The Poetry Marathon

Oh, for a jug and my Robin beside.

Astride his horse, together we’d ride

Along the dray road to the village of Quay

And we’d sing jolly-lolly-o-lay, o-lay,

We’d sing jolly-lolly-o-lay.

He left me to rot in this castle so grey

With the nuns and the friars and his battle dray,

Keepin’ his sword for the next fightin’ day,

Why sing jolly-lolly-o-lay, o-lay?

Can’t sing jolly-lolly-o-lay.

Our Little John came to see me this morn,

He spoke of the green men and left me his horn,

Sayin’ “use this to call me at evenin’ or morn,

And I’ll come” jolly-lolly-o-lay, o-lay,

I’ll come jolly-lolly-o-lay.

I know in my heart that day will not come.

My Robin is gone, and I soon will be done,

The love of a man will not bring us to one,

So I’ll sing jolly-lolly-o-lay, o-lay

And mourn jolly-lolly-o-lay.

(slowly)

The Sheriff of Nottingham sent us his men,

To carry me off hoping I’d  marry him.

He’ll find but a cold corpse and well-poisoned rim,

And no lady to sing jolly-lolly-o-lay,

She is gone jolly-lolly-o-lay.

(according to myth, Ife is the place where the Yoruban people believe the gods first came down to earth and founded the world)

When Oludmare the supreme deity founded the world, all glory, all glory,

He sent two brothers to do the work. Praise him, praise him.

He sent Obatala to create the earth. Honor him, honor him.

Obatala was given some dirt, a rooster and a palm nut. All glory, all glory.

Obatala discovered palm wine on the way and he drank it.

Intoxicated and in a stupor he fell asleep. So bad, so bad.

His brother Odudawa stole the three items of creation, while he slept,

Then climbed down a chain from heaven to earth. Praise him, praise him.

He threw the handful of dirt upon the primordial sea, and

Placed the chicken upon the dirt to scratch. Scratch-scratch.

It scattered the dirt and created all the land where Ife would be built. Scratch-scratch.

Odudawa made a hole and put the palm seed in the earth. Glory, glory.

A great tree with sixteen branches grew, one for each clan

In the Ife state. Oduduwa became the ruler of the kings. Praise him, praise him.

Odudawa created the world. The square world is his land.

Obatala was angry, indeed he was, and forever after

The brothers fought over who founded the world.  So sad, so sad.

But Obatala fashioned the first Yoruba people out of clay

To live in Ife. The original human race. Praise him, praise him.

He created their beautiful broad faces and strong backs,

Their dedication to family. All praise, all praise,

He taught them to worship the orishas, the deities of nature and life

who sprang from the sixteen branches. Praise him, praise him.

Every beginning must have an end.

Now Odudawa rules the kings. Praise him, praise him.

And Obatala rules the people through the orishas. Praise them, praise them.

Their sons conquered new lands. Honor them, honor them.

Their priests compose songs of praise and glory for them all. Honor them, honor them.

And Ife sits in the center, communicating with heaven. All glory, all glory.

It rained today.

Not the nice kind of rain.

Hot summer rain that steams

And bounces when it hits the pavement.

The frogs were in full voice

In the hackberry trees.

My sister captured a dozen last month

and walked to the park to release them.

They are loud.

I can still hear mine now

Through a closed window.

The two jars I tied to the fence

To measure precipitation

Showed two inches.

The garden will be happy.

Maybe I will go to my sister’s house

This evening and take her some tomatoes.

Before you, there was time.

Back when I was born, we…but ah!

You will never understand back.

Back is where the memories live.

You will only know now, and your memories

Will always be fresh and flow steadily by.

But if you should one day wonder

How your grandmother lived…

Planets whirled through space

And life was scheduled around them.

Predictable. Solemn.

Minutes became hours,

Hours became days,

Days became years,

Years became the measure of a life.

Your little life is new, but soon

your awareness will grow, and there will be

No days or nights to mark time’s passage.

Memories will flow around you like a river

And then be gone. No summoning

Will bring them back to the now, because

There is only now, and the past will not fit here.

Only the elders will recall how it used to be.

Soon we will all be gone.

Time, the container of life itself, is gone.

Your life like my own is mercurial,

running in all directions at once.

There is no past or future.

There are no bounds to hold life in,

To create order and meaning,

To take your measure and name you

Worthy or beyond hope.

To let us rely on one another.

I shelter you in my arms and sing,

Emphasizing the rhythm, the steady beat.

Once rhythm mattered. It marked time.

Maybe you will understand. Time gave us rhythm.

Let this beat enter your blood. Remember if you can.

I had an age once, and it gave credentials.

No longer. Sadly, you will only see what I become,

And will never see what I used to be.

Stay close, for soon will be my time to go.

You will see me only dimly, for a moment,

with your eyes of now unable to look forward or back.

When you are a writer and you get to be a certain age, the accumulation of a lifetime of experience, emotions, ideas, learning, and wisdom suddenly seems to want expression. I have written all my life, from as early as I can remember, but it was never about publishing. It was helping me to work through my inner dialogues. Sometimes until I could see my thoughts on paper, I couldn’t really understand what was behind what I thought I was feeling.

Then I spent nearly 40 years in financial industry communications, which thoroughly choked off the creative flow. I learned how to write crisply and factually. Bullet points. Sizzle. Blah, blah. That’s how I felt all the time…blah.I wrote a lot, I published a lot, and I can’t tell you anything I wrote that I really care at all about.

Today, my writing is still not about publishing, however, 2017 has been a highly productive year for me, and I’ve found that I do want to publish…more to see if I can do it than because I have a burning need to do it. Don’t take this as vain, but I don’t really care much what other people think about my work. It matters to me what I think about it. But there is a part of me that hopes others will enjoy or appreciate it, too.

I’ve been interested to see the ways many of you are preparing for your marathons. This is my first, and I may be ignorant of what really will be needed to get through it, but I haven’t wanted to prepare anything (except food and drinks). I don’t have any half-baked poems I will have at hand, I don’t have lists of wonderful words that will inspire me. I consider this a test of forcing myself to find something meaningful to say each hour and to say it in an economical way that will have impact. If I can do that, I will consider that I have succeeded, and if I can’t, I will be back next year with lists of words, half-baked poems and any other mind bombs I can find! 🙂 I hope everyone lets the words flow, without judgment. Turn off the inner critic, and have some fun! Be daring! Good luck to all of you.