Seeker Magazine
Phibby Venable
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I have a degree in social work and while working for a community action agency, had one chapbook, Indian Wind Song, published by the agency. The proceeds from the sale of the book went to help low income families receive indoor plumbing, wells, and home repairs.
I received an award from the Virginia Water Project for helping the largest number of families in this area (Appalachian region). Many families here still lack the basic essentials, and I have found the elderly to be the ones that suffer most. They carry water from streams, and you can still see many porches lined with gallon jugs of stored water. I am also involved in reviewing grants for low income agencies.
The reason I write is because I find the world a most interesting place. In the rural area where I grew up, many subjects were forbidden. I put my feelings into poems and kept my opinions in journals. And I like the way the same words can mean so many different things according to how they are used.
Mandolin Girl
One day she grasped the mandolin
by its curly neck and curved it high
up into her breast
and it sang as though they had
met after a long separation
and it followed her into the rich
valleys and whispered beautiful
lies before witnesses
and in the city streets it leapt
into crowds pushing its sharp trembling
notes into the dense air
In bad times the icy spears of its strings
ran a range of cold bitter moods
but it would swing on a good day
and sing away the shadows
songs of fine laughing
and a chorus of glowing grace
When the mandolin girl grew too
old to play, she placed the music
in a bed of hot stones
the curly neck bent and the strings
broke in thin screams
ashes and a million songs
flaked up the chimney into the night air
and the mandolin girl clutched her
white chest to grow deaf listening
to the last lyrics
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Hummingbird
there are flowers in your garden
where the hummingbirds drink
your nectar, grow dizzy with floral
wine and leave sweet kisses
there is no anodyne to their grief
when the blooms fall to the
autumn chill
outside my window icicles grow
spears of hard fact
and my spirit is beyond fortitude,
beyond postcards from busy shores
I will sprout tiny wings and find you
on an empty street
near a broken track
or perhaps at your windowscreen
you will hear the soft hum
of a miniature bird
and believe spring has hurried
back early
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A Woman Stands
A woman stands in the universe
she is whispering something
the words become ripened fruit
they splatter around her feet
in rich color
children drop from her body
and hurry toward the sun
men lean upon her breast and listen
each hears his name and lifts it
from her stained red lips
a woman stands in the universe
she is watching the sun rise
and set in vibrant blasts
watching tides roll out
roll in as the sand slips
beneath her flat feet
her eyes spark the night
with dark prisms
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Leaving the Sea
There are many hills here, which is why I left the sea
and you, a frigate, seeking the blue-footed boobies, ingesting
food meant for the young, inflating your magnificent wingspan
and luring females with your bright plumage, red and tawdry
I have flown away singing a free thrush song
There are many mountains here, and it is certain that you,
fast mover, quick glider, cannot leave the sea, or see beneath
the tree lined ridge, all the resources I have hidden, in the
cool caverns, buried in the spring of this new valley
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Listen to me, God
I have ridden into town on a small, tired horse
tied up outside the stable
dived between the clear waters of the river of life
and freshened up with good intentions
but it is hard to stay clean when I'm on the road
and many problems in the long run
My hair knots in the cold wind, I have burrs
beneath my saddle, and not many rivers
run crystal clear
I find myself in murky waters
Good intentions can't cut it here
I have climbed a cherry tree in resurrection
touched placenta fresh puppies
with a child's caress
held bald birds condemned to die
life does not pardon clumsiness
What I mean to say is
there are limits to climbing,
to crawling, to innocence, to death
that the bones are mere hinges
where the soul swings free
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Fishing in Winter
It is best to come here on cold days
the fish are sleeping in a mud mask
and I can throw lines with abandon
no fear of hooking the soft mouth,
or bright, staring eye
It is only the silence I am seeking here
and the act of throwing lines
is a mantra of movement
I am hoping to catch the spirit
of elusive tranquility, expand my
heart in the woods,
find my big fish story
take the solitude home for a quiet supper
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Faces
you are not shy, my mother said, then turned
and walked into her ready audience
and I repeated her words in a cherokee chant
clutched my arms to my chest, rocking
you are not shy, I told my blue eyed daughter
she tossed her blond hair, flung herself forward
in a cheerleader's skirt, pounded volley balls
with clenched fists, a natural participant
you are not shy, I told my brown eyed daughter
crossed my fingers, hoped, my luck would hold
her eyes were dark shadows following my back
behind me I heard the hum of a cherokee chant
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(Printed with permission; Copyright 2002 - All Rights Reserved by Phibby Venable - No reproduction without express permission from the author)
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Letter to the Author:
Phibby Venable at Phibbyvenable@aol.com
