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Ringing of the Bards XIII – The In-Between Time

September 18, 2006

Fall is in the air. Despite the brief resurgence of Summer (marked today by highs near the 80 degree mark), the onward march of the seasons has come again, and as the warm, relaxing (or steamy and sultifying) days of summer move on to the cool and crisp (or bitter and frozen) nights of winter, we arrive at last at the in-between time.

I love Fall, for its vibrant harvest hues as much as for its tangy flavor. Fall is the time when the world breathes in, and holding … holding … holding, waits for the chance to exhale. I revel in Fall as the space between, symbolized by harvest holidays which presage the coming “death” of the old, before the birth of the new.

Just as the fabric between summer and winter stretches thin in Fall, so too does the one between this world and all others. Mysterious things emerge, and Fall is their time as well. Fall is a time for superstitions, for thirteen, for the beginning of the end of all things.

Superstitions, though, have to have their origins somewhere, as we hear in Russell’s submission to the Ringing entitled “Superstition“:

Turn to the horror of himself, look at deep within
He knows there is a growing burden, He is guilty
If he hadn’t done what he shouldn’t do, no problem,
But he had to; no one takes care of you but yourself….

Superstitions also led Jo Janoski to write in her entry “Thirteen” (subtitled “(Evil One and Three)”):

Wake to bleak day while storm clouds spit fear
Encircling overhead restlessly
In warning to avoid all thirteens.

Black smack you down one and three death spree
Evilness traversing neighborhood
Comes knocking while watching for weakness….

The number thirteen itself seems laced with magic meaning. Whether the number comes from the participants in the last supper, as Ozymandiaz reminds us in “The Thirteenth“:

About the circle sat the twelve discussing thirteen
(As, on a Friday, the Knights Templar were befallen)
And the one who completed this baker’s dozen sat
Like Judas to contemplate his fate just there outside….

or if it really is just a reflection of “A Dirty Dozen“, as we are reminded by Billy:

13 miles,
13 men;
13 years they lived in sin.
13 sins each would commit….

we know that thirteen itself represents a magical age of transformation as we are reminded by Renee in “Thirteen“:

Thirteen is too young to be mature; you disagree.
The fabric of time, once so vast, now is restraining.
Live glows in fiery colors, producing awe, pain and
indelible dreams, shouted out in forced syllables.

and as Abhay also shows us in “A teen of thirteen“:

There was a time
When I was a teen of thirteen
Full of dreams and fantasies
Just waiting to win the world

This place of transition can be any place in the real world (as we are reminded by Katy in her piece entitled “triv“):

something just like
a tumultuous love affair
on the ring of moral

or they met
in a cheap coffee parlor
doubled by….

or maybe just in the microscopic world (as Bob, the Average Poet, reminds us in “Linked“):

Can electrons bear emotions through the ethernet?
I’m not sure if they do, but am confident to bet
that surges of compassion can transcend having met
creating connectivity no wire could beget.

or even in the world of the sublime and ridiculous (as Mad Kane shares with us in “Ode to the Segway Scooter“):

The maker of scooters called Segway
Has recalled them from road, walk, and hedgeway.
Their software’s quite galling.
It’s prone to cause falling.
Now lawyers have fresh “we allege” prey.

Whatever you do, don’t trust your senses in the in-between time, since, as Shirley of HouseMouse points out in “Hearts & Flowers“, you cannot trust them:

it’s not what it seems
the fortress of dreams
is cracking
and coming apart at the seams….

And, once again, we return to the topic of superstitions, where I remind you in “Black Cat, Drat” that:

….For when it comes to superstitions, I just don’t believe ‘em
(though watch me as I hold my breath when I pass a mausoleum).
Nothing ever beats a little bit of self-protection,
just as long as I don’t indulge in any serious self-reflection.

And, just as suddenly as it began, the in-between time ends.  For that is the nature of thin places where time stretches and then contracts.  They move quickly by, trapping you in their eddies and whorls for a brief visit before their transitory path leads you onward…  

Hope you enjoyed the visit to space between… 

Postscript!

And the in-between time doesn’t end! Pearl offers this late addition to round out the 13th Ringing of the Bards:

im mute able
There must be some unifying theory
of psyche that ties the consensus paradox tight
explains how cooperative non-violence drives
boxing match sales, movies with blood capsules for actors
to spew on director’s command, gratification
rubbernecked, observing battles vicariously,
precariously tip, not towards bloodbath fury
but to tranquil, post-orgasmic calm.

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Black Cat, Drat!

September 14, 2006

Black cat, drat
Walking under ladders; does it really matter?
Step on a crack, how’s your mother’s back?
These recipes for superstition often come to some fruition…

When you sneeze, please hold your nose, and whisper “Labruid”.
A mirror breaks, for seven years your luck will be no good.
Careful in a building if it has a floor thirteen
chances are its occupants are really rather mean.

Roswell in New Mexico’s the place you must attend
if, by chance, your interests run to greenish little men.
While we’re on that color green, another one that’s thorny:
watch out for green M & Ms since they will make you . . .

Corny cobs in snowmen’s mouths will make them come alive,
Elvis is still living; he alone invented jive,
just like Al Gore with the Internet, and Bush, Saddam Hussein
(As a side note, aren’t all politicians just a pain!).

Well, I guess in these last lines I’ve gone quite far afield (Ed.
From classic superstitions to the modern ones I’ve yielded),
I must be moving on, but yet I have one final note:
Don’t make me out to be your sacrificial lamb, er, goat.

For when it comes to superstitions, I just don’t believe ’em
(though watch me as I hold my breath when I pass a mausoleum).
Nothing ever beats a little bit of self-protection,
just as long as I don’t indulge in any serious self-reflection.

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Ringing of the Bards XIII

September 12, 2006

So, it is my turn to welcome the ringing of the bards.

In honor of the triskadekaphobes out there, I would like to invite submission on the theme of thirteen.

For entries on the subject, please either write a thirteen line poem, or a poem with lines of thirteen syllables, or poems having to do with superstitions. I will feature all of them in my carnival post coming (probably) on Sunday!  Of course, if you want to submit a poem on any other topic, that would be welcome as well.

As usual, look to Ringing of the Bards for the basic rules, and submit your emails to me at dbarkowitz(at)rcn(dot)com, or link to the post on your blog as a comment on this post!

Looking forward to your great submissions!

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Winter is Gone

September 12, 2006

3/1984

Winter is gone
and life has not returned
replacing empty forests.

Memory is gone,
and emotions have run dry
leaving empty streams.

And empty streams and empty forests
give the world a pause for breath
before the sudden birth of spring.

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When Last It Was I Looked Upon Your Face

August 21, 2006

When last it was I looked upon your face
your pregnant eyes were full of certain grace
your gentle touch, with all its soft carress
your spirit free, your soul by angels blessed.
Your dappled smile gave hints of summer dew
and joyous mirth. These images of you
are all that’s left to me now. Winter’s here
and what was newly born is old and sere.
Your memory, a portrait in my head
is drained of hue. My recollection dead
as passing time, the enemy of years
has drowned my childhood fantasy in tears.

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Opinions

August 20, 2006

11/1984

Opinions have a way
of hurting those they touch
for never is a true
opinion kind, with love

For I may say, “I like it,”
but deep inside you know
that what I really mean
is that “It doesn’t go”.


Another busy week getting ready for the school year to start again, and so no time to sit and write. I miss it!!! I hope to get back to writing this week, but in the meantime here is a little ditty about the position none of us love to be in: “So tell me, how does this look on me? Do you like it?”

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Global Winds

August 13, 2006

7/11/1986

Here I sit on a rolling hill
as the global winds rush past me,
with an eagle’s view and an iron will
and the news that will not last me,
and I see the sound and I hear the sight
of a world that is in trouble,
for a single bomb and a nuclear night
will leave this world in rubble.


Ahhh… for the days when all a teenager need worry about was the end of the world in some kind of nuclear conflagration. So, wait, has anything really changed?

Not my best poetic effort by far (I like the first four lines much better than the last four), but not bad for a 16 year old.