Marianne von Werefkin’s work is a joy. This painting is entitled Moonlit.
An ekphrastic poem in the spirit of the dverse prompt, if not following it to the letter.
In the winter there is nowhere to hide,
the cold strips and splits, and ice cracks on the river.
In the moonlight the shadows are black,
and even old monks with backs bent
by the weight of other people’s sins
have spindly alter egos that trot lightly across the snow.
In the dark by the light of a cold moon,
there is a stillness
that not even the promise of a blazing hearth can stir.
In the moonlit winter cold the world is starved thin
and black as sin.
A poem I wrote last month. Out of season now, but I remember the feeling well. For dverse.
I remember when the sun
had lover’s hands
that warmed the skin
and teased the knots
out of bones grown winter cold.
I cover my face from this pale crone
who pinches cheeks
with fingers gnarled
as a dead oak tree.
This winter evening
when spring creeps and thrusts
through earth running bright
the birds are singing
their wild songs
of love and battles
and the return of the sun.
yet behind the cloud they say
the sun shines
sun teases gold
from the wet field sparks dull green
then drowns in cloud
through the fog glitters
Winter is always too cold
for those with bones too close to the skin
and blood too deep in the bone.
Steep me in the warm earth
deep as shoot and seed
feathered with owls calling
from tree to star and back again
for the restless spring.
A revised version of last night’s rubaiyat for the dverse prompt. This one is in strict iambic pentametre rather than my usual rambling tetrametre. The second stanza inverts the stress for variety.
The frost that lingers furs the hedge where bird sings
At raindrops, snowflakes, all that winter cold brings;
His song, his soul fills our dark days with sunlight,
His heart too full too hear how distant bell rings.
Cold cracks the stone that gleams in moon-pale light,
Stills placid water with ice, silver bright;
The thrush is silent as mice in the hedge,
Hopes in the spring and bitter winter’s flight.
too much rain
even the thirsty earth groans
ditches run torrents