Distil
Katharine Thorpe
d i s t i l
a collection of poems
by
Katharine Thorpe
Copyright 2013 Katharine N. Thorpe
All rights reserved.
dedication
To my mom: you make life magical.
table of contents
flight
the dream
remembrance
summer's essence
17
eyelids
frustration
limerick
park bench composition
a difficult lesson
a christmas sonnet
fragments
about the poems
about the poet
about the artwork
flight
black and intent on their own pursuits
lofty and clean in the cold, clear air
wingèd off-rhythms
soundless, captivating
flexible formation, hemmed at the back
cold exhilaration
baroque and black.
the dream
I dreamed myself a dream one night,
And woke amid the cold moonlight,
Pondering my visions with a small, small smile.
Often have I wished to dream
On the same enchanting theme,
Wishing, but to no avail, this long, long while!
remembrance
beautiful words, crystal,
stronger with each reverberation,
echo back to me from some obscure retreat...
and strains
or chains
of half-forgotten melodies
dance in the corners of my mind,
coloring my eyesight like autumn leaves...
people
in hazy-bright memories
remind me to count my days
sifting away
sand in an hourglass
of ever-changing time.
summer's essence
long afternoons, hazy with heat
barefoot ballets on shady brick paths
bright azure sky, air thick and sweet,
with noon-scented honeysuckle circling the laths.
17
A birthday ode, a birthday ode,
Writing verses à la mode!
Here am I at seventeen,
So many things I haven't seen,
Never read “Evangeline”...
I've never been a chatelaine,
Sneaked aboard an old freight-train,
Or repaired a water main...
Never have I tamed a horse,
Overthrown a town by force,
Robbed a bank (and felt remorse)...
Or even led a mountain climb.
Oh, well. I still have lots of time.
eyelids
I was walking home
walking slowly, ambling,
letting my feet fall into each step with a “bump”
It was cloudy overhead
and I thought the sky would be a beautiful dress,
cool to the touch,
heavy and smooth,
in pale grey-blue.
Drops fell, spattering my clothes here, there...
I closed my eyes,
lifted my face,
and let heaven and infinity rest on my eyelids.
frustration
I had a little thought
For a little song
A little song that skipped and darted
Eerily along
Sitting tense and still,
List'ning carefully,
I closed my eyes to memorize
The witchy melody.
I went to the piano,
And at the keys I frowned,
But in the clumsy chords I made,
The melody was drowned!
Grasping, but in vain,
I felt myself forget,
And thought I can't remember it--the song,
It haunts me yet!
limerick
There was a young laddie from Cheltenham
Whose mother was constantly beltin' him.
He wore padded clothes,
And his mother, she goes,
“I declare! There ain't one single welt on 'im!”
park bench composition
How blue the sky was today;
How blue and how high and how deep...
Two people had a conversation; one was listening discreetly from a park bench nearby, where, To all appearances, she was reading a book.
Within the minds of seven different individuals, classical music was playing.
Each soul thrilled deeply as the sky overhead seemed to expand in an arch,
As if it were taking a deep breath,
A breathless breath.
Life, in its beauty, was there for the taking,
The kind of beauty one happens upon by listening
To the poetry of a beautiful conversation,
The kind of beauty one sees in an incomprehensibly large and limitless sky.
a difficult lesson
all who are friendly
may not be gregarious,
and oft, the most cordial
are also nefarious.
a christmas sonnet
A dark eye filled with wonder, innocence;
A mottled skin of redness and of peach;
A minute body, now at peace, now tense;
A tiny wail or moan its only speech.
So needful of his mother's tender care,
So needful of her self-forgetfulness--
The thought of one's whole being and welfare
All in her human power, might well distress.
The lowliness of poverty and dearth,
The birth amidst the squalor of a stall,
No means of comfort, far from home and hearth
And yet, despite the dourness of it all,
The King of Kings removed His diadem,
And said, “I shall become as one of them.”
A ragged lad, forgotten and alone,
A burden on His shoulders none could see,
Fulfilling all the things that must be done,
Foretold for many years through prophecy;
Along the streets of His own holy place,
Jerusalem, now ruled by Gentile kings,
He made his dusty way, and came apace
To ancient men discussing sacred things.
How could a boy be so well-taught, so wise?
The rabbis were astonished at His Word.
He spoke the truth, and opened up their eyes;
It was a gospel they had never heard.
And when his mother came to him, afraid,
Explained to her his work, and then obeyed.
His fame began to spread throughout the land,
He very garments touched with strange virtue;
He had his followers, a loyal band,
But foes as well He gathered, and He knew
That though the people spread His way with palms,
And shouted their hosannahs, welcoming
The Son of David, foretold by the Psalms
And prophecies-- the Lord, Messiah, King--
Yet soon their fickle hearts would doubt, and turn,
Sown with the seeds of selfishness and hate
By wicked men, whose jealous hearts did burn
Despising both his fame, and lowly state.
He ruthlessly exposed their sin to light,
And yet, He wept with pity at their plight.
They finally condemned Him, Lord of all,
After a mocking pretense of a trial;
They sentenced Him, with all their wicked gall,
To shameful crucifixion, death most vile.
Upon a cruel cross the Lord was nailed,
His wounded body wracked and filled with pain,
Beneath His cross, the women sobbed and wailed;
The soldiers gambled for their wretched gain;
Some men forsook Him, some trembled with awe,
As Judas and the Roman soldier did,
But Jesus' real torment no human saw,
For in an unreal night the earth was hid,
While God the Father all His fury poured
Upon His only Son, our holy Lord.
Why such a story, such a tale of gloom?
Its sadness is unmatched in history;
Such madness can end only in the tomb,
And be no use to you, no use to me.
But wait! The glorious tale does not end so!
If so, then how right such a view would be.
But there's a glorious ending all should know,
Of triumph, and of light, and liberty.
For three days, His disciples wept in pain.
Their hearts were dull and cold, filled with despair.
But on the third day, Jesus rose again!
No trace of death could mar His glory fair.
And though it seemed impossible, He proved
With what great measure God His creatures loved.
fragments
Lines Hastily Composed on My Rickety Old Bed, as Suggested by My Sister:
I hate my bed, I hate my bed.
That's what I said: I hate my bed.
--------------------------------------------
But what is life without happiness?
Days instead of sunshine, nights instead of stars.
--------------------------------------------
When it rains, it sprinkles.
--------------------------------------------
Often I've wondered, but never have said,
“Is it that I've got writer's block, or an empty head?”
about the poems
The poems collected here were written between 2001 and 2009. I wrote them during my late teenage years and early twenties, and as a group they form a kind of distillation of my memories of that time, as well as my first efforts as a poet. Some are serious, some are most emphatically not, and none of them are diamonds of the first water... Still, I remain inspired by Willie Nelson (!) who said that an artist doesn't have to have a great voice to make good music. It is my hope these pieces resonate with those who find them.
Thanks for reading,
Katharine
about the poet
Katharine Thorpe is a poet and author of the blog “littleinkblot” (www.katharinethorpe.wordpress.com). This is her first collection of poems. She lives in Florida with her husband and two children, and is currently at work on another collection, tentatively titled Paper Stars. She is greatly inspired by nature, family, and the works of C. S. Lewis, Robert Frost, Robert Benchley, and yes-- J. K. Rowling
about the artwork
The cover art was designed jointly by Katharine Thorpe and her husband, Jonathan Thorpe.
