I need your light
These lantern rooms,
their clamshell lenses
beacons burning through
the dark
Years of whitewalled
standingtall under cloud-brushed
skies, a safe space, a shelter,
suffering storms, tides& anger
My daymarked times are over,
time spent in silence& night,
searching for remnants of resilience
I need your light
For the solstice, a poem by Anja Meyer – capturing the craving for light.
The shadowy ones hauling the Henges upright knew:
As they measured stone for death and wood for life
Against circling stars pinned to the spheres,
That the longest dark is womb to the light.
In this snow-deadened morning the weeping sun
Bleeds into the frozen arms of sky.
Tree fingers grope the mist
That persists in stifling sound and sight-
Clinging to the sleeping ground
Long past the low and feeble zenith
That drops meek and swift to the rim of night.
This morning the world sobs under the weight
Of hate. Children have old eyes.
But fractional tilt with the day’s dying,
And we look a breath longer under shy lashes
At our star that burns itself alive
To warm us.
Our days in the sun are numbered;
We won’t wait for the rays of June to stir
Our blood, but stoke our own fires
To become the winter light.
Thank you to Polly Oliver for this wonderful solstice poem, originally published by Spillwords.
A mother of two boys, scribbling from the Western coasts of the UK, mainly poetry, but whatever comes out really. A journalist and PR professional, the first whispers of middle age and declining eyesight made having a real go at ‘real writing’ a little more urgent. A Cornish native, I made my home in South West Wales so the sound of the sea sighs through my work every now and then. Lover of nature, yoga, boutique coffee shops and occasional (and very dreadful) surfer.
The solstices suit me. I’m not balanced enough for the equinoxes – I’m drawn to long days, evenings stretching out like shadows, the scent of roses, pipistrelles flittering overhead, the rooks chattering comfortably. I love the winter solstice, too, – the early darkness, the nights of frosts and stars, the nights when the moon hurtles through cloudscapes, the call of owls.
I like coming at sunrise from the wrong direction.
I like staking a claim on night.
On this solstice day, the everything is bursting with life. June has brought roses and honeysuckle, the trees are leaf-heavy, the fields are re-growing after their first mowing, the hedgerows are frothing with elderflowers and Queen Anne’s lace, with dog roses and wild campion. It’s our moment to dance at the top of the year.
shadows stretch I am a goddess flower-crowned.
A solstice haibun for Frank at dVerse.
We wait for the light,
that one spear of light
that will reveal it all.
What are we now?
Curled and squatting,
cramped in this narrow
space, this tight-walled
passageway. Womb,
or tomb? We crouch
between life and death,
our breath clouding,
our fingers busy, busy,
hoping for light.
Light to penetrate
this winter dark,
to seek out the carvings
spiralling around us,
to dazzle us,
our dark-widened eyes,
to show us
what we may become.
Happy Christmas. Thank you so much to all of you – poets, readers, people who made such kind comments, people who shared and re-blogged. I have enjoyed this so much, I’m so proud to share so many wonderful poems. It has been a joy.
Waning moon in an ice blue sky did you breathe a weary sigh
When frosty winter solstice moved you
As you shined your brightest light that night,
Did you hear the angel trumpets on high
Blaring Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
When you share wintry dawn with a dazzling white sun
Do you still hear sweet angelic music
And as you die your lonely death in a fading grey sky
Do the aurora clouds mourn your good-bye
Crooning Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
This beautiful poem comes from Linda Lee Lyburg, a dVerse host and a fine poet. I’m so pleased to share her work with you.
Linda Lee Lyberg is a wife, mother, artist, published poet and author. She resides in Mesa, AZ with her husband Pete (aka The Big Viking) of 24 years, and her dog, Ricky Bobby. Linda writes various forms of poetry, as well as short stories. You can read more of her works at: charmedchaos.com and purchase anthologies containing her work here: Amazon Author Page
This, then, is her solstice pilgrimage,
this six monthly walk, down this too long corridor,
ticking off letters, – M is for Women’s Health,
P is for Medical Photography
Q is for X-ray and Imaging.
She’s here in the long days of summer,
when the windows are open in this small room,
letting in voices and slow moving air,
and again in the short dark winter days
when there’s not enough light to spare,
not enough warmth to go around –
stripped of power, clothing, efficacy –
she has a name-tag in her bag, out there
she’s someone, here she repeats her name,
address, date of birth at each desk –
Open Sesame
– and she’s touched gently, probed by soft, kind hands,
that press and smooth her skin,
searching for the death that bubbles under it.
And there you go – Day 26 of Jilly’s 28 days of unreason challenge. I’m going to make a confession now: I haven’t read any Jim Harrison apart from the quotations put up here. I will, but I wanted to do this challenge without any preconceptions about his work, and just take each quotation on its own terms. It’s been a great series of prompts. I can’t believe we only have two to go.
And here’s the quotation:
“There is a human wildness held beneath the skin that finds all barriers brutishly unbearable” from Songs of Unreason
I’m also linking it up to tonight’s dVerse prompt – opposites attract, posted by Lillian. She asks us to write a poem including some opposites as contrasts. I’ve used the two solstices here.
“We are all suns”
you said – “Burning
to live, burning to die”.
We light candles.
What else can we do?
These short days
leave us scrabbling
for light, longing
for the world to tilt,
to throw the sun
a little higher in the sky.
We light candles,
burn fires, seek warmth:
there’s an ancient forest
surging through
the house,
all that sunlight stored
in deep darkness, waiting
for us, for millenia.
We burn to live.
We burn to die.
A rather late solstice poem. Maybe it just works as a winter poem?
img courtesy ~ http://www.megandowntherabbithole.com/
Come The Light
this parabolic transit arcs to a still-point
a reflective moment
among cycles of time
we watch for the return of the sun
or the son perhaps?
either way there is hope
a glimmer
an ember
a spark
long buried in the heart of winter’s icy repose
this pregnant darkness
and it was always so
the Holly King’s demise
seeding future birth
we must be devoured in darkness
before being born to the light
the crone is glancing over her shoulder now
the scent of the maiden comes slowly
but inexorably
the wheel turns
from our Earthed North
held deep in Gaia’s bosom
borne East on the wind
breath of life
South into the fire of transformation
and then West to the healing waters
Mistletoe strikes at the heart of all of our Baldour’s
fills us with deep foreboding and dread
but we know he will come again
reborn vital and full of joy
so it is
embrace the darkness
fill your cup with soulful gratitude
look to that which sustains you
speak a blessing for family
for friends
for nature herself
and drink to the coming light
Written for Sarah’s advent calendar of poems.
A huge Thank You to Megan Manske at downtherabbithole for the use of her beautiful Winter Solstice Mandala.
Please visit her amazing site. Not too late for that last minute Christmas/Solstice gift right?
Thank you so much to Paul who scribbles here: https://paulscribbles.wordpress.com/ He’s got a direct line to the dark gods, I think.
Sarah writes poems 