Category: A Poem

1.
I’m on a mission uphill,
downhill, back and forth,
I refuse to fall into myself,

to sink. Cold
may contract
all it wants.

Breath lifts and lifts,
I raise my face to sun
like a prayer.

2.
In that space between rain
after rain, after rain,
I stand on wet grass,

close my eyes, hear happy birds,
see the play of red and gold
behind lids, radiance.

3.
When anger crosses the street
and makes a sharp left,
I am relieved.

I check the slider and two doors;
one was not locked.

I sit by a west window and enjoy
bright afternoon light
almost warm.

………..
Gudrun Mouw (c)
March 1, 2017

A Poem

To Deer in the Meadow

 

Between rains, you arrive,

heads down, nibbling on the green, green

winter grass. You are not anxious;

you have never heard of politics. You come

and go at will. Only, sometimes, you look up

to see if I will shoo you off my roses

and other delicacies. I have given up on that.

I am leaning into an essential, universal

truth that says we are no different. A cold wind

of bigotry has frightened me and made me hungry

for that abundance of careful management, thoughtful

governing and peace we once enjoyed. So my friends,

my deer neighbors, please, eat your fill.

I wish you well. Love, your chastened human

February 3, 2017

Gudrun Mouw (c)

Gudrun Mouw is the author of From Ashes Into Light a novel on how to recognize fascism

with the telling of three vivid, international stories. Order online or from any local bookstore. 

Description

From Ashes Into Light is the winner of multiple awards including the 2016 International Book Awards in Visionary Fiction and New Age Fiction.

From Ashes into Light is a transpersonal tale of epic tragedy, spirituality, family, and personal redemption. It is told through three distinct voices: the hauntingly tragic story of Ruth, a Jewish adolescent during Kristallnacht in World War II Austria, Saqapaya, a stalwart Native American from coastal California during the time of the Spanish conquest, and Friede Mai.

Friede is born during WW II to a Bavarian soldier and a East-Prussian mother. As those around her struggle with the inevitable chaos and paradox of war, Friede opens her heart to gruesome enemies, at times saving herself and family members from atrocities. With war behind them, the Mai family immigrates to the US, where Friede, her veteran father and ex-refugee mother, struggle with the reverberations of trauma. Friede is unable to find inner freedom until she meets her spiritual guide, a Rabbi, who helps her see that the voices from the past are teachers and the horrors of history are also beacons of light.

Three electric characters weave a narrative of raw consciousness, a moving example of transforming the ripple of suffering through the incredible strength of vulnerability.

A Poem

Books

There are books for which I wait,
perhaps, they’re in the mail, or maybe,
they’ll write themselves straight from
dents in the trail made by dainty deer steps,

or coyote tail waving, or gophers playing
peek a boo, or owls and wet grasses.
May book after book unfold

before my eyes. On a cloud filled afternoon
inside my favorite yellow room,
I read the memory of sun. Outside, a dripping
roof creates puddles I can almost hear.

 
Gudrun Mouw (c)
Jan. 7, 2017

A Poem

1.
Day Off

A day of rest unfolds each breath,
inhabits every room in the house;
walls brighten as the year of challenge
(Gustado, no kitchen and other things)
strolls to an end.

Morning falls silent.
Not quite golden, but a sense of relief
that I do not need
to go anywhere.

Casual wear, warm beverage, breakfast,
what more could this body seek,
suddenly, transparent and floating….
“Want nothing,” my teacher said,
“and you will want for nothing.”

2.
The Mother

Working constantly, she wears
normal exhaustion like a coat,
December’s coat.

Loving constantly, seams burst;
her arms get cold.
Muscles freeze.

Her face carries areas of concern.
She does not dare to step
back.

Now is her salvation, every pain,
every challenge her solution.


3.

I delete myself;
that desire for revenge dissolved,
along with fear, anger and resentment.

A broken heart has its uses;
the frail heart teaches many things. Clouds pressing
down reflect a silver brightness all their own.

 

 

 

(C) Gudrun Mouw

A Poem

I would like to be able to celebrate the news that From Ashes Into Light has won two more awards. How can this be done when the world is reeling and in shock?

I realize, after the presidential election, that my book reads like advance warning. There are things to ask ourselves, and From Ashes Into Light brings up some of these issues in stark ways. I am reminded of the Dylan line: “The times they are a changing.” And the change can be frightening.

I am reading Ge’rard De Nerval from 1854. The poem called Golden Lines begins with a quote from Pythagoras, “Astonishing! Everything is Intelligent!” Yes, I agree, we are swimming in consciousness. Still, what we do with that consciousness/intelligence makes all the difference.

The Romantic Poets responded to difficult times by turning to nature. This was an “Attack on the Old System,” according to Robert Bly in his News of the Universe poems of twofold consciousness.

How will poets respond to our current era? In many different ways, surely, unless an overwhelming movement develops in the genre.

               Morning Cold

Instead of pushing against cold,

muscles contract until

they become aware of themselves

after shock.

Many months of drought, at last, rain;

rain turned to tears.

I wear yellow to remember the sun,

to ward off complacency.

(C) Gudrun Mouw

November, 2016

A Poem From Ashes Into Light

we-are-three-9780961891602I am again reading Rumi, We Are Three: Translations by Coleman Barks. Inside the back cover, I find a gift.

I had written a poem there, dated 4.21.1991, and there was also a revision on the facing page, dated 5.28.2002. I smile thinking of that saying, “A Poem is Never Finished, Only Abandoned.” Since I don’t much like the word abandoned, I reconsider.

This poem will not be abandoned, because I find myself working on another revision as my memory of that long ago day becomes vivid:

The Santa Barbara Bird Refuge

A goose stands on one leg at water’s edge;
it’s long neck stretches over a glassy sheen,
and a squat duck on one leg,
pecks under its wings.

Similarities and differences jostle
to make an imprint on my perception.
Feathers ruffle in the wind.

A silver cloud floats across the sky
like a large, slow barge.
The carnival of my mind
shuts down.

And the longing for which I yearn,
bursts into into light
like a golden swan rising up.

A Poem Journal Entry