Some Poetry

by Margaret Magnus

copyright 1998
all rights reserved

Margaret's Magical Letter Page
Margaret's Hone Page

Recent Poetry


The whistling northern wind
Winds through the densest grove of aspen
Never slowing, never resting,
Just as if they'd not been there.
Turns them deep and golden ­ green to yellow
Tired from the summer's wear.

As the hours of the daylight
Slip beyond the west horizon,
And the daytime turns to twilight,
And the cloudless sky to night,
The day begins to darken,
Yet the stars soon disappear ­
A cooling rain, a mist that cleans,
Clears away the autumn air,
And the fallen leaves of aspen
Leave their scent there ­ unaware.

Autumn fades to winter's darkness,
The rustling of the aspen ceased.
The night once more in silence sweeps,
And cold and deep the forest sleeps.

The deep of night ­
Between the cracking trees it creeps,
And sinks within the soul
Of all who come within its reach.
Yet the darkness lifts the spirit,
And a vision lives within the heart,
Of all who know of winter's dark.

10th grade, 1972


Some people walk
Perfectly posed, legs exposed ...
And some people walk
Cool cat, cocked hat ...
But you
just walk ...

10th grade, 1973



That sweatshirt's just a holy mess;
The sleeves are much too long.
The cloth's so soft it can't be pressed;
The color is all wrong.
That campfire smell's so strong it stings
Your elbows stick right through.

Well, maybe I just never saw things
Quite the same as you ...

10th grade, 1973


 

The sparkling crystal tingle of an undiscovered day
Left my hazy silent spirit unattended by the way.
With silver snow it numbed my whisper
and my aimless wandering feet
And sprinkled frosty evening sand to lure my mind
to soft defeat.

But my spirit yet unconquered drifted on the deep blue light
Through the coral watery winters
and the webbed and cracking night
Left alone to touch the world it embraced eternal space
And drew in but misty air and a couple strands of lace

"Oh but touch me, touch me gently," to the emptiness it cried.
"Give me but a simple smile, the slightest sign of warmth inside."
And stooping to the silence, a voice from silence then replied,
"I have walked forever silent and walk forever at your side."

1981


I am already ...
Just a bit
Out of focus
So it looks
Like I'm not
Where I am
Not
The Enlightened Cello
But
Kicking tin cans down the sidewalk
A holy occupation
As any
Sonata in tin
So not a
In sin
I seek

NO!!!

I am already
A can
I am
Not
One
And all
I am
Is a Tin Can
A tin can
I don't know
I am
Free

Sonata in G
It drifted through my shutters
Last night

I am already
Not.

1981


 

A small sound called me here
Like a snowflake which hit the pane
And melted
It made a wound in me
I walk
The wound grows.
That is all.

1982


 

Anna and the Bearer of her Guilt

Anna was lost halfway down on the stair,
A'weaving a chain of black lace for her hair.
Nikolai placed on a rose his first tear,
And paused at the shutters to beckon and peer...

Sweet Anna was knitting a black woolen cloak
For her sister, when suddenly Nikolai spoke;
'My dear Mistress Anna, I'm now on my way;
You must come to the threshold to bless me and pray.'

Anna was sewing her father's black band
As sad, skinny Nicolai kissed her pure hand.
Then away he dissolved in the fields of cut hay,
Whilst Anna went down to the cellar to pray.

Mad, bitter Nikolai grinned through the rye.
And kind, gentle Ann cleared the place she would lie.
Nikolai, Nikolai, agile and spry
Crept to the door where the living must die.

Anna's mother they laid near a place where there grew
A field of red mums and a rose wet with dew.
Anna in white bore the heavenly flame,
While little Saint Nikolai carried the blame.

1982


 

Leaves against the wind ...
In the forest He sat
Or maybe it was only a stump
Some say
Moss covered
And old
But the oddest thing was occurring there
Truly the oddest thing in all the universes ...
In the surrounding woods
The wind desperately
Frantically
Chased the leaves through the trees ...
Such life there was!
So much to do!
Places to go!
Anywhere
But There

For as a leaf
Or a twig
Ventured There
It came to rest
And began to decay
It joined the chorus
And became indistinguishable from It
From Him
Some say
So on the fringes
One could make out the smell of autumn
The sweet
Sad scent of purification
Of Transformation
To air and light.

Some would ask
What is the smell of Understanding?
And He might answer
First the smell of autumn
Then no smell at all
And then
Every smell
Foul and fragrant
That could ever be
For whatever could be
Is
Always Already.
And so this place was not special at all
Some say
For there is no other place
And He is not special at all
Others say
For there is no other One.

And yet everyone fears this place
To the marrow of their bones
And the greying of their skin
The leaves
The trees
None fears It more than the Wind
For as the Wind comes to this Place
It stops
And so
Of course
Is no more.

And as with the wind
So with all things ­
They really are not
Anything
At all.
And so it makes no difference
Whether they bustle about
And appear to be something
Or lie still
And appear to be nothing.

The oddity about this place
Is not really what happened there
And what did not happen
But simply
That there is no other place
And no other time

And that from this place there arose such a singing
And Fullness and Gratefulness and Love
That whosoever touched It
With so much as a big toe
Or the tip of one hair
For so much as
One speck
Of one grain
Of time
Would kow Peace
Forevermore.

My Lord!
We cry
My Lord! My Lord!

1983


 

Shakti

She sighed ...

Millions of green apples grew on these dotted trees.

A whisper ­
Her wrists floated
And her eyes grew wild and strange
The sorrow, the darkness, the winds
She swallowed

Little red spots sprinkled the hillsides.
A smile
The tears knotted in her silent throat
And her being swelled with sorrow
The knot slipped
And they flowed freely
Into her apron

And apples plopped down to cheer the aching earth.

A caress
And the evening colors rose above her head
And the untouchable tendernesses of the spaces
Drifted behind her aged eyes
Drop down your weary head
Down deep
My breast and belly

The summer leaves scattered their colors into patchwork.

Forever
Forever and ever
My holy one
Forevermore
She said.
The slightest softness
In your glance
And I will shriek in
Forevermore
Never outgrown
With your greenery again

And the few remaining leaves fluttered to the forest floor.

I sit
Beside you on your funny little throne
Mistress of the Winds
Goddess of the Fires
And you look the other way
At the doorknob, say
Or the net receipts

The first flakes mingled with the naked branches.

Let your sorrow lie
And howl with me through the forests
I am graceful and wild and free
Well beyond your understanding
I slip through the dawns
The evening scent
The withering
The buds
The moon and its willows
The whispered song
Of the saint on his rounds
Let me sink in your stomach
And whistle out the festering
You will be clear
Your face will grow hot
In my embrace

And the white snow settled into dark and silent winter.

And it was that moment
When all was dead and cold

Forevermore
She said

1983
published at
Blue Dawn


I am Is
The Wizard of Is.

1983


A time comes
When like a child, you no longer know
What is and what is not.

Through the skull of mammon,
You look out upon God's world.
You build temples of Nothing.

The rejected stone
Becomes the head of the corner.
You bless and place them
One upon the other.

And the birds that in warmer weather
Made their homes within you
Flurry out into the air.

1993
published at
Blue Dawn


Margaret's Magical Letter Page