Constance Stadler

 

 

 

Connotative Parlay

 

 

I. abandonné

 

The clouds are far too soft.

The sea is far too blue.

The poppy infects with red

The child’s innocence

                     assaults anew.

 

Back to my threaded corner now

Of silken needlepoint travail

Your absence is a symphony

That overwhelms each stitch …

… syncopates each wail.

 

Dust and ashes strew my soil

Incense of Niobe’s fate

My sister of cavernous life

I remain in catacombs of wait

 

…and laugh, no one will ever come

for this withered heartless shell.

You left your ghost to torture it

‘neath its carapace I dwell.

 

 

II. Sheer Abandonment

 

The thinnest of tin whistles, an earthen bodran,

the harp of Dagda that makes angels weep,

carries me through prismatic landscapes

                                        rolling on high and so low

in torrents of heather and green.  

 

Oh, fill my arms with bedstraw heath and Allison sweet,

 

Let us dance as Connemaras caper and neigh,

 

Not a thought, not a plan

I           Am       Feeling

Aye, come Breeze kiss me

                                  Lamb

On this beatific day of all days!

 

 

 

 

 

Constance Stadler © 2009

Dendrochronology

 

 

For all of my life,

Eight whole years

You were.

 

If I were triplicated

I could never have

Wrapped my arms

Around you

Or reached even your lowest

Branch.

 

But I ate tomato sandwiches

In the cavern at

Your trunk

Just big enough for me.

 

And you saved me from a slush ball massacre

As I hugged you and hid in that

Hollow you had made

Just for me.

 

Five years later

I came back to you

You were famous,

Miss Chumlin said.

 

But all that was left

Was this huge stump

With a deeply lined face

Like the old man

who smokes Camels

and does nothing else.

 

How important you were!

Born at the time of the Plague

And all the wet years and dry years

And fiery scaring years

Were there to behold!

 

So now we know weather past,

Have tracings of attempted kills.

 

And

I know not why we needed

To know such things.

I only know

 

You are gone.

 

 

 

Constance Stadler © 2009