Friday already, this week is really flying as I will be in a few days when I have prepared my besom.
Today, after a slight frost overnight the sun is shining and the magical low lying mist has lifted. I am taking gentle little walks with the dogs every day to fill my lungs with our pure Welsh air. It is such a beautiful day and very well-deserved as yesterday was not just wet but was a dull, dull, dull dark and dreary grey all day.
Isn't it funny how sunshine lifts everyone's spirits so? It must be a light thing, perhaps we truly are drawn to the light.
I am reminded that Halloween is approaching; my grandchildren are getting excited and have been busy carving huge orange pumpkins. I am still not yet inspired to write myself but I am following dear Exmoor Jane's advice to just be and to watch the raindrops on the windows, we get plenty of those. Anyways I have found a poem for you, a contemporary one written in 2001 by a poet unknown to me. The Internet is wonderful in the way it introduces me to poets and poems I might otherwise miss. This poem is not a very happy one so does not fit the mood of the day and for that I apologise.
Dispatch from the Home Front:
Halloween 2001
like every other year I sit outside with a guitar
while kids roam in small packs
from lit door to lit door
the costumes tonight are not that frightening
angels and fairies and superheroes abound
a few bloodsuckers and ghouls
a sprinkling of skeletons
no terrorists
the adults pretend to be scared
jessie (the giraffe from across the street)
solemnly hands me M & Ms from her stash
when I put the Snickers in her pumpkin
“honey,” I tell her
“it’s not a trade – it‘s a gift”
and she solemnly takes them back
the young girl in the bathrobe and curlers
wearing the sign that says
I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON
says to me
“I want to hear you play your prettyful music”
so
I hand her candy
and I pick up my guitar
to play a song appropriate to the season
(a song by the Grateful Dead)
for this world’s recent ghosts
this world
where unimaginable ashes
sift down on children’s beds
in one part of this world
the very rocks and baseballs
smell of abrasives, jet fuel, burning rubber, corpses
in another part of this world
they are making the mail glow white
long enough to kill what lives on the words
in another part of this world
this guitar would be
illegal
in that country a shrouded woman
has been carefully picking food from a minefield
(food that was air dropped in my name)
she runs and lifts her child from the ground
raising his head high up onto her shoulder
vainly trying to keep the frightening blood from spilling too much
it will take her years to fall asleep again
when she does fall asleep
she will dream of picking up a yellow bomblet
wrapping it in swaddling clothes
suckling it until it blooms hot and bright
but she will not cry
as she holds him in that dream
we all dream that dream these days
we all hold our children closer
while holding back tears
a dream like that
is not a gift
it is a trade
we have all already given
more than enough in return for this one
and you do not let go of your tears
when tears are all you have left
Halloween night
I am pushing aside the veil between the worlds
a mourning person waiting for dawn
pretending to be scared to cover real fear
while I give sweets and prettyful music
to my neighbors’children
we are all a long way from home
if I knew the way
I would take you home
Tony Brown
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Tony Brown is a poet, publisher & host of the long-running Poets Asylum reading series at the Java Hut in Worcester, Massachusetts. You can find more of his work online at the Open Mike Poetry site.
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