On Poetry

Tale-based poem: The Legend of Water Rabbit

/ Fran Haley / 1 Comment

Today on the Ethical ELA Open Write, poet Stacey Joy invited participants to read a few short folktales, fables, fairytales, myths, or legends to inspire a poem: “Your poem might be a response to, a retelling of, or a new version of the original piece.”

I wanted to work with a fable but the children’s tale that came to mind first was… well, maybe you will recognize it… my poem is meant to be something of a mythological sequel–tribute.

The Legend of Water Rabbit

In the forest deep
upon a cushion of emerald moss
Water Rabbit sleeps

and dreams

of the Child.

In his dream
he cannot tell the Child
how much
he loves him

for to the Child,
the Rabbit isn’t real

and there is no language
for conjuring a bridge
across the chasm
of unbelief.

Water Rabbit twitches,
remembering

the nursery
the toys
the Wise Horse
who spoke of love

and longsuffering.

It was Fate that placed
the Rabbit in the arms
of the Child that night
when a favorite toy
was lost.

It was only for a season
that the Child embraced him
and carried stuffed Rabbit
everywhere he went…

Water Rabbit’s whiskers tremble
with dream-reliving.

He sighs.

Other rabbits nearby
cock their heads
and perk their long ears

for in a moment,
Water Rabbit begins
to whimper
and weep
and wail
in his sleep

—the dream
is all too real:
the Child’s fever,
the separation,
the command that
Rabbit and all the other toys
be burned.

It isn’t fire or fears
that brings Rabbit’s tears

but the thought
of never being
with the Child again.

—Wake up! Wake up!
The colony surrounds
Water Rabbit,
dozens of their small front feet
against his shimmery fur,
shaking, shaking him

into reality.

Water Rabbit gazes at them
through his tears
from his emerald-moss bed

and asks…Is it time?
 
The colony nods in unison.

Water Rabbit rises
wiping tear tracks
from his velvety face.

The colony parts
Water Rabbit
makes his way through…

he hops and hops with 
boundless energy until
he reaches the clearing 

where the Child
bigger now
(for he’s bigger every Spring)

sits on the blanket
spread over the grass
with a picnic feast 
made ready.

Into the Child’s arms
leaps the Rabbit. 

There are no words
for there is no language
that can capture
love so great
and eternal
and real

as real as the solitary tear
of a toy Rabbit
about to be burned
for the sake of the Child.

For it was that teardrop
the inevitable price
of love
and sacrifice
that brought life,
transformation,
salvation.

That is how
Water Rabbit
came to be.

*******
-with thanks and apologies to Margery Williams and The Velveteen Rabbit.

2023 is the Chinese Year of the Rabbit.

More specifically, the Year of the Water Rabbit.

“You make vita cry!” jpockele. CC BY 2.0.

Heartdance

/ Fran Haley / 6 Comments


a celebration of love
in the unchoreographed dance
of life

two triolets

I.

On this Friday night
he prepares for the dance
much to his girl’s delight.
On this Friday night
her smile is country-morning bright
taking pictures out by the manse.
On this Friday night
he prepares for the dance.

II.

It was meant to be, you and me.
Let us dance
our own jubilee.
It was meant to be, you and me,
these moments, in our finery,
taking pictures out by the manse.
It was meant to be, you and me.
Let us dance.

My preacher-son and his girl, going to the Father-Daughter dance.

*******

with thanks to the Two Writing Teachers community for providing a place to share our unfolding stories,
even when they are poems.

A bit of light

/ Fran Haley / 4 Comments

Today on Ethical ELA I encountered a poetic form new to me: the lantern. My understanding is that it is a five-line Japanese shape poem beginning with a one-syllable noun followed by successive lines of nouns containing two, three, and four syllables, ending with another one-syllable noun, all connected to and building on the first word.

I was immediately captivated and had to give it a try.

It is challenging.

In my mind the lantern image morphed into a lamppost, a symbol with much personal meaning. Like the indelible image in Narnia, a lamppost marks the way home for me: one stood in front of the house where I grew up. Whenever I was out at night and turned the last corner, I’d see the light of that lamppost.

I went with the image. I kept the syllable count but gave up on sticking with just nouns. I could write a lengthy essay about all the other meanings the lamppost holds for me, but this is poetry; interpretation belongs to the reader. 

It is dark and dreary in my neck of the woods today, pouring rain… perhaps that’s another reason the lamppost remained.

I needed a bit of light.

To the Lamppost

Your
good light
still guides me
home through darkest
night

Intimate conversation poem

/ Fran Haley / 3 Comments

–with thanks to Barb Edler for the Open Write inspiration on Ethical ELA. Barb invited poets to speak directly to a subject, perhaps a person from the past or present, a beloved or loathed object, or even a dream, frustration, or desire.

Refuge

In the dead of winter
in the dark of night
in the starlit silence
you come

to sleep
in the old
twig-vine wreath
on the front door

tiny warm presence
of which I’d be unaware
if not for the pull
of the stars

the frigid bite
of the night
is worth the sight
if only for a moment

so I open
the door

soft sudden flutter
wings taking flight
in the cold cold night

oh little bird
that I cannot see
you cannot know
how your presence
comforts me

that in this barren season
before the time
of nesting
you find your place
of resting

upon my door

little winged creature
of first blessing

*******

Note: Sea creatures and birds were the first living things blessed by God, Genesis 1:22.

Said wreath. When I woke before dawn, remembering there’s a comet to be observed, I bundled up to try for a view from the front porch. The little unseen bird flew out of the wreath as I opened the door. There is no nest; I am not sure where the bird tucks in but the idea of it sleeping against the safety of my door in winter makes a metaphor of immense comfort to me. I can’t determine if it’s a house finch (they build nests in my wreaths each spring) or a Carolina wren, tiny bird with a big, gorgeous song. In the darkness I can only hear small wings beating for a split second as it takes flight. Whatever it is… it is welcome.

Light bucket

/ Fran Haley / Leave a comment


to the astronomer
light bucket
means a telescope
with a wide aperture
and parabolic mirrors
that collect
and reflect
great quantities of light
from objects
in deep space

for the universe
is a dark place

to the starry-eyed poet
light bucket
is a means
of picking up bits
of divine spark

for keeping
the mind’s aperture wide
the soul and spirit aligned
humanity’s parabola
so intelligently designed

for collecting
for reflecting
great buckets of light

for the universe
is a dark place

Image. Danielle Scott. CC BY-SA 2.0

‘Twas the night before… ick

/ Fran Haley / Leave a comment

with apologies to Clement C. Moore
and mice

‘Twas the night before the night before the night before Christmas
when all through the house

or at least under the kitchen sink
and in the SILVERWARE DRAWER
a creature WAS stirring

yes a mouse

what to my horrified eyes should appear
in the morning
amongst the forks and spoons
—you can imagine—

ICK ICK ICK

so off to the hardware store
we flew like a flash
for D-Con and such…
all we could score…

I spoke not a word but went straight to my work
of rodenticide, with my newfound arsenal
after disinfecting and sanitizing everything in sight
—dash it all, dash it all, dash it all—

tidy, furry, and cute (?)
works from a distance
or maybe in fiction
definitely NOT in my kitchen

with visions of vermin
dancing on spoons
(among other things)
I keep shuddering and scrubbing
in spite of myself

happy Christmas to all
and to all a good-night
except the poor mouse
no more in my house…

Santa Claws: the greeting card (Project 365: 348/365). tehchix0r. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Is it too late to ask Santa for one more thing?