Cloister Ekphrastic Free Verse

 

This month, in our year of writing poetry together, my Poetry Sisters have called on me to supply the art for our ekphrasic poems. I've chosen to share my photos of the cloisters of Glencairn Museum, a place I love to visit. You can read about the cloister here. The mansion was built as a family home for Raymond Pitcairn and his family in the 1930s, and later turned into a museum for religious art. Of the southern side of the house a cloister garden is built, surrounded by columns carved into depictions of 12 different bird species.

This is the place I find a peaceful retreat most often now. The family that build the house was railroad/oil baron rich; sort of like an American Downton Abbey, if you will. Now the house/garden is open to anyone, so it ends up being for the people in a way. The Pitcairns built the house with the cloister to be their family home. They raised 11 children. Raymond collected medieval art, and wanted the home to display his collection. When I am there I always imagine Mildred, the wife/mother, living there. Her bedroom is just above the cloister, where she had a huge bathroom with windows over the tub (they were one of the first to have lavish indoor plumbing) looking out over the cloister, gardens, and open valley below. They also had a sleeping porch, and could spend the nights out under the stars.

Cloister Home

She gathers

on the grass; children,

wine, cheese, bread, and

veggies cut and diced.

The littles fling

round the fountain,

laughter rising

on the cool evening

air. Light soft, stone hard.

They circle her. Their eyes

bounce from bird to bush

and back to her.

The older ones want to talk.

They hesitate,

spill stories; seek what

she knows but never says.

Bold Miss will always ask -

Where is daddy?

Still at work, darling.

Here. He comes

up the hill, seeking

them in the cloister.

Where cool breezes

find and lift

sweaty smocks,

limp locks,

sometimes torn knees

or slight limps.

Nearing end of day

and no one’s cleaned up yet.

Their voices lilt

across the valley

hidden behind the stone.

Stone carved to birds;

wings, bills, eyes

downcast. We must lift

to look; they gaze low

reminding us

nothing is heavy

that sings.

And then

in the dark

all comes to rest

on the sleeping porch

above the white garden.

Above the shushing

fountain catching

peace as it rises

off the star lit 

magnolias.

 Please take some time to visit the blogs of my Poetry Sisters and enjoy their poems as well:

Laura Purdie Salas
Tricia Stohr-Hunt
Sara Lewis Holmes
Kelly Fineman
Liz Garton Scanlon
Tanita S. Davis 

And don't forget to visit the Friday Poetry roundup, hosted by: 
Bridget Magee at wee words for wee ones. Enjoy!