Arachnid's Aim

 Once, I observed a lovely spider, busily spinning her web, and I proceeded to write the poem below. 

A spider's web suspended from my deck

Arachnid's Aim

One by One by One by One by One by One by One by One,

she extends her reach into the world, 

Glad that she yet retains eight strong, healthy appendages. 

Her sisters' are damaged, maimed, broken, or lost, 

but hers are vibrant, able to take her

to any destination she beholds as sacred. 

Now, she extends her reach into the world.

Carefully, gracefully, she moves along this space,

arranging each extension in its proper place, 

allowing a Hopeful Touch to capture the attention

of one who will see her radiance

and share her iridescence with lasting, hopeful bliss.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

You can hear me recite this verse by clicking the link HERE.

Out of the Fog

I took this photo in Dublin, Ireland...after being lost in Dun Laoghaire for hours.

I thought it was amazing that a small white cloud seemed to surround the light on the lamp post.

Head 

out of the fog,

and soon, 

distortion dissipates. 

Recognition 

of a flawed distinction 

leads to a 

Renaissance.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

From my Operetta, Luminescence: Rhododendron (Thoughts of Anne Sexton)

There exists a balance of positive and negative in life, and in my operetta, Luminescence, I address this through the spirit voice of Anne Sexton and her associated flower, Rhododendron.

 

                                                 Photo from the site: Summerhillgardencentre.co.uk

Rhododendron: Dark Thoughts

(from my operetta, Luminescence)

From the corner of the garden,

a fierce wind buffets 

branches of the Rhododendron.

Now enters the looming danger 

of love’s despair.

Begonia, Narcissus,

and Southernwood

all bode a feeling of lost love

in the midst of this glorious

locus amoenus.

Anne whispers: 

Rhododendron is my flower’s name,

I bring dark thoughts

into this world of fragrance.

I make the lives of my seed

and the surrounding seeds

suffer as I do.

Humanity has attached meaning 

to our nature, proclaiming

that we ignore

the pleas of the world

within our hearts, 

so we suffer the association

with human frailties:

vanity, melancholy, heartbreak. 

But here in this garden, I now see: 

The beauty in our lives

does indeed surround us,

even in our darkest moments,

even in those isolated

hours of despair.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(To hear my reading of this poem, please click HERE.)

A Long Sentence, Silence is.

Below is a poem inspired by a number of events involving my family and friends in which the long wait in a hospital sometimes has felt like a sentence. Waiting for word from medical staff on the outcome of a loved one leads to the mixed feelings of worry, loneliness, and hope. I wrote this as one very long sentence with the subject Silence and the verb, is because in these moments, we gain strength in the silence. 

 

Coole Park, Ireland

A Long Sentence 

While moist eyes wait

for word of your condition,

inquiring of God 

if I will experience your vibrance again,

though the response is "I don't know,"

though I smile to hide my tears,
though my heart yearns to beat

with the rhythm of your joy,

waiting

for the word that brings hope

for the song of your smiles 

for your breath of “yes”

within is the silence 

of a long sentence

and outside:

the wind,

the rain,

a lone lea,

me,

then the sun.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(To hear my reading of this poem on Pod-omatic, click HERE.)

On this Veterans Day, I say to all Veterans...

Thank you, Veterans! 

God Bless you!

Thank you, Veterans! 

From Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, United States Marine Corps: 

It is the soldier, not the reporter,

who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the soldier, not the poet,

who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the soldier, not the campus organizer,

who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.

It is the soldier, not the lawyer,

who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the soldier,

who salutes the flag,

who serves under the flag,

and whose coffin is draped by the flag,

who allows the protester to burn the flag.

Ekphrasis: My poem, "Haven" and the Church of St. Stephen the Martyr

Below is a photo of the Church of St. Stephen the Martyr in Opotiki, New Zealand. This picture brought to mind the introduction to a collection of short stories that I will complete... one day. The poem accompanying this photo is a conversion of a portion of my prose introduction to poetic form.

Church of St Stephen the Martyr, Opotiki, ca 1910-1930

"I see heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God."

~ St. Stephen’s words at his theophany

Haven

They beckon 

the weary-hearted and calloused,

“Come and sit with me.”

Rows of empty pews

moor at a small altar,

each one anchored with a kneeler. 

Her candle lit,
she takes her usual seat

in the second row,

hoists the kneeler, 

then quietly moves it

to the wood floor,

genuflects in the Holy Presence, 

and blesses herself.

With eyes lowered,

she steers her troubled vessel

on an ethereal air,

through prayerful sighs

to the Haven of hope,

His almighty promise.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(My reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic at the bottom of this page.)

Autumnal Quilt Sonnet

I hand-stitched this quilt of 'maple leaf' blocks.

Autumnal Quilt Sonnet 

The warmth of summer comes to an end
and feathered songs move onward.
A gentle breeze causes branches to bend
as the north wind beckons to be honored.

Pieces of cloth arranged with care
come alive in a forgotten room.
They're skillfully pieced with knowing flair
as the mum just waiting to bloom.

The autumnal chill in the air feels grand.
The windows, now closed, reveal hues of gold.
Steaming soup's on the stove, and with needle in hand
a quilter works on her pattern of old.

Now is the time to fill one's heart right
with warmth that will gratify a cold winter's night.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

You can listen to my reading of this poem by clicking HERE.

A Humble Creation

I am posting this poem in honor of my daughter's Birthday. She is indeed a 'humble creation of the Almighty Artist.'  

Photo from Google Images

A Humble Creation

With every minute
the Mighty Sculpture
molds and shapes me 
into that which will
inevitably 
become the fulfillment 
of my dreams ~
His promise,
and I can feel
the special pliancy
of His wondrous hands
as He blends
the Sorrow and the Pain
into the sculpted reality 

of Love and Joy 
in my life. 
I am a humble creation 
of the Almighty Artist. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(To hear my reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic, click HERE.)

A Pen, So Simple

 

A Pen, So Simple 

A pen, so simple

and fundamental

yet functional

and dependable

somewhat ornamental.

 

A pen, so simple…

of brawny rosewood,

so my fingers could

glide as they write 

to open minds.

 

A pen, so simple,

expresser of mine.

Now, where did I place you?

Oh, Saints Divine,

I implore you,

please help me to find

my much-needed pen

for

without it, 

I feel…………

                                 inert!

 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

 

Sydney Owenson's 'The Wild Irish Girl' and Revolutionary Thought

Sydney Owenson’s national tales and narrative poetry echo those of the American colonists in regard to humanity’s birth right of freedom, particularly in the way her British characters interact with Irish characters. Owenson sees the Irish used as scapegoats for England’s perceived imperial failure and, through her writing, takes a stand against the British. While she leads her fellow country men and women to awareness of individual and national pride, she also sheds light upon the conditions of the nineteenth century female, that of subjugation to male dominance. 

Particularly in The Wild Irish Girl, Owenson reveals eighteenth century societal dictates present within the Irish culture. Her inclusion of Irish speech involves the ‘wild’ Irish instructing the British aristocracy on truths evident to the Irish but virtually unknown by the intruding British. For example, the main female character’s name is Glorvina, the word glor in Irish, meaning voice. In one of her initial conversations with the British character, Horatio, she explains the significance of Irish music: 

This susceptibility to the influence of my country’s music, discovered itself in a period of existence, when no associating sentiment of the heart could have called it into being; for I have often wept in convulsive emotion at an air before the sad story it accompanied was understood: but now- now- that feeling is matured, and understanding awakened. Oh! You cannot judge-cannot feel- for you have no national music; and your country is the happiest under heaven! [1]

Audaciously, Owenson configures historical and linguistic elements of Ireland within this foundational national tale and juxtaposes these elements with those of Great Britain through her two main characters, illustrating a cultural fantasy of an Anglo-Irish coalition. 

_____________________________________________________

[1] Sydney Owenson, The Wild Irish Girl, Boston: Joseph Greenleaf, 1808, p. 92.

Odes to Pancakes

Photo from 'Duck Duck Go' images

Below is a duet of poetry focusing on the pancake theme in the rondeau form and then a parody of e.e. cummings' poem, "O Sweet Spontaneous."

Ode to Pancake Temptation

There, on my fine bone china plate

Five pancakes can't be a mistake

and neighboring maple trees in a row

provide home grown syrup to amply flow,

as fresh, sweet butter on top does skate.

To eat this meal at such a rate

won’t help in my quest of losing weight

yet hunger’s there; it won’t let go

there, on my fine bone.

This morning sure has sealed my fate

through personal, philosophical debate

but now, determined to my pinky toe,

it's wisdom’s garden I must hoe,

and make these feet accelerate 

there, on my fine bone.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

*******************************

O Sweet Pancake Temptation

(a parody of e.e. cummings' "O Sweet Spontaneous")

O golden pancakes

drip

               ping

with sweet syrup

extracted

from maple’s vein

and butter 

squeezed

from bovine's 

p

u

r

i

t

y.

Does humanity

know the 

sacrifice

from earth’s offerings

for gluttony’s

bliss?

My delight 

pours forth

dripping

                       sweet 

with

appreciation 

and a little

blueberry pancake guilt.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear me recite this, please click HERE. 

Your Smile - Votre Sourire

       

                                  This is a little patisserie in Rheims, France, 

                     where I had a lovely cup of coffee and an almond croissant. 

Your Smile                                                       Votre Sourire

I am alone                                                         Je suis seul.
but I am not lonely,                                         mais je n'ai pas de solitude,
for I have your smile                                       parce que j'ai votre sourire
in my heart.                                                      dans mon coeur.
Your love flows through me                          Votre amour, le courant a traversé moi 
with delightful enthusiasm                            avec l'enthusiasme ravissant,
as a cup of warm tea                                        comme une tassede thé chaud
in a French cafe                                                dans le restaurant du café en français
on a rainy day                                                   sur un jour de pluvieux
brings solace                                                     effectuer la consolation
and quiet laughter                                            et rire de calme
to my soul.                                                         a mon âme.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos                                       © Jeanne I. Lakatos

(To hear my reading of this poem on Pod-omatic in English and en Francais, click HERE.) 

Autumnal Morning

I created this because it was such a beautiful, breezy autumn day in Connecticut. 

Autumnal Morning

On cool, crisp, autumn mornings, 
such as this, 
isn't it grand to sip a cup of coffee or tea, 
set the world's troubles aside for one moment, 
observe the golden leaves falling 
from generous branches, 
knowing full well that eventually, 
those fallen whispers 
of joy and love
dancing through the air
as if they have one more chance,
one more hope 
to share in life's pleasures,
will be swept up 
and added to the compost
where they will begin life anew,
and the circuitous path begins.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

All Saints Day: Jeanne d'Arc

For All Saint's Day (Nov. 1), 

I've chosen to write of my patron saint, Jeanne d'Arc, 

whose spirit I've admired for her strength and perseverance. 

Jeanne d'Arc in Battle by Hermann Stilke (1803-1860)

Jeanne d'Arc's Death at the Stake  by Hermann Stilke (1803–1860)    

Jeanne d’Arc

Stalwart, spiritual,

she engages

an army

of anxious souls.

Her fate: rejection

inflamed 
by the ignorant

transporting her

to glorious praise

from Love’s Source.

Courage endures

through

fervent benevolence 

and truest devotion to God. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos  

To view a website devoted to Jeanne d’Arc:

 https://www.jeanne-darc.info/

Reservoir of Drought

Whilst so many people of Jamaica and the Caribbean struggle with the aftermath from the forces of water released during the track of Hurricane Melissa, others in this country struggle with a lack of precipitation. Contrasts in need for prayer!  

Reservoir of Drought

Reflections manifest colorful leaves

where gentle birdsongs have moved onward.

A forcible gust brings bend to the trees

as the north wind beckons to be honored.

Dried, exposed banks strive to protect 

vegetation that thirsts for relief

as waterfowl glide and easily detect 

abundantly exposed wild reeds.

Gasps of steam reach futilely for 
answers to struggling pleas, 
but the sun suffocates, intensifies more, 
and rain is nowhere to be seen.

Now is the time for prayer to go out
for release from this voracious drought. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(My reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic at the bottom of this page.)

October 30th Connecticut Snow Storm

 

My driveway, 30 October 2011

Connecticut October Snow Storm

Beneath an azure sky,

the north wind

whispers

an apology

as it shakes the snow

from bended branches.

Trees accept its apology

and benevolently reveal 

their autumnal gold.

Powerless

I look out my window

to receive

this visage

of inner strength:

empowerment.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos 

Last Yellow Leaf

A last yellow leaf from one of my trees

The leaves are really being blown by the usual northwest winds around here now. One maple tree in my yard has lost all of its leaves. Even the beautiful Catalpa tree is letting go of its large, heart-shaped leaves. That means it's time to take out that annual aerobic leaf remover: the rake, and I love it! 

Autumnal leaves release themselves from the summer branches and delicately float toward the fertile ground, continuing their labor of renewal and fulfilling their simple task of breathing truth into a complicated world. This poem is one inspired by the last yellow leaf to fall.

Last Yellow Leaf

Clinging to the dormant branch, 

she glows, knowing 

that His Love envelops 

with strength and purpose,

the brilliance beaming through. 
A gust of the north wind

sends this last yellow leaf

on its way to life’s 

glorious fulfillment. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(To hear my reading of this poem on Pod-omatic, Click HERE.)

In God's Time

Photo taken in Danbury, Connecticut

In God's Time

Taking my time, 
moving through a daily routine, 
I've come to that moment 
when I become anxious 
for answers to questions unresolved. 

Then, a thought enters my mind, 

moves through me, and reaches my soul. 

It becomes a prayer, guiding me 

to these feelings of love, peace, joy

that encompass me. 

No longer am I filled with doubt, 

for purpose supplants ache, and now, 

I feel Divine Love open my heart with His aim 

on a path, carefully tread 

in God's Time.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

You can listen to me recite this verse in my 'froggy' January voice by clicking HERE.

When in France...

                                         The view from a hotel room in Reims, France, taken some years ago.

A few years ago, I presented a paper at the annual Association of Franco-Irish Studies conference in Reims, France. Ever since I spoke that first French word in my ninth grade French class, I've longed to go to that country. Finally, decades later, my dreams came true but not without the unfortunate realization that there were no washcloths at my hotel. So.....

When in France

In a French hotel in la cité de Reims,

an American searches for a washcloth. 

Alas, she finds none in this room,

so she must make do. 

This is France after all.

Sparkling white tub beckons her.

“Okay, Okay!”

She turns the water handle to HOT

and gently pours shampoo into the steady stream,

splashing the rising water to create more bubbles.

Then, smiling, she steps into the steaming water,

now filled with mounds of fluffy, fragrant bubbles,

closes her eyes and whispers to the 13-year-old girl

sitting in a French class, south of Detroit, decades ago.

“Oui, Jeanne ... tu seras en France un jour.”

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear me read this verse, please click HERE.