Poetry


HOME AUTHOR THE FIELD LABYRINTH
Poems by Lorna Cahall See www.lornacahall.blogspot.com
Beautiful as the Mist The moon sings a long, long ballad filled with flooded canyons of rare metaphors. She hears black rivers rolling lost angel wings. Her poets, how many thousand, pass through her gates noticed and caressed. Darker and darker...they are as beautiful as the mist. Lorca, yes, how she remembers, "hermoso como la niebla," Lorca, brave as a bullfighter, his red and gold cape of words, he teased, taunted, used her badly and she loved him more. !Ay, pero como los saeteros estan ciegos! Oh God, how blind the archers were, the ones, who cut him down.	The Path A love letter folded so many ways, the heart's map outliving crumpled words, loosing shape, flowing down through deep forest where dreaming birds sing songs— misdirection for the deceivers, a safe path for lovers— two shadow-makers, still solid, walking on and on holding hands.	Revolving Door Before dawn in a local airport, vague chatter from a T.V. mixing with indistinct music, further off a slamming door, but no one is there to fill the long bland corridor. The lifeless life repeats all night, like an empty station in space, forever orbiting a planet that has forgotten all about it.
Flying Home The blue-green land below, a layered series of sharp hills, rough painted by flat-edged brushes. Something playing dice with us— an antic geometer.	Piece by Piece Walking through mere snapshots of passions of my life, barefoot in the warm dirt, mystery of the silent deer, my apple tree, climbed, loved, broken by a storm. Swinging in my mother's arms, childhood wrapped in her song then mailed away. All too soon stood up, cut out, then losing a precious part that runs away, refusing to bow down to the altars of sex, love, the mighty avalanche of chance and destiny breaking women to make more children and ache over them. To win or fail, to lose identity and finally, after a long time, the quest to pick up, piece by piece, the early mornings, to call back the soul that ran away.	Mycenaean Heritage Oh little spaceship of a planet, last night you spun through the Perseids, drawing those ancient warriors down, burning them up, one-by-one. But there are so many, so many. For thousands of years your chaotic crew has watched, worshiped this autumnal warfare. So far, you’ve always won. Oh little spaceship, be careful. Your people may be foolish, but they are yours to watch over and keep, body and soul.
Weather Alert A tentative smell of fire sneaks through the garden— August considering departing on a smoking broomstick.
To W.S. Merwin I Catch your train. A phrase trips me, hands me a ticket to where I needed to go.
Rusting The Erie Railroad runs down to Suffern, grandeur abandoned, rusting, trying to sink away. Here, a continent distant, I can't let go of Rockland County. The old, old Ramapo Hills framed my river, a pond, my field- a childhood paved over. The brilliant full moon, shining here and there, lights it all with regal indifference. She takes a longer view.	Edge At the center of an interval, somewhere between notes, a hint of sorrow. The unexpected crevasse, just a warning, a break in the conversation, that phantom at dusk perceived from the corner of your eye, unwanted yet familiar.

HOME AUTHOR THE FIELD LABYRINTH

Poems by Lorna Cahall

See www.lornacahall.blogspot.com

Beautiful as the Mist

The moon sings a long, long ballad
filled with flooded canyons of rare metaphors.
She hears black rivers rolling lost angel wings.
Her poets, how many thousand, pass through
her gates noticed and caressed. Darker
and darker...they are as beautiful as the mist.
Lorca, yes, how she remembers,
"hermoso como la niebla,"
Lorca, brave as a bullfighter, his red and gold
cape of words, he teased, taunted, used her
badly and she loved him more.
!Ay, pero como
los saeteros
estan ciegos!
Oh God, how blind the archers were, the ones,
who cut him down.

The Path

A love letter folded so many ways,
the heart's map outliving
crumpled words, loosing shape, flowing down
through deep forest
where dreaming birds sing songs—
misdirection for the deceivers,
a safe path for lovers—
two shadow-makers,
still solid,
walking on and on
holding hands.

Revolving Door

Before dawn in a local airport,
vague chatter from a T.V.
mixing with indistinct music,
further off a slamming door,
but no one is there to fill the long
bland corridor. The lifeless life
repeats all night, like an empty
station in space, forever orbiting
a planet that has forgotten
all about it.

Flying Home

The blue-green land below,
a layered series of sharp hills,
rough painted by flat-edged brushes.

Something playing dice with us—
an antic geometer.

Piece by Piece

Walking through mere snapshots
of passions of my life,
barefoot in the warm dirt,
mystery of the silent deer,
my apple tree, climbed, loved,
broken by a storm. Swinging
in my mother's arms, childhood
wrapped in her song then mailed away.

All too soon stood up, cut out,
then losing a precious part
that runs away, refusing to bow
down to the altars of sex, love,
the mighty avalanche of chance
and destiny breaking women to make
more children and ache over them.
To win or fail, to lose identity
and finally, after a long time,
the quest to pick up,
piece by piece, the early mornings,
to call back the soul that ran away.

Mycenaean Heritage

Oh little spaceship of a planet,
last night you spun through the Perseids,
drawing those ancient warriors down,
burning them up, one-by-one.
But there are so many, so many.
For thousands of years your chaotic crew
has watched, worshiped this autumnal warfare.
So far, you’ve always won.

Oh little spaceship, be careful.
Your people may be foolish, but they are yours
to watch over and keep, body and soul.

Weather Alert

A tentative smell of fire sneaks through the garden—
August considering departing on a smoking broomstick.

To W.S. Merwin

I Catch your train.
A phrase trips me,
hands me a ticket
to where I needed
to go.

Rusting

The Erie Railroad runs
down to Suffern,
grandeur abandoned,
rusting, trying to sink away.

Here, a continent distant,
I can't let go of Rockland County.
The old, old Ramapo Hills framed
my river, a pond, my field-
a childhood paved over.

The brilliant full moon,
shining here and there,
lights it all with regal
indifference.

She takes a longer view.

Edge

At the center of an interval,
somewhere between notes,
a hint of sorrow.

The unexpected crevasse,
just a warning, a break
in the conversation,

that phantom at dusk perceived
from the corner of your eye,
unwanted yet familiar.

icy river

HOME AUTHOR THE FIELD LABYRINTH