Victorian Violet Press
Featured poet
Carla Martin-Wood
Featured poet
Carla Martin-Wood
Holy night
. . . from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed. Luke 1:48
Audio Version
starshine
and they come
addled old men
freezing in cold desert night
lambs draped across their shoulders
to keep them warm
and maybe they wonder
if those were real angels
telling them to fear no harm
or just the madness that sets in
when it’s only you
and the sheep for so long
and they come
the three we’ve heard about
stargazing men with funny names
we always forget
bringing wise gifts
of homage and worship and death
for the unlikely king
who sucks his thumb
and snuggles down to sleep
in the cow’s trough
and the others
tinker and tailor and weary old sailor
tempestuous fisherman
town harlot
miller and vintner
butcher, baker, candlestick maker
tax collector
a man blinded by the Light
the adulteress
and her empty-handed accusers
rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief
the Centurion with his vinegar sponge
disillusioned Crusaders
the artist who paints the elaborate ceiling
a pope or two
the plain and the beautiful
doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief
the old lady whose social security check is late
crazy Joe who sleeps in the alley
the cheerleader who got knocked up
and her quarterback boyfriend
so many
frightened and hungry and homeless and sick
o – they are lined up
clear back to Rome
across massive mountains
and oceans
and millennia
from Bethlehem
though only
she can see them all
this doe-eyed teenager
with the sweet face
she who lies on coarse and bloody straw
her life interrupted
by a dove bearing mystery
who opened her womb
as she now opens her heart
with its many rooms
to all those people
lined up outside the stable
inviting them to enter in
and be warm
she who shivered in the cold
numbed by her own sweat
whose lung-bursting scream
split cold night air
as light split the heavens
when she pushed him forth
and he looked around
at all he’d made
and maybe wondered
why he had thought
it was so good
in the first place
but then curled up
against her breast
and fell to snoring
she watches
as they pay their respects
smile and coo at him
as though he were any baby
or simply kneel
so stricken
on this night
when anything can happen
this night of angels and doves
whose wings whisper
his name
and it echoes down centuries
like music
on this night
when we can say things like
Behold!
and Gloria!
and Alleluia!
and no one laughs
on this night
when there are lights
of every color
when we stroke the myth
or treasure the memory
whatever our belief
because the star faded
long ago
and the stable
fell to ruin
in the labyrinthine caverns
of history
but we took the mystery
and the wish
and the hope and peace and love
of that story
into our hearts
as the girl
took us into hers
on this night
this Holy Night.
Blessing
In this forest where
vermilion autumn
burns to embers
yet another year
my boots have worn
a long accustomed path
I marked the berries
going red
the sorrel’s tattered flame
and yet I failed
to see or take
good note of that
which startles now
and takes my breath
this morning
within a tiny clearing
visible just now
through thinning brush
this tree so
small and low and lit
by fleeting brilliance
of the rising sun
that turns to gold
with Midas beam
each slender branch
not leaf
nor bird
nor even bark
disturbs its spare design
nor mars
its pale and polished
limbs that lift
as to relinquish all
to heaven at last
in seeming praise
or longing
o make me thankful
for this gift
of emptiness
this gift of
light.
Luna
Drifting on the ragged breath of summer,
creature of gossamer celadon,
you come to rest against my window
with barely a flutter,
as moonrise cloaks the land below
in silver robes, diaphanous.
Soon comes autumn,
and other moons hang shining
above October fields,
flamboyant in sorrel and gold.
I wonder if you know this,
or if nature, ever wise,
spares you that dark understanding,
from which we humans
spend our days in hiding.
For when the maple and the birch
lift incandescent lanterns to the sky,
you will fall, unnoticed.
Yet, I shall still remember
your kind visitation.
In fearful days to come,
oh, that some tender heart,
glad for such a memory
of momentary wings,
might thus remember me.
A Pacifist Visits Arlington to Explain
Gonna lay down my sword and shield/ Down by the riverside/
Ain’t gonna study war no more. –
Traditional gospel and anti-war song
Barely September,
and the prematurely fallen
skitter in brief review
’cross diligent grass.
Golden, they are
and too soon leaving
barren arms
of sycamore and oak.
I never marched to war,
but marched against it;
yet, here amongst cold regiments of stone,
stand humbled
by these thousands of the fallen,
who came to peace at last
through gates of war.
I honor them,
though told I had no honor,
who proudly marched with signs
instead of guns
whose battlecry was always
”Bring them home!”
They never knew
I loved them, every one
Nor knew my tears
each time a soldier fell,
seeing it needless loss,
a bootless hell,
vexed by the mortal cost,
and that this world can't coexist
in peace.
Brave soldiers
in a cause that was not mine,
I pray you each held close
a thing divine,
before death closed your eyes,
a thing you loved
more than flag or country,
or frail life,
that where you are
you study war no more.
Papa’s Finale
Always a dancer at heart,
from the swing in your step
to the occasional jig
to amuse or embarrass us.
Then cancer called the tune
and left you still.
That night, we huddled around the old table,
every dysfunctional child,
another mute, self-involved meal,
but served with a darker silence,
an individual grief.
Then stillness shattered.
Your old blackthorn walking stick
leaned against the hearth,
useless these three years.
We startled when we heard it
rap against the wall, a sharp tapping,
and something
vibrations of the house, passing traffic
caused it to stand upright,
dance in quick staccato,
then fall back again.
Skittish laughter all round,
disbelief, smart remarks,
but I knew.
You were dancing
down the Milky Way,
strutting like a sailor on leave,
doing your mad Irish jig
from the Moon
to the rings of Saturn,
a Texas reel at the edge of Time,
a wild Tennessee clog,
a crazy Cajun two-step
straight into the arms of God.
Carla Martin-Wood
Four times nominated for The Pushcart Prize, Carla Martin-Wood
is the author of three full-length collections of her work: One flew east,
How we are loved, and Flight Risk (all Fortunate Childe Publications).
She has authored six chapbooks: Songs from the Web (Bitter Wine Press);
Garden of Regret and Redheaded Stepchild (both Pudding House Chapbook Series);
Feed Sack Majesty, HerStory, and The Last Magick (all Fortunate Childe Publications).
Her work also appears in five anthologies: Love Poems & Other Messages for Bruce
Springsteen and Casting the Nines (both Pudding House Publications); Lilith:
a collection of women’s writes and Postcards from Eve, (both Fortunate Childe
Publications); and From the Front Porch (Silver Boomer Books). Carla's poems
have been widely published in a plethora of journals in the US, UK, and Ireland.
. . . from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed. Luke 1:48
Audio Version
starshine
and they come
addled old men
freezing in cold desert night
lambs draped across their shoulders
to keep them warm
and maybe they wonder
if those were real angels
telling them to fear no harm
or just the madness that sets in
when it’s only you
and the sheep for so long
and they come
the three we’ve heard about
stargazing men with funny names
we always forget
bringing wise gifts
of homage and worship and death
for the unlikely king
who sucks his thumb
and snuggles down to sleep
in the cow’s trough
and the others
tinker and tailor and weary old sailor
tempestuous fisherman
town harlot
miller and vintner
butcher, baker, candlestick maker
tax collector
a man blinded by the Light
the adulteress
and her empty-handed accusers
rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief
the Centurion with his vinegar sponge
disillusioned Crusaders
the artist who paints the elaborate ceiling
a pope or two
the plain and the beautiful
doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief
the old lady whose social security check is late
crazy Joe who sleeps in the alley
the cheerleader who got knocked up
and her quarterback boyfriend
so many
frightened and hungry and homeless and sick
o – they are lined up
clear back to Rome
across massive mountains
and oceans
and millennia
from Bethlehem
though only
she can see them all
this doe-eyed teenager
with the sweet face
she who lies on coarse and bloody straw
her life interrupted
by a dove bearing mystery
who opened her womb
as she now opens her heart
with its many rooms
to all those people
lined up outside the stable
inviting them to enter in
and be warm
she who shivered in the cold
numbed by her own sweat
whose lung-bursting scream
split cold night air
as light split the heavens
when she pushed him forth
and he looked around
at all he’d made
and maybe wondered
why he had thought
it was so good
in the first place
but then curled up
against her breast
and fell to snoring
she watches
as they pay their respects
smile and coo at him
as though he were any baby
or simply kneel
so stricken
on this night
when anything can happen
this night of angels and doves
whose wings whisper
his name
and it echoes down centuries
like music
on this night
when we can say things like
Behold!
and Gloria!
and Alleluia!
and no one laughs
on this night
when there are lights
of every color
when we stroke the myth
or treasure the memory
whatever our belief
because the star faded
long ago
and the stable
fell to ruin
in the labyrinthine caverns
of history
but we took the mystery
and the wish
and the hope and peace and love
of that story
into our hearts
as the girl
took us into hers
on this night
this Holy Night.
Blessing
In this forest where
vermilion autumn
burns to embers
yet another year
my boots have worn
a long accustomed path
I marked the berries
going red
the sorrel’s tattered flame
and yet I failed
to see or take
good note of that
which startles now
and takes my breath
this morning
within a tiny clearing
visible just now
through thinning brush
this tree so
small and low and lit
by fleeting brilliance
of the rising sun
that turns to gold
with Midas beam
each slender branch
not leaf
nor bird
nor even bark
disturbs its spare design
nor mars
its pale and polished
limbs that lift
as to relinquish all
to heaven at last
in seeming praise
or longing
o make me thankful
for this gift
of emptiness
this gift of
light.
Luna
Drifting on the ragged breath of summer,
creature of gossamer celadon,
you come to rest against my window
with barely a flutter,
as moonrise cloaks the land below
in silver robes, diaphanous.
Soon comes autumn,
and other moons hang shining
above October fields,
flamboyant in sorrel and gold.
I wonder if you know this,
or if nature, ever wise,
spares you that dark understanding,
from which we humans
spend our days in hiding.
For when the maple and the birch
lift incandescent lanterns to the sky,
you will fall, unnoticed.
Yet, I shall still remember
your kind visitation.
In fearful days to come,
oh, that some tender heart,
glad for such a memory
of momentary wings,
might thus remember me.
A Pacifist Visits Arlington to Explain
Gonna lay down my sword and shield/ Down by the riverside/
Ain’t gonna study war no more. –
Traditional gospel and anti-war song
Barely September,
and the prematurely fallen
skitter in brief review
’cross diligent grass.
Golden, they are
and too soon leaving
barren arms
of sycamore and oak.
I never marched to war,
but marched against it;
yet, here amongst cold regiments of stone,
stand humbled
by these thousands of the fallen,
who came to peace at last
through gates of war.
I honor them,
though told I had no honor,
who proudly marched with signs
instead of guns
whose battlecry was always
”Bring them home!”
They never knew
I loved them, every one
Nor knew my tears
each time a soldier fell,
seeing it needless loss,
a bootless hell,
vexed by the mortal cost,
and that this world can't coexist
in peace.
Brave soldiers
in a cause that was not mine,
I pray you each held close
a thing divine,
before death closed your eyes,
a thing you loved
more than flag or country,
or frail life,
that where you are
you study war no more.
Papa’s Finale
Always a dancer at heart,
from the swing in your step
to the occasional jig
to amuse or embarrass us.
Then cancer called the tune
and left you still.
That night, we huddled around the old table,
every dysfunctional child,
another mute, self-involved meal,
but served with a darker silence,
an individual grief.
Then stillness shattered.
Your old blackthorn walking stick
leaned against the hearth,
useless these three years.
We startled when we heard it
rap against the wall, a sharp tapping,
and something
vibrations of the house, passing traffic
caused it to stand upright,
dance in quick staccato,
then fall back again.
Skittish laughter all round,
disbelief, smart remarks,
but I knew.
You were dancing
down the Milky Way,
strutting like a sailor on leave,
doing your mad Irish jig
from the Moon
to the rings of Saturn,
a Texas reel at the edge of Time,
a wild Tennessee clog,
a crazy Cajun two-step
straight into the arms of God.
Carla Martin-Wood
Four times nominated for The Pushcart Prize, Carla Martin-Wood
is the author of three full-length collections of her work: One flew east,
How we are loved, and Flight Risk (all Fortunate Childe Publications).
She has authored six chapbooks: Songs from the Web (Bitter Wine Press);
Garden of Regret and Redheaded Stepchild (both Pudding House Chapbook Series);
Feed Sack Majesty, HerStory, and The Last Magick (all Fortunate Childe Publications).
Her work also appears in five anthologies: Love Poems & Other Messages for Bruce
Springsteen and Casting the Nines (both Pudding House Publications); Lilith:
a collection of women’s writes and Postcards from Eve, (both Fortunate Childe
Publications); and From the Front Porch (Silver Boomer Books). Carla's poems
have been widely published in a plethora of journals in the US, UK, and Ireland.
