Response to Ekphrastic Challenge

Mary McCarthy’s “Joy”

 

Joy by Mary McCarthy

 Dancing Our Joy by Joan Leotta
 
This mare who gallops, prances
through the field, joyfully,
knowing her world expanding
with the growth of
the foal within—I know her joy;
I have danced with her.
 
On the day the doctor confirmed
my roots would bloom
with the blossom of our family’s future,
on my way home,
I stopped to buy some milk.
Across the parking lot I spotted
my husband, early from work,
stepping out of the florist.
I called to him, dancing
across the parking lot
calling out, as I leapt
into his arms,
“I’m really pregnant!”
 
This mare’s frolicking
in her joy over
the nestled tiny foal,
makes us sisters. For as
she is doing, I also
danced, twirled and sang to
my little one, in situ, inside me,
every day from that first
knowledge to her birth and more
to pass on to her my joyful love
rooting her to love’s
universal truth
expressed in dance.
 

Letter to My Friend by Mary Ellen Talley

Dear Kathy,

One of the last photos I saw of you
was taken in your dining room.
Your daughter Katie was seated
leaning across your hospice bedside
while one of her small daughters  
sat on your blanket. Katie was beaming
and so were you. I can’t help thinking
how Katie’s April joy will be tempered
by your absence. She’s growing a baby.
When the doctor said your tumor was the size
or a grapefruit, Katie said it was growing
faster than her baby. Maybe that was when
they knew you wouldn’t be around for the birth.
Your husband Bill will love holding Katie’s baby.
And, of course, his joy will be large enough
to stand in for both of your joys.
We’re all thinking that Angel Kathy
will be a great help throughout delivery
and that a new baby will be therapy for grief.
The painting here is of a mare galloping gaily
before giving birth. The mare’s coat
is burnished red, just like your Katie’s hair,
which she braided up for your funeral.
The nearly foal with matching hair lies still.  
Green leaves are sprouting nearby. The curved light
has streaks of green and blue like swirls
of The Starry Night. The moon and stars
are whimsical, just like the overwhelming joy
you left for your children. The mare is surefooted
on uneven ground. It is as if she is prancing.
 

 

Joy is When My Granddaughters Call Me Dida by Abha Das Sarma

 -Dida means grandmother in India

She cries, Dida hold me, Dida hold on.
and I circle her close on my left
and try a selfie from my right.
Danny the dragon mascot, frog hopper
in slow rise, quick drop,
flyers and gyro-copters with her
I pedal to sky.

At break of day
jumping in and out the little pools
like the sun into the clouds,
across the bridge stretched
like a rainbow on ground,
we go hunting for the golden egg
at Happy Hollow park & zoo.

The keep-around-carousel at gate
with sharks, rhinos and an eagle.
Umbrellas colour the queues
as threatening grey morphs
into a black ghost. We watch
horses, guerillas rise and fall
then choose the swan seats instead.

With red panda in hiding,
we are back to flying,
higher and higher—
three, two, one, the music plays
as the elder counts Tres, Dos, Uno behind.
Hands too far for the front bar,
Dida hold me, Dida hold on, she cries again.

Granny bugs, mini putt-putt,
pacific roller coaster next,
I know there is no return to the day I just had—
At the gift store with faces painted in joy,
hang the necklaces round with shiny owls.
Nights will never be without light now!
I will be the Dida rag-doll and go hide
inside the golden egg I have so found. 

Horses Were My Father’s Greatest Joy by Judith Waller Carroll

My father wanted a son,
but got daughters both times,
so, barring that, he wanted
his daughters to love horses
as much as he loved Zephyr,
his high-stepping stallion
that led every 4th of July parade.
But his wife’s phobia of horses
rubbed off on both his girls
and though I tried to be the boy
he always wanted, I couldn’t
conquer fear enough to ride a horse.
Then fate gave me a second chance
to please, with his first grandchild,
not a boy, but a girl who adored horses
as much as he.

The Pursuit of Joy by Marianne Szlyk

In her next life, she will run, not on treadmills in sweat-dingy gyms with the same five songs playing, but outdoors.

In her next life, she will love horses who have minds of their own, strong heartbeats, the smell of tall grass and warm freedom.

In her next life, she will run at night, gallop even. The moon and stars, the ocean, will provide enough light. The summer’s salt wind will keep her company.

In her next life, she will bear children, keep them nestled beside her before they are born. She will keep them close after they are born, slow her steps before they can run with her.

In her next life, she is a horse. She gallops through a world without humans, for the slate has been washed clean, at least where she runs.

In her next life, she pursues joy, not happiness or excellence. Joy.

The Moon, My Belly and The Garden by Shaun R. Pankoski

A trinity of stars swirls in the sky tonight.
I nod to the moon and feel the tug in my belly.
That's where it lies, this idea, sleeping.
 
I walk through the garden, soil gilded in pale light,
looking for the start of green. Deep beneath my feet,
a million roots are working, making connections.
 
I have no partner, have birthed no children.
I am a wild red horse, running. When I forget why I am here,
I remember all these words, contained in me, waiting.

Mustang Mama by Sharon Waller Knutson

For many moons, she rocks
her little one to sleep
in her womb

as the wind whistles
and the sparrows sing,
her wide hips swinging

and sashaying as the stallion
leads and she and his eight
other sister wives follow

on the dance floor
of the Salt River Basin,
their manes wet and wild,

then showering, swimming
and paddling up to their necks,
dining on greens, sunflowers

and fresh sodium water
and when the foal drops
between her legs,

her filly or colt will salsa
and swim with the wild horses
as the scarlet sun rises and sets.

From My Grandfather is a Cowboy   

 

 

BABY!   by Joanne Durham

Rachel sends the sonogram today
of what will become (God willing)

our grandchild.  
Looks like a bean

in a soup bowl.  Someone
thoughtfully wrote BABY!

with an arrow pointing to it,
to tell us where to look.

God willing isn’t something
I’m known to say, but this child

carries the seeds of generations
beaten and starved,

herded into ghettos,
forced out through pogroms

because they clung
to their God.  They knew

the treachery of journey,
how fickle the chance of arrival.

So each day of the next
seven months, I’ll send something
 
resembling a prayer
that it thrives in that watery mix,

that it emerges, in its time,
whole and ready,

because BABY!,
though we’re both distant

from the ancestors,
is still, in miracle, swaddled.       

From To Drink from a Wider Bowl  

 

 

HOLSTEINS by Barbara Crooker

I’m walking down a gravel road
past cows in the green fields,

whose teeth make a kind of music
slowly chewing their way across the meadow.

The black one with the white face reminds me
of a girl from school, the way she rounded

her shoulders trying to hide her bulk
as she shoveled in lunch, the way she looked

middle-aged at fourteen, chins gleaming
as if she’d been grazing on buttercups,

her cardigans, flowered dresses, sensible shoes.
But I saw her at the last reunion, and she’d lost

the weight, stepped out of that old life
and into another.  Anything can happen.

A cow can grow wings, become an American
Redstart, flit black-and-white from tree

to tree.  A woman can lean on a rusty fence
and get tired of wishing things would change.

But I don’t want to change a thing.  I want
to keep walking this stony path, listening

to dried leaves in the beech tree,
insects playing their strings in the grass.

I want the sun to run down my face like honey.
I want the wind to kiss me.  I want all this to last.

from More 

 

 

The Toff and the Roof Tiler’s Daughter by Laurie Byro

For Andrew Motion

When I rock back and forth on the edge of the roof,
I keep my balance, at the precipice of all things

known and unknown. I bundle up a sack of fancy
words to expel into the wild air. Below me I see

his elocutions hanging on the line:
chiffon, lavender, hibiscus, periwinkle. I follow

my father, his blue chambray shirt, salty and whorled,
like a sea snail under each tanned arm. I wade in secret

marshes. I should have averted my eyes. From a leafy
riverbed, I will force my Love to see me

as uncommon. From a slippery ledge his heart
will race to keep up with mine. I’ll unbutton his shirt

and threaten him with the whole world. My father’s clanging
battens and cutters when I clearly want ledgers and ink.

A shudder will somehow loosen as each new
tile sets.  I will blow the rounded horn, announce the hunt.

He straddles his fine horse. His ruffled lace cuffs
muffle the pulse on his wrists, which smell when I kiss

them, of lavender. I am in danger of disappearing
into the curlicue depths as his hairs glint foxy red in the sun.

Me, with my superior view off daddy’s roof with its latest
conquest as we put lamb and bread on the table.   

From Luna