Hallmark E-Book

Emily Isaacson

• Herausgeber: Dove Christian Publishers
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

In this commemorative edition, we showcase the select poetry of Canadian poet Emily Isaacson, from her simple pieces to the epic. This work surrounds the guillotine of the recession that has influenced Canadians over the past decade. It is evident her readers have only begun to taste her nuances, wording, and poetic structure, including her own invention “the eclipsed poem.” Her dedicated voice has spoken in poetry to royals, cloisters, people groups, and nations.

This poignant and lyrical collection rises to stir our hearts from poverty to the ornamental. Emily Isaacson writes her sacred words as we enter the Baroque era of the internet. From her early medieval blog as a solitary unicorn to this year celebrating one million visits to her websites, her prolific verse and multi-media art spark poetry with life. She sets out to make a postmodern impact by using color and style paired with the creativity necessary for survival.

Leseprobe

Other books by Emily Isaacson:

Little Bird’s Song

Voetelle

The Fleur-de-lis

Hours From A Convent

Ignatia

House of Rain

Snowflake Princess

A Familiar Shore

Canada’s 150 Year Anniversary

Emily Isaacson

© Copyright 2017 The Wild Lily Institute.

No part of this book may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means,

except for brief quotes, without the

written permission of the author or publisher.

Published in the United States by Dove Christian Publishers, an

imprint of Kingdom Christian Enterprises, Bladensburg, Maryland.

ISBN 978-09986690-3-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017956468

Cover design: Voetelle Art & Design

Cover image © Szabolcs Szekerem.

License X Fotolia.

The Wild Lily Institute

Dedicated to Sophie Grégoire-Trudeau

Be not offended:

I speak not in absolute fear of you.

I think our country sinks beneath the yoke;

It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash

Is added to her wounds . . .

—William Shakespeare

The parliamentary

complex

was formally opened

with a grand ball held by

the Governor General,

Lord Dufferin.

Carriage

after carriage arrived

on the spring evening of

March 27, 1876,

and fifteen hundred guests,

gaily appareled in costumes

of every imaginable sort

were received.

Section I: Stand at the Window

for books are opened, like windows,

to worlds . . .

—Emily Isaacson

Part One: Dogwood Manor

Dogwood Crest

Lulla-lu, there is a voice here.

Lullaby-lu, a child sighing,

the wind is crying,

the fairies hide, dear.

Lulla-lu tiny child,

you open your small hands,

your eyes are wider to lands.

Lullaby-lu, slumber mild.

Your basket swings under the dogwood tree,

the flowers open to cradle the new,

and beloved generations before you,

their fragrance encircles me.

You are a lamb in the peppermint,

wooly-girl, a docent to the gallery

of books, in a field encircled by trees,

the grass and herb leaves glint.

All are loved within this circle of trees,

sanctity is royal navy,

and marriage is fit for a lady,

redeemed to loyalties.

Lulla-lu, but rest in sleep,

now off to the lullaby world

said your mother’s curls,

before the shadows creep,

before the branches weep.

Threnody of the Thistle

Thistle manor, away off the moor,

here the thistle down blows . . .

and away lullaby, mother sing,

lullaby to a prince and a king.

Here there is no sense of repeat,

just a mild prickly pod bed,

enumerating the signs

of harvest to summer’s end.

The trees and the heather

all lean like the wind.

Eventually the thistle down speaks—

down, down, thistle moor,

dusting o’er the creaking floor

to the stone gorse garden door:

resurgence from poverty to kin,

from ignorance to education,

forgiving liniment

from within, cold without

from the imminent

moor fog, hazing our sight.

From cradle to Yule log,

burn foolish, burn bright!

Woman Prophet

The quiet twilight

stole your mail,

and unshod,

your peace disturbed,

from wanton crest.

The hill country

laid down

its arms,

and minstrels

now stood

in sudden malady,

a plate of victuals

not their own.

A sacred innocence,

and small dove-light tunic,

from a moment waylaid

in the mountains of the sun.

Where I Found Her

I found her

in a woodland meadow,

crafting a piper’s tune,

the village brushed and eyes apart,

we, Sir,

beleaguered and bled

injustice.

He was tall without a hunch,

the castle on the moor,

echoed in glass,

the cottage thatch and thrush,

a recall

to Notre Dame’s vast naves.

In this meadow,

the goldenrod,

crackling underfoot,

the sky a stormy

chase of thunder . . .

She stands,

two immigrants

in sorrow at the task

of Scotland, shapely

in a coat of arms.

Spiritual Touch

The touch of a king

would condescend to heal;

if one was touched

one hundred times,

one would turn into a princess.

If you had loved

so dearly, the beloved:

the early sky, a dark jewel

in domes of foreign temples.

Their hands clasped,

knees tightly bent,

a burning sword

thrust between

the mind and soul;

and the deepened heart

will arise in the splendor

of modesty.

One million children

stand at the gates

of their straw village,

asking to be let through:

to where the golden bird

welcomes dawn,

the translucent orb of sun-star

crossing the sky

from morning to sunset;

I tend my mantra of gardens

just before dusk . . .

The glass of time, so fragile,

and cloven antelope hooves

upon the sand:

tidings meant to clothe despair with

purity, the oils of acacia

and eucalyptus.

Glassy water

in the riverbed, too dry;

the speaking of the white raven,

and unheard silence:

my memorized word

so clear and vibrant—

to a diseased room.

What enchantment

shall I break to heal you?

O ebony soul, caught within

the prisons of deformity

and the sepulcher

of infertility and pain:

Peace.

The kiss of wisdom

is a touch piece,

and the dying,

healed do ascend.

A Gift With Outstretched Hands

I give you the land of Canada,

the gifts of following further,

growing in silence,

and daring to believe in beauty.

This country emerges from

its wintry love

to become warm with reconciliation;

we are witnessing of change.

Canada, expanse

of the beautiful and free,

may liberty crown you with justice

in the realm of the unseen.

Called out of the dust of time,

you are a dramatic child who began

as you swelled beneath

your mother’s heart.

The birth pains have

made you the country you are today,

as strong as you are wide, multi-cultural,

and a captured mosaic.

Israel, we grant you amnesty

within the borders of our nation,

within our anthem,

our indivisible faiths

A New Valley

While I was waiting here,

he conducted the symphony:

his head was wreathed in clouds,

he had climbed a mountain

and the air was thin, but there

was a message for him at the top.

He spoke of new beginnings,

a time for children to be born,

to be rosy-cheeked with health;

a time to plant the fields,

a time for new ideas,

and countries to be made over.

I bought a lavender farm:

its fragrance rolled off into the sunset,

I was emaciated

with reckoning, afraid to live

and unprepared to die,

unsure how to continue.

This is a new vein—

being extravagant, healing souls

with rough flowers,

gathering the bitters in linen,

now that the fear is over,

when we reach a summit

and dare not go on alone.

Holding hands is new oil

that flows through the valley

of San Jacinto,

where I dream and you speak:

the oratorio glistens with wealth—

Part Two: Inform the World

Time for a Poet

I would be born a poet in a coat,

I keep this letter to you in my pocket, casting

you, I will give it to you in time lasting,

although I would rather milk the goat.

I’ve lived a thousand years, in league with tea,

I drink in more and more of earth’s light,

with every cup, I sanction blight;

a woman who informs with words the trees.

For no one holds my hand upon the road,

I walk forever with no observant end,

am I expecting strangers or friends around the bend?

and heavy-lidded is the horse’s load.

He plods with cares I could not comprehend,

even and staid, I hold his mane,

he eats his oats and keeps me sane,

a horse’s nature I would recommend.

There is a hill I lingered on,

fast as the light was fading low,

the moon had almost risen through night’s blow,

into the future I gazed long.

A creator could not lie beneath the ground,

she would fly away—a solemn bird,

or insist years later on being heard,

her voice would, as seas, unrelentless pound.

Her old thick voice would be an ancient roar

of blood beneath the ground that fed the roots

of heavy trees with their dusky fruit,

grapes would cry at winepress upon the floor.

It became a red wine river flowing down

to an oil sea, where I found a hand

extended as a moon shines o’er the land,

illuminating the first peoples’ indigo crown.

It was then I could see future’s subtle shape,

a rabbit disappeared into its glen,

a deer within the meadow nibbling then,

I could affix my broken wing with tape.

But slowly I die as the world peaks,

my essence ebbs away, a shrinking empire:

the verse that once sang as a carefree lyre

is now the hardwood floor that creaks.

My chest of treasures holds

mementoes of me pausing blue,

the shape-shifting need for the spirit mood

to live in a vase or some other mold.

As life bore down on me in myths,

the deepening of each ponderous basin,

the cracking of porcelain’s pandemonium,

became doctors condemning wordsmiths:

They could not die, or they would rise,

they could not live, for faintness exclusive,

they breathe last breaths, hiding reclusive,

they could not pray, it would be lies.

Thus the smoke rises early and remotely,

preparing me for another day of praise,

of the war within that makes me raise

worship to its feet shyly:

It was a dead friend in a tomb sealed,

he had lain there many days as old hymns,

and now no one had eyes weeping anymore, rims

of sunken sight, when they could be healed:

I stretched out my hand,

I called our broken worship to come forth—

where we all criticised our brethren’s worth,

and made him sweat and till the land.

Levites, I will be a singer if there is a song,

while wringing the last of the water

from the linens, I hum at bees’ laughter,

a woman is a word-keeper all the day long.

The convent is not too far south

of this old house in the back-woods of Mission—

they might be associates of rites and confessions,

and contemplation did not need a mouth.

Renew my Wisdom

My wisdom was one of disparity

in my journey of innumerable years,

as I parted with the star-sodden

land of my youth,

I abandoned myself

in search of a new King.

City of distant lights,

I wept in your arms,

I distilled your flowering blooms

beneath the starlight,

when the far-off land beckoned,

I echoed its cry.

There is a plumage in turquoise

that lines the peacock walls of my dwelling place,

there is gold melting in my arms,

I can smell the myrrh,

and my gifts seem to have

become ancient now.

Renew me as

I am made new;

in the spirit of intimacy,

do not withhold your gifts from me.

You will be born

in a distant land,

you will be a ruler,

with new decrees

and untouched powers.

I Saw Three Ships

A cultural horn blew, and the three ships

went sailing from Spain.

It was a summer’s day in the Golden Age,

and flags fluttered brightly

from the sea port.

The colourful peasants waved

as the ships left Eurasia

for the winds and coast of Africa.

Their journey was based in economics.

This fleet was followed by hundreds

of ships, all from different ports

and different harbours, transporting goods,

carpets, perfume, spices,

in the medieval days of the internet.

Sailors were superstitious at first—

could they navigate by the stars?

Their seemly ideas on shell-shaped islands, sea-lanes

and surface currents, with or without a compass—

domains and dreams all coinciding.

When there were so many ships

and ports, it could present a front

of naval disorder, a mixed basket of citrus,

but not so, and sites stayed

orderly as sea stars,

and well-arrayed as invisible jellyfish.

The sea was stormy at will,

their ship of three masts,

in insecure connections, grids,

choppy waves, overloads, and black outs

when sailors would lose cargo,

bleed wind from the sails and let out sea anchors.

Through their sectioned panes,

artists painting in the morning—

spotting the far-off lateen sails—could

only dream of what was to come,

This Is Where You Keep Me

I.

If I did not die young,

I would become baroque

in movement,

and emotional relevance.

I climbed a hallmark tree

within a child,

I bade her try her pen,

and not be wild as the sea.

The rolling island hills

remind me of England’s

pleasant green.

The fort is aged and

crumbling, now a relic

in the sun glinting offshore.

There was one thing I

wanted to tell you:

I have written it down

on this folded piece of lined paper.

Life has not become

a busload of people,

rather eclectic,

that I don’t know and haven’t met.

Of course, I was

on my way to music lessons,

the cool dark interior

of a house in Oak Bay.

I would play for my

medieval teacher

something she had not heard.

II.

I have seen you all your life,

but I had not heard you before,

I did not know that you

could play with anger,

and I would notice.

You are without malice,

an African violet;

I am only a mother

and I do not have time.

Write your lessons,

and your teachers will be proud

that you are obedient,

young and strong.

Do you know where

I want you to end up:

I want you to have tea

with me when you’re four

and when you’re forty.

We are a tea-party of two,

and if books abound,

there is no need to write.

Just listen:

listen to the singing,

listen to the eventide’s note,

the disappearing light,

and the last flown

yellow-rumped warbler.

III.

My teacher stoked the fire

of my mind,

as the flaming red curls

to her waist.

Her voice was like

Fitzgerald in the Jazz Age,

and it was liquor.

The piano was

black and smooth

beneath my touch,

inviting a cadence.

There was a woven tapestry

in the room, and it lent

acclaim to a regal woman

with a long line of students.

To try any new music,

I would have her approval

and in the era

the arts would communicate

involvement.

I wanted the church’s approval

to write, but I did not ask,

or I might not have completed

a long list of things to do.

There are gate-keepers

of our inner children,

so I only asked to play

inside the black wrought-iron gate:

this is where you keep me.

IV.

You are beloved and

this is where you keep me,

I am a photo

in a locket over your heart.

I am your mother:

on summer days

you gather your picnic

with wildflowers,

and take a blanket.

It was my golden

rag-time piano that could

turn a tune,

reminding you of the roaring twenties.

This was a proper house.

I was a minister’s wife,

wore a dress,

and baked pies.

There was homemade bread

from the grain

I ground,

and kept in the cold storage.

Why do I have to ensure

you are good enough

to write,

and take what comes as

a result?

You are old enough

with your pen to make your

own decisions,

somehow you’ll survive

behind your own black gate.

V.

I might be only

an aspen sapling,

or I might be old now,

with glittering leaves,

and porous bones, who is to say?

The tea from long ago

is still steeping in my cup.

The dance of time

continues on,

and little girls join

with new pink shoes.

I sat at the window

for a few years,

wondering if it was a feast

or a famine.

I joined the army

and they made me head up

the Canadian military

with pomp and gunfire.

They still stand at attention,

waiting for me to be born,

while hailing in unison

a new world.

This is the Baroque period

if we have our own opinions

on corsages, buns, and bobby pins

and how it should be done with grace.

We are married again,

the reverence sounded,

we are irregular jewels.

Section II: Mottled Recession

my forehead, salted with death—

as the night fades into remnants of dreams

to endure . . .

—Emily Isaacson

Part One: Layered Realism

Historical Hurricane

The recession stretched for almost a decade,

as vast rooms that go on and on,

as the lucid dreams

over oak floors

temper the alpine mist.

The flamenco-red walls,

and the kaleidoscope of lights

endeared history.

Here I sit—

bold and proud as

a tartan plaid.

I could dance in an organic whole

of limbs and pauses

before the hurricane;

with a rather moody folk skirt

brushing the granite hearth.

There was only a wind at the chimney.

That would be my signature style

of delicate arches,

brilliant height,

and stony-blue curves.

What the Lilac Was Not

The lilac was not lustrous,

but rather historic,

alas, I did have to explain

each delicate trivet of colour,

each satin sheen of purple,

next to the rich plum and deep wood.

The flourishing variety of botanicals

beyond the velvet drapery,

through the meld of glass,

echoed its mystery,

a contrast to the century-old molded

plaster ceilings,

growing archaic with beauty.

Simply, the garden

unfolded through time

like a linen cloth,

with each dried flower held

in it as potpourri.