Diary of the Soft World

By Carol L. Hatfield

When you see through someone else’s eyes, doors and windows fly open. The view can be refreshing and enlightening, and you may come to know yourself on a different level. When poetry is very personal, it can offer such a vista.

Diary of the Soft World, by poet Carol L. Hatfield, offers a series of deeply personal verses spanning many years and several genres. Some of the poems are written with children in mind while remaining accessible to all ages. Others are an expression of what emerges from heritage and DNA. Ancestry speaks loudly, as do ancestors, and when their voices reach a certain decibel level, the poet has no choice but to express them. Many of these poems are words from Earth, and Hatfield feels honored to have been able to interpret them. Taken as a whole, this collection of poetry invites you to seek something new within yourself.

Twilight (a cinquain)

Twilight -
listen as the
birds begin auditions
and watch as each star radiates
applause

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781483467771

Book preview

HATFIELD

Copyright © 2019 Carol L. Hatfield.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7060-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6777-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019910726

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date:  08/08/2019

DEDICATIONS

For my love, Gary.

To Kirk, for giving me a push and a bit of courage. More than once.

For my mom, Judith, my sister, Tiffany, my nieces, Lauren and Emily, and in memory of my dad, Lowell.

For my dear friends who believe in me.

With my thanks to Alice Friman, who encouraged me to continue writing.

INTRODUCTION

This collection of poems represents work spanning several years, and a few genres. 

For a writer, wordplay is a part of you, something that you feel you must do. But I quit writing for a period of time. Then my good fortune to serve as a children’s program coordinator in a library led me back into writing, and writing children’s poetry, as well as teaching poetry to children. Some of the poems in this book are those that I have written for kids, but they are accessible to all ages. Others are an expression of that which emerges from heritage, from DNA. Ancestry speaks loudly, as do ancestors. And when their voices reach a certain decibel level, well, you have no choice but to express them. I’m proud of who I am and from where I came. Many of the poems are words from Earth, and I am honored to have been able to interpret them.

As you read these pages, perhaps you will come to know me. Perhaps you will come to know yourself on a different level. When you see through someone else’s eyes, doors and windows fly open. The view is refreshing and enlightening. 

You must read poems in order to write them. Over the years I have been strongly influenced by the marvelous imagery and beautiful words of such authors as Naomi Shihab Nye, Wallace Stevens, Mary Oliver, e.e. cummings, Emily Dickinson, the songs and writings of the First Nations.

Poems are very personal. These poems are me. Thank you for reading them. I hope you will find yourself somewhere in them, too.

FOUR GYRFALCONS

                                    Four Gyrfalcons

                                                came down

                                                from the far north

                                    bringing their words

                                                with them:

                                                    sharp

                                                    white

                                                    wind

                                                    silence.

                                    The Audubon book said

                                                    rare

                                                    magnificent

                                                    memorable

                                                in orbit

                                                            of each other -

                                                            a flurry

                                                            of secrets and beauty . . .

                                    That was the night

                                                              the moon 

                                                              rose

                                                            on eight unforgettable

                                                                        wings

STARS

We are made of starstuff.

-Carl Sagan

If you 

focus

on one promising

patch

of sky

            they will

            appear –

silent call

and response

They will always

respond

Not indifferent 

they are

awestruck –

contemplating

how it feels

to walk

speak

breathe….

and view

themselves

through the prism

of a soul

HAIKU

Autumn migration –

Monarch asleep

      on the

          pine bough

                                    Lost Moon

                                    just behind the wind -

                                    night is over . . .

                    Vulture

                          spiraling lower       into

                                      her own shadow . . .

TAO OF SOUND

            Do you see 

            that sound?

                                    silver

                                    rivulets -

                                    music

                                    sprinkling

                                    out of open windows 

                                    chatter of girls -

                                    blue feathers

                                    fluttering

                                    down

                                    an empty stairwell

                                    that purple round

                                    rubber

                                    ball - laughter

                                    bouncing

                                    wall

                                    to wall into

                                    vacant rooms

            I dreamed I was

            the hollow corridor

            not doing

            not thinking

            plain walls

            washed

            with a thousand colors of sound . . .

TWILIGHT (A CINQUAIN)

Twilight -

listen as the

birds begin auditions

and watch as each star radiates

applause

LAST WORDS OF THE LAST LION OF THE SKELETON COAST (AFRICA)

            Realize that I am

                        the last one.

            I’ll carry the salt-spray,

                                    the cool gritty sand

                                    and the taste of seal meat

                                                            with me –

                                                      as a comfort

                                                      as memory…

                                    do ghosts keep memories?

            I hope the ocean

                        will speak

                        for me

            with words as large as mine…

GUITAR

I have a first 

            name

and this

            is my second – 

            a name           

            shaped in wood

            and string

that holds secrets

          of where

          and when

and how

it came to be

the why

            is so that I 

            could discover

            those secrets

and unlock 

them

and give us both 

                        a voice

SNOWFALL FOR THE WINTER SOLSTICE

a storm of 

            Butterflies

                        all white

not pulled

by gravity 

but drawn

            to whatever it is

            that sounds

            like music

                        to them

                        - wind

                              water

                                  the hum of feet 

                                    and busy minds

and when they

            make landfall

they speak

            in soft

                syllables

thousands of words

stacked

one

on another

so achingly gentle

            that we are shocked

            into

                quietude

and the stunning

            weight

of this moment….

STONE

            We forget the importance

                        of stones –

            their strength

            and quiet presence   how they echo

            the shower of stars

                                    in the sky

            Collect stones

                        notice their color

                shape    the comfort

                        of their weight

                        in your hand

            At one time humans understood

                                    ‘stone’

                they spoke its bubbly language

                invoking the spirit inside -

                revealed  as blade   bead  

                           and monument

            Stones are magic

            listen   they will hum

            they’ll sing stories

                        of the living   the breathing

            tales from a span of seasons

                        we cannot fathom

            A diary of the soft world

                        they hold

                                       shell    leaf    feather    and bone

            cupped

                 in perfect

                      slumber…

APPALOOSA SPRING

            my mare   without 

                                    shoes

            contacts

                        earth . . .

            and celebrates

            with a blossom

            of color

                                    and a delicate

                                                    dance

                                    of arcs

                                          and speed

            teaching me   to be    a loop 

                                                            in the wind 

A-LA-S-GI-DA (DANCE)

                                    Our

                                    names

                                    are recorded

                                    in the soles of our feet -

                                        syllables

                                    from the mouth

                                    of the arch

                                        the toes

                                        the full belly of the heel

                                    In the circle

                                    of dance

                                                listen as the legends

                                                let fly

                                                their thousand

                                                tongues

                                                loosed again -

                                                roar of spirits

                                                remembering

                                    remembering

                                    the dance

                                                the dance . . .

                        Across the valley floor

                        horses write a hundred words