unwinding the cocoon

 The following poems form a crystalized diary of the past few years of my life — from graduate school studying vocal performance in New York’s Hudson Valley, to working as a freelance singer, and as a stitcher in a theater costume shop, on through these past nine months of the coronavirus pandemic, and all that those months have entailed.  These poems are an odd, straggling, surging record of high and low, of flashes of light, and of slogging through the dark, of looking inward and out.  

~AddieRose Forstman
November 2020
Red Hook, NY

Prelude

***
How to break through the innocent
cocoon of fear?
To burst the confining manners
    and find a palette broader,
richer of hues and depths of living,
   and keeping no gift safe, unspent,
hoarding no manna
for the unknown tomorrow
 — yes! not even for giving —
to live daring as a leaf in flame;
to give free as a child whose
‘I’ is still clear.
***

Perhaps there is not so much ‘grey’
after all.
Perhaps in each moment of choice,
great and small,
The same question is — the same answer:
yes or no.
Simple.  Muddled by worldliness.
hide or grow.
***

SING-SONG

***
Joy is in the littlest things
like shadows on the wall;
like warming tears for one you love,
that open you as they fall.

Joy is in the daily things
askew upon the shelf
— the books and songs and spices —
these make up our wealth.

Joy is in the taking note
of old things turning new
of reflections puzzle-fractured
that might help us to see through.
***

There’s a cold that’s of Spring
when the lone Robin sings
in the branches like lace
against the blue.

There’s a Dark that’s yet Day
when the paper moon stays,
wishing the sleepy Sun
would warm her fading face.

There’s a grief that’s yet Song
when the searching soul longs
that her heart-wearying work be through
that her simple peace be won.
***

Some days when I'm washing the dishes,
and feeling a bit like a drudge,
a dear little memory comes to my mind,
and I can't bear those dishes a grudge.
With the suds on my gloves it hits me
- and the tedium whirls down the drain - 
that all those years of my little-girl-hood,
when my father was filled with pain,
not a single day passed at that silly red sink
(in my gratitude the silverware glows)
that my father didn't laugh, and pick me up
to let me put soap bubbles on his nose.
***

I've not been trained in pretense,
To my irregular distress;
Taking childish pride in honesty,
Yet fearing childhood's confidence.

I censor my own frankness
As a con-man does his lies;
My worth is mine to hold to,
Yours to ignore, or realize.

Like Rostand's nosèd rhymer, I'd prefer
Not to patch all my clothing at the knee --
Not to grovel for attention - "Non, merci!"
My honour being deeper than any They confer.

At rare times I distrust my own defiance
- Whether or not it may keep me from the goal -
And crave the simplicitude of compliance...
But at what cost to the self-respecting soul?
***

I’ve got that restless feeling
that comes with sitting still
I never know where to put it,
perhaps I never will.

I’ve tried to take it by the tail
and fly it - like a kite -
but wind and will always deflate
before it’s reached its height.

I’ve tried to sail it like a boat
whose sails are filled with song,
but the boat’s too heavy for my breath,
and self-love never lasts that long.

I’ve tried to give it to my friends,
but they’ve looked at me strange
— ‘why would falling snowflakes
cause such a silly change?’

I used to give it to the storm
and let thunder carry it away,
but there must be some useful thing
to do with it some day.

Well, here I’ve put it on a page,
and maybe that’s the thing:
to let it out into my little world
and teach it how to sing?
***

SEARCH

***
Sometimes in the sleepless night
purpose returns,
slipping unnoticed through heavy particles of heat
— a thread merely —
sure as the hand that holds it,
strong as the binding heart
woven from the latent grain of joy

… all green must be buried to grow.

When in the long work of fingers
self recedes,
opening space for creation’s goal — 
a spark merely,
bright as the breath of the song
relentless as a mother’s charge,
sets the heart’s chaff aflame

… all excess must burn for the bud.

***

Dear tree — you, tall and weeping
tears of gold,
Could I bring to this earth in a lifetime
half the beauty
That in one glancing moment you effortlessly
give to me
I should count my journey in this world
richly, generously spent.

***

Grow tall, dear friend,
and shelter with your loving leaves
this child for whom death
was surely no stark end,
but blazing, gentle leap beyond
the emptiness for growth
he left behind
in hearts that love and cling
and long for certain knowledge of his sunset land.

***

Fearless, gentle eyes, whither do you gaze, wide?
Will you guide me there - where your vision rests?
My feet, firm, sculpted to Earth’s maternal roughness,
Will follow - in blind, stumbling fear perhaps - but pausing
Still for beauty’s wonder at the living land.
My fingers, strong and skilled, will listen to your love’s command
To work what can be wrought of shelter for the needing heart.
No longer shall I hinder you with halting consciousness
Of those who may cast doubt on my humility.
I will cast that weight away!
For I am come to trust this love-song to myself
Has been too long already in its rooting.

***

PANDEMAEICS

***

I am afraid, too.
Not of the lonely hours
Filled with air, and sky, and Earth
- those were the dreams of earlier days.
Hermitage holds me in no dismay.

I am afraid, too.
Not for my youthful health -
My body nourished and strong,
With this wealth of time to rest,
And explore word, thought, and song.

I am afraid, too.
With a fear that creeps into the nerves
- the sneaking fear of the herd,
That bites before I know it,
Lying hidden in copious words.

But I am a lucky one,
For I can sit still in the sun,
Soothed by the wind in the chimes,
And write down my little rhymes,
While I breathe myself back into calm.

For today, this is my honest psalm.

***

On the Second Day of Spring

A break in the clouds, 
and the frogs start to sing, 
as old Willow weeps his cares away.

A wind passes through 
that is gentle and free, 
and the pond waves in dance to its tune.

An afternoon meeting 
of robins agree 
that it's never too late for the worm.

And a crocus unfolds 
its purple heart to the sun, 
like a dainty, earthbound moon. 

So when the rains 
sweep back through 
to wash the ploughed fields

They seem kinder 
than they did before, 
and soothe the long evening to grey.

***

Villanelle de Quarantaine 

The skies are dark and drab like fall's,
Though shoving buds cry out of spring,
And we stay locked within four walls.

The birds have muffled their bright morning calls -
So shall I take up the branch they've left, and sing
To these skies that are dark and drab like fall's?

Or, wrapped in the warmth of blankets and shawls,
Shall I dive into my books, adventuring
While we stay locked up within these four walls,

Dreaming of days when our windfalls
Will take us far away, adjourning
To skies not dark and drab like fall's?

All this homey quiet recalls
A childhood rich with love and learning,
Happily locked within four walls.

In these strange times, whatever befalls,
May I find, each day, means of brightening
These skies that are dark and drab like fall's,
While we stay safe, locked within four walls.

***

Maybe disaster teaches us
What we really need in life -
Perseverance, not ambition;
Not those days rife
With practical distraction,
But self-nurtured, present focus.

Maybe disaster rubs away
Our habitual facade
Until we see ourselves bare:
Each fear, each love, each care
For us to disparage, or applaud
- What remains is ours to say.

Maybe disaster is the harsh spring-
Deceiving with sunshine, fickle of rain-
During which we bury tiny seeds
Of what our world truly needs
To alleviate her lonely pain,
And remind her people to sing.

***

You Think It's a Game

You on the beaches, 
in those careless crowds, 
you are your decade's 
               draft-dodgers.

Your foolish flirtation 
in this gallows-gavotte 
could heap on others 
               a hopeless hell.

You joke and jeer now 
at their homebound fear, 
but your self-gratification 
               is digging graves.

Ignoring an easy injunction, 
you are the self-flattering fiends 
of this enigmatic episode 
              on Earth.

You - the daring draft-dodgers, 
careless of consequence
in your blind bid for bliss - 
               are you able to absolve this?

***

I think true peace must take root with those that are in power.

Let us not delude ourselves with lying humility, believing 
we are not of those.
For the breadth of history we have expected 
peace
To well from the long-suffering hearts 
of those we’ve trampled on
— at best expressing ‘honour’ for the depth 
of their forgiving faith —
But it is time we hold our breath, lest we harm one hair 
of the oppressed’s head,
For we say we believe that God 
has counted those,
And for each one broken or disheveled
we will be held accountable.

***

Passivity/ Soror Fama

Ever Rumour flies abroad
A fury in the guise of God
Her feathers shine like shifting screens
Shimmering images of maybe-have-beens
Her piercing eyes blindly reflect
Things thought to have been heard and seen
While humans pounce, paw, and collect
Figments of her feathers' down
Which float - a mighty wisdom-crown!-
Round the temples of each hungry head
That madly screeches "Hear what’s been said!”

***

Today has been a day
     for practicality 
more than poetry. 
      A day to repurpose the old
      with cut, stitch, and fold.
Plain cotton print - 
traveling from the land 
where stories are told, 
to disease's battlefront.
  May you lend a little hand 
    in the grueling stint 
    of those keeping death at bay.

***

"A Comic Ode to Cat”

Cat, we keep each other comfortable
    - you and I.
You warm my lap,
I scratch your back -
An equitable arrangement,
with no lack of love
- nor of black fur,
shed across my thigh
whenever I dare move
(inciting a disturbed sigh
before you purr to sleep again).
And then...
    I'm stuck.
But, it's a bit of luck
I'm deeply grateful for.
I must admit, I am your slave
- for even when you misbehave,
I laugh, and love you all the more

***

May we all make a vow to one another:
That we will not survive this time unaltered;
in isolation, learn to love our neighbour;
uproot destructive habits we have harboured.
    We who have ears, let us hear common sense call;
    We who fear at powerful fools' protocol.
Then, may we promise to the land we live on
a fuller recognition of what she bears
beneath Business, that Modern phenomenon,
who blinks narcissistic eyes at how she fares.
      We who have ears, let us listen to Earth's call;
      We who feel fear for Mother Nature's downfall.

***

I almost weep for guilt
that I have beauty here before me
- that I have breadth and breath 
unfettered.
Where I see willows, 
dripping golden in the rain,
others see stark walls, and faces 
drawn and drained
by hours of unrelenting action.
Never shall I feel shame 
at my vocation.
But helplessness sits heavy on my heart,
while my feet rest easy, 
and my eyes refuse to close.

***

In concentration
    colour comes leaping
-- light from light,
through the window of the eye -
  distillation of some Great Thought -
crystalization of the infinitesimal.
***

SELF

***

"I want to be you when I grow up."
To how many have I said those words in awe?
Because until this morning I barely sensed
-- I never stopped my spinning mind and s a w:
I AM the person that I want to be
- with neither pridefulness, nor with finality -
the skin of my spirit knit with endless flexibility
for growth & learning, love & life, condensed
within this, the mysterious normalcy of human form.
And although tomorrow I may forget, & feel my power shorn,
let these words be witnesses, with gratitude put forth,
that one day of my life I fully - boldly - felt my worth.

***

Rejection

I often find my light by chance, it seems,
Blinking, naïve, at my own beautiful skill,
Stumbling headfirst into its heated beams.
But my efforts to retain it - too pale still -
Reflect it back to others and leave me here
Grasping stupidly at cracks turned lightless,
Too narrow for my working fingers,
Deft at their craft, but rubbed numb and senseless
Against locks whose metallic sting lingers
In the dented ego's delicate atmosphere.

***

For H.A.B. - July 7, 2020

As you did
Time slips away into unperceived sunset.
Another day - another year -
has gone to be with you
on the other side of chaos.

As you did
I piece together pirates out of patches
- some days of the year -
but with less trust
of their providing due escape.

As you did
So would I --
restore my plastic sword and armour
and enter, boldly, trustingly, the fray
of life's minutest details.

As you might have done
I have longed 
and looked to do
in my twenty years
beyond your final, old-young age.

And the truth is,
all these twenty-seven years
I've thought in secret that
somehow
I might meet you - up the street
As if the sunset
- never seen -
had never
been.

***

Revisiting the Storm

Sometimes when a stormwind's blowing
I need to be outside,
even if those who care the most
may say that it's not wise.
But in the whistling gusts I find
a powerful, strange trust,
which thunder in its hard reply
cracks deep into my heart,
while lightening sears across my mind

                      RESOLVE 

some may not wish to see.
There roil with the brain-like clouds
thoughts that make my self more spacious,
my soul more facetedly me.
Let rain beat away the excess til I can be
less careful of what others think,
swift and distant - Nature-wise - to wrongs,
and foolish in their eyes

       but oh ---

                          So strong.

***