This lovely little poem appeared as part of a message sent to Alex Shapiro on her blog site. Since then Janet Leigh has become a regular reader and blogger of this modest literary site, and her work deserves more attention. She has already linked us to her website, and thanks for that dear lady.
Felician Fingers Strum
I watch Night settle over me
with the gentleness of sleeping baby
at its mother’s breast
and wonder where you are
……….and wonder where you are..
Somewhere on distant shores
Felician fingers strum a melody
the waves seem to carry out to sea
……….and wonder where you are
Don’t tell me you’ve never held the hand
of love - for just one moment -
as love has been your companion
for years untold
……….and wonder where you are.
Felician fingers strum our song
of Love and simple Truth
to ride the winds and search afar
and wonder where you are
……….and wonder where you are..
Janet Leigh
2 comments:
How absolutely lovely to see my little poem here under cover of such a beautiful picture, Glenn, along with your little write up about little me. Say! Do you remember that fantabulous book, Little Me by Patrick Dennis? That's me! In spirit, of course. lol
Thank you very much for liking this little number enough to post it on your blog. It's so much more appealing with the accompanying picture. You are a true artist - as well as one of the best literary reviewers I've come across. You pay attention to every teeny detail and glean the sentiment/emotion behind words. T'is truly a gift! *big smile*
I can certainly see why you have a special place in your heart for FILICIAN FINGERS STRUM. You have no date on it, but it smacks of the 60’s, maybe early 70’s, there near the sea, staring out daily into its flat vastness, peering hard into the sharp horizon, where the sun goes to hide every dusk, where you love was taken, in a boat, in a plane, to a place, to a country far away, some steaming dangerous fern-crusted land of pungee sticks, severed heads with their testicles sewn into their maws, tigers, the Cong, black pajama nightmares, mortars, snipers, crazy monkeys, lurid birds, sickly sweet flora dripping in American blood–all you can see, but do not want to see, as your solitary earth mother persona imagined suckling a dream, complete with your man ‘before his first kill,” when Elvis and the Beatles were humming in his head, before the Asian sing songs that accompanied the bullets, the explosions, the wounds, the crotch rot, the leeches, the hardness inside like bark of steel, impervious to tenderness, blind to your love, your sweetness over here, as he struggled over there to hang on to even a shred of the man, and the humanity, you fell in love with, and sent off to war.
And you still hear the melody, yours and his, that “the waves seem/to carry out/to sea/and wonder/where you are…/somewhere/on distant shores.” And you know, you at least suspect that you are not alone in your sadness; “Don’t tell me you’ve never held the hand/of love–for just one moment–as love ha been/your companion/for years untold.” You are hurting, and it does not suffice to know that thousands of women share your grief, your frustrations, your lonliness–the military wives and girlfriends.
You stand up valiantly, naively, bright and cheery, to “strum our song/of Love/and simple Truth/to ride the winds/and search afar/and wonder where you are…” with the refrain, in the rain, on your cheeks, weeping inside in order to hide the enormity of your loss. You stand like the French Lieutenant’s Woman on the lee end of the cobb, staring out to sea, waiting for a man who might never return, only half alive with the waiting.
A delicate blend here, dear, of deep remorse, real emotional pain, and a forced lightness, and forced smile; resignation, accommodation, shallow breaths in your tight chest. Yes, and on my third reading of your lines, I too hear the faint Felician fingers strumming the Sogovian six-string, pulling us up with its acoustical verve, its frequencies and vibrations of hope; hope for a better day, hope for life, for survival, of and for Love.
Glenn
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