Monthly Archives: August 2018

Dirge – Manic Mondays

DirgeManicMondays

darkness
i understand
dreams
grow dark
i go into
the night
of my heart
the flame
rises,
I desire

~kat

For  Manic Monday’s Three-Way Prompt: Word: Dirge, Photo above, and the Song: Aniron by Enya. As I do every week, the poem inspired by these three are a Black Out poem taken from the translated lyrics of the song below:

O môr henion i dhû:
Ely siriar, êl síla
Ai! Aníron Undómiel

From darkness I understand the night:
dreams flow, a star shines
Ah! I desire Evenstar

Tiriel arad ‘ala môr
minnon i dhû-sad oltha
Ai! Aníron Edhelharn.

Having watched the day grow dark
I go into the night – a place to dream
Ah! I desire Elfstone.

Alae! Ir êl od elín!
I ‘lir uin el luitha guren.
Ai! Aníron Undómiel.

Behold! The star of stars!
The song of the star enchants my heart.
Ah! I desire Evenstar

I lacha en naur e-chun
Síla, éria, brónia.
Ai! Aníron Edhelharn.

The flame of the fire of the heart
shines, rises, endures.
Ah! I desire Elfstone

 

 


Autumn – Stanza 13

kin can be elusive, notorious in fact with
legacies to be recalled by generations hence
more curious than how they lived, accounts
of how they died, some of causes natural
while others met the sword midst battle cries

~kat

For Jane Dougherty’s Daily Stanza Challenge.

I have found that records of how my ancestors died can be an interesting window into the times that they lived. I discovered the obituary for my 3rd Great Grandfather, Henry Orwick. Henry was born on the 2nd of July 1833 in Virginia. He married my 3rd Great Grandmother, Malinda C. Martin, in Indiana on 10 May 1855 and from census records it appears that they made their home in Indiana, where they lived for the rest of their lives.  Henry served in the Union Army, when he was 30 years old, in the 144th Regiment, Indiana Infantry. The 1864 United States Census records that Henry was a Hog Farmer, having slaughtered in excess of 100 lbs of the beasts that year.  Henry and Malinda had 5 or six children. My great great grandmother, Amanda was born in 1874. But it was Henry’s death that caused quite a stir. Here is the excerpt of his obituary,  found by a distant cousin (I assume) at the Cordyn, Indiana Library. It may actually be the most interesting thing about this common man who I call great, great, great…

Sudden Death of Henry Orwick

Henry Orwick, of Leavenworth, died suddenly at that place last Monday. He had been deputed to serve attachment papers against a steamboat tying at that place, and while holding the line attached to the boat, he was seen to throw up his hands and fall backward.  It was, at first thought he had been shot, but it was afterward learned that he had died of heart failure.

 

 


Mauve Martens – Case Study

Mauve had schooled her share of psych interns. As the longest live-in resident of Elmwood Sanatorium, she was a favorite subject for rounds and more intensive interview sessions. It was a symbiotic relationship. For her ‘performance’ Mauve got an extra 3 hours of tv access and the program of her choice. For their part, the staff gained valuable insight into an intern’s potential. Mauve had a way of weeding out those who weren’t cut out for a specialty in psychology.

She plopped herself at the table, with a gleam in her eye, and studied her next…victim. He shuffled several cards without looking up.

“Hmmm, a hard nut to crack,” she thought, “but I like nuts. After all I am the queen of nuts!” Mauve chuckled. “Humph…those bloody ink blots again. There are exactly ten of them. I know them well.”

And know them she did. She could spin a delirious show for each; one that left most interns disturbed at best. Ultimately they would fail their evaluation, only to be rotated out of the psych ward to the general surgery wing or some other safe corner of the hospital. Yes, Mauve was an expert in ink blots. “This is going to be fun,” she sniggled under her breath.

“Hello Miss Martens. My name is Dr. Stevens. Shall we begin?”

“If we must,” Mauve sighed, leaning back in her chair.

“Alright then,” Dr Stevens announced, as he flipped the first card face up on the table in front of her. “Tell me how you feel about this image, Miss Martens. Tell me what you see.”

“First of all, call me Mauve. I detest being called Miss,” Mauve hissed as she leaned forward to eye the ink blot. “Which one will it be…the bat or the dancing bears?” she wondered.

As she studied the image Mauve grew agitated. Something was wrong! Terribly wrong! She had never seen this ink blot before. Mauve pushed away from the table abruptly.

“Is something wrong, Miss Mar…Mauve?” Dr. Stevens inquired.

“Who gave you permission to call me that? You don’t know me!” Mauve shrilled.

“I’m sorry, Miss. But back to the cards, please. Tell me. What do you…”

“You stop right there! Is this some kind of joke? What do YOU think this fucking card means? Hmmm?” Mauve pounded the table with her fist, lurching toward the doctor, eyes bulging, face flushed red. “Go on tell me if you’re so smart. There are rules Doctor, and you are breaking them! How dare you come in here with your fancy white coat and bother me with your stupid cards!”

Dr. Stevens tapped the card he’d laid on the table and cleared his throat. “The card, Mauve…Miss Martens…What. Do. You. See?”

It was too much! She had nothing. It was a trick. She was sure of it. She started to rock maniacally, humming to herself, eyes squeezed shut as she clutched the arms of the chair.

“Miss Martens?”

The room was spinning growing darker, darker. “Did someone say my name?” Mauve’s thoughts spun. “No one ever calls me Miss…”

“Mauve?”

Suddenly, she collected herself, sat upright in the chair, and tilted her head to the side as she leered at Stevens. “Well, well, aren’t you a looker. What do you say we forget this silly game and get down to what you really came here for. I know what men like you like…” she slurred in a guttural tone, licking her lips.

“Miss Martens…”

She cackled, “Ha! That little bitch? Why waste your time on her, Doc, especially when you have me…”

“And you are?”

“Trixie, Doc. The boys call me Trixie.”

~kat

A short story for Mind Love Misery’s Menagerie Sunday Writing Prompt based on the photo above.


August – Stanza 12

tree strong, sure, with roots meandering deep
elusive broken chains, some stories silenced,
ever undisturbed, to sleep between the lines
of history’s pages, glimmers only glimpsed
by those remembering, distant reminiscing kin

~kat

For Jane Dougherty’s August Stanza Challenge.


I had a thrilling find on my father’s side of the family tree this past week! A photo posted on ancestry by someone who is likely a distant cousin of mine, of my great, great grandparents August Vilhelm Johansson, his wife, Charlotta Sofia and their children take before the family emigrated to America from Sweden in 1903. I’m guessing the young girl leaning against her mother’s knee is my great grandmother, Hanna Bernhardina Johnson (surname obviously Americanized). Along with the photo I was also able to discover another link in the root of this side of my tree: the names of Charlotta’s parents, my great, great, great grandparents, Carl Gustaf Giesche and Helena Sophia, née: Martensdr. That is where the story ends for now…to be continued. 😊


Sunday’s Week in ReVerse -12 August 2018

I’m sure there is a message somewhere in today’s ReVerse. In fact, I can feel it. Several of the verses are lifted out of my daily stanzas. This month I have chosen as my daily theme, the stories of my ancestors.

Fast forward to 2018. If one reads the lines below, taken out of context as a whole, applied to the present time, I think the lesson is clear, if not a bit cliché. “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” We have heard this saying over the years. It is coined to make a point, especially when things feel out of whack and off the progressive course, where leaving things better than we inherited them is being derailed by our worst selves. The quote is in fact attributed to George Santayana (16 December 1863 in Madrid, Spain – 26 September 1952 in Rome, Italy) who was a Spanish-born, philosopher, essayist, poet and novelist. He lived in America from the age of 8, though he never become a citizen, and established himself as an esteemed professor in the philosophy department of Harvard where he himself graduated. Never married, he return to Europe later in life. The quote above can be found on page 284 of “Reason in Common Sense” the first volume of five from his greatest work, “The Life of Reason”. In its entirety, it is “sometimes considered to be one of the most poetic and well-written works of philosophy in Western history.” (According to Wikipedia)

If we take an honest look ourselves in the mirror it is easy to see that we are doomed, so to speak for ignoring our history while at the same time clinging to an idealized version of it. Yes, a reread through the lifted lines from the past week’s work below makes it perfectly clear. Though we have sought to amuse ourselves by stumbling down into a rabbit hole, we are now discovering that it is, in fact, a black hole in disguise. We do seem to be imploding. So sad, but perhaps needed in order to set us back on track. Have a great week. I’ll leave you with this poem from George…

There may be Chaos still around the World

BY GEORGE SANTAYANA

There may be chaos still around the world,
This little world that in my thinking lies;
For mine own bosom is the paradise
Where all my life’s fair visions are unfurled.
Within my nature’s shell I slumber curled,
Unmindful of the changing outer skies,
Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies,
Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled.
I heed them not; or if the subtle night
Haunt me with deities I never saw,
I soon mine eyelid’s drowsy curtain draw
To hide their myriad faces from my sight.
They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe
A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.


Sunday’s Week in ReVerse -12 August 2018

around the time when separatists sought freedom
was his name, a roving love philanderer
we sipped tea here, from porcelain cups with pink roses
penned in history’s tomes the story of a clan
came on horseback through the town, they say, naked
some city folks pot bright flowers in their concrete spaces.
are we there yet
but what of peace…love
makes his bed, alive for centuries, not dead
hence ended by his bastard son, poor fellow
After days of sweltering heat, even the seashore was little relief to beach-goers…
cast time in shadows
rendezvous en rouge
that most of us will fade into obscurity…
she is not whispering
i have loved like a fool

~kat

A ReVerse poem is a summary poem with a single line lifted from each entry of a collection of work over a particular timeframe and re-penned in chronological order as a new poem. Unlike a collaborative poem, the ReVerse features the words of one writer, providing a glimpse into their thoughts over time. I use it as a review of the previous week.