his face.

Carol A. Stephen

Sleeper, Dreaming

This came in response to a post on dVerse, Poets Pub, from Stuart McPherson, and to the referenced sculptures on exhibit by Paladino in Villa Fiorentino, Sorrento, Italy.

I also watched this interesting video with haunting music by Brian Eno and featuring the sculptures of Palladino at YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-q_DNIDGJU

 

Sleeper, Dreaming

(reflecting on I Dormienti by Mimmo Palladino)

She places her ear close to the sound of the earth
where cool green water pools upon stone, caught
in a memory, when air she breathed was fresh with
the breezes soft against her cheek, when the hot winds
that now weigh down her body were but passing
moments of brief summer.

She has become clay, she has become stone herself
as she sleeps, her cheek pressed to the ground. She
dreams of winter and the immaculate white of new-
fallen snow. She remembers the joy of making snow
angels. Her mouth remembers the taste of ice-crystals,
the quench of cold water in her throat.

Carol A. Stephen
August 14, 2012

Company for Lunch (poem)

In response to a prompt at imaginary garden with real toads. Laurie Kolp’s challenge to write to the word miscreant. I saw a photo that Laurie had a link to that resonated, and just happened to work well with the word prompt too.

Company for Lunch

Just before noon our noses
find the source of wafting smells
fried potatoes and hot oil, a soupςon
of vinegar and salt, ketchup for non-purists
or non-Canadians. Chip wagon.

Chips (BE), French fries (AE), French fried po...

Chips (BE), French fries (AE), French fried potatoes (AE) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We order our usual medium fries, salt
and vinegar at the half-full point,
then another generous scoop of hot
potato, fingers of starchy yum.

Trail of Crumbs photo Credit: L. Kolp

My brother’s serving overflows, he drops five
leaving a trail of crumb-gulls,
french fry hawks and other
feathered miscreants to squawk
and hover, a flurry of wings as each
tries to steal a treasured prize.
In thirty seconds, no trace of spill remains.
A wary truce as birds move off to
wait for the next free lunch.

Carol A. Stephen

August 11, 2012