Dear Friends,
Below you will find my efforts to follow Rumi's advice to "kneel and kiss the ground" and Mary Oliver's to make my own "prayers made out of grass".
Often when I have been deeply troubled and anxious, it is only by going to nature and making an Earth art offering or picking up my pen to write a poem that I have found the balm my soul needed.
You are welcome to print and share my poems and nature art images with wild abandon, but please do credit me with their writing and offer a link to my website, www.kayleenasbo.com. Thank you.
May my efforts encourage you to find and share your own unique voice and bring forth the seeds of creativity inside of your own heart.
Below you will find my efforts to follow Rumi's advice to "kneel and kiss the ground" and Mary Oliver's to make my own "prayers made out of grass".
Often when I have been deeply troubled and anxious, it is only by going to nature and making an Earth art offering or picking up my pen to write a poem that I have found the balm my soul needed.
You are welcome to print and share my poems and nature art images with wild abandon, but please do credit me with their writing and offer a link to my website, www.kayleenasbo.com. Thank you.
May my efforts encourage you to find and share your own unique voice and bring forth the seeds of creativity inside of your own heart.
What to Do Next
by Kayleen Asbo
.
Lie down in grass
and feel the sun on your face.
At night,
gaze at the stars.
Pick up your pen,
your paintbrush,
your instrument.
Weep.
Wail.
Sing.
Find the kindest poems you can lay your hands on
Repeat them over and over,
wrapping them around your aching heart
like a soft blanket,
and rock yourself
like you would a baby.
Bury your bare feet
in green grass or soft sand.
Remind yourself :
You still belong here,
no matter how bleak
today may seem.
Reach out to one person
more scared or suffering than you are.
Send a love note
Make a mandala.
Bake cookies.
Be extravagant
with praise.
The sorrow is vast:
Do not let it devour you.
As the darkness grows,
may each of us
become
a candle
of light.
by Kayleen Asbo
.
Lie down in grass
and feel the sun on your face.
At night,
gaze at the stars.
Pick up your pen,
your paintbrush,
your instrument.
Weep.
Wail.
Sing.
Find the kindest poems you can lay your hands on
Repeat them over and over,
wrapping them around your aching heart
like a soft blanket,
and rock yourself
like you would a baby.
Bury your bare feet
in green grass or soft sand.
Remind yourself :
You still belong here,
no matter how bleak
today may seem.
Reach out to one person
more scared or suffering than you are.
Send a love note
Make a mandala.
Bake cookies.
Be extravagant
with praise.
The sorrow is vast:
Do not let it devour you.
As the darkness grows,
may each of us
become
a candle
of light.
Hope
by Kayleen Asbo
Emily Dickinson
imagined Hope
as a thing with feathers and wings.
a small bird
singing a perpetual song of sweetness
even amidst life’s storms.
Some people imagine
Hope
leading a triumphant parade,
trumpets and cymbals,
bells and whistles,
technicolored fireworks.
alerting everyone for miles around
I have arrived!
Now in this rainy hour,
Hope feels more
like mycelium
under a dark canopy of trees:
tiny, invisible threads in our depths
weaving us together,
so that together,
we might rise
to become
food for the world.
by Kayleen Asbo
Emily Dickinson
imagined Hope
as a thing with feathers and wings.
a small bird
singing a perpetual song of sweetness
even amidst life’s storms.
Some people imagine
Hope
leading a triumphant parade,
trumpets and cymbals,
bells and whistles,
technicolored fireworks.
alerting everyone for miles around
I have arrived!
Now in this rainy hour,
Hope feels more
like mycelium
under a dark canopy of trees:
tiny, invisible threads in our depths
weaving us together,
so that together,
we might rise
to become
food for the world.
Poem for the Winter Solstice
Stones,
teach me how to still
reach for the stars
even when I am frozen with fear.
Teach me
how to rise in the darkness,
even when I am heavy with sorrow.
Even when there seems no hope
may light find a way to enter
each crack in my broken heart.
May the promise of tomorrow's sun
warm me back to life
again.
A Pledge of Allegiance
by Kayleen Asbo
I pledge allegiance
to the dawn's early light,
to purple mountains in their majesty,
to waving fields of green grass and golden grain.
I pledge allegiance to the soaring eagle but also
to the owl and finch and sparrow and wren,
to the eager hummingbird and the languid lizard
the delicate spider and the crusty crab,
the shy hedgehog and the daring coyote cub.
I pledge allegiance to the oak tree with her soft shawl of of lichen,
to the ocean with her shining, shimmering waves
and to the stream babbling his happy song.
I pledge allegiance to the blazing sun
and to the gentle moon
and to the stars that stretch
far beyond the reach of human time and imagination.
I pledge allegiance to the courage and strength of ancestors
who plowed the fields of their lives
with resilience and resourcefulness.
sowing crops of simple hopes and big dreams
through the Dust Bowl,
the Great Depression,
World Wars and
even dementia.
I pledge allegiance to
ripe blackberries, juicy figs and sweet corn.
I pledge allegiance to gratitude
for the humble hands that pluck lettuce,
sort library books, pour coffee, bandage wounds.
And dearest, darling citizen,
Whoever and wherever you may be,
I pledge allegiance to the seeds of wild beauty and extravagant love
that lie within your inmost, silent heart.
In this great turning, may we reach out to one another today
to declare our interdependence,
knowing that it is only through our shared
kindness and compassion,
mercy and forgiveness,
wisdom and generosity,
that there can be the possibility
of a world of
life,
liberty
and the pursuit of happiness.
(Here is a link to the audio recording of this poem on my Patreon page: https://www.patreon.com/posts/pledge-of-poem-107488795)
You have my permission and blessing as the author and artist to share this post and poem with whomever you wish.
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there"
- Persian Sufi poet Jalaludin Rumi
"From the place where we are right
Flowers will never grow
In the spring."
- Israeli poet Yehudi Amichai
The Field by Kayleen Asbo
Let the field be filled with flowers then
Beyond the borders of shame or blame.
Here, with the gentle gauze of silence
wrapped softly around our wounds,
let's spread the cloak of compassion
on earnest, humble ground
before a single word falls from ouir parched lips.
From the infinite spaciousness, may we dare to whisper:
I hurt
(me too)
I grieve
(me too)
I am afraid
(me too)
I'm sorry
(me too)
Saint Francis knew
there is a well in the heart
so full of mercy
that in it's presence
even roses lose their thorns.
Let us dig deeply enough
to find this living water
and be brave enough to offer it
to all we meet.
-May 5, 2024
Prayer for the New Year by Kayleen Asbo
May I open my heart
to what wishes to be born in the coming year,
Neither clinging to what has been,
Nor grasping too quickly what is to come.
Rather, may I have the presence
--here, now, always--
to inhabit my breath and body
in each fleeting moment I am given,
to open my eyes to the wonder and beauty
that is before me right now.
With the last light of the year,
May I surrender all that does not serve,
Casting out to sea
Any fear, shame or blame.
May I hold fast to kindness,
to compassion and the certainty
that we are all kin.
May I make of my life
a place where hope,
love and joy
can nest.
May I open my heart
to what wishes to be born in the coming year,
Neither clinging to what has been,
Nor grasping too quickly what is to come.
Rather, may I have the presence
--here, now, always--
to inhabit my breath and body
in each fleeting moment I am given,
to open my eyes to the wonder and beauty
that is before me right now.
With the last light of the year,
May I surrender all that does not serve,
Casting out to sea
Any fear, shame or blame.
May I hold fast to kindness,
to compassion and the certainty
that we are all kin.
May I make of my life
a place where hope,
love and joy
can nest.
Apology to the World
by Kayleen Asbo
I am sorry.
For all the things ill done which caused harm.
I am sorry.
For all the bruises careless or heated words caused.
I am sorry that I couldn’t even begin to see
How my unconscious actions made you feel criticized
dismissed,
marginalized,
invisible.
I am sorry for the times I didn’t listen,
And I am sorry for the times I did not speak up.
To strangers I ignored:
I am sorry I turned away from your outstretched hands
And hungry hearts,
I am sorry I didn’t know how to meet your need
with a kind word and a look of empathy
that would make you feel seen and valued.
I am sorry for not taking more time to get to know
the beautiful being you are inside,
To those I have abandoned:
I am sorry I doubted our ability to find a way through
that would leave both of us whole.
I am sorry I ran away and closed the door between us,
Rather than have the courageous conversations we needed
to stay connected,
and I am sorry I could not see my part
In the breakdowns between us.
To My Friends :
I am sorry for all the birthdays I forgot,
For all the thank-you letters unsent,
For showing up empty handed and small hearted,
for not being more profuse in generous praise.
for not finding more ways to celebrate and cheer you on.
To Everyone:
I am sorry.
For all the times I flared with anger
Or emitted the icy glare of contempt,
Or puffed up with self-righteousness
I am sorry for not building more bridges of peace
And for too often stoking the dark furnace of bitterness and blame.
I am sorry.
I want to be a better human,
a better lover,
a better mother,
a better friend.
I want to learn to speak with more softness and compassion,
And to know when to hold my tongue.
I want to learn the art of gazing with such love
that you can feel it even when I don’t say the words.
I want to unclench my hands to offer a more tender touch,
And to know when a respectful distance is needed.
I want to throw away any darts I may have
And invest in gauze bandages,
honey,
silence,
and shared song.
Most of all,
in the little time that is left,
want to stop trying to convince myself or others that I am right
and instead plant fields of flowers.*
I want to give the rest of my days
Learning to be a gardener,
Who cultivates an ecosystem of peace and joy,
Truth and mercy,
Hope and love,
where everyone I meet can bloom.
May these apologies, then, be the first small seeds
of a new way of being: :
I am sorry.
I am sorry.
I am sorry
__________________________________________________________
* this line is inspired by Israeli Yehuda Amichai, who wrote, "In the place where we are right, no flowers grow"
by Kayleen Asbo
I am sorry.
For all the things ill done which caused harm.
I am sorry.
For all the bruises careless or heated words caused.
I am sorry that I couldn’t even begin to see
How my unconscious actions made you feel criticized
dismissed,
marginalized,
invisible.
I am sorry for the times I didn’t listen,
And I am sorry for the times I did not speak up.
To strangers I ignored:
I am sorry I turned away from your outstretched hands
And hungry hearts,
I am sorry I didn’t know how to meet your need
with a kind word and a look of empathy
that would make you feel seen and valued.
I am sorry for not taking more time to get to know
the beautiful being you are inside,
To those I have abandoned:
I am sorry I doubted our ability to find a way through
that would leave both of us whole.
I am sorry I ran away and closed the door between us,
Rather than have the courageous conversations we needed
to stay connected,
and I am sorry I could not see my part
In the breakdowns between us.
To My Friends :
I am sorry for all the birthdays I forgot,
For all the thank-you letters unsent,
For showing up empty handed and small hearted,
for not being more profuse in generous praise.
for not finding more ways to celebrate and cheer you on.
To Everyone:
I am sorry.
For all the times I flared with anger
Or emitted the icy glare of contempt,
Or puffed up with self-righteousness
I am sorry for not building more bridges of peace
And for too often stoking the dark furnace of bitterness and blame.
I am sorry.
I want to be a better human,
a better lover,
a better mother,
a better friend.
I want to learn to speak with more softness and compassion,
And to know when to hold my tongue.
I want to learn the art of gazing with such love
that you can feel it even when I don’t say the words.
I want to unclench my hands to offer a more tender touch,
And to know when a respectful distance is needed.
I want to throw away any darts I may have
And invest in gauze bandages,
honey,
silence,
and shared song.
Most of all,
in the little time that is left,
want to stop trying to convince myself or others that I am right
and instead plant fields of flowers.*
I want to give the rest of my days
Learning to be a gardener,
Who cultivates an ecosystem of peace and joy,
Truth and mercy,
Hope and love,
where everyone I meet can bloom.
May these apologies, then, be the first small seeds
of a new way of being: :
I am sorry.
I am sorry.
I am sorry
__________________________________________________________
* this line is inspired by Israeli Yehuda Amichai, who wrote, "In the place where we are right, no flowers grow"
To Ariadne
Written on the shores of Naxos, April 2023
You were never meant
For a man who sailed on the smooth surface of life.
The palaces of Athens would have bored you--
you needed the one who knew
how to turn water into wine.
After the things you had seen on Crete--
your father’s greed
your mother’s lust,
the bloodthirst of your bestial brother--
how could you then have sat placid and silent,
a pale princess on a golden throne?
No, only the one who knew the depths of death
and dismemberment
could be your true mate.
See, here, now--
in your moment of grief
Dionysus rises from the sea,
with a wreath of stars for your bridal crown.
He stretches out his hand,
calling you to step into the truth of who you are.
Dance,
then weep,
then dissolve your too-small sense of self.
Become who you are destined to be:
the Mistress of the labyrinth ,
no longer betraying yourself
to rescue a mere man,
but claiming instead
your fullness,
your radiance.
Generations for a thousand years
will come to offer you a double share of honey,
marveling how you, sweet mortal, found a way
to give birth to God in the underworld
and ascend to your place
in the heavens.
On Earth Day
(with gratitude to e.e.cummings)
I thank thee, Earth,
for most this amazing day:
For birdsongs accompanying yoga poses,
and the gentle breeze kissing my cheek in
meditation;
For friendship,
and laughter
and sharing from the heart;
For the pure white clouds
and the exaltation of blue in the sky;
For prayer stones blessed
with the names of those I love
Nestled in the sandy shore;
For the silver scintillations shining on the
sunbrightened sea.
I, whose soul has been so weary and parched,
Am drenched with hope and joy once more,
Every cell in my being
singing in praise
of unimaginable ,
beautiful You.
(with gratitude to e.e.cummings)
I thank thee, Earth,
for most this amazing day:
For birdsongs accompanying yoga poses,
and the gentle breeze kissing my cheek in
meditation;
For friendship,
and laughter
and sharing from the heart;
For the pure white clouds
and the exaltation of blue in the sky;
For prayer stones blessed
with the names of those I love
Nestled in the sandy shore;
For the silver scintillations shining on the
sunbrightened sea.
I, whose soul has been so weary and parched,
Am drenched with hope and joy once more,
Every cell in my being
singing in praise
of unimaginable ,
beautiful You.
Two Paths
Rain is pouring from the sky
And the creek is rising so quickly now
That the news is once more filled with dire warnings
Of floods, falling trees, disaster.
But if I am not swept away by fear
of an imagined, potential future,
I can still in this moment right here, right now:
Feel the softness of the rabbit’s fur
as he nuzzles on my lap
In front of the fireplace
Still taste
the warm coffee
as it slides down my welcoming throat
Still see
the daffodils opening
To the sun they know is waiting
behind all dark clouds.
Rain is pouring from the sky
And the creek is rising so quickly now
That the news is once more filled with dire warnings
Of floods, falling trees, disaster.
But if I am not swept away by fear
of an imagined, potential future,
I can still in this moment right here, right now:
Feel the softness of the rabbit’s fur
as he nuzzles on my lap
In front of the fireplace
Still taste
the warm coffee
as it slides down my welcoming throat
Still see
the daffodils opening
To the sun they know is waiting
behind all dark clouds.
|
Solstice Prayer by Kayleen Asbo
Stones, Teach me how to still reach towards the stars, Even when I am frozen with fear. Teach me how to rise in the darkness, Even when I am heavy with sorrow. When there seems no hope, May light find a way To enter Each crack in my broken heart. May the promise of tomorrow's sun Warm me Back to life Again. |
Midwifing God by Kayleen Asbo
(inspired by Daniel Landinsky's translation of John of the Cross)
Tonight,
God will come knocking at your door,
pregnant with the holy,
and ask for shelter, whispering
“Please take me inside,
my time is at hand.”
Then, if you say yes,
in the silent cave of your heart,
you may discover
the astonishing
intimacy of the divine,
taking birth
in eternity.
Tonight, the universe is groaning in birth pangs
And we are all to be handmaidens of the world to come,
For each of us,
each of us,
is pregnant
--though we may not yet know it--
seeded with the song of light.
– Inspired by St. John of the Cross (1542 – 14 December 1591).
(inspired by Daniel Landinsky's translation of John of the Cross)
Tonight,
God will come knocking at your door,
pregnant with the holy,
and ask for shelter, whispering
“Please take me inside,
my time is at hand.”
Then, if you say yes,
in the silent cave of your heart,
you may discover
the astonishing
intimacy of the divine,
taking birth
in eternity.
Tonight, the universe is groaning in birth pangs
And we are all to be handmaidens of the world to come,
For each of us,
each of us,
is pregnant
--though we may not yet know it--
seeded with the song of light.
– Inspired by St. John of the Cross (1542 – 14 December 1591).
A Well Tempered Life (For Johann Sebastian Bach)
Historians estimate that it would take an ordinary scribe
50 years working 8 hours a day
Just to copy all the music Bach wrote
In the 65 years before he died blind.
Working in such haste,
there was no time to be choosy about his subject,
No time to wait for the easy and pleasant melody
That would linger like the scent
Of Handel's perfumed and honeyed arias.
Other composers had the luxury of preference
Choosing only the charming C Major
or dramatic d minor.
Rather, Bach's was the stupendous discipline of saying yes to it all:
The beautiful and the bland
The thrilling and the thorny
The delightful AND the dull.
Somehow the orphaned choir boy
Fixed early on the notion
That everything could be sublime revelation
If only you had ears to hear
--and patience to let things unfold.
And so, he bent his titanic will and oceanic skill
Towards allowing the most difficult and demanding keys
To share their uncommon wisdom.
Lord knows a child's death every few years
Was more than enough grief for suite after suite in e minor
And the constant petty arguments with the Leipzig town council
Provided more than enough fuel to smolder with frustration.
I wonder if it was in saying yes to even the
"Plodding and dull" keys
That allowed him to break into
The exuberant ecstasy of G Major
If, in saying yes to c# minor's "impenetrable gloom",
He found the opening to the "unbridled felicity" of Bb Major.
What particular attention he must have paid to life
Inscribing each ordinary moment upon his heart:
Laughing with his friends,
Singing raucous songs with his children,
Sketching by the river bank,
Dancing with his beloved by firelight.
Somehow, in between the relentless rehearsals
and tunings and organ repairs
and the thousands of sheets of music written and recopied between Sunday church services and Saturday funerals
He found the energy to make baby after baby
And still buy flowers for his wife.
Like Rumi, Bach learned to treat each emotion
As an honored guest.
He built for them a pair of thrones.
At his musical Banquet Table
He sewed for them royal robes of splendor,
Unbuttoning the preludes with such tender delight,
And then lacing up the corsets of the fugues
With deft passion and precision.
O Cartographer of the soul,
With such stalwart humility
Did you create for all humanity
An eternal Musical map
To show us, centuries later,
The way to a Well Tempered Life
In Solo Deo Gloria*
* Bach had twenty children by his two wives, eleven whom died very young.
* Bach inscribed each piece of music "SDG" for "Solo Deo Gloria", " For the Glory of God Alone".
Postcard to Mary Oliver
(After listening to her On Being interview while walking through the woods)
Thank you for being the wild iris,
rising out of poisonous ground,
sending your own thirsting roots down
to find the well of living water.
Thank you for teaching us the art
of paying attention to the simplest of things
so that we might discover the light that shines through all creation.
You taught us to open wide our hearts
to the double doors of
Wonder and Amazement,
You schooled us in the art of reverence
and showed us how a few humble words, cobbled together
with truth and sincerity, could be powerful enough
to paint a vast expanse of blue sky
inside even the darkest lives.
(After listening to her On Being interview while walking through the woods)
Thank you for being the wild iris,
rising out of poisonous ground,
sending your own thirsting roots down
to find the well of living water.
Thank you for teaching us the art
of paying attention to the simplest of things
so that we might discover the light that shines through all creation.
You taught us to open wide our hearts
to the double doors of
Wonder and Amazement,
You schooled us in the art of reverence
and showed us how a few humble words, cobbled together
with truth and sincerity, could be powerful enough
to paint a vast expanse of blue sky
inside even the darkest lives.
Silent Letter
March 11, 2022
I have stopped believing
That words can communicate anything
real or hopeful between us.
Too often, they fracture and splinter
Leaving shards under the skin
That cannot heal.
Today is the anniversary of your husband’s death
And picking up the phone
Would only be an invitation to more pain.
Better to remain silent,
And mark the day the way he ended his last:
Planting trees I will never see
In hope that they might bear
better fruit one day
for someone else..
March 11, 2022
I have stopped believing
That words can communicate anything
real or hopeful between us.
Too often, they fracture and splinter
Leaving shards under the skin
That cannot heal.
Today is the anniversary of your husband’s death
And picking up the phone
Would only be an invitation to more pain.
Better to remain silent,
And mark the day the way he ended his last:
Planting trees I will never see
In hope that they might bear
better fruit one day
for someone else..
All the More
If the Great Darkness is descending
Let me praise all the more
Every ray of light.
If extinction is on the horizon,
May I cherish each bird's unique songs
As it greets the sunrise.
If famine is our future,
May I savor all the more
Each meal eaten with those I love.
While it is yet possible,
May I be more generous,
More giving,
More grateful,
More present and awake
To the beauty
That is still here
Today.
If the Great Darkness is descending
Let me praise all the more
Every ray of light.
If extinction is on the horizon,
May I cherish each bird's unique songs
As it greets the sunrise.
If famine is our future,
May I savor all the more
Each meal eaten with those I love.
While it is yet possible,
May I be more generous,
More giving,
More grateful,
More present and awake
To the beauty
That is still here
Today.
Vincent Van Gogh, Bedroom at Arles, Van Gogh Museum,Amsterdam
Invitation to Vincent
I will meet you in this blue room
And fill it with sunflowers and irises.
The window open wide
to the starry starry night
With a warm wind blowing
The scent of jasmine and fresh cut hay
I will set the table with
A crusty loaf of bread,
a pat of salted butter,
A jug of red wine
To feed your memory.
As we sit in silence
by the flickering candle, this is my prayer:
That I might learn to listen deeply enough
To hear the melodies that echo
With the unpainted images of your tender heart.
I will meet you in this blue room
And fill it with sunflowers and irises.
The window open wide
to the starry starry night
With a warm wind blowing
The scent of jasmine and fresh cut hay
I will set the table with
A crusty loaf of bread,
a pat of salted butter,
A jug of red wine
To feed your memory.
As we sit in silence
by the flickering candle, this is my prayer:
That I might learn to listen deeply enough
To hear the melodies that echo
With the unpainted images of your tender heart.
|
Paying Attention by Kayleen Asbo
|
Family Constellations by Kayleen Asbo
I woke this morning
Thinking how Esau
Had sold his birthright
For a pot of potage.
It made me wonder
About all the way we humans
Toss away our legacies
for something that feeds a momentary hunger.
I thought of all the children
Who squander their youthful days of sunshine
Trading sandcastles and flowers and birdsong and catching frogs
For amassing points in videogames.
And I thought of the things
That I, too, have foolishly bartered:
Selling marital harmony
For fights over the color of the living room walls
Or the hours
I spent binge watching Downton Abbey
When i could have been watching the sunset at the beach
And talking about things that really matter
with someone I love.
As I thought of Jacob
Wrapping his smooth arms in animal skin,
I remembered how I, too,
Have been willing to pretend to be someone else
In order to get a blessing I craved,
And how that never really worked out well for me, either,
Lord knows, I have been Isaac more than once
Blind and doubting my own inner knowing,
Discovering too late
That I had given away too much to the wrong person
And it could not be undone.
But please God, save us all from becoming Rebecca.
May we stop plotting and scheming to have our own ways
Upending the natural order of things
So that our own small iron will triumphs.
And in thinking that we know best,
Leaving our world
Shattered
and betrayed.
Family Constellations by Kayleen Asbo
I woke this morning
Thinking how Esau
Had sold his birthright
For a pot of potage.
It made me wonder
About all the way we humans
Toss away our legacies
for something that feeds a momentary hunger.
I thought of all the children
Who squander their youthful days of sunshine
Trading sandcastles and flowers and birdsong and catching frogs
For amassing points in videogames.
And I thought of the things
That I, too, have foolishly bartered:
Selling marital harmony
For fights over the color of the living room walls
Or the hours
I spent binge watching Downton Abbey
When i could have been watching the sunset at the beach
And talking about things that really matter
with someone I love.
As I thought of Jacob
Wrapping his smooth arms in animal skin,
I remembered how I, too,
Have been willing to pretend to be someone else
In order to get a blessing I craved,
And how that never really worked out well for me, either,
Lord knows, I have been Isaac more than once
Blind and doubting my own inner knowing,
Discovering too late
That I had given away too much to the wrong person
And it could not be undone.
But please God, save us all from becoming Rebecca.
May we stop plotting and scheming to have our own ways
Upending the natural order of things
So that our own small iron will triumphs.
And in thinking that we know best,
Leaving our world
Shattered
and betrayed.
Father's Day, 2021
by Kayleen Asbo
If you were here today,
We would go to the beach
and put our bare toes in the hot sand,
and wax philosophical about the meaning of life
as the sun stretched slowly across the sky.
We'd let the cool salty waves wash over us
and I would let the vast tides of forgiveness
carry all my bitterness and anger out to sea.
Today, I would try to see you
Through fresh eyes as a new friend
Rather than through the wounded gaze of a little girl
Whose heart was broken
Year after year
by empty promises.
Perhaps then I might be able to truly celebrate
the wild creature you were,
rather than mourn the father that I needed you to be.
I would raise a toast to the gypsy,
The tumbleweed,
The coyote,
The artist
Who could never be bound to one place,
one profession
or even one family
for very long.
And after the sun set in the west,
we would we burn our regrets in a blazing bonfire
and dance beneath the stars.
As the last embers greeted the morning dawn,
I would braid a boat of seaweed,
woven with good wishes and love,
To carry you with the midsummer sunrise
back into the great beyond.
Mother's Day Brunch
(for Oranne, who found the ancestors)
Today, if I could I would take you to Monet’s garden,
And there, amid the purple irises and pale pink waterlilies
And in view of the green Japanese bridge
We would share a brunch with our grandmothers of long ago.
You would have brought fresh eggs from your foster chicks
And you would whip them into a frenzy of an omelette
Stuff them with sautéed vegetables from your garden-
Sweet carrots and onions, flecked with parsley-
While Emma would carefully coddle some vegan Hollandaise
While taking to Queen Margaret of Scotland.
Somehow, a batch of ripe avocados would arrive from the Sowerby orchard
And Evelyn would mash these into guacamole,
Something it turns out,
Eleanor of Aquitaine is crazy about.
They would stand in the bright yellow kitchen , throwing back their heads and laughing
With all the things they had in common,
And Grandma would later tell me,
“Most people are so disappointing, but she was not.
She was even better than Katherine Hepburn”
I would staff the pancake station to prepare
Paper thin crepes, puffy German pancakes dusted with powdered sugar,
Norwegian waffles in the shape of five leafed hearts-
And Garcende de Sabran would elegantly spoon your homemade jam into tiny Delft blue bowls at each plate while teaching me her favorite Troubadour songs.
The old wood table would be covered with delicate lace
(Brought by our Grandmother from Brugge)
Where we would seat Anne Roberts next to Mary Boleyn,
Mathilda de Brabant next to Ora from Canada,
Each one crowned with a wreath of roses.
Each woman would stand and speak for five minutes of the things
She had loved best in life, and what she would want us to know the lived about her heart.
During the coffee and chocolate,
Blanche of Castile and Marguerite de Provence would take up their harps and sing
Teaching us all the lost melodies of France
And later a friendly rival;ry would break out
During the archery competition
And as we prepared to depart to our separate realms,
All of the grandmothers would stand in a line that stretched all the way
To the weeping willow tree by the frog pond and the Japanese bridge
And each one would come and kiss you on the forehead
To whisper, “Thank you for bringing us all together
Let’s do this again next year
In Amsterdam”.
(for Oranne, who found the ancestors)
Today, if I could I would take you to Monet’s garden,
And there, amid the purple irises and pale pink waterlilies
And in view of the green Japanese bridge
We would share a brunch with our grandmothers of long ago.
You would have brought fresh eggs from your foster chicks
And you would whip them into a frenzy of an omelette
Stuff them with sautéed vegetables from your garden-
Sweet carrots and onions, flecked with parsley-
While Emma would carefully coddle some vegan Hollandaise
While taking to Queen Margaret of Scotland.
Somehow, a batch of ripe avocados would arrive from the Sowerby orchard
And Evelyn would mash these into guacamole,
Something it turns out,
Eleanor of Aquitaine is crazy about.
They would stand in the bright yellow kitchen , throwing back their heads and laughing
With all the things they had in common,
And Grandma would later tell me,
“Most people are so disappointing, but she was not.
She was even better than Katherine Hepburn”
I would staff the pancake station to prepare
Paper thin crepes, puffy German pancakes dusted with powdered sugar,
Norwegian waffles in the shape of five leafed hearts-
And Garcende de Sabran would elegantly spoon your homemade jam into tiny Delft blue bowls at each plate while teaching me her favorite Troubadour songs.
The old wood table would be covered with delicate lace
(Brought by our Grandmother from Brugge)
Where we would seat Anne Roberts next to Mary Boleyn,
Mathilda de Brabant next to Ora from Canada,
Each one crowned with a wreath of roses.
Each woman would stand and speak for five minutes of the things
She had loved best in life, and what she would want us to know the lived about her heart.
During the coffee and chocolate,
Blanche of Castile and Marguerite de Provence would take up their harps and sing
Teaching us all the lost melodies of France
And later a friendly rival;ry would break out
During the archery competition
And as we prepared to depart to our separate realms,
All of the grandmothers would stand in a line that stretched all the way
To the weeping willow tree by the frog pond and the Japanese bridge
And each one would come and kiss you on the forehead
To whisper, “Thank you for bringing us all together
Let’s do this again next year
In Amsterdam”.
My Answer
(in response to thee question, "What is a Mystic?"
A Mystic is one who when the ground beneath her crumbles
Jumps into the abyss with a fully open heart
And finds herself flying on the wings of spirit.
When her heart breaks and breaks and breaks again,
She casts the seeds to the winds
of the four corners of the earth,
Praying that her tears of grief
May water the hidden possibilities of hope
she cannot yet see.
A Mystic is one,
Who in the face of death,
Labors to birth life,
And in the ashes of her dreams
Still dares to sing and dance.
A Mystic is one,
Who in the midst of war and strife,
Falls more deeply in love
with everything
and everyone.
Ode to Joy
by Kayleen Asbo
April 2020
It's possible
that the apocalyptic rumors and reports are right-
that these are the end times.
But our ancestors from the past knew
that relentless tragedy could also be the beginning of transformation ,
could become paint on the cave wall,
song in a scarred throat
the drumming heartbeat of a dance of lamentation
that would lead us to a deeper truth.
I think of that long scream of terror
that opens the last movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony,
the cacophonous descent that signals the end of the world
and how the orchestra tries so valiantly to recapture the past
recapitulating one theme after another from the first three movements.
How each time, the Greek Chorus of the orchestra says:
"No.
This will not do.
We cannot go back to where we have already been."
And that moment --when all seems lost in utter chaos and darkness--
how slowly,
tentatively,
ever so gently
emerging from the soft underbelly of the strings
is the simplest of tunes--
Childlike,
almost embarrassing
in its utter transparency and
open-hearted
vulnerability
And how the goosebumps rise upon my neck
as the melody begins its sure ascent
Higher
Higher
Until it blazes with triumph,
blossoming into the Ode to Joy,
Shattering all notions of what a symphony should be
What a symphony could be.
I wonder if Beethoven,
gripped with liver disease and completely deaf
knew as he flailed his swollen hands
that his agony had opened the door to a new vision
for the entire human race.
I imagine how his sad eyes would open wide with wonder
If he could see his simple tune sung at Auschwitz,
as Chinese students faced tanks in Tiananman Square,
if he could hear it sung at the fall of the Berlin Wall,
and see the choirs all across the world after 911
uniting the world into his lifelong dream:
a chorus of common, shared humanity.
How he would weep to know that in this time of darkness.
When touch is forbidden,
When we are locked in isolation
It is his notes that he could not even hear anymore
That weave us together in loving embrace.
Let us sing with all we have in us
no matter what storms rage all around,
and know this in our bones:
If a deaf and dying man
(who believed his whole life was a failure)
could give birth to such miraculous starshine as this,
surely,
surely,
there is still hope
for us all.
Noli Me Tangere
by Kayleen Asbo
April 12, 2020
Now we are in a time of not touching
And in this new world
Our difficult lesson is to let go.
To stop clinging to the forms we have known
And to see with new eyes
The possibilities of life
That appear before us
In ways we could not have imagined.
This thorny crown
Has been the road to Calvary
We have wept and walked together.
Now, we wake this Easter morn
on a tremulous threshold.
Now, we must all become gardeners,
Planting the seeds of hope,
Tending the shoots of tenderness,
Gathering and gifting the fruits of generosity with which
To feed our aching world.
If we open our hearts, we will hear our true names
Spoken with the voice of Love.
Go forth and share this good news:
A new Eden awaits.
Will you eat of the
Tree of Life?
by Kayleen Asbo
April 12, 2020
Now we are in a time of not touching
And in this new world
Our difficult lesson is to let go.
To stop clinging to the forms we have known
And to see with new eyes
The possibilities of life
That appear before us
In ways we could not have imagined.
This thorny crown
Has been the road to Calvary
We have wept and walked together.
Now, we wake this Easter morn
on a tremulous threshold.
Now, we must all become gardeners,
Planting the seeds of hope,
Tending the shoots of tenderness,
Gathering and gifting the fruits of generosity with which
To feed our aching world.
If we open our hearts, we will hear our true names
Spoken with the voice of Love.
Go forth and share this good news:
A new Eden awaits.
Will you eat of the
Tree of Life?
C
The River of Joy
Kayleen Asbo
January 9, 2020
Australia is burning
And the President threatens war
Missiles shoot Canadian planes from the sky
And the homeless camp stretches for over a mile
Along the creekside trail.
But today, the mist covered mountains
Played peekaboo with the sun
And I just could not stop singing with joy
As my peony-petalled heart
Kept opening again and again with love.
Part of me felt almost guilty
To feel so much happiness
Knowing how much the world is suffering
But then, I thought of all you have been through
And how the time has come for you
To be lavished with tenderness and ecstasy.
.
We have each known so much sorrow
And no doubt there will be dark days ahead.
Let us linger while we can in this stream of light
While it rains upon our hungry hearts.
Drinking in all we can
And find a way to share it
With a thirsty world.
The Blackberry by Kayleen Asbo
March 22, 2020
I remember my grandmother during the sultry last days of summer
Sending me out to the blackberry bushes by the stream
Insisting that every last one be gathered and brought inside.
“Pick it clean”, she said, “ we will need each and every one”
And on and on we picked until there was no more light,
Our fingers stained purple ,
Our bare legs scratched from thorns.
It seemed impossible, during the bounty of August
That one more berry would make a difference.
But months later,
During the harshest blizzard in one hundred years,
Grandmother took the last canning jar from the shelf.
That afternoon, we carefully made crusts the size of quarters
Placed a single berry inside
Silently holding our breath while they baked,
Paying fierce attention
Lest they burn.
We gathered around a glowing candle
as night fell and
the wind howled outside
Our tiny pies cradled in our hands.
“Remember”, she said
“Remember that day
When you thought there would be never be lack,
never be need.
Remember every detail-
The laughter in the creek
The sun on your skin
The smell of the dog.
The lilac blooming.”
As slowly as we could,
We each placed the tiny tart on our tongues
And sacramental tears
Flowed down my cheeks.
Oh my darlings, begin now.
Harvest every last word, photograph and song that is within reach.
Inscribe upon the walls of your memory
Each precious and juicy morsel of the sacred and ordinary times we have known
Days are coming when they will have never tasted so sweet.
The Mandala of Letting Go
by Kayleen Asbo
Today I had ambitious plans for Making Beauty.
I combed the beach for intact sand dollars,
Unblemished white pebbles,
Rare jade.
I picked the perfect stick,
And carefully measured out a precise circle,
Placing each treasure from the sea
in an intricate design,
Like a precious jewel.
I was almost done,
When a wayward dog came bounding through,
Trampling everything
And crushing my creation
Into shattered fragments buried in chaos.
Dark frustration and anger
surged inside,
Followed by the tug of
hopelessness.
Despairing, I turned around.
And saw the most subtle and beautiful light
Dancing on the water.
Birds soared and dove in feathered clouds.
Foamy waves kept coming to kiss the shore.
“There is a secret to this art of living,” they sang to me.
“Give yourself wholly to the tides of passionate dreaming,
But when you fall (as we all must),
Let yourself be carried and
Lift up your face to praise the sky”
As our little dreams fall
Let us learn together how to be like the waves,
How to let the currents carry us beyond our own particular surge
To become one silver sea
beneath one shining sun.
by Kayleen Asbo
Today I had ambitious plans for Making Beauty.
I combed the beach for intact sand dollars,
Unblemished white pebbles,
Rare jade.
I picked the perfect stick,
And carefully measured out a precise circle,
Placing each treasure from the sea
in an intricate design,
Like a precious jewel.
I was almost done,
When a wayward dog came bounding through,
Trampling everything
And crushing my creation
Into shattered fragments buried in chaos.
Dark frustration and anger
surged inside,
Followed by the tug of
hopelessness.
Despairing, I turned around.
And saw the most subtle and beautiful light
Dancing on the water.
Birds soared and dove in feathered clouds.
Foamy waves kept coming to kiss the shore.
“There is a secret to this art of living,” they sang to me.
“Give yourself wholly to the tides of passionate dreaming,
But when you fall (as we all must),
Let yourself be carried and
Lift up your face to praise the sky”
As our little dreams fall
Let us learn together how to be like the waves,
How to let the currents carry us beyond our own particular surge
To become one silver sea
beneath one shining sun.
Desert Stars by Emma ASbo
The Galaxy of Grief
by Kayleen Asbo
How very many firsts we accumulate over the course of a lifetime-
First words
First steps
First day of school
First kiss
First breakup
First job
Today will be the first day my mother wakes up
And there will be no yellow post it love note on the coffee pot.
The first day she will not hear his whistle
As her husband tends to the yard work
The first day there will be no
“Love you, Babe” after a shared meal.
How can it be, she wonders
That you go to bed one day a wife,
And the next, you are a widow?
How quickly a crack opens in the universe
Big enough for a whole life to slide through
Where you find yourself a lone astronaut
on a far distant planet
A place where time and gravity
are all so very different.
A place where what seemed so urgent yesterday-
politics,
the stock market crash,
the rising pandemic-
have no more weight
And where even food
Has no meaning or
substance.
It would be so easy here
to float out beyond the tsunami of memory and loss
And never come back to yourself.
Let today then also be a new first:
The first day I begin to weave a braid of beauty
To let those who have slipped into the galaxy of grief know
They are still tethered and bound
By love.
by Kayleen Asbo
How very many firsts we accumulate over the course of a lifetime-
First words
First steps
First day of school
First kiss
First breakup
First job
Today will be the first day my mother wakes up
And there will be no yellow post it love note on the coffee pot.
The first day she will not hear his whistle
As her husband tends to the yard work
The first day there will be no
“Love you, Babe” after a shared meal.
How can it be, she wonders
That you go to bed one day a wife,
And the next, you are a widow?
How quickly a crack opens in the universe
Big enough for a whole life to slide through
Where you find yourself a lone astronaut
on a far distant planet
A place where time and gravity
are all so very different.
A place where what seemed so urgent yesterday-
politics,
the stock market crash,
the rising pandemic-
have no more weight
And where even food
Has no meaning or
substance.
It would be so easy here
to float out beyond the tsunami of memory and loss
And never come back to yourself.
Let today then also be a new first:
The first day I begin to weave a braid of beauty
To let those who have slipped into the galaxy of grief know
They are still tethered and bound
By love.
Salamander Prelude by Kayleen Asbo
I woke this morning
With Bach's E Major Prelude
Dancing in my mind with Mary Oliver
And I thought- yes.
This is my work, too--
To love the world and my messy, imperfect self
Just as they are.
To cherish the fog as she wraps her downy blanket
Around the rosemary bush
To savor the shafts of sunlight
As they stretch their fingers to touch
the newborn buds of the olive tree.
It is my task today
To adore each beautiful and wayward thing:
The shy sparrow,
The squawking crow,
The dappled fawn
And above all,
To welcome the miraculous salamander
Who made his way through the fires of loss
To arrive at my doorstep,
Eyes full of wonder
Heart beating with hope
Laden with love.
I woke this morning
With Bach's E Major Prelude
Dancing in my mind with Mary Oliver
And I thought- yes.
This is my work, too--
To love the world and my messy, imperfect self
Just as they are.
To cherish the fog as she wraps her downy blanket
Around the rosemary bush
To savor the shafts of sunlight
As they stretch their fingers to touch
the newborn buds of the olive tree.
It is my task today
To adore each beautiful and wayward thing:
The shy sparrow,
The squawking crow,
The dappled fawn
And above all,
To welcome the miraculous salamander
Who made his way through the fires of loss
To arrive at my doorstep,
Eyes full of wonder
Heart beating with hope
Laden with love.
Negotiations
by Kayleen Asbo
Be the hummingbird above
The tar pit.
Don't get caught
In the mess and stickiness of it all.
Instead, fly above,
Searching for sweetness
and beauty.
Mysteries by Kayleen Asbo
I can’t tell you why
there is so much pain and loss,
Only this:
There have been several times
When I have been shattered.
Yet somehow the cracks
Became windows
to see more deeply into the the world.
The shards of broken dreams,
Became seeds to plant to feed
The hunger of strangers.
The ripping open of the cocoon
Became the passageway
Leading me
To become part of the family
Of all things.
A Blessing For My Friends Growing Old
by Kayleen Asbo
When you despair
As you feel your powers begin to dim,
Set your feet on a path to higher ground.
Watch how the sun lets her strength ebb,
Ripening to a sweet radiance
That bathes the world in a gentle glow
Kissing everything she touches.
Then linger to learn
That the beauty found in the dark
Can be even more lovely than
in the fierce brightness of the day.
Have faith that in time,
a softer light will emerge
To guide your slowing feet
Gently,
Tenderly
Back home
In the company of stars
As they bless you on your journey.
-August 12, 2019
Measuring Up
3 poems written before dinner
7 tear stained faces crying at my song
212 visitors to the website
94 laps in the pool.
Why do I need to count things
To feel like I matter?
-August 11, 2019
Feast of the Transfiguration, 1945/2019
by Kayleen Asbo
Fire rained from the sky
And innocent bodies melted into ash.
The fallout echoed for decades to come
And struck nuclear fear into every heart.
In the scarred earth the gingko stood silently
Waiting in tree time
To bloom again.
I do not know what might blossom in seventy years time after the shootings
In El Paso
or Dayton
or Las Vegas
or Pittsburgh
But I do know this:
Today, we are each called
to plant the seeds
of peace.
Dark Woods
In the middle of my life,
I found myself in the loamy place
Where the things that no longer serve me
Are beginning to decompose.
Here, it is dark and still
And l learn from the slowness of the snails
As they find their way
Blindly,
Tentatively,
Patiently
From leaf to leaf.
In the middle of my life,
I found myself in the loamy place
Where the things that no longer serve me
Are beginning to decompose.
Here, it is dark and still
And l learn from the slowness of the snails
As they find their way
Blindly,
Tentatively,
Patiently
From leaf to leaf.
|
The Things We Miss
|
What Schubert Said…
by Kayleen Asbo
June 18, 2019
We may all be poised in the moments between agony and death.
Our symphonies may never be performed in our sight.
Marriage, children, fame and wealth may elude us.
We may be forever haunted by the ghosts of lost siblings,
failed dreams and
tragic choices.
But even so, there is a path towards hope.
If you look closely,
The swan on the lake has never been more luminous
Gliding with her soft white wings.
through the ebony shadows and the pearly water lilies.
Take the time to really see
and capture the light in whatever way you can.
Take the time to really listen,
And you, too, might hear a song
that makes the whole journey
worthwhile.
There are cracks in even the hardest thing .
Find a way to celebrate the scarlet poppies
that still insist on blooming
even in the darkest days of life.
Passing the Torch
by Kayleen Asbo
Once, in his prime,
He strode across the stage to the Steinway and bowed
Sat at the cool keyboard
And poured molten passion upon its shiny surface.
Her 13 year old heart melted
All the way back in row Y.
The flame of that concerto burned in her breast,
Kindling a fire
That lit the way through the underworld of adolescence.
It was during that terrible year
That she learned what it is to become Orpheus
To pour love and longing, loss and grief
Into the strings of the piano
How if she opens up her bleeding heart with her small fingers
And impassioned words
She might even cause Sisyphus to stop and weep
As she pleads on behalf of the dead.
Now it is thirty five years later.
The seeds of that dark year have ripened,
Flowered into bouquets of stories and songs.
She bestows garlands fragrant with beauty
Upon the aged ones gathered in hopeful expectation at the senior center
to listen to the life of Beethoven
His steps falter and he grasps another’s arm for support as he crosses to the speakers’ podium.
He teeters, almost falls
Barely able to see through the tears with his fading eyesight
before he gives her a kiss on each cheek,
Benediction for passing the torch of inspiration
Back to him
after all these years.
by Kayleen Asbo
Once, in his prime,
He strode across the stage to the Steinway and bowed
Sat at the cool keyboard
And poured molten passion upon its shiny surface.
Her 13 year old heart melted
All the way back in row Y.
The flame of that concerto burned in her breast,
Kindling a fire
That lit the way through the underworld of adolescence.
It was during that terrible year
That she learned what it is to become Orpheus
To pour love and longing, loss and grief
Into the strings of the piano
How if she opens up her bleeding heart with her small fingers
And impassioned words
She might even cause Sisyphus to stop and weep
As she pleads on behalf of the dead.
Now it is thirty five years later.
The seeds of that dark year have ripened,
Flowered into bouquets of stories and songs.
She bestows garlands fragrant with beauty
Upon the aged ones gathered in hopeful expectation at the senior center
to listen to the life of Beethoven
His steps falter and he grasps another’s arm for support as he crosses to the speakers’ podium.
He teeters, almost falls
Barely able to see through the tears with his fading eyesight
before he gives her a kiss on each cheek,
Benediction for passing the torch of inspiration
Back to him
after all these years.
In Rumi's Footsteps
by Kayleen Asbo
"Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened...
...Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.”
-Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks
Don't turn on the television
or open the newspapers.
Instead, walk through the woods and smell the damp laurel leaves.
Go to yoga class.
Find your old Chopin books and sit at the piano.
Take up a pen to write a thank you letter to your college mentor.
Savor the sunset with a friend and hold their hand.
Give the man with the cardboard sign
your leftovers from lunch.
Help the poor mother who doesn't have enough hands by entertaining her squirming toddler while she fishes for change at the check out stand.
Gather wildflowers to put by the bedside of your sweetheart.
Tuck an "I love you" note inside your husband's suitcase
before he leaves for yet another exhausting business trip.
Tell your imperfect father that you forgive him.
Read Mary Oliver.
Listen to Schubert.
Buy the children with their noses pressed at the window
an ice cream cone.
Smile at everyone you meet today.
Know that whatever armor clad hardness or seeming perfection is before you,
Inside is a messy and aching being--like you--
filled with both unbelievable heartache
and the seed of astonishing beauty.
Be the breeze that blows love and hope
towards that divine spark inside each pair of eyes you see.
Then watch the world become illuminated from within.
by Kayleen Asbo
"Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened...
...Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.”
-Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks
Don't turn on the television
or open the newspapers.
Instead, walk through the woods and smell the damp laurel leaves.
Go to yoga class.
Find your old Chopin books and sit at the piano.
Take up a pen to write a thank you letter to your college mentor.
Savor the sunset with a friend and hold their hand.
Give the man with the cardboard sign
your leftovers from lunch.
Help the poor mother who doesn't have enough hands by entertaining her squirming toddler while she fishes for change at the check out stand.
Gather wildflowers to put by the bedside of your sweetheart.
Tuck an "I love you" note inside your husband's suitcase
before he leaves for yet another exhausting business trip.
Tell your imperfect father that you forgive him.
Read Mary Oliver.
Listen to Schubert.
Buy the children with their noses pressed at the window
an ice cream cone.
Smile at everyone you meet today.
Know that whatever armor clad hardness or seeming perfection is before you,
Inside is a messy and aching being--like you--
filled with both unbelievable heartache
and the seed of astonishing beauty.
Be the breeze that blows love and hope
towards that divine spark inside each pair of eyes you see.
Then watch the world become illuminated from within.
Florestan and Eusebius
by Kayleen Asbo
For Clara Schumann
There was a split so deep in Schumann
That he gave names to his different sides:
Florestan, the bold, confident hero
Eusebius: the tender, melancholy, soulful pilgrim.
At first, the split was a game they played ,
Etched in song in Carnival and Opus 6
She proofread the witty reviews
he wrote under the two pseudonyms
in the music journal that gave them their daily bread.
The crack widened over the years .
Florestan became filled with rage and fire, burning with humiliation and fury,
while Eusebius, sank into total silence: agoraphobic, listless and depressed.
Eventually the crack opened so wide, the conflicting voices
threw Robert into the Rhine River
and he passed his last days in the asylum in Bonn.
Through it all, Clara trudged on:
practicing piano,
birthing children,
teaching students,
writing love letters from her concert tours and
tender melodies to here husband for his birthday.
She was drawn by a siren song she could not tune out.
Despite the paranoia,
the fits of abuse,
the whirlpool of instability and emotional extremes,
even in the face of suicide attempts, she played on,
remembering the beauty that lived trapped inside him.
At the end , she dipped her fingers into wine so he could suck on them like a baby.
She closed his eyes with tears of both sorrow and relief
and spent the rest of her days enshrining the memory of her love
in the music that called him back to life under her devoted fingers.
I think of this as I go aching with my own grief to the piano to play ‘Widmung”,
Noticing for the first time that the words translate as “You are my grave”.
I imagine her shaking, a leaf in the wind after one of Robert’s storms,
Pasting a smile of composed tranquility on her face while she practiced this song
(though inside, her stomach heaved and her pulse raced).
Day after day until the end,
She continued to inscribe their conjugal felicity in the marriage diary they shared --
Marking in frail symbols their nights of passion
unable to deny their sacred splendor
as she held fast to the songs
that she knew
were inside of him.
by Kayleen Asbo
For Clara Schumann
There was a split so deep in Schumann
That he gave names to his different sides:
Florestan, the bold, confident hero
Eusebius: the tender, melancholy, soulful pilgrim.
At first, the split was a game they played ,
Etched in song in Carnival and Opus 6
She proofread the witty reviews
he wrote under the two pseudonyms
in the music journal that gave them their daily bread.
The crack widened over the years .
Florestan became filled with rage and fire, burning with humiliation and fury,
while Eusebius, sank into total silence: agoraphobic, listless and depressed.
Eventually the crack opened so wide, the conflicting voices
threw Robert into the Rhine River
and he passed his last days in the asylum in Bonn.
Through it all, Clara trudged on:
practicing piano,
birthing children,
teaching students,
writing love letters from her concert tours and
tender melodies to here husband for his birthday.
She was drawn by a siren song she could not tune out.
Despite the paranoia,
the fits of abuse,
the whirlpool of instability and emotional extremes,
even in the face of suicide attempts, she played on,
remembering the beauty that lived trapped inside him.
At the end , she dipped her fingers into wine so he could suck on them like a baby.
She closed his eyes with tears of both sorrow and relief
and spent the rest of her days enshrining the memory of her love
in the music that called him back to life under her devoted fingers.
I think of this as I go aching with my own grief to the piano to play ‘Widmung”,
Noticing for the first time that the words translate as “You are my grave”.
I imagine her shaking, a leaf in the wind after one of Robert’s storms,
Pasting a smile of composed tranquility on her face while she practiced this song
(though inside, her stomach heaved and her pulse raced).
Day after day until the end,
She continued to inscribe their conjugal felicity in the marriage diary they shared --
Marking in frail symbols their nights of passion
unable to deny their sacred splendor
as she held fast to the songs
that she knew
were inside of him.
Litanei for Schubert
by Kayleen Asbo
It is in the quiet moments
that Schubert most echoes in my mind-
the evenings spent in front of the firelight
or when suddenly arises the memory of
a tiny sliver of a moon
hovering over a silent, dusky sky.
Gently, gently
swells the lump in my throat
as he marries in sweet caress of melody
the loving ache of joy
tempered with bitter sureness
of Death.
I see him at seventeen,
short, stubby and bespectacled,
but already knowing
how to spin in song
Gretchen's swooning desire
I see him a frustrated schoolteacher
yearning for love and marriage
pouring his unconsummated passions
ceaselessly into song,
led astray one beer-filled night
Down an alleyway whose destination was
doom
I think of him pale and shaking
lying on his deathbed at thirty-one,
begging for just a little more time
to pen in feverish white heat
one more ode to swans and maidens.
Oh Schubert, you teach me
To bear the beauty of life in its savage brevity
To number my fleeting days
To make of each moment
a memory
worthy of a Litanei