Poetic musician? Here I am!

"Definitions are like passport photos; metaphors are like watercolor portraits."

I'm a poet and a song-writer. I love language and music. This online article from Worship Musician about the metaphors in Christian songs is so apt, including the quote above from it.

--Ellen H.

Starry-eyed girl - a poem.

[Experimenting with more poetic styles and voices, and unearthing old ones. I found a short fiction story I wrote at a writing workshop years ago, and distilled a poetic version from bits of lines within it. I prefer poetry and real life over fictional stories, but this little series was fun to piece together.]

☆

Young couple strolling in the quiet street outside,

cool air dimly lit by gentle white of stars

mingled with warm amber of street lamps—

It was then that she broke up with him.

Ending this teenage tryst made him slump

and his eyes no longer hold their glow,

she could almost hear him breaking.
He squeezed her hand; she let go.

☆☆

Racing home, her heart now out of reach

for a casual fisher. Soon she’d be
casting in the constellations
for her dreams of ambition and adventure.

The partner was an optional,

interchangeable role, fading
into her greater heroine tale.

☆☆☆

Despite the chill of spring,
she left her bedroom window ajar.

Through leaves of the elm outside,
she glimpsed Orion and forgave herself
for missing him. Because of tonight,
she perceived more clearly who she would be

in years to come. For rivers may change course

from season to season, but constellations

keep their shape for eons.

--Ellen H.

Hum of Creation - an ekphrastic poem.

[Ekphrastic poems are pieces inspired by a piece of art. Here is one of mine, the painting introduced to me at a poetry workshop years ago. Enjoy!]

“Hum of Creation”

from Remedios Varo's painting “Embroidering the Earth's Mantle"

While a tempest brews outside,

rumbling, and shudders;

Inside, nimble fingers bob, weave and flutter.

Light filters gray through slit windows

of secreted stone tower;

Swish of sleeves and whir of looms

provide ambience every hour.

I look up from my looming work

at my golden-haired siblings;

Though we look alike,

as youngest I jam the yarn-strings.

To keep rhythm with the others

I sing softly as I work

to the monk’s hymn-like incantations

that in my ears do lurk.

For my sisters and I create this mantle

that spills down o’er the world

but the Chanter’s tones infuse the Life Force

into the fabric so artfully twirled.

Though I am the novice,

our work flows steadily on;

It is our trade to provide the ground

that earthly beings shall tread upon.

And though I would not exchange our lots—

those fragile mortals with me—

I do often wonder on

the varied lives they'll lead.

But I will never know them

for when our creative work is done,

we will rest up in the heavens

as starry Sisters, Seven in Constellation.

But work and wait – that eternal fate

for us has not yet come—

and I smile to hear these golden maidens

join me in my hum.

--Ellen H.

*Notes: It was my idea to connect this painting with the seven Pleiades (Seven Sisters constellation); not the painter's (that we know of). Different ancient mythologies say they were the daughters of Atlas or Zeus, set in the sky as stars for burial or to protect them from a pursuer. “The loss of one of the sisters, Merope, in some myths may reflect an astronomical event wherein one of the stars in the Pleiades star cluster disappeared from view by the naked eye.”

And, of another painting of the Pleiades sisters: “Interestingly it shows each connected with their corresponding star by a thread, here perhaps representing the process by which they were turned into stars."

My Life Is - a poem.

My life is a church.

Usually its doors are open to all,
ready for the world, willing to welcome most
who would like to enter and know me
(except the dangerous ones).

This church holds a variety of people,
many visitors but a few faithful,
who will see it through its stages.

It was built for the glory of God
and I aim for those who tarry here
to see it all points up to Him.

It endures, not a mere hour-long TV show,
but ongoing, thru many seasons,
of Christmas celebration,
muddy doldrums,
summer outreach.

There is a mission statement on the wall,
and a few scandals behind closed doors.

My life is a church:
open and evolving,
built and ongoing,
imperfect and glorious.

--Ellen H.

Stormy King - a poem.

Storming in, a dark presence
overshadows the valley.
Denizens look up and flee in terror,
into their shelters in the ground.
Everyone scurries to haul away their scraps,
most more than they can handle.
The thunder of my big leather boot and giant’s voice
threatens to blot out the sun and squish
the sandbox ant colony.

A frenzy of black bodies
with no visible pattern or plan,
makes me laugh. I am the ruler high and mighty
upon my mountaintop seat
at the edge of the sandbox,
and I revel in my power.
All that work for these desert pioneers
struggling to erect their homestead
at this desolate outpost,
only to expand to outposts more and more remote:
the sidewalk, the driveway, the neighbor’s front stoop.
They would civilize and conquer--
but not so easily with my kingly interference.

Suddenly, a rumble above me
from quickly darkening clouds
roiling in the wind-whipped sky above.
I grumble in defeat,
humbled as I desert my throne
to seek shelter from the rain.

--Ellen H.