From:

Wilderness Of The Mind

A Collection Of Poetry by

Rebecah J. Hall

 

On This Page:

Now I Become Myself

Graveside Manners

Dream Master

The Poet's Lament

Meditation 11

 

 

Now I Become Myself

Now I become myself.

It's taken time, years and places.

I've been dissolved and shaken, worn other people's faces,

run madly as if time were there terribly old, crying a warning,

Hurry! You will be dead before . . .

(What? Before you reach morning?

Or the end of the poem is clear?

Or your love's safe in the walled city?)

Now, to stand still, to be here, feel my own weight and destiny!

The black shadow on the paper is my hand, the shadow of a word

as thought shapes the shaper, falls heavily on the page, is heard.

All fuses now, falls into place from wish to action, word to silence,

my work, my love, my time, my face gathered into one intense

gesture of growing . . . like a plant.

As slowly as the ripening fruit fertile, detached, and always spent,

falls but does not exhaust the root, so all the poem is, can give,

grows in me to become the song, made so and rooted so by love.

Now there is time and time is young.

Oh, in this single hour I live with all of myself and do not move away.

I, the pursued who would madly run,

stand still, stand still and stop the sun!

 

Rebecah Hall

 

Graveside Manners

I have laid you to rest, now,

ashes to ashes

and wondered how I could have

come from you . . .

as beautiful in death

as in life.

I touched your brow,

brushed back your hair

and told you goodbye.

Gave you my forgiveness

and felt yours in return.

Enemies in life . . .

God, I miss you and

would wish you back

if I thought we could be friends

and make it right.

But what you wanted in me

and what I needed in you

was sorely lacking

even to the end.

But I loved and still love you.

And though I balked at

"Beloved Mother"

I gave in hoping somehow our

karma would end here

in this graveyard.

Rebecah Hall

 

 

Dream Master

Life, a book of dreams woven upon

the tapestry of the

Dream Master.

Each hurt,

transgression,

joy,

uplifting of the spirit

a leaf,

a blade of grass

or

trail of cloud.

Our tears compose the

blue of lakes

and hovering darkened

clouds.

The Dream Master knows what he does

and that life will be remembered

not for what it was

but for what it wasn't.

Rebecah Hall

 

 

The Poet's Lament

You'll know what I mean when I say

some poems arrive in clusters like

miniature migraines waiting

to explode

or

single words, bits of phrases

hurtle through my mind awakening me

at two o' clock in the

cold, stiff darkness

or

only a poet's soul can see through

the defenses of another poet and

caress the bruised and battered metaphor

struggling to exist in this world of scientists

or

poetic processes are

involuntary cramps and floods;

like that woman during her time

who wishes men had to suffer as much

or

metaphors are hardly recognized

and only through that understanding

can we come to know one another

other than as sweaty handshakes and locked eyes

or

spacing and punctuation are

a maturation of the squalling poem

struggling to stand on unsteady feet

and weak ankles

or

similes are merely fleeting smiles

and true paradox is the poet living in two

four dimensional worlds

when only one exists.

Rebecah Hall

 

 

Meditation 11

The shell,

at home upon the shore,

lost its soul upon my shelf.

Scrubbed, bleached,

it lost all vitality

and became the requirement

of all we call

civility.

Rebecah Hall

 

 

Some poems from ...Beyond Winter

A Poetry Collection by

Rebecah J. Hall

Faery Tales and Negotiations (For Terresah)
A Cowboy Speaks
Metamorphosis
Flight
Meditation 2
Meditation 8

Faery Tales and Negotiations
(For Terresah)

They called it a wolf wind
that yowled down the canyon
and tangled the clouds
into endless knots.
The poem struggled even then to be born.

We kids,
the sentence fragments of everything,
ran ahead of harried leaves

(sharpened teeth filed to eat us)
and slammed heavy doors--
locking the wolf out
and the cold in.

Hot chocolate served in steamy kitchens
with our patron saints hanging on the wall
as our parents,
the end punctuation of all,

hustled us out of wet clothes,
into warm baths
and worried through our homework
and finally into sleep by eight o'clock.

Fathers read bedtime stories
and the stillness
hung over the room as Ridinghood
ran through the woods to grama's
and away from the wolf stalked by the woodcutter.
But a child of seven knows nothing of living pains--
and the semicolons of my life
lined themselves up
as I dreamed instead of a wolf wind
that would eat us all
if the woodcutter couldn't save us.

Rebecah Hall

A Cowboy Speaks

He says,

Now, don'tcha try to bullshit me--
cuz bullshit, no matter how ya try to purty it up,
is still jist bullshit.

He hunkered low by the fire
warming his knees and hands--
as his butt grew icicles.

See, this here's life, kid:
half of ya freezes
while the other half roasts
and less'n you surround yerself with fire
or do without altogether,
there jist ain't no in-between.

And the way I figger it,
since camfires like this un
are agin the law anyways,
it's best to let your butt freeze
and keep your heart and mind on fire
than t'other way around.

Rebecah Hall

Metamorphosis

I know this woman . . .
talked to . . . listened to . . . .
been . . . .
walking with the.
freedom of a man. .

In this misty dream she.
stumbles.
through savage gardens--.
roses choking her.
and saber tooth grass.
slashing her feet, .
and the horror of her body.
turning to bark.
leaving her heart flesh.
and beating--.

This dream eating.
swallows the hope.
which embraces all she is or could be--.
she rushes to the lake's edge thinking.

Why, if I can't swim, .
I'll walk. .
Foofalls on water, .
tumbling through fog.
to sleep to the cadence.
of mist-muffled bells.... .
resting on water-wrinkled hands, .
she dreams a dream.
within my dream . . . .

Awakening to my dream-woven.
manacles.
rusting.
in the completeness.
that is mine. .

Rebecah Hall.

Flight.

I slept in a bus depot.
once when I was seventeen.
and still knew everything. .
The floor stuck to my shoes.
and odors of years-old gum.
and stale suitcases clung.
to my jeans. .
Fort Worth-Dallas, .
the greyhound died.
so I slept on a wooden bench.
feet-to-head with an old wino.
who insisted Thunderbird.
was the only way to fly. .
When the boarding call finally came, .
the wino headed downtown to beg another bottle's worth.
while I headed to another state, .
my own way of flying. .

Rebecah Hall.

Meditation 2.

Quietly, so not to disturb the storm . . . .
I slide under the covers.
and draw the stars.
around me for warmth. .

Rebecah Hall.

Meditation 8.

Mischief visited last night.
and left art as a gift. .
Slivered silver.
hanging from eaves.
and mourning white upon the ground. .

Rebecah Hall.

I hope you have enjoyed these poems.
Come back and check this page soon, as it is going to be improved and include more of Reb's work. Thanks !

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