The Way along the Wall

This is an early poem, first drafted when I was a novice, revised a couple of years later. The little sketch was done during one of my many solitary strolls through the monastery grounds. There was a short path along one of the "arms" of the enclosure wall that I particularly loved and called "The Avenue." I wanted to memorialize it in this poem and sketch.

 

The Way along the Wall

"The Avenue" is dapple-most
on ochre afternoons.
Along this path the breezes murmur
their most wistful tunes,
the only sound
save the dry-leafed ground

beneath my feet.  I watch the light
play shyly on the wall,
the longed-for boundary that nestles
those who heed the call
in arms of stone
to be God's own.

I savor this way of wood and wall
that lies so straight, serene,
between the here, the now, the chosen,
and what once had been.
Still—I know that yesterday
is but a dappled wall away.

Poem and sketch © Leticia Austria 2009

A Change of Pace

     I don't often write "humorous" poems. In fact, my sisters often tease me about my poetic voice, which is admittedly introspective and at times downright somber (or, as one sister bluntly puts it, "depressing"). But every once in while, something moves me to depart from my usual tone. I won't go into the "something" that prompted this poem, which was a particular recent event, but I will say that it was obviously influenced by Dorothy Parker, with a dash of Lewis Carroll thrown in for good measure.

          KATY DID
         
          Katy did a pretty tune
          All by her little lonely,
          And asked the owls beneath the moon
          To sing their praises only.

          "Too-whoo, too-whoo, to you?" said they,
          Impassive, eyes a-winking.
          "Do you not want that we should say
          What we be truly thinking?"

          "No, no!" cried Katy with a pout.
          "Not now, not ever, pray ye!
          The truth must never be said out,
          For it would surely slay me!"

          So Katy did what Katy will,
          And sang whatever pleased her;
          To truth she does not listen still,
          Since praise is always easier.

          © Leticia Austria 2012

A Pianist's Farewell

     I wrote this in the monastery when I decided once and for all to give up the piano. Since I knew full well and for a long time that the day would come, when it did come it really wasn't as painful as I thought it would be. Still, it was emotional.

     After I left the cloister and began to submit my poems for publication, I sent this one in to the 2008 Utmost Christian Poets Contest (Novice Division), an international contest out of Canada. At that time it was titled "A Pianist's Farewell upon Entering the Cloister." To my genuine surprise, it won Best Rhyming Poem and Third Prize Over All. Shortly after that, it was published in The Storyteller magazine under its present, less cumbersome, title.

 

A Pianist's Farewell

 

I never thought to leave you, friend,

Who were the very breath of me,

My working day, my restless night,

The steersman of my destiny.

I made a solemn vow to you—

Or was it you to me? Who knows?

It was so long a life ago,

And thieving time too fleeting goes.

 

Was ever there a day, an hour,

That was not colored by your voice?

You snatched me from the womb, I think,

Purloined from me all will and choice ...

Ah, no, I tease you, dearest friend!

To you I may so freely speak,

For you have known my deepest deep

And bore me up to heaven's peak.

 

With you, I soared beyond my self;

Upon your keys, I knew no fear

Of man, or dreams, or my own heart—

My aim was true, my vision clear.

Through you, I gave my laughter words;

Through you, I let my sorrow weep;

To you I told my greatest love,

And in you, let my secret sleep.

 

You were my solace and my strength,

My wise and faithful confidante.

Though now I live without your voice,

My memory its echoes haunt.

It must be so. If ever we

Should meet again, I cannot tell.

I loved you, heart and soul and mind,

O truest, dearest friend. Farewell.

 

© Leticia Austria 2006

The Comfort of Fabrication

     Sometimes words imply a hidden meaning. Sometimes we infer one.

     All of us are guilty of inferring at one time or another. But we may infer a certain interpretation on someone's words because that is what we, subconsciously or not, want them to mean. Doing so either gives us a sense of self-vindication, or justification for blaming the other person; or perhaps we simply want something from that person which he or she can't give us for one reason or another. If the last is true, we find a sort of "fabricated comfort" in our inferral that can sustain us for a lifetime -- even if we're fully aware that it is fabricated. Denial, self-delusion, call it what you will. It's also human.

Pressed Leaves

I'll spin a hundred words from every one
you wrote and weave a blanket, many-hued,
to wrap around me with the setting sun
and let its colors permeate the truth;

or else a woolen mantle of desire,
the white desire possession cannot stain,
to draw about my shoulders when the rain
descends and I am dreaming by the fire.

I only want your words to warm my skin
as autumn folds its chilly limbs around
the earth, when fallowness has claimed its ground
of silence, and the end of life begins.                        (03/11)


[First published in Decanto]