That Old Devil Moon

 

—Poetry by Judith Yarrow, Seattle, WA

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

ENTER, THE MYSTERY

You say you want to know
what I think about
living
and
dying.

I don’t know what to think
or
I think too many things,
and I feel even more,
a kind of terror
in the face—
it isn’t an unkind face—
of ending,
the blank wall of dying.

You ask, what?
And I can say, only,
after
a
point
what?
is answered later,

as far as I can tell,
but
one thing I think
about living
is how
mysteriously persistent
life is, a flame
on coals,
flickering,
making visible
some
—let’s call it—
element, and
this body feeding
it,
the mysterious it
we call life.

 

 

 

 

TIME AND ITS DIMENSIONS

Time is long but
we are longer still,
and time, yes, time is
all too short, too short
to fit ourselves into.

Trees have no time,
not a tick not a tock
just a rustle and again,
when the wind riffles
jazz in their leaves.

Birds have no time, no time
to waste or spend or fill
with past or future. This seed
yes, that bug, yes, fly now,
now settle down to sleep.

Fish have no time between
catch and be caught
only drift in scattered light
and rise and glide
in their thick present.

 
(prev. posted on her website: jyarrow.com)

 

 

 

 

FLOTSAM ON A HIGH TIDE

Dawn came in like a hot shadow stealing
our dreams; another day without wind.
No sailor, just an able-bodied hitch-hiker.

Whistle for the wind and call up a storm.
Torn sails, tattered tempers. And land’s
a broken promise, a fading horizontal shadow.

After months of rolling shipboards, the ground still
rocks. Red bougainvillea tangles around shacks, dogs
carpet dusty roads. Kids trail behind like shadows.

Paradise, after months of beatings by the waves,
the captain’s tongue, fist, wet clothes,
mold-fouled food, tired stories. Paradise,

or the shadow of paradise. Doesn’t matter.
Missed the packet boat, doesn’t matter either.
Solid ground, space, fresh food, fresh faces.

Every shack full of kids, old women, no cheap rooms,
no rooms at all. Doesn’t matter, there’s a bar.
In the shadows an old chanteuse plays lazy chords,

singing with a smoke-ruined, break your heart
voice, that old devil moon just a shadow
in your eyes. Maybe just making more of herself,

or maybe she really did sing for the Duke.
Her fingers were what he envied, easy
on the keys, carelessly right on the chords.

Bought her a drink, told her he played too, but
had lost his nerve with the keyboard, maybe someday
he’d go back, dragging his past like a shadow.

“There’s a room out back.” Could have been a line
in a song. I believe he came in like a shadow,
in your eyes that old devil moon, she sang.

“Play something for me.” Teasing, cajoled. Duets,
Chopsticks, hand shadows. Playing for centimes and
bottlecaps. Evenly matched. His fingers. Her heart.  

Love washed in, flotsam on a high tide, singing
a new song. Long, slow, hot afternoons
and nights, shadows on the screens, healing

her heart, his music, but can’t stay, can’t
leave, good-bye, good-bye. Some days love
is just flotsam; some days it’s the boat back home.


(prev. pub. in the chapbook, Borderlands)

 

 

 

 

RETRENCH? ASUNDER

Reasoned and measured
willingly pleasured
entropy not unlike
sinking, what? She was never
or near half again as pleased
yes and after, seized.

Raised and releasing
retrench unceasing
hold, she said, closely
but after? Overburdened
or weighted for balance
or pressed, she will dance.

Truly a notion
depths of the ocean
heart over leaping, but
westerly? Inclined or
asunder exhibiting it later
or shrug it off to try nature.

Rarest of treasures
sparing her leisure
aroused in half dreams or
accosted? Bay leaf for crowning.
Ride the white horse. Return
to cover, checkmate and learn.

 

 

 

 

 

war: relating to

trying heart edging
entry this way
surprise no exit

they call this
war or sometimes
bleeding later

then and they
want to say
not leaving

but instead but
aiming vengeance
or raining hearts

needs more needs
other ending but
with yes, not forever

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

She didn't quite know what the relationship was between lunatics and the moon, but it must be a strong one, if they used a word like that to describe the insane.

―Paulo Coelho, Veronika Decides to Die

__________________

Welcome to Judith Yarrow, today’s new visitor to the Kitchen! About herself, she writes, “After wandering around the US for a while, I ended up in Seattle where I've lived for 45 years, except for the four years in Japan, in the 1980s when it was flying high. I've been published in various literary journals, including Women's Words, Cicada, Backbone, Aji, and Raven’s Perch. I was the featured poet in Edge: An International Journal, and my poems have been included in the Washington State Poet Laureates’ 2014 and 2017 collections. These days I spend a lot of my time working on science fiction novels.” See more of Judith’s work at her website, jyarrow.com/. Again, welcome to the Kitchen, Judith, and don’t be a stranger!

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Judith Yarrow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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