Jingle Jangle Morning

 

Francis_Alfred_Delobbe_The_Little_Tambourine_girl_1884

“Take me on a trip upon your magic swirling ship
My senses have been stripped… my hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels
To be wandering.
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come following you.”

First of all, jangle really is a word!  I had my doubts, but Merriam-Webster defines it as such:

(verb)

  1. 1:  to make a harsh or discordant often ringing sound keys jangling in my pocket

  2. 2:  to quarrel verbally

  3. 3:  to talk idly

(noun)

  1. 1:  a discordant often ringing sound the jangle of spurs

  2. 2:  noisy quarreling

  3. 3:  idle talk

Origin: Middle English, from Anglo-French jangler, of Germanic origin; akin to Middle Dutch jangelen to grumble. First Known Use: 14th century

Second of all, Mister Tambourine Man! 🙂   Dylan is technically using ‘jangle’ as an adjective here, but no matter. You do not have to understand all of Dylan’s poetry to appreciate him. (Rumor has it he planned it that way.)

But ah, the jingle-jangle morning!  “I’ll come following you.”  Doesn’t it sound terribly romantic?

Tambourine

Here is Bob Dylan performing Mister Tambourine Man at the Newport Festival, 1964. Hope you like it!

Gone With Fairies

 

bluebells pd

There is an incline in the forest where bluebells blossom, dense as grapes, heady as lilac. I stretch out on my back. Green stems, like octopus tendrils, tangle my hair. The land shifts perpendicular.  Down, down I slide, damp earth brushing my elbows. I land with a soft jolt onto ripe grass. The smell is beetroot, radish and earthworm.

Consider magic.

Underground rogues, fey and trolls

guard hidden treasure

beneath marbled walls. They keep

secrets, bargain dark wishes.

 

blue fairy

From a fog, metallic as pyrite, they emerge.  Blue skin, sapphire eyes that stare still as stone. One of them hands me a violin.  Aged from wear and tear,  its wood is warped, strings stretched.  With a rickety bow, I play.  Joyful noise spills from my fingers.

And yet.  I do not know a single note.

fairy violin

 

**NOTE: This poem is in response to Colleen’s Poetry Challenge/ Fairy Magic.  It is my first attempt at Haibun.  (Not sure I did it right, but hope you like 🙂  )

Happy Summer Solstice! “Always go with fairies.”