Tulips and Thistles

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, Malayan fixed verse, pantoum

~~a pantoum~~

You who insist you’re a lover, I want
you to bring me six tulips
the colour of kisses, and thistles
majestic as lace on a queen’s bridal bed.

You, to bring me six tulips
in a knightly manner of ease and grace
majestic as lace on a queen’s bridal bed,
might reverse this kingdom’s weary intent.

In a knightly manner of ease and grace
with a butterfly’s poise, the glance of your sword
might reverse this kingdom’s weary intent
of depressives, defeated. Restore the good word.

With a butterfly’s poise, the glance of your sword
the colour of kisses and thistles
of depressives, defeated, restore the good word!
You who insist you’re a lover, I want.

~~~

The thistles off to the side of this patch of tulips are still in bud. When they open they will be astonishing.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

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“Sisyphus, it’s Zeus.”

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, medieval French fixed verse, poetry with a sense of humour, the heroine's journey, the myth of Sisyphus, triolet

~~three triolets~~

I

Sisyphus, it’s Zeus, your ancient cortical
connection to full power over gods.

You no longer stand so vertical,
Sisyphus. It’s Zeus, your ancient cortical

desire to dominate, toppled to diagonal.
Where wisdom finds no purchase, idiocy plods.

Sisyphys, it’s Zeus, your ancient cortical
connection to full power over gods.

II

Oh, suspicious Sisyphus, your sibilance
sprays pointlessly like toms among the spayed.

What use is your opinionated vigilance,
oh, suspicious Sisyphus? Your sibilance,

unlike my rain, is spit and spit upon. To push against
resistance steepens your already hopeless grade.

Oh, suspicious Sisyphus, your sibilance
sprays pointlessly like toms among the spayed.

III

Thanatos (Death) and I with Hermes have conferred.
You’ve pushed your rock up long enough. No more!

So what, you’re man enough to give the gods a bird?
Thanatos (Death) and I with Hermes have conferred.

It’s time you faced downhill, my friend, and heard
what sings beyond the morbid river Styx dark shore.

Thanatos (Death) and I with Hermes have conferred.
You’ve pushed your rock up long enough. No more!

~~~

Some years ago, I co-facilitated a series of goddess workshops for women, based on my adaptation of The Hero’s Journey (called The Heroine’s Journey). We rented the upstairs floor of a Starbucks convenient to us all. The name of the Starbucks manager? Zeus. You can’t make that sh*t happen.

The tight, repetitive form of the triolet seemed to lend itself nicely to poor, boulder-pushing Sisyphus. It also gives a sense of how it might feel to have the father of the gods spray-talking at you.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

This Play Called Today

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, ringelreim, rondeau, wraparound rhyme

~~a ringelreim~~

Long live life, and live it long! Everyone stars
in this play called today. While the bars
I perceive in my role may confine, drop or raise,
I am free to define, independent of praise
or its lack. I can pickle or smash any memory that jars.

To muddy and stir up the past by reflecting on scars
reverses the fields that have healed to perpetual wars
in meadows where fresh thoughts might graze. Long live life!

On my stage, I use mirrors and mist and gold samovars
to embody delights that arrive from above and afar.
Thinking too much about right and wrong ways
of the grim-faced around me confuses and weighs.
What a drag—and what a production we are. Long live life!

~~~

Ringelreim means wrap-around rhyme in German. The form is one of many variations of a rondeau.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016
Image from http://www.favin.com

Horizons

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling

There may come a time when I tire
of freighters on horizons
when the press of industry
and expectation
grinds
these optic pleasures
fine
to dust subsumed
arising as intelligence
that aggravates.
That time has not yet come.

Agrarian hypocrisy
would have us travel
to our all-inclusive paradise
on hand-wove balsa rafts propelled
by solar flares, organically conceived.

Let me not be misjudged—
though if I am, so what?
I too despise dependencies,
depletions and demonics that
would tear from fellow humankind
their choice to be employed
or sweetly idle, but do not think
that I would sacrifice my breadth
and depth and height to lessen
the distress of wearied and regretful
thoughts not mine. Horizons
are the diametric measurement
of me, of you, to anywhere.

And having measured, I’m quite sure.
Of vast, gray ships on mighty tides,
I shall never tire.

~~~

Author’s note: More than a few mayflies died untimely squashes in the lakeside writing of this poem.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016