Lament of the Irish Maiden

by Denny Lane

On Carrigdhoun the heath is brown,

The clouds are dark o'er Ardnalee,

And many a stream comes rushing down

To swell the angry Ownabwee;

The moaning blast is sweeping fast

Through many a leafless tree,

And I'm alone, for he is gone,

My hawk has flown, ochone, machree!

The heath was green on Carrigdhoun,

Bright shone the sun on Ardnalee,

The dark green trees bent trembling down

To kiss the slumbering Ownabwee;

That happy day, 'twas but last May,

'Tis like a dream to me,

When Donnell swore, ay, o'er and o'er,

We'd part no more, astor machree!

Soft April showers and bright May flowers

Will bring the summer back again,

But will they bring me back the hours

I spent with my brave Donnell then?

'Tis but a chance, for he's gone to France,

To wear the fleur-de-lys;

But I'll follow you my Donnell Dhu,

For still I'm true to you, machree.

BIO:  Denny Lane (1818-1895) was a member of the revolutionary Young Ireland Party which actively sought Ireland's freedom from British rule. He spent four months in prison after the 1848 uprising.

Dedication:  To honor my ancestors, John and Sarah McInally, who emigrated to Ile-du-Grand Calumet, Quebec, Canada from Northern Ireland in 1781. Some of their descendants later emigrated to the United States.

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!

February. Take Ink and Weep

by Boris Pasternak

February. Take ink and weep,

write February as you're sobbing,

while black Spring burns deep

through the slush and throbbing.

Take a cab. For a clutch of copecks,

through bell-towers' and wheel noise,

go where the rain-storm's din breaks,

greater than crying or ink employs.

Where rooks in thousands falling,

like charred pears from the skies,

drop down into puddles, bringing

cold grief to the depths of eyes.

Below, the black shows through,

and the wind's furrowed with cries:

the more freely, the more truly

then, sobbing verse is realized.

Winter Night

Snow, snow over the whole land

across all boundaries.

The candle burned on the table,

The candle burned.

BIO: Boris Pasternak, author of the acclaimed novel Dr. Zhivago,was born January 29, 1890. The book was banned in the USSR but copies smuggled out of the country earned him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1958. He was forced to decline the award by the Soviet government and died of lung cancer two years later.  Although initially admiring Lenin and the "splendid surgery" of the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, he later denounced Soviet Communism as inhumane.



Cat and Ghost Game

by Dawn Pisturino

It was strange

The way the candle light

Seemed to bounce across the ceiling,

In leaps and bounds,

Like a playful poltergeist

Putting on a show.

In the background,

Where we sat,

The eerie black shadows

Seemed to lie in wait,

Like a big black cat,

Ready to pounce

At any moment

On the poor elusive spirit.

We waited anxiously on the sofa,

A silent audience,

And watched the cat and ghost

Game before us.

The cat lay still before the dancing ghost,

Licked its lips as it watched its prey

Dance closer and closer to Death,

Raised its haunches, flicked its tail,

And with one subtle gust of breath,

Pounced suddenly and completely

Atop the overconfident ghost,

Extinguishing it forever.

We smiled, then closed our lips, drew close,

And pressed them hard together

Beneath the warm black darkness

Which covered us, like a blanket.

Alone at last, we sniffed

The lingering odor of scented wax

And began a new game, called love.

1980

Copyright 2012 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

Young Love, Undying Love

by Dawn Pisturino

When I was fourteen years old, I fell in love with my algebra teacher. Teaching silly high school students earned him a living. His real goal? To complete his PhD. in physics.

His curly dark hair shimmered with dandruff, detracting from his coffee-stink breath. He wore wrinkled blue seersucker suits in warm weather and corduroy jackets with patched elbows in cold. Nervous and shy, his hands and voice trembled when he stood in front of the blackboard explaining algebraic formulas to a bunch of disinterested teenagers.

He seemed young and old at the same time. And he had violet eyes—I kid you not! The most beautiful eyes I had ever seen behind a pair of dark-rimmed glasses.

My heart burned with love for this nervous nerd. I adored him throughout algebra and again during Life Sciences. I worshipped the ground he walked, waiting expectantly to catch glimpses of him between classes and after school.

I even wrote him a poem. I forgot it for many years, and suddenly, one day, I remembered part of it.

Bitter Fragment of a Beautiful Dream

My love, thou hast hearkened to my sorrows

Ere the night as ere the day;

Among the grasses of these meadows

Hast thou hearkened to my laughter

Clearly echoing the joy bound in thine heart.

Beyond the hill hath mine hand wept in thine:

Thou wip-ed away the tears.

Beside the stream—how sweetly flows the rivulet wine!—

Thou rejoiced as mine;

We wept for the years,

Since-parted, we knew each other not.

Belov-ed, thou hast planted deep the seed of love,

And how it grows!—

Reaching, reaching for the height of its passion,

But endlessly reaching—

I love thee.

My sweet, thou hast made pure of me a lover.

A burning fire scorches the flesh and tendons of my soul,

Melting fast the waxen candle:—

I love thee as myself,

For I love thee as thyself,

And as one should we destine,

Striving for the highest and deepest aspirations

Of Life!—

Or Death . . .

(Beginning of poem written Spring, 1970 for R.B, remembered Spring, 1986)

You see here, of course, the influences of the great Romantic poets, with whom I was obsessed: Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, Byron, and especially, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. How the world burned with love, passion, and death! For love had to end in a tragic, prolonged death. Young love, undying love. Romeo and Juliet. Catherine and Heathcliff.

I found a photo of R.B. in an old high school yearbook. Examining the greasy hair, weak chin, thin body, I could only exclaim: WHAT WAS I THINKING BACK THEN? Romeo and Juliet? Hardly. Catherine and Heathcliff? No way!

I often wonder if he achieved his goal. Is he a Doctor of Philosophy now in Physics? Does he still teach? And I still remember his deep, soul-sinking violet eyes. But not my cup of tea. No, definitely not! But he was my love, my very first love, and I treasure that memory. Always.

Copyright 2012 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!





 

O Thou, England!

by Dawn Pisturino

Away, away in a distant land

More green and mild

Than a summer's day;

More grey and wild

Than an ocean bay,

O thou, England!---Verdant isle of my dreams!

Fallen anew

On the ripened arbour,

Sea mist and dew

Shroud the ocean harbour:

My heart yearns to wade through thy soaking sand

And ramble along thy running streams!

So far, so far---and yet, so near

Thy splendid beauty lies,

A sparkling jewel among the blue

Of ocean, sea, and skies!

And would I could, I'd wish it true,

O thou, England!---How kettles then would madly boil!

Blazing fires would crackle and snap,

Scones would bubble and rise;

Glad would I roam thy wooded map

In harmony with the coveted prize:

Down would I bend to drop a tear

And kiss thy wet and fertile soil.

September 27, 1986

Written for my penpal, Janet, in Chichester, West Sussex, England



The Age of Elegance

by Dawn Pisturino

Velvet, lace, satin,
Silk, brocade;
Long, billowy dresses
With tight bodices
Cut low and alluring.
Fluttering fans
And white hair piled high
As a snow-capped mountain
On heads delicately balanced
On long, slender necks.

Velvet, lace, satin,
Silk, brocade;
Tight breeches
And tailor-made jackets
Elegantly embellished;
Sheer white stockings
Tightly pulled up the legs;
Pilgrim shoes with shiny brass buckles
And scarlet high heels.
Lacy handkerchiefs,
Gold snuff boxes,
And fans conveying
Secret messages to lady loves
And mistresses already married.

Velvet, lace, satin,
Silk, brocade;
Drawing room comedies,
String quartets,
And illicit love-making
In the gold-leaf box seats,
Hidden by gold-leaf grapevines
And golden bunches of grapes.
The Age of Elegance, indeed,
And the Age of Grace.

Dedicated to the Memory of Marie Antoinette

1980
Copyright 2012Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

Ring Out, Wild Bells

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light:

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more;

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

BIO: Born August 6, 1809, Tennyson was appointed Poet Laureate in 1850 by Queen Victoria. He died October 6, 1892 and was buried in Poet's Corner at Westminster Abbey.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2012!