Migration

It is almost spring
and I have just come home,
having just been there,
like those black-necked geese
flying home to home.

Canada Goose

There the robin had arrived
clumsy and bold-breasted
on the last snow
that came
like the first.

Copyright 2013 by DM Denton

Here the robin stayed
small and poised
to see the winter through—
this bare, green winter
that would’ve been even longer
without it.

Copyright 2013 by DM Denton

The doves welcomed me back,
side by side in the open sway of the lilac.

collared doves

The blackbird teased with its company;
so often my only company.

Blackbird





This is some old writing, the opening pages of a journal I did while living in England, written after returning from a visit to the States. I offer it for all those who have, at some time, experienced being transplanted in one way or another.


donatellasmallest©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.

The Cove

The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.
The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.

Khalil Gibran

Copyright 2012 by DM Denton

     She wandered away from a dream, not to escape the music but the baking sun and choking dust, down to where psychics delighted and deceived, and a glassblower entertained like a charlatan too. Just beyond was a clearing as lonely as she was looking for, grass still dewy and air cooled by the cove nearby, sloping towards a small pavilion gradually withdrawing its shadow from the few benches in front of it. She sat a while to watch a young juggler whose clothes were too big and smile too shy, until she noticed an arm-in-arm couple looking for privacy too. They settled for being inconsequentially observed, laying a blanket on the ground and laughing as they embraced the amusement that love could be.
     The boy stopped juggling, his eyes laughing too, embarrassing her because he knew what she was missing. He’d been there at the top of the fair with flute and harp and fiddle and viol, the wind in the leaves and the charm in a voice that had fooled them all.
     She picked up the trail of her skirt, running and stooping to disappear into willowy branches, ignoring any sign of what was off-limits except as she stepped slower down a mossy bank, leaning forward—like the trees along the inlet—for a glimpse of wisdom. 
    She threw in her heart and as it sank there was hardly a ripple.

At first sight
you
were a voice
of
lyric
and melody;

I did not
know

your face,
your height,
the color of your hair.

Second sight
I
heard what was

just
ahead—

the lyric and
melody
of
your face,

your height,
the color of your hair,
the entertainer in you.

By the third
I
saw at last
who
you were,

the lyric and
melody
of
my life
that was mine no more.

©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.

My Writing Life: A Planet in the Milky Way

Did I escape into my writing or did my writing escape into me? When did words I couldn’t speak begin speaking for me? How was the need to be lost and found fulfilled by my own heart? Of all the things I wanted to do, to be, to discover, why did solitude become the most productive, defining and enlightening way for me?

Encarta Webster’s Dictionary says Solitude (is) the state of being alone, separated from other people, whether…a welcome freedom or…unhappy loneliness…

Freedom? Yes. Loneliness? No. Very often welcome but never unhappy. Not when I find myself surrounded by books and music, cats and comfort food, ideas and characters, sleep and wakefulness and those all important dreams in-between. I choose to step aside from others for more than a while, preferring the company of contemplation and creativity, a place for silent conversations and another kind of reality, a time to exist for my writing unapologetically.

My solitude is not dispiriting like loneliness or isolation. It doesn’t insist on separation or confinement like a severe punishment for my dislike of crowds or need for time alone. It doesn’t lock me in my room, mind and heart but opens my windows, doors and curiosities to fresh air and destinations and determinations. It’s monk-like but not habitual, a fluctuating state of emptying and seeking, an indwelling experience, an affirmation of being alone. It sets me apart for the health of my body, the expansion of my mind, the strengthening of my heart, and honoring of my soul.

My solitude isn’t utopian. It gives criticism without objectivity and pretends accomplishment without accolades. It doesn’t care whether or not anyone knows I’m here, working hard at or putting off my craft. It may even keep me from success, like a too protective father refusing to let any suitors in (for who could be good enough?). I have rebelled, running away to find a society that would love me and support me and pretend I was someone else. It was a lesson in not being able to avoid the unavoidable, a lesson hard to learn until it was everything I knew already.

I returned to a smug sense of “I told you so” but still my solitude was forgiving, encouraging me to be and advising that bygones were bygones…though not to forget!

A writer must never forget. But take each opportunity to look through starry eyes and wounds to see what the imagination beholds.

My writing life began when I was a child, shy and uncertain and a little lost in the stories that came to me. It continued as I became more adept at speaking like an actor or singer (no wonder I thought I wanted to be either or both) only seeming to hide behind words. It grew more and less important as my other life tried to usurp its reign, exiling it until a subject begged its return. It matured, slowly and with further threats to its sovereignty, to become wiser and steadier and better fortified but not necessarily safe from invasion again.

Why should I feel alone? Is not our planet in the Milky Way?
– Henry David Thoreau: Walden: Solitude

 

©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.