Poetry Friday: Self Portrait

Self Portrait

Tree still standing—
     after rain,
     sun,
     drought,
     floods,
     and many axes.

Tree still singing—
     of rain,
     sun,
     drought,
     floods,
     and many axes.

Everything essential
for a life alive.



Dia Calhoun
September 2014

POETRY FRIDAY: The Spirit of the West by my great-grandmother, Clara Calhoun

Last week, after posting my grandfather's poem, I wrote that I am proud to come from a long line of poets. To back that up, this week I am sharing a poem by his mother, my pioneer great-grandmother Clara Boyd Calhoun!

THE SPIRIT OF THE WEST

Come, come ye hardy pioneers,
     And listen to this song
As down the swiftly rolling years
     Its cadence floats along.
The East is flocking to our shores--
     With customs new and strange
The iron horse with magic powers
     Is tramping out our range.
Electric lights with wired beams
     Our moonlights are subduing--
Horseless cars like flitting dreams
     Their reckless way pursuing.
The canyons roar! but no cascade
     Makes echoing booms and quivers--
The Eastern hand with science's aid
     Would desecrate our rivers.
The Western Spirit sees with dread
     This march upon our borders;
She sadly bows her once proud head
     To time's determined orders.
Her once proud head! Begone the thought
     Aye! Proud, for evermore--
No greener laurels ere were brought
     To crown a fame more pure.
Her mountains high, her valleys broad,
     Her forests deep and grand,
She gives to all--like Nature's God
     And with a lavish hand.
She bids them come--South, East, and North
     In accents sad, but loving,
Each soul she reckons by her worth
     Her kindly welcome proving.
And yet her heart in sorrow yearns--
     Her smile is clouded o'er
As when her mood in sadness turns,
     To days that are no more.
Her gallant cowboys--gone for aye,
     Her wildings of the woods
Her softly brooding melody
     From her vast solitudes.
For still we know when all is told
     She lover her first born best;
Come pioneers and rally round
     The Spirit of the West.


Clara Virginia Boyd Calhoun
Blue Gulch, Idaho
1856-1919

Poetry Friday Valentine: My Grandfather's Poem to his Wife Drusilla

With Poetry Friday falling on Valentine's Day, I want to share a poem my grandfather, Bryan Calhoun wrote for his wife Drusilla Jane on their fortieth wedding anniversary. I am proud to come from a long line of poets. My great-grandmother, Bryan's mother Clara Calhoun, was a poet, too.

TO DRUSILLA FROM HER HUSBAND BRYAN

'Tis forty years this morning
Since you became my bride,
Down life's winding pathway
We've traveled side by side.

You gave me joy and comfort,
You banished all my fears,
I thank you, oh m' darling
For all those glorious years.

To me you step as spritely
As you did when first we met,
That long gone day on the mail box
Is a memory I won't forget.

I loved you then m' darling
And I love you the same today,
I'll love you all the tomorrows
As we journey along life's way.

Kiss me once m' darling
And brush away the tears,
I thank you again m' darling
For those forty glorious years.


Bryan Calhoun

Poetry Friday: THE APPLE WITCH

For Poetry Friday I offer this poem by twelve-year-old Eva from my book, Eva of the Farm.

THE APPLE WITCH

Leaves whirling
from her moonlit skirt,
the Apple Witch sings
to the orchard trees:
"Winter will pass.
Wait again for me!"

Blossoms flying
from her twig fingers,
the Apple Witch blesses
the orchard trees:
"Spring will come.
Wait again for me!"

--Eva of the Farm
(page 89)

Poetry Friday: AFTER THE RIVER THE SUN

I am so happy that my middle grade verse novel, After the River the Sun (2013 Atheneum) is featured in A Year of Reading blog for the final Poetry Friday of the year. So I offer the excerpt below from the book.

Inspired by his love of the Arthurian Legend and a video game called The Green Knight, Eckhart is climbing Heaven's Gate Mountain in Eastern Washington on a quest for home.

Despite his sunglasses,
his baseball cap,
and his long-sleeved T-shirt,
Eckhart began to feel
as though he were made of sunlight--
carried up the mountain by sunlight--
forged by sunlight,
as a knight's sword
is forged
by fire.

After the River the Sun (page 297)
Dia Calhoun

Poetry Friday: ALWAYS WINTER

This is a poem by twelve-year-old Eva Dehart, from my novel, Eva of the Farm. Eva's parents have to sell the apple orchard where she lives, called the Farm, due to the bad economy and the fire blight that destroyed the crop.

ALWAYS WINTER

Yellow school buses squirt
down the snowy road
like Twinkies on wheels.
I wait for mine to gobble me up--
wait beside the "For Sale" sign
swinging in the wind.

I want to stay home on the orchard
instead of sitting
packed like a sardine in school.
I want summer--
     crickets rampaging
     hammock swinging
     skylight shining
     fish biting.

My bus screeches to a stop
to pick me up.
I stomp up the steps
into a stink like the inside
of an old man's boot.

Through the steamy window
I see Dad pruning the apple trees.
See scraggly branches
littering the snow like giant antlers--
and know that it is still winter
and probably always will be--
because there will never be
another summer
at the Farm--
because I will no longer be
Eva of the Farm.

--Eva of the Farm
     

Poetry Friday: WHITE SAIL

WHITE SAIL

White sail cleave

     grieving skies,

     iron seas.

Silken scimitar—

     tack for light.

Dia Calhoun

Commencement Bay

11/2013 

Poetry Friday: OLD MAN WOODSTOVE

Today feels like winter, so here's a poem from twelve-year-old Eva DeHart, from Eva of the Farm.

OLD MAN WOODSTOVE

Old Man Woodstove
chortles and snorts
belching heat
from his hot full belly
that steams wet mittens
hanging on hooks--
that steams the wet dog
snoring on the rug--
that steams wet me
bringing in more wood
from the snow
to stuff in his greedy belly
that keeps us warm
all winter long.

~Eva of the Farm
p 125

POETRY FRIDAY: Same Old Bear

A poem by twelve-year-old Eva DeHart from my middle grade novel, EVA OF THE FARM.

SAME OLD BEAR

Wood crackles the dawn,
and I know the same old bear is feasting
in the same old plum tree again.
Every year he swipes off whole branches,
gorging on glistening plums.
Does he dream of plundering our orchard
all winter in his stuffy den?

The tree looks worse every year--
mauled and broken--
but keeps bearing plums
as fat and red as a baby's cheeks.
The bear looks worse every year too--
muzzle grey, fut matted, one ear missing--
but keeps looting.

I keep expecting one of them to die--
the tree or the bear--
but they seem to need each other.
Which just goes to show you
that sometimes things work out fine
for everybody.
So long as that old bear
leaves a few plums for me.

--Eva of the Farm
page 55

Poetry Friday: THE DEMON SNAG

This poem by Eva Dehart, the hero of my middle grade novel, EVA OF THE SKY, was inspired by a snag in the canyon behind my father-in-law's orchard in the Methow Valley. This is an extremely zoomed in photo of the snag, which is high on a hill above the canyon.


THE DEMON SNAG

Halfway up the canyon,
the blackened snag on the hill
looms like a demon,
conjuring and cackling
evil dreams of the wild--
cougar teeth and bear claws and being eaten alive--
until fear cripples my heart.

I sharpen Dad's ax--
but a demon felled would be a demon still.
I call for a wizard,
but they are too busy fighting dragons.

If I were Joan of Arc,
I could defeat the Demon Snag myself
with a shining sword.
But I am only Eva of the Farm,
armed with a shining imagination
that makes me run home fast.

--Eva of the Farm
(This poem can be found on page 20 of the novel)

Poetry Friday: THE HAUNTED OUTHOUSE

This poem by twelve-year-old Eva DeHart, from EVA OF THE FARM, was inspired by an old abandoned outhouse on our family orchard in the Methow Valley.

THE HAUNTED OUTHOUSE

Grandma Helen built
an outhouse with a view
of the sagebrush hills.
"Sitting pretty," she called it.
"Why not?"
She slapped white paint
on the boards,
carved a smiling moon
on the door,
and planted violets
on every side.

Last year, Grandma Helen died.

Now the outhouse door creaks
in the lonely wind.
The metal roof rusts
in the weeds
on the ground.

But sometimes,
in the moonlight,
through glimmering spiderwebs,
I think I glimpse
Grandma's ghost--
sitting pretty.

EVA OF THE FARM

p 14

LEAVING WHERE BEHIND: Poetry Friday

LEAVING WHERE BEHIND

Where is the trail that wound?
Where is the balsam that bloomed?
Where is the maple that held me?
Behind the gate that is closed.

Enter the river that flows,
Lilt in the boat that cradles,
Sail on the breath that blows me,
Over the opening sea.

Dia Calhoun

August 2013

SURRENDER: Poetry Friday

when there is nothing
     left
when there is nothing
     surrender
left with nothing
     there
surrender is everything.

Dia Calhoun
August 2013

POETRY FRIDAY

Flat on your back
with nothing left to muster--
see 
     the whiteness of gulls
     against oceanic sky,
follow 
     wings limned with light.


Dia Calhoun
Port Townsend, Washington
August 2013

Poetry Friday: LOON RISE

LOON RISE

The loon labors

above the still lake—

     struggling to rise,

     heart burdened

     by this flight.

The loon lands

on the still lake—

     gliding forward,

     heart calmed

     by this homecoming.

The loon calls

across the still lake—

     resonating radiance,

     heart glorified

     by this true rising.

Dia Calhoun

Swan Lake, Washington 

June 2013

HAMMOCK QUEEN: Poetry Friday

Below is one of the poems that Eva writes in EVA OF THE FARM



HAMMOCK QUEEN

In the hammock
I am a queen
in a swinging throne of string
borne by two tall knights--
the maple trees.

I toss dried corn
to my grateful subjects--
gray squirrels who peer
and chatter at me,
paying homage.

On my right stands
the boundary of my kingdom--
the tall deer fence.
Beyond it the wild world
of the canyon threatens--
beckons--
riddled with dragons,
promises of shining treasure,
and perilous quests.

But here, 
on my side of the fence, is the Farm--
with rows of apple trees
lined up like soldiers.

Here, in a throne of string,
beside the wild world,
I sway,
stricken to the heart with earth and sky,
knowing,
I belong to this, my apple kingdom.

Eva of the Farm

Poetry Friday: MURANO CHANDELIER

MURANO CHANDELIER

      Written in the Pastel Room of Ca 'Rezzonico Palazzo, Venice

Brilliant as sun-shocked ice,

angels leap from a Murano chandelier—

     with wings

          spun of crystal lace

          beating stars, beating snow—

     with wings

          blown with flowered bells

          ringing fierce, ringing bright—

     with wings

          incessant with swallows

          swooping joy, swooping now—

as each beat

God’s heart

an angel born

to shout the light aloft.

Dia Calhoun

June 2012 Venice

LITTLE COMFORT: Poetry Friday

LITTLE COMFORT

       A poem for Comfort, (Conforta)--

       the old abandoned cat at Villa Scarpariello Relais in Amalfi, Italy

I give you food—

     a bowl of milk,

     a plate of meat—

beneath this gold Italian moon.

So little.

I give you words—

    a hum of warmth,

    a croon of love—

beneath this gold Italian moon.

So little.

I give you memories—

    a light for days of darkness,

    a feast for days of hunger—

beneath this gold Italian moon.

So little.

Remember—

    across a sea,

    across a distant land,

far from this gold Italian moon—

Claudia loves you.

So much.

Dia (Claudia) Calhoun

Amalfi, Italy

June 2012

RESTORATION

RESTORATION

Where will I hang my hammock

now that the old land is poisoned?

Hang

it in the dance.

Hang

        it in the poem.

Hang

        it in the bells.

Hang

it in the breath.

There,

in the wind of imagination

I swing,

every hour golden.

Dia Calhoun

NOT NOWHERE: Poetry Friday

NOT NOWHERE

One leaf blows

     away

from the withering tree

     sent

and happy to be

even though it doesn’t know where—

    not nowhere.

Dia Calhoun