This evening, as we begin August, I'd like to post more new poems by Chani Zwibel, a poet from Georgia. Let's see if I can post these poems *and* go for a walk this evening. Chani's poems make me want to walk to our local park--even if it is hot and humid outside!
Fire in the candle and fire in the new life and fire in the firefly unfurling in the whisper of spring.
Fire goddess, burn, bring us the sun, citrine, fire fairies, contain yourself within the hearth but burn bright within the poet’s mind, a muse with a fuse, hot, consuming, insatiable.
This is your variable: through the rain we feel your heat still.
Spark in us as spark in you.
Robins in the muddy yard and smell of wet earth, signaling the turn toward spring, at last, winter waning under the coming moon.
I will give you all the secrets of the garden if you but ask.
WHERE A WALK CAN SOMETIMES LEAD
Grey evening full of rain,
bird cries filling the air,
takes me back to my childhood in this life,
where I still find places
just wild enough to whisper
the names of the old gods,
rain-wet earth just damp enough
to evoke the wood-smoke filled eras
long trundled under the expanse
of the Industrial Revolution,
the Oil Boom,
and the birth of the Internet,
these ugly modern deities
of mass produced goods,
these plastic intangibles.
Just enough old wild world left
in this docile suburbia
to remind me and let me dream.
How many darker gradients of blue
does the sky turn on its way down to black,
and how much of the heavens
fill with deepening purple
before the first stars
or bright planets wink through?
I wonder as I stare up at Orion,
silver pin pricks picked out
in a plum expanse.
Walking the dog,
I watch her shoulder blades shift
under blue-grey fur,
to pull at the leash for every smell
on down the whole neighborhood.
I always take the dead end street
to avoid other people as much as possible.
I share more communion with the trees
and the squirrels
and other peoples’ dogs barking
at mine as we pass.
Because I’m thinking:
The last polar bear is slowly starving,
waiting on a winter that won’t come.
The sea ice is melting
as we McHiccup our way to destruction.
One slow tear is sliding down my cheek,
hot like the global crisis
my species has cooked up.
The march to the grave might as well be flashy.
Give me my high heels,
A corpse full of chemicals
made by the gods of consumerism.
And yet I never tire of looking at the moon.
Yet sometimes purple flowers grow in the Mojave.
All you listening saints, pray for me tonight. All you hovering Angels, draw near. My spirit is weak and weary and I am crowded by fear, consumed by frustration. Help me. Send down heavenly rays of love and sterner stuff. Give me a lion’s heart that I may roar and send these demons fleeing from my mane, where they try to tangle their claws. Let the four winds to sweep down upon these maladies, blow them out to the open oceans and drop them. Away from me ye wicked ones of old. Feast not upon my heart’s blood, gnaw not upon my bones, wet not your tongues in delight upon the misery of my innards. I will be free of you! I will not let you inhabit this carcass, for yet I breathe! Yet I live, and I will live in freedom. My soul is no tower you will overthrow. I have dreams, and they will sustain me. I have hopes, and they will lift me. I have faith and it will shield me. I give you no power; your hold diminishes. Help surrounds me. I will not be daunted. I stand upon the high hill cloaked in splendor, a blade in my hand to strike down my foes. No creeping evil will corrupt me, for I am fortified. The love of the Creator fills me, guards me, houses me against all harm.
I don't think I've posted much Dexter Gordon (1923-1990). Here is his "I'm a Fool to Want You": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5WJ66XLiAQ
"In a Sentimental Mood" follows:
This is his version of "Meditation":
I'll finish with "Wave," another Brazilian piece: