Poetry/Prose
POETRY
Burgoyne Bay
Out of light a dove is born–
pure innocence returns to the swirl
–Pablo Neruda
That day on the farthest point,
our bodies nestled into a rocky ledge
under the firs and Garry oaks,
the ragged face of Mount Maxwell above,
we could almost believe in the absence of darkness.
White fire ignited the waters of Sansum Narrows
with such brilliance we were forced to shut our eyes,
light and warmth quivering into our faces and hands.
Too soon the sun slipped into the dark ridge
over the mountain, a grey veil thrown
onto the waters and everything around us.
Yet in the gathering blues as we climbed the hill
the sky cracked open, the sun blazed through,
lit up the green lamp of the forest
with its wild love and then vanished.
Between Worlds: Last Days of August
I walk through matted grass in the fields,
bent thistle and blackened nettles scratching my legs
while the creek shows its dark belly after weeks
of no rain, flowers in the gardens lose their blooms
and the sun hides behind a milk-white sky.
And in the garden where there are no names,
a crack opens in the mantle of time.
I peer in, see nothing but space and light.
Questions of what’s real or illusion fall away,
words float up then disappear,
only this breath taking me where I need to go
as the maples shimmer in the hot breeze,
the pond sinks into its black body,
new buds inch upward on the rhododendrons
while their petals darken into the ground.
We live between worlds now,
neither past nor future our true home–
being here
what we’ve come for.
Lorraine Gane (c)2014 The Blue Halo
The Whole Night Sky
Our faces pinned to the black quilt of night,
small fires blazing thousands of light years away
but visible to our eyes: the Big Dipper’s bright cup,
the knight of Orion and his star-studded belt,
the red helmet of Mars, Empress Venus in her white silks.
Yet a part of us searches for what we can’t see,
especially tonight by the car, cold wind against our cheeks
as you tell us to look at the faint triangle in the east
where all I can divine is a black empty net,
my eyes not trained in navigation like yours or the Hawaiians’
who sailed in reed boats hundreds of years ago over oceans
under the stars, some say as far as our west coast.
Now we look for Polaris, inching two fingers left three times
from the point off the tip of your finger, our celestial travels
complete while new constellations grow in hidden galaxies
under the whole night sky of my skin
Lorraine Gane©2014 The Blue Halo
The Wedding Veil
for my mother (1924-2014)
Nothing here means anything now,
she says while I pull out old blankets,
baby clothes, crocheted doilies and her wedding veil
wrapped in a clear plastic bag.
Yet the next afternoon as I unfold the veil
over the bed, her voice softens. It was so beautiful,
I’m afraid it has some moth holes,
her numb fingers gently touching the yellowed mesh,
then the white satin band shaped in a heart
that crowned her dark hair sixty-seven years ago.
Meaning now returned to the veil, she asks
if I’d like to keep it, but wanting to hold on
and let go, I tell her I can’t decide.
A year later I find the veil in her dresser by the window,
bring it to her new home where nurses check her every two hours.
I fit the band on my head and arrange the folds
over my shoulders as I did thirty-five years ago
when I danced around the house in her nuptial dress.
It looked better before, she says soberly and sensing
what she means I pick up her wedding photo, place it
in her hands, and say, Yes, this is how it should be worn.
Lorraine Gane©2014 The Blue Halo
The Shining
Early morning in the forest
two fawns browse on wobbly legs in the underbrush,
look up in my direction with ebony eyes,
then back down to the ground.
One fawn steps across the path and then circles back
towards its mother on the ridge watching intently,
while the other, startled at the sound
of squawking geese near the creek,
folds down on all fours by the edge of the path,
white-speckled back trembling as I tip toe by.
Later, I see the same light around you,
and deep in the mouths of purple irises
that afternoon at Burgoyne Bay.
After dark you talk of your father’s final day
seventeen years ago, how you held his hand
for hours after he took his last breath
and when you ask if I’m afraid of death, I tell you no,
remembering the fawns that morning,
how the light haloed their new-born bodies
and washed the darkness from my eyes
–from The Blue Halo, Leaf Press, 2014
The Way Light Enters This World
Dark clouds in every direction
but the island before us arched in rainbow light,
one side of the strait to the other.
From the top deck the light grows into my eyes,
wind hard on our faces
till we move behind glass and steel.
Awe is the salve that will heal our sight,
messages encoded in fern, cedar, sky,
the way light enters this world and is gone
from our eyes yet lingers still,
like those violets, greens, browns, yellows
I see now, six colors in all.
Light passes through a curtain of rain you say,
prisms hold seven colors in their rays,
questions of the heart answered
without knowing the questions,
your face washed in softness
and what grows wide in this light
lives at the apex of our breath as we stand here together,
warmth of your arm against mine,
green shores drawing closer, last sheen of violet fading.
–from The Way the Light Enters, Black Moss Press, 2014
Letter from Japan
Even days after the waves broke over us
I could still feel the tremors under my feet
while helicopters beat their black wings above
and sirens screamed through the streets.
I left my shack for my friend’s living room–
we ate by candlelight, told stories
and slept side by side across the floor.
During the days we cleaned one another’s houses,
stood in line for water, watched the news
on car navigation screens.
There was no looting or panic,
we lived on instinct pared back to essentials
this landscape one of strange parallels:
houses all rubble in some neighborhoods,
futons drying in the sun in others.
Old men in green hats went door to door
checking to see if everyone was all right,
people walked their dogs as though this were
the most ordinary thing.
One day, back at my shack,
someone left food and water at the door
and people kept saying this is how it used to be
in the old days when everyone helped one another.
But it was the beauty that lingered:
the quiet of the streets at night without cars,
the mountains of Sendai silhouetted in the crisp evening air.
Even the night sky looked different,
brimming with stars when before we could only see a few.
So when my brother asked if I felt small in all these events
I told him: this birthing is hard, and yet magnificent.
—from Beauty and Beyond: Songs of Small Mercies, 2012
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