by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Fannie Lou Hamer was beaten by a policeman until he couldn’t beat her any longer, so he had his partner continue the beating. That day, Fannie Lou left part of her brain there on the ground, but she didn’t leave her courage. She came back for more. Because she only wanted her people to be free, free from fear, free from beatings, free from death just free to enjoy life, to be wholly human.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I’m sure night was made when man invented war so that darkness would put her arms around him, slowing him down so that he could think things over. And then at dawn start new again. I’m sure night was made when war came to this family, breath knocked out of the man, the woman and child languishing in the street. Darkness would give them a few moments of relief. I’m sure darkness was made when man invented war.
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by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Now, they want to clip the ears of the Gray Wolf, clip them back until the wolves are almost decimated, weakening their packs to almost extinction. The native tribes of Wisconsin and Montana have stood up for the wolf. They see themselves parallel to the wolf. They too were killed back to almost extinction, starved and hounded, brothers to the wolf in life and suffering. The hunters carry away the great, large bodies of wolves in their arms, laughing as they go. I remember the Gray Wolf that morning as he rolled down a steep embankment, looking like a great ball of white and gray fur, laughing as he went.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
a classical musician and poet, sent Ethel a poem about one of her drawings:
Sherry Grant’s poem:
To Your Melody
By Sherry Grant (Op.2786)
2021-11-22
Utter magic! Webs of colours you freely spin,
Bittersweet young passion, time left beguiled,
Hesitant tears rush, sensation penetrates skin,
Hopelessly tangled knot, hearts racing wild.
At the edge of a dream two unicorns meet,
Sigh after sigh, clearer the shape of ecstasy,
Each ascension a fresh fountain so sweet,
This heaven built for you and me, our intimacy.
©️ Sherry Grant, Auckland, 2021-11-22, Op.2786
Inspired by ‘To Music’ by Franz Adolf Friedrich von Schober (Germany, 1796 – 1882) and
Alexander Scriabin‘s ‘The Poem of Ecstasy’ (Le Poème de l’extase), Op. 54
©️ ‘Song of Ecstasy’ (pastel) by Ethel Mortenson Davis (USA)
https://fourwindowspress.com/2012/01/14/song-of-ecstacy
Ethel Mortenson Davis’s drawing that inspired the poem:
By Ethel Mortenson Davis
Last night two men slept close to an elephant trail, hoping to see the herd. In the morning they discovered an elephant track between their two sleeping bags. We are the same. We are part of them, they, part of us. This morning we ran to catch a glimpse of the last of October’s light as she lit the tops of trees on fire, and heard the voices of cranes, high above our heads, that we have heard a thousand times before. But still, we were lifted. A great river drifts through us. She glimpses us to see if we have caught the ripples she throws out.
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by Ethel Mortenson Davis
But there is still a sunrise this morning, red for rain. We can still count the stars in Orion and see the night sky. There is still a dog at the end of the bed. He is a guardian of our souls. There is time to reach beyond smallness that resides in our hearts.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Your spotted back fits well in the dappled light of the wood as you wait utterly still for the night and her returning.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
This place. . . I cannot say. . . Its name is different. . . for the people that did not stay. The bird song is a different song, a song from a different tongue. Was it music from Potawatomi? or Ojibwa? Was it Ottawa? or Menominee? This place looked different then. Those people’s tongues are lost again. They drift in and out of foxfire embers. Where are their songs? The songs they sing?
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
February 16, 1982 – July 23, 2010
Overlook Tower
Arches of Scoria
Arches of scoria,
bridging eye to eye,
we lean back, falling gently.
Stones like hands
catch our curiosities
at the cusp of a cool wind.
Delicate branches reach down:
fingers wrapped around supports of light
peering through a passage of silence.
Our eyes close momentarily,
and the passage inundates with another kind of light.
The train,
several minutes late – as usual –
leads us to bustling boardwalks and ocean breezes.
Thronged by movement,
silence shies away,
its wisdom stowed between new verbs.
We must pay heed.
For in silence,
the arches collapse into a volcanic flow
and collide into the ocean’s embrace.
Cool winds carry us, as equals, to stark realities.
Frailty inspires us.
Filed under Art, Photography, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I will wait
for the foxfire tonight,
for the glistening jewels
of the wood.
I will nuddle
along the lopeway,
following the gallery
worn in paths by the deer.
I will nudge the white dag
that sits on top
of the marsh,
she, a low-lying friend.
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fourwindowspress 