“The Children of Aleppo”

 

 

–

Reading this morning the never ending terror and violence done by Muslims in Europe and around the world makes me wonder where it all will end.  Obviously in Civil War and then probably in WWIII.  The real victims of war, civil war, etc., are  children.  It is always the children who suffer the most.  In our hatred for what adults do, we must remember the children who are innocent of such terror.

Lady Nyo

–

The Children of Aleppo

 

There is no childhood in Aleppo.

There are little martyrs-in-the-making

Where 5 year olds and 8 year olds

Wish for a ‘family death’

Where they can die together

With their parents

Where they live in peace in Heaven

Never tasting the fruits of peace on Earth.

 

There is no childhood in Aleppo.

The children haunt the abandoned houses

Of friends who have fled the city.

There they find abandoned teddy bears

While looking for guns for the rebels, their fathers.

 

“Oh, the poor thing!”

A dead canary in his cage

Abandoned by its owners

They flee the rockets, bombs

And mortars.

In the face of daily death

The sight of this bird

Evokes a child’s sorrow.

But the gunfire outside continues

(They are used to the noise)

And huddle in the pockmarked

Halls until safe to scatter.

 

 

The children of Aleppo

Have no teachers, doctors.

These have fled the cities, schools

But they still pine for ice cream,

For music in the streets,

For curtains not torn by violence,

For books and toys

And gardens and flowers,

For friends that have not died

Innocent blood splattering

The dirty cobble stones

At their feet.

 

The children of Aleppo

Are free and children again

Only in their dreams,

And perhaps, if you believe so,

After death.

 

How do you put back the brains

Of a child in the cup of the shattered skull?

How do you soothe the howls of the mothers

The groans of the fathers in grief?

How do you comfort the left-alive siblings?

 

The children of Aleppo

Have no future as children.

Suffer the little children here,

They are the sacrifice of parents

And factions,

And politicians

All with the blood of

10,000 children

Who have died

In a country torn

By immeasurable violence.

 

The beautiful children of Aleppo

Like children everywhere

Still want to chase each other

In the gardens, on playgrounds,

Want to dance in the streets,

Want to pluck flowers for their mothers

And they still pine for ice cream.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2014-2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chicken Hawk Talk

Some of our nine hens…..

–

Goofy, the Rooster.

–

It was raining and the Hens didn’t want wet beaks…

 

Chicken Hawk!

 

Leave my chickens alone!

I have worked hard for them-

A handmaiden of fowl,

Collecting beautiful eggs

The gift of the species.

 

Fragile vessels of life,

Naturally dyed,

Pink, brown, blue-green and white.

Presented at Easter,

A symbol of the Lamb of God,

A symbol of the Spring of Life.

 

Leave my chickens alone, hawk.

I won’t even share.

 

I remember two short years ago,

I  saw you wheeling over the kudzu

Riding the thermals,

Not even graced with the brick-colored tail

Of a Proper Red Tailed Hawk,

 

And I gasped at your splendor, a winged god

From the cosmos, glittering white ash against a cobalt sky,

And you landed one day in my birdbath,

Trying to look like a stone sculpture,

And just the flicker of your 8x eyes

Looked over the songbirds for lunch.

 

Jane Kohut-Birdtels

Copyrighted, 2009-15

“Chicken Hawk Talk” was published in “Pitcher of Moon”, 2014, book by JKB, at Amazon.com

About 5 years ago, we heard our  dogs in the far corner of the property.  They had trapped a young tercel…(male) or a young female, we couldn’t tell…but definitely a  Red Tail Hawk…..probably a fledgling.  Our son Christopher put on welders gloves and slowly got her around the middle.  Into the  chicken coop (sans hens) and she calmed down.  She was  there  about 3 hours…and we took some very bad pictures.

The last we saw of Hawkie was when Christopher took her outside the property into the late fall kudzu.  He launched her into the sunset and she glided over the kudzu for what seemed like minutes.  She, this dark missile floating on the red and gold sunset.  Quite a wonderful experience for us, and hopefully the hawk recovered.

sky to the North West,  Jane Kohut-Bartels, Oct. 25, 2012

 

“Young Red Tail Hawk”,  watercolor, 2008, Jane Kohut-Bartels

 

 

 

“Autumn Poem”

“North Carolina Stream”, watercolor, janekohut-bartels, 2008

–

AUTUMN POEM

– 

The chilling rains

Have blasted leaves

From black-barked trees.

Too soon has this happened

Thinking there would be yet time.

– 

Time to marvel

At Nature’s robust palette,

To fill the eyes and senses

With ethereal beauty

No man-made tints can challenge.

– 

But like most of life

We are behind

And lose out to clockwork

Not of our making.

 –

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010, 2015, from  “Pitcher of Moon”, Amazon.com, 2014

–

“Ode To A Coopers Hawk”, from “Pitcher of Moon”

was to be the cover painting for “Pitcher of Moon” but didn’t work out.

–

To my friends: enduring and good people.  The world is full of good people, we must not forget this.

Lady Nyo,… poem dedicated to my beautiful Sparky and Maggie, gone but not forgotten.

–

–

ODE TO A COOPERS HAWK

–

Come to me.

Come to me,

Winged celestial beauty.

Come to me with your notched

Mermaid tail,

Your silken roll of feathers.

–

Fly down into my hollowed-out soul,

Fill me with your sun-warmed glory

Nestle in my arms

And bring the curve of the horizon

Embraced in your outstretched wings.

–

I need no white bearded prophet,

No mumbled prayer, no gospel song

No hard church bench, no fast or

Festival to feel close to the Divine.

–

The glory of the universe,

Is embodied in your flight

As you tumble through heavens,

Ride the invisible thermals

Screech with joy at freedom

Fill your lungs with thin air

And play bumper car with an Eagle.

–

I, earthbound,

No hollowed bones to launch me,

Just tired soul to weigh down,

No soft plumage to feel the course

Of wind through glossy feathers

No hunting call to herald my presence.

–

Still my soul takes flight

The breeze lifts my spirit,

My eyes follow you,

And we will find that glory

Transcend a sullen earth,

Transcend a mean humanity

And soar together into the blue eye of God.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010-2015, “Pitcher of Moon” published 2014, Createspace, Amazon.com

“I Remember the Scream”, Albert Kohut 1915-1989

PItcher of Moon, available from Createspace, Amazon.com

He was my father.  Had he lived, he would have been 100 years old today.  He didn’t, but even after 25 years, I remember the parent that always loved me. I have nothing material of his, except a mouthpiece from his French horn, but I have his DNA and I was his first child and his only daughter.  I have a lot of memories.  I remember this man who was loved by everyone, even the caged rabbit down at Tornquist’s, the corner store in Griggstown, New Jersey.  It took me years to understand him, and unfortunately these things sometimes only come after death.  He was  kind and gentle, basically a quiet man full of accomplishments and talents. No fanfare, no hysterics, and especially loved by stray cats and dogs.  Although he died before I started to write, he did see a few small paintings and I know he is the reason I am a poet.  His heart was huge, and he stands as an example of what is good in humankind. I’m proud he was my father.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

–

I Remember….

 

I remember the scream

In the middle of the night

Of something dying

Down by the river,

Killed by an owl

Or possibly a fox.

–

I remember bolting awake

In my parent’s bed,

My heart in my throat

My father just died

The funeral over

Sleeping in

His bed,

Afraid to move from this reality

To the next,

No comfort to be had

Even with the scent of

His tobacco in the sheets.

–

I wandered the house,

Touched the walls,

Looked through windows

To a landscape not

Changed over years,

Ran my hands down the

Black walnut banister,

Smooth, smooth

As if the days would turn back

Just by this touch

And he would be here.

–

That scream somewhere on the banks

In the middle of the night,

When I jerked from sleep to

Awake, knowing, he was dead-

The father who loved me

Was gone forever.

I knew then

I was unmoored from life

floating out of reach of love.

–

A scream that challenged dreams

He would come back,

He wasn’t awaiting the fire

He would wake up,

Much as I did,

In a cold-sweat fear

And slowly, slowly

resume his place in the living.

–

There are unseen things

That happen in the night,

Down on the river bank,

Where life is challenged by death

Where a rabbit screams his mighty last

Where the heart leaps to the throat,

Where the most we can hope

Is a silent ghost

Who walks out of the river’s fog,

Extends his arms

And comforts the living.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2014

–

“I Remember the Scream” from Pitcher of Moon, available at Createspace, Amazon.com, 2014

Steve Isaak’s review of “Pitcher of Moon”

Steve Isaak is a poet and writer, a friend of almost 10 years.  He is prolific, and has been a poet many years ahead of me. Every so often, he publishes a poetry book and sends it to me to review.  I do the same.  Steve’s ability to wrestle with my poems and to create something new in my eyes about these works always amazes me.  And making that connection with other readers, but especially with other poets….always astounds me.

I am not sure why we write poetry, since it is a very marginalized medium today, but perhaps we write because we find souls in common and we don’t have to explain ourselves.  Steve has been a great encourager of my verse for the past 8 years and with supporters like him, well….they keep you going.

Steve has just published and sent me two more of his books.  They are heavy with what a real poet does and they take me a while to read and now…review.  Friend Steve, I’ll get to them, and a review, I promise….soon.

His website for reviews and literature is :  http://www.readingbypublight.blogspot.com

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Pitcher of Moon by Jane Kohut-Bartels

(pb; 2014: poetry anthology)

From the back cover: “If there is a singular theme that informs and underlies the diverse poems in this book, it is compassion. An expansive emotive range is traversed here, from heart-rending tragedy and despair to the sunny light of humour and optimism, and through it all flows a deep river of compassion for humanity, the world, nature and its wondrous creatures”….. .

.” Overall review:

Pitcher is an excellent and mood-effective collection of theme-tight and -mingled verseworks. These themes, recurrent in Kohut-Bartel’s evolving, increasingly masterful collections, include: relationships — with family, spouses and Nature; the moment-to-moment vagaries of life and change, with their infinite permutatons and surprises.

This is a great anthology from a great poet (and all-around writer). It can be purchased here.

Standout Poems:

1.) “O Absalom!“: Desire and nature are one in this proclamatory, healing versework. (A different, less streamlined version of this appeared in Kohut-Bartels’ first poetry anthology A Seasoning of Lust.)

2.) “High Road“: A traveler makes a choice between divergent paths, with the help of an old man. This, with its poetry-familiar echoes of Robert Frost, breathes new life into a known metaphor.

3.) “A Dish of Skylarks“: Excellent poem with especially sharp writing and a laugh-out-loud finish. This is one of my favorite entries in this collection. Here’s a taste of it:

“A dish of skylarks fell into my lap,

and I, ravenous with a multitude of hungers, ate them.

 Between burps one did escape,

shook himself, bowed, and offered a feather. . .“

4.) “Imaginary Friends“: Straightforward and effective poem about a boy’s inner life and his physical reality.

5.) “Night Fire Road“: Stanza’d, vivid musing about a mysterious backroad.

6.) “Night Poem“: Excellent, aurally-rich versework. One of my favorites in this collection.

7.) “Poem For My Husband“: Tender, disturbing (for its veracities) work about the underlying nature and fragility of intimacy. This is an exemplary, nailed-it piece. One of my favorites in this anthology.

8.) “The Apple Tree“: Sad, warm and strangely hopeful poem about its titular object and the memory of illness. (This is an alternate version of a same-titled piece in Kohut-Bartels’ first anthology A Seasoning of Lust.)

9.) “Nippon Tsuki“: Beautiful, three-part Japanese-themed poem.

10.) “Autumn Coming“: This one is about a seasonal, possibly cosmic shift, as experienced in a moonlit pond.

11.) “Rude Spring“: Stark, excellent and effective take on the transition between winter and spring.

12.) “Turkey Vultures“: Interesting take on the titular bird.

13.) “The Thaw“: A woman’s new openness to love is equated with the warming of a creek. Excellent metaphorical work.

14.) “Autumn Poem of Mid-November“: Beautiful, superb poem.

15.) “Dusk“: Soothing, beautiful versepiece. One of my favorites in this collection.

16.) “Original Blessing“: The true nature of birth and divinity is poetically, effectively illustrated.

17.) “Snakes in the ‘Hood“: Gentle, loving stanza-work about the wrongly maligned snake (in the present) and its celebration in the distant past. One of my favorites in this anthology.

18.) “Attending to the Spirit in Spring“: Beautiful poem about its titular season.

19.) “Viva Negativa“: Stark-toned, excellent piece about the cyclic and inherent nature of winter.

20.) and 21.) “I Remember” and “I Wonder“: This companion-themed poems are two separate, progressive parts of a verse-story. The first poem, “I Remember,” shows a woman recalling her father’s death and how it affected her. The second, “I Wonder,” once again delves into the themes of darkness and parent-child relationships, this time in a different way.

22.) “Coppermine Road“: Vivid tale-verse about a Jersey copper mine and strange nature. One of my favorites in this collection

23.) “The Homecoming“: American history, memory and ambivalence shape the tone of this one. Especially good work.

Labels: favorite reads 2015, Jane Kohut-Bartels, poetry anthology

Happy Easter!!! and a poem, “Bhava Yoga”

–

It is spring in the south, and the storms are brewing to the west of Atlanta.  This is the usual course of events, and over the past years the thunderstorms have brought violent weather, tornadoes, hail and flooding rains.  It is Easter in a matter of days, and the weather promises to behave, bringing a gorgeous Easter Sunday morning.  I hope so, but the skies right now look menacing enough, and we will have to take the good with the bad.

The picture above is of my front garden last night before dark.  Last fall I planted 300 bulbs, of daffodils, tulips and crocus.  About 50 tulips have come up, but because they are more a cold weather bulb, they will have to be replanted next fall.  Or….I can get in there and dig them up and put them in cold storage.  Either way, they make a lovely show in a small part of the front garden.

Happy Easter!

Lady Nyo

–

Bhava Yoga

 

Morning’s roseate sky

Has been blasted away,

Branches now whirligigs

Swirl with a fierce southern wind

As windows rattle in frames.

A tattered umbrella

Shades from a relentless sun.

–

I listen to Bhava Yoga

The vibration of Love,

Where imagination meets

Memory in the dark.

Yet surrounding these soothing tones

The world outside this music

Conspires to disrupt, sweep away

Any centered down thought, reflection.

–

The fierce wind demands my attention.

–

Still, the pulse of Bhava Yoga

Draws me within,

Feeds imagination with memory,

Calls forth something as enduring as the fury outside,

And I feel the pulse of the infinite.

–

Our lives are lived in the spheres of

Inside/outside

And we are like birds,

Clinging with dulled claws to

The swaying branches of life.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2012

–

from:  “Pitcher of Moon”, 2014,  available at Createspace, Amazon.com

–

–

“The Children of Aleppo”, poem

–

Suffer the little children……

–

The Children of Aleppo

–

 

There is no childhood in Aleppo.

There are little martyrs-in-the-making

Where 5 year olds and 8 year olds

Wish for a ‘family death’

Where they can die together

With their parents

Where they live in peace in Heaven

Never tasting the fruits of peace on Earth.

–

There is no childhood in Aleppo.

The children haunt the abandoned dwellings

Of friends who have fled the city.

There they find abandoned teddy bears

While looking for guns for the rebels, their fathers.

–

A dead canary in his cage

“Oh, the poor thing!”

Abandoned by its owners

As they flee the rockets, bombs

And mortars,

In the face of daily death,

The sight of this bird

Evokes a child’s sorrow.

But the gunfire outside continues

(They are used to the noise)

And huddle in the pockmarked

Halls until safe to scatter

-.

The children of Aleppo

Have no teachers, doctors.

These have fled the cities, schools

But they still pine for ice cream,

For music in the streets,

For curtains not torn by violence,

For books and toys

And gardens and flowers,

For friends that have not died

Innocent blood splattering

The dirty cobble stones

At their feet.

–

The children of Aleppo

Are free and children again

Only in their dreams,

And perhaps, if you believe so,

After death.

–

How do you put back the brains

Of a child in the cup of the shattered skull?

How do you soothe the howls of the mothers,

The groans of the fathers in grief?

How do you comfort the left-alive siblings?

–

The children of Aleppo

Have no future as children.

Suffer the little children,

They are the sacrifice of parents

And factions

And politicians

All with the blood of

10,000 children

Who have died

In a country torn

By immeasurable violence.

–

The beautiful children of Aleppo

Like children everywhere

Still want to chase each other

In the gardens, on playgrounds,

Want to dance in the streets,

Want to pluck flowers for their mothers

And they still pine for ice cream.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2014-2015, originally published in “Pitcher of Moon”, 2014, Amazon.com, by Jane Kohut-Bartels

‘Introduction to the Characters’, From “The Nightingale’s Song”

Some time in late March I will publish “The Nightingale’s Song”.  Actually, Nick Nicholson and I will publish it.  Nick is travelling the US in a black Mustang convertible, having the time of his life.  Nick comes from Canberra, Australia, and in his last trip here, formatted “Pitcher of Moon” (April, 2014). 

I wrote this saga three years ago, but have added chapters to it, and some essays on the Man’yoshu, the great 8th century Japanese document of poetry that inspired so much of “Nightingale”.

It is good to have this work finished. The cover painting is done, and there are a few surprises inside in the form of graphics.  We will publish this book at Createspace, Amazon.com.

Lady Nyo

–

–

1

INTRODUCTION TO THE CHARACTERS….

 

 

In Old Japan there was an even older daimyo called Lord Mori, who lived in the shadow of Moon Mountain, far up in the Northwest of Japan.  Lord Mori ran a court that did little except keep his men (and himself) entertained with drinking, hawking and hunting.  Affairs of state were loosely examined and paperwork generally lost, misplaced under a writing table or under a pile of something more entertaining to his Lordship.  Sometimes even under the robes of a young courtesan.

Every other year the Emperor in Edo would demand all the daimyos travel to his court for a year.  A clever demand of the honorable Emperor. It kept them from each other’s throats, plundering each other’s land, and made them all accountable to Edo and the throne.  This only worked on paper for the nature of daimyos was to plunder and cut throats where they could.

Lord Mori was fortunate in having an exemption to attend the Emperor. He was awarded this exemption with pitiful letters to the court complaining of age, ill health and general infirmities.  He sent his eldest, rather stupid son to comply with the Emperor’s demands. He agreed to have this disappointing young man stay in Edo to attend the Emperor.  Probably forever.

Lord Mori, however, continued to hunt, hawk and generally enjoy life in the hinterlands.

True, his realm, his fiefdom, was tucked away in mountains hard to cross. To travel to Edo took months because of bad roads, fast rivers and mountain passages. A daimyo was expected to assemble a large entourage for this trip: vassals, brass polishers, flag carriers, outriders,  a train of horses and mules to carry all the supplies, litters for the women, litters for advisors and fortune tellers, and then of course, his samurai. His train of honor could be four thousand men or more!

But this tale isn’t about Lord Mori. It’s about one of his generals, his vassal, Lord Nyo and his wife, Lady Nyo, who was born from a branch of a powerful clan, though a clan who had lost standing at the court in Edo.

Now, just for the curious, Lord Nyo is an old samurai, scarred in battle, ugly as most warriors are, and at a loss when it comes to the refinement and elegance of life– especially poetry.  His Lady Nyo is fully half his age, a delicate and thoughtful woman, though without issue.

But Lord and Lady Nyo don’t fill these pages alone. There are other characters; priests, magical events, an old nursemaid, women of the court of Lord Mori, an ‘invisible’ suitor, birds and frogs, samurai and a particularly tricky Tengu who will stand to entertain any reader of this tale.

A full moon, as in many Japanese tales, figures in the mix. As do poetry, some ancient and some written for this tale.  War and battles, love and hate.  But this is life.  There is no getting one without the other.

The present Lady Nyo, descended from generations past.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2015

“Via Negativa”, from ‘Pitcher of Moon’

–

–

Winter still drags on, and most of the country has been hit with deep snowstorms.  In the South, we have received almost nothing of snow, the most beautiful element of Winter.  Right now, as I write this, I look out my window with blurry eyes (it is early) and it is either rain or a very light snow falling. It is rain, the snow an illusion brought on by aging eyes.

Probably because Atlanta isn’t Boston with over 100 inches of snow this year, I look toward the solitude of being quieted in a snow fall.  The air is muffled, the greys and black of the trees stand out in sharp contrast to everything around them, the traffic halts, only the birds, cardinals and wrens and whatever attacks the bird feeders in the yards are going about their business of survival.  Inside, thanks to the labor of this fall, with a good stack of dried wood, the woodstove heats most of this old house, which is a miracle in of itself. My husband has redesigned and remodeled this 1880’s house with  a more open floor plan.  It’s not the quaint Victorians with their turrets and gingerbread, but a solid English farmhouse, built 3 miles south of downtown Atlanta, an oddity now and probably back then.  The original owners and builders were the Ragsdales, out from Lancaster, England in the 1860’s, owners of West End Horse and Mule, a carriage company. 

This poem is about the trials of Winter.  We have not experienced the continuous raw weather, the dangerous snows, the complete interruptions of power, nor the isolation where you can’t travel or even get out of your house. But this particular season changes much, gives a breather in the usual activities and within that particular space, can nudge forth a deeper creativity.  It certainly is a cessation in the usual activity of humankind and beast.

Lady Nyo

–

Via Negativa

Winter is the perfect channel

To carry Via Negativa,

No static

Just Silence, Stillness

And the Dark.

–

On this path,

We sit in contemplation,

No answers,

No struggle,

We are as empty as an eggshell.

–

This time is colored by little outside;

A flash of darting cardinal

Like a stream of blood

racing past our eyes,

The sound of a falling limb

makes us search the skies,

The moaning of the wind

bustling around limbs,

And the rattle of the skeleton-bones

Of attic haunts.

–

And yes, Death,

As Winter brings

To those who succumb to frigid winds,

And those lost from shelter.

–

We spiral into the Darkness,

Where we barely draw breath,

Conserve our energy,

And stare outside at such

A blank palette.

–

Stilling ourselves,

We draw closer to low fires,

Scratch our dried skin

Like a monk in a hair shirt,

And, with time and patience–

Spiral back into

the light of Spring.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2014

originally published in “Pitcher Of Moon”, Createspace, Amazon.com, 2014