Beautiful imagery and wordplay combine to create this defining collection of poetry from Rita Durrant.

Dancing to the Marigold Mazurka celebrates the rich experiences of life in all its facets. Durrant explores the terror of a biopsy, the simple joy of antique shopping on a lazy Sunday afternoon, a bittersweet wartime wedding of 1945, and even the loving routine of preparing a family Thanksgiving feast.

Melodic phrases produce a whimsical flavor. In "Uncle Lou", a child awaits "the ching-ching of sleigh bells" while the blue waters "echo like the gentle ting-ting-ting of silver wind chimes" at "The Garden of Chambrel."

But it is Durrant’s flair for description that truly captures the simple aspects of our world. In "Joy and Sorrow" she describes a pheasant with "his teal necklace, white circlet and golden body gleaming." The sunset becomes "a mantle of amethyst mist deepened to purple" in "Romance at Sunset", and "fire flickers on the hearth, an iron kettle swings, candlelight reflects in ruffled windows, and mulled cider, spiked with spirits, beckons" in "Tour of the Parry Mansion, New Hope."

Immerse yourself in the little treasures of life with Dancing to the Marigold Mazurka.

Dancing to the Marigold Mazurka

A Collection of PoemsBy Rita Durrant

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Rita Durrant
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-6369-6

Chapter One

"Poetry Is ..."

    Poetry is distillation like rare wine:
    Once tender globes of succulence,
    sun-ripened, picked at prime,
    pressed, crushed, secreted away
    in the dark cellars of the soul,
    awaiting the moment of perfection.

    Poetry is emotion like tears
    concealed in the folds of years,
    joy and laughter, children dancing
    on bright sun-warmed sand,
    fear, anger, regret, or love.

    Poetry is rhythm: throbbing heart-beats,
    distant tom-toms, waves crashing
    at high tide, the tick-ticking of an old clock,
    little girls pirouetting with pointed toes,
    dancing to the Marigold Mazurka.

    Poetry is rhyming to delight the ears of angels:
    lambs bleating, time fleeting, friends greeting.
    A Shakespearian sonnet carefully crafted,
    Longfellow's mighty smithy hammering blows,
    Poe's Annabelle Lee, who lived by the sea.

    Poetry is imagery, irony, metaphor, simile
    like the silence of cathedrals, stones skipping
    over water, lost spirits dancing a Valse Trieste,
    Wordsworth's daffodils dancing on a hill.

    Poetry is experience: the stories
    of our lives, sunlight on dear faces,
    visions and dreams, and all our tears,
    love, and laughter, mined, refined, cast
    into golden cups into which we pour
    the wine of words.

    Let us drink this wine together now,
    to warm our hearts, intoxicate our senses,
    and nourish our souls.


    Portraits


    Abbondanza

    Aunt Kate came to care for me
    on summer Saturdays, her young
    face flushed as pink as the garden
    tomatoes she carried in her apron,
    the sagging harvest soft slapping
    against her thighs. In the early
    cool of the kitchen, she arranged
    ingredients on the breadboard
    like paints on a palette:
    silky green peppers, purple-skinned onions,
    creamy white garlic, and Romano cheese
    finely grated to feather down.

    I watched from the red cherry rocker
    as she lifted the black iron pot onto
    the old stove, struck a fat safety match,
    the gas exploding into tiny green tongues.
    Golden oil sizzled and danced in the pot,
    the redolence of ripe olives rose to fill
    the air. Then she chopped garlic and onions,
    sliced Melrose peppers, tossed in medallions
    of Italian sausage that sizzled and then settled
    into a hum; the fragrance of fennel
    seeds and savory pork enhanced the bouquet.
    Next, tomato paste and garden tomatoes
    chopped into chunks. Tasting the red table wine
    from the bottle, she spilled it into the sauce,
    following it with nutmeg, orange-red pepper seeds,
    salt, pepper, garden-fresh oregano and sweet basil,
    measuring nothing.

    While the sauce simmered on the stove,
    she put down the wooden spoon and lifted me
    onto her lap, even though I was too big.
    Wispy brown curls cascaded onto her shoulders;
    a clean braid circled her head like a coronet.
    As her thin arms embraced me, I rested
    my head against the softness of her body,
    inhaling the scent of her rose water cologne.
    Then she read poetry to me, children's verses;
    sometimes she sang a Sunday School song
    about Jesus wanting us to shine for him
    like sunbeams.

    From the pantry, then, she brought a loaf
    of fresh-baked bread, held it against
    her bosom and sliced it, the knife blade
    toward her chest. Placing the bread on the
    old flow-blue china and waving her spoon,
    she chanted a kind of blessing in Italian.
    Then, from the depths of the steaming kettle,
    she spooned the sauce over the bread,
    sprinkled it with downy cheese,
    and offered it to me.

    "The secret of abbondanza," she laughed.
    "Abundance! Just like in love. Give with your heart.
    Always be generous. Never hold back."


    The Singer Sewing Machine

    I remember you, Mother,
    working in the cold back parlor
    at the black iron Singer
    sewing machine, your raven hair
    brushed back and caught in a bun
    with tiny spit curls at your temples
    like Delores Del Rio, movie star.

    Your feet press back and forth
    in rhythm on the treadle
    as your hands guide the cloth
    into the path of the bobbing needle,
    the wheel whirring like an electric fan.

    You are designing calico dresses
    for beautiful Dorothy and me.
    I, the painfully plain child,
    with mouse-brown hair.
    You are making frocks with fluffy skirts
    puffed out like cotton candy,
    and pinafores with tiny
    smocked stitches, all the finery
    you dreamed of wearing as a child.

    You are bending over dainty costumes
    for my ballet recitals,
    fashioning golden wire wings
    of gossamer silk, tulle tutus,
    ruffles on stiff petticoats,
    and satin ribbons for little waists.

    And I remember ... the first recital.
    After all your tedious work,
    I was the one ballerina
    who did my own "tour jette,"
    and "petit bouree," pirouetting alone
    while the other fairies danced together
    as they were trained. But afterward,
    you hugged me just the same,
    and told me I danced like the Fairy Princess!

    I'm still doing my own dance, Mama.


    Aunt Annie

    My godmother, Aunt Annie, was a saint.
    Not the kind that rolls her sad eyes
    toward heaven, mouth agape, and looks
    like she has adenoids. I never
    saw her mopping a fevered brow,
    telling her beads, or doing miracles.
    She was more practical in her saintliness.

    Like trying to make her small budget stretch,
    tending the coal furnace, canning tomatoes,
    making jelly, washing, ironing, sewing,
    cooking and doing "fancy work."
    She cared for her children like a Mama Bear,
    and when she had a little extra time,
    she played a terrific game of golf!

    One of her avocations, a kind of hobby,
    was keeping up with her handsome husband.
    Tony played golf and the guitar.
    He delighted the children with nursery songs,
    amused the men with bawdy songs from WWI,
    and wooed the women with love ballads.
    He was a charming Italian troubadour.

    Annie made it to daily Mass at St. Dorothy's.
    She also spoke peasant Italian; knew all
    the colorful street words, both comic
    and earthy, and loved to pinch bottoms
    of unsuspecting young ladies.
    Grandly endowed, she corseted
    herself mercilessly in her Slenderella
    with whale bones, steel stays and strings.
    But she had a kind of matronly grandeur
    that made her seem almost dignified.

    Her interest tended toward basic anatomy.
    She offered to tell me about "Life,"
    but Mother protested. "Please, Anne.
    She's too young. Wait `til she's sixteen!"

    As a working girl, I lived at her home,
    sleeping with my young cousin, Elaine.
    To get me up for work, she would curse,
    "Ma nudge! Puton a la Mama."

    Followed by a five minute vendetta of insults
    and curses, all in Italian. I awoke laughing ...
    But in spite of her fun-loving nature,
    she watched us young maidens like a Duenna.
    Girls had to be "serioso" no hanky
    panky. Bona fide virgins got husbands!

    Aunt Annie got her halo at sixty-nine.
    I think she gained great influence in Heaven.

    I hope she can see her family today!
    Her son, Policeman Bill, married Gynnie,
    sired eight children, and started a dynasty!
    She adored her handsome grandchildren.
    And now there are great-grandchildren.
    Everywhere! How they have prospered,
    were fruitful, and multiplied and multiplied.
    Doctors, sociologists, bankers, businessmen,
    nurses, teachers, all good people, with moral,
    spiritual and ethical values very much in place.

    Surely, Aunt Annie guided her Family well.
    It didn't take a village ... just a saint.


    Uncle Lou

    Joyful childhood memories return
    at the sound of his name: Uncle Lou,
    Mama's handsome bachelor brother.
    I remember gifts of beautiful blonde dolls
    in ruffled dresses, big, brown Teddy bears,
    silver coins, and real silk stockings for Mama,
    chocolates, and La Paloma cigars for Daddy.
    Uncle Lou was our Magic Man,
    like Bo Jangles, who made happiness happen.

    We had many affectionate names for him,
    like Sugar Daddy and Daddy Warbucks,
    his cologne smelled like fresh lemons and spices,
    he wore a white fur-felt hat, dark striped suit,
    and a diamond stick-pin in a silk tie,
    muscular and lithe, Lou moved
    with the flamboyant elegance and grace
    of Douglas Fairbanks, silent movie star.

    I remember one cold Christmas Eve,
    sleepless in my bed, listening, breathlessly,
    waiting for the ching-ching of sleigh bells
    and clip-clop of reindeer hooves on the roof.
    Whispers and hushed laughter, "Shhh. Quiet."
    And I knew, even then, that Uncle Lou
    had arrived with Santa Claus in tow.

    One day he met his own blonde doll,
    Elsie, the most beautiful lady in the world.
    He built his bride a castle in Chicago's Beverly Hills
    with a round staircase, a cathedral ceiling,
    and a balcony overlooking the scene.
    The décor was a tapestry of rich colors,
    bronze statues, plump sofas, and linen draperies.

    As a restaurateur, Lou had to leave
    his bride alone at night, so they invited
    our family to stay with them for a while.
    We lived in that gorgeous mansion
    for almost two years. It was different.
    Public school was a two mile walk.
    In the winter, it seemed like ten,
    and frostbite was a frequent event.
    But Uncle Lou bought us skis,
    and a toboggan sled and we played
    in the snow with Aunt Elsie (who was just eighteen)
    like the three kids we were.

    Christmases were glorious, magical events.
    A sixteen foot tree graced the living room,
    dripping with twinkling tinsel, colored lights ...
    A work of art. Elsie's masterpiece.

    Dinner was an eclectic banquet
    of European delights, like roast duck,
    buttered plum dumplings, Sauerkraut,
    ravioli, and roast turkey with sausage dressing.
    We feasted together, with Uncle Lou
    as the host, a most gracious man,
    and Aunt Elsie, the most elegant cook,
    with food as with everything. Abbondanza!

    One day, Daddy bought a house close by
    but with a forbidding woods between us.
    And we became a single family again.
    The banks failed, the stock market crashed,
    and life became grim for almost every grown-up.
    But my sister and I had new friends, new schools,
    and a new baby brother. Time to grow up.
    The magic years of childhood faded away.

    The Louis Georges had three darling children,
    all of them beautiful, blue-eyed, and blond.
    And when they were grown, Uncle Lou
    had a toy factory in his attic, where he made
    wooden toys for the children of the poor.

    It was so many, many years ago,
    but my memories will live forever:
    the glorious days of my childhood,
    and my wonderful Uncle Lou,
    who made our lives so delightful,
    and Aunt Elsie, the most beautiful
    blond doll in the whole world.


    Lady Bountiful

    With glorious musical fanfare,
    the long silver horns mounted
    on her black "33 LaSalle Limonene
    announce Aunt Dolly's arrival ...
    My sister and I respond to the trumpet call,
    reining up like race horses
    in the starting gate at Pamlico.
    We listen as firm footfalls stomp
    up wooden stairs; with a demanding fist,
    she "bang-bang-bangs" on the door,
    not waiting for an answer,
    but bursting inside, followed
    by Charlie, her Grizzly Bear chauffeur.

    "Hello, Hello! Anybody home?"

    Newly coiffed, Dolly's dark hair
    seems glued down with flat finger waves
    and spit curls, the latest style in hairdos ...
    Dimples flash as she anoints us
    with smiles; the scent of Coty's
    Emeraude cologne drowns us
    in heavy waves of fragrance.

    She bustles into the kitchen
    and drops her precious treasures
    on the porcelain table top.
    Chattering vivaciously, she allows
    her Silver Fox fur to fall
    casually to the linoleum floor.
    Mother, in plain cotton housedress,
    whispers a welcome, smiles a "Thank you."
    Fat navel oranges, plump green grapes,
    hot pink strawberries, and fresh sweet corn
    spill out as if from a cornucopia.
    Canned soups, pasta in packages,
    Wonder bread, oatmeal cookies.
    A sack of molasses candy kisses
    she saves until last, dangling it
    over our heads like a piñata.
    Dorothy and I dance with delight

    When Aunt Dolly calls us "Honey" and "Dear,"
    we croon with great affection,
    adoring our adorable Aunt even more.
    Neither one of us is aware
    that Dolly's largesse is difficult
    for our Mother to endure, considering
    the cost to her dignity; the feeling
    of being needy relatives.

    But, Dolly loves playing Lady Bountiful
    husband Matt has made a fortune
    in the booze business as bar-owner
    and restaurateur of the ritzy Beverly Club.
    The chauffeur serves too, as Dolly's bodyguard,
    a necessity in Matt's risky business.

           One Night

    There was a shooting at the bar:
    Matt and Dolly cashed in, and made off
    for California like Forty-Niners.
    Several years later, they returned home.
    Matt desperately sick, their pockets empty.

    Dolly spent the rest of her long life
    working at the family restaurant,
    earning money where she could.
    Sister Kate remembered her in her will.
    Dolly lived to 104, assumed her favorite role
    as the ostentatious Lady Bountiful.
    Whose greatest joy was giving ... and getting ...


    Thanksgiving Concert

    Just after dawn, Mother began preparations
    for our Thanksgiving feast, rolling out dough
    for homemade pasta pillows, rich and puffy
    with ricotta cheese; my task, pressing
    a floured fork to seal rounded edges.

    Home from the night shift, Father watched,
    his face still black from factory soot,
    as Mother deftly washed the turkey,
    tweezed pinfeathers, singed tiny hairs.
    Then she pulled stale bread for stuffing,
    cut onions, apples, celery ...

    Gradually caught up in our joyous industry,
    Father found his black leather violin case,
    and carefully opened it to reveal the precious
    instrument resting inside on royal blue velvet.
    Tenderly, he caressed it, removed the bow,
    then gently rubbed it with fragrant rosin.

    Placing the violin under his chin,
    he stood erect, arms and elbows just so,
    and plucked the strings, coaxing tones
    from somewhere deep inside, turning
    ebony keys to achieve perfect pitch.

    On taut catgut strings
    he picked pizzicato notes
    that surrounded us
    like tiny, dancing pixies.
    Stiff fingers found once familiar
    places on the strings, hesitant at first,
    then true, tender, pure ...

    We sat, transfixed, as he played, "Souvenir,"
    "To a Wild Rose," then "We Gather Together."
    Gradually his face softened; gray eyes
    sparkled as his music delighted us,
    stirring our souls with its sheer beauty,
    thrilling us with the joyous harmony
    of his music, the magic that love created,
    by my Father's work worn hands.


    The Thin Purple Scar

    I remember your hands, Father,
    the thin purple scar,
    thick fingers, workman's hands,
    your nails grease stained,
    hands that struck without warning,
    sparing no one, not even Mother.

    I was twelve, filled with strange
    new feelings, yearning, wondering ...
    Would I be pretty like my sister,
    her lips like wings, perfectly arched,
    startling when she smiled?
    So I stole her lipstick
    and tested it on my too-generous lips.

    "What did you smear on your mouth?"
    you asked, and before
    I could answer, sudden red welts
    shaped like your hands, Father,
    on my back, face, breast ...


    Santa Lucia

    She sat on the worn wooden steps,
    of old St. Mary's Church,
    elbows resting on prayer-worn knees,
    looking like a forlorn rag doll,
    tattered skirt covering high-buttoned shoes,
    gray hair tucked under boudoir cap,
    a bouquet of fake ruby red cherries
    pinned to one thin shoulder.

    Sunken black-button eyes glistened
    under eyebrows that seemed embroidered
    on in dark thread.
    Two painted circles of rouge
    brightened leathered cheeks.
    Lucia forgot her empty pantry
    while she watched the children play.
    And she blessed them in Italian:
    "Bella, Bella."

    Street children busy with chalk games
    laughed at Lucia; called her cruel names,
    said she was stuffed with marshmallows.
    Neighbors gave her pennies and dimes
    for bread, but she bought candy instead.
    And a dollar bought a Mass
    offered for her salvation.

    She was my Great Aunt.
    My Grandfather's old maid sister.

    Heaven must seem wonderful to her.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Dancing to the Marigold Mazurkaby Rita Durrant Copyright © 2010 by Rita Durrant. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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