we were walking around comfest yesterday and someone commented that it smelled like the zoo - it was a combination of mud and straw, mixed with sweat and dirty people and dogs and greasy food. that's all this is, a description of that.
We move barefoot
over straw-strewn mud -
not quite naked animals
cavorting under the hot sun
for the amusement of others.
Sweat sheens our skins,
mud and grass and straw
decorate our feet and legs,
we dance or pose or sleep
as you watch from the other side.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
just a couple lines
Let me be hollow and ringing,
a bell or a bird bone,
echoing the world, reflecting the wind.
a bell or a bird bone,
echoing the world, reflecting the wind.
The Desire
I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.
from "Clear Night" by Charles Wright
I must have read this for the first time at least ten, if not eleven, years ago, but it just sticks with me!
I read it then as a desire for greatness, at least in part: to be touched by god, or by power, to be so close to it that it bruises; to be recognized, admired, unique; to be tested, challenged, and expanded; to be overwhelmed by something larger than the self, something so big or so strong or so real that all the junk inside is culled away.
There's the acknowledgement of pain, that it's part of the process, the desire for it if it leads to greatness, the willingness to be transformed no matter the cost. I always come back to the word "overwhelmed" when I think of these lines, that desire for a transformative experience.
/End of random thoughts. Comments?
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.
from "Clear Night" by Charles Wright
I must have read this for the first time at least ten, if not eleven, years ago, but it just sticks with me!
I read it then as a desire for greatness, at least in part: to be touched by god, or by power, to be so close to it that it bruises; to be recognized, admired, unique; to be tested, challenged, and expanded; to be overwhelmed by something larger than the self, something so big or so strong or so real that all the junk inside is culled away.
There's the acknowledgement of pain, that it's part of the process, the desire for it if it leads to greatness, the willingness to be transformed no matter the cost. I always come back to the word "overwhelmed" when I think of these lines, that desire for a transformative experience.
/End of random thoughts. Comments?
Friday, June 20, 2008
Faces of the Dead
S sent me this link earlier this week: http://www.nytimes.com/ref/us/20061228_3000FACES_TAB1.html It's a photo collage with portraits of all the soldiers who've been killed in Iraq, where each little photo is a block of a larger one and they reconfigure themselves as you click on individual squares. Kind of hard to explain, but go look at it if you want. I wrote this little paragraph that day because I couldn't come up with a poem immediately, but wanted to put some thoughts down right away.
Faces of the Dead
They are not really black and white anymore, just shades upon shades of grey, all equal in the past. Their names blur, their ranks, their states of origins, the dates of their deaths, each one just a part of the whole. They are overwhelmingly young. I see fear in the serious eyes in their photographs, but maybe I'm projecting. I want their stories. I want to know why they did it. My friend is coming home from the Air Force today, on leave before deploying; I want to ask her why, beg some explanation, find some sense beyond some 4,000 deaths, some 4,000 grey faces, shading away into nothing.
Faces of the Dead
They are not really black and white anymore, just shades upon shades of grey, all equal in the past. Their names blur, their ranks, their states of origins, the dates of their deaths, each one just a part of the whole. They are overwhelmingly young. I see fear in the serious eyes in their photographs, but maybe I'm projecting. I want their stories. I want to know why they did it. My friend is coming home from the Air Force today, on leave before deploying; I want to ask her why, beg some explanation, find some sense beyond some 4,000 deaths, some 4,000 grey faces, shading away into nothing.
After Light
After Light
Maybe I dreamed them all
those tiny lamps in the night.
Tonight we are empty
the sky and I -
nothing flutters against my cheek,
the only lights flicker from my neighbors' televisions
and the courtyard lamp's faulty wiring.
I sit down on the concrete stoop
still slightly warm from the now-past sun,
wrap my arms around my knees,
shiver in the eleven o'clock breeze
and wait
for the lightning bugs,
for anything,
to come back.
Maybe I dreamed them all
those tiny lamps in the night.
Tonight we are empty
the sky and I -
nothing flutters against my cheek,
the only lights flicker from my neighbors' televisions
and the courtyard lamp's faulty wiring.
I sit down on the concrete stoop
still slightly warm from the now-past sun,
wrap my arms around my knees,
shiver in the eleven o'clock breeze
and wait
for the lightning bugs,
for anything,
to come back.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Strong Sun Moon
first lightning bugs of the season tonight.... a whole courtyard full of them... lovely little critters, aren't they?
Strong Sun Moon*
It’s been the hardest June
less alone than I’m used to
and more than I’d like.
I stare up at the sky
clouds like smoke on a chambray cloth
dry and pale near the horizon
the fabric wet and stretched translucent
above my head.
Out of the corner of my eye
a tiny flash of light a dark flutter
in the twilight disappearing as I turn toward it.
Suddenly I realize they are everywhere
these dark-winged nightlights
as random as love as brilliant as lust
slow-moving and easy enough
to surround with one hand
wings beat lightly against my fingers
remain dark in the cavern of my palm.
I rotate my wrist let my hand uncurl
and six tiny legs tickle as the lightning bug
walks slowly over my palm
then with a gentle flip of wings
lifts off
lets go
and lights up like the full moon.
* The first (and usually only) full moon in June.
Strong Sun Moon*
It’s been the hardest June
less alone than I’m used to
and more than I’d like.
I stare up at the sky
clouds like smoke on a chambray cloth
dry and pale near the horizon
the fabric wet and stretched translucent
above my head.
Out of the corner of my eye
a tiny flash of light a dark flutter
in the twilight disappearing as I turn toward it.
Suddenly I realize they are everywhere
these dark-winged nightlights
as random as love as brilliant as lust
slow-moving and easy enough
to surround with one hand
wings beat lightly against my fingers
remain dark in the cavern of my palm.
I rotate my wrist let my hand uncurl
and six tiny legs tickle as the lightning bug
walks slowly over my palm
then with a gentle flip of wings
lifts off
lets go
and lights up like the full moon.
* The first (and usually only) full moon in June.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
A Life Without Tears
Once upon a time there lived a princess. She was not a beautiful princess, but she was very caring and sweet. This princess always seemed to be crying; whenever anyone in her family was sick or hurt or sad, she would cry. When any of her friends were hurting, or any of her pets, or even if she saw a stranger in pain, or heard stories about far-off wars or tragedies, the princess would cry. Big salty tears would fall from her blue eyes which would look even more blue than usual as the tears reflected the light.
As the princess approached marrying age, she started to wonder what kind of prince would want a wife who always cried. What kind of man would want to marry a girl with swollen eyes and a reddened nose, a girl who never wore makeup because it always smeared off with her tears? So the princess went to see a magician who was reputed to be able to solve all sorts of problems.
“What is it that you want?” the magician asked the princess as she stood shyly in his chamber. Her eyes were still damp from the tears she’d shed when she saw a dead sparrow on the way to see him.
The princess took a deep breath. “I want a life without tears.”
The magician looked at her kindly. “Are you sure that’s what you want? Almost all lives have some tears in them.”
“I have cried enough these past sixteen years,” the princess replied. “I want a life without tears!”
“Very well,” said the magician, who was duty-bound to use his magic to fulfill the requests of those who solicited his help. “You shall have a life without tears. Once you leave this room, you will never cry again.”
“Oh, thank you,” the princess exclaimed. She hurriedly paid the magician his fee and left the room.
As the heavy wooden door swung shut behind her, the princess realized she could no longer see or hear anything. She reached out blindly for the door handle, but could feel nothing. In a panic, the princess tried to call out for help, but she had no voice. She tried to turn and go back to the magician, but she had no legs. She was bodiless, nothing but spirit, with no eyes to see suffering, no ears to hear others’ cries, no way to connect or communicate with the world, and, true to the magician’s word, no eyes with which to cry.
She was never seen in the castle again, not by her parents or her friends or anyone else who loved or was loved by her. Sometimes at night, they thought they heard a rustling or saw a shadow in her room, but no one in the castle really believed in ghosts, so they went on searching for the lost princess as long as they lived, but they never, ever found her.
As the princess approached marrying age, she started to wonder what kind of prince would want a wife who always cried. What kind of man would want to marry a girl with swollen eyes and a reddened nose, a girl who never wore makeup because it always smeared off with her tears? So the princess went to see a magician who was reputed to be able to solve all sorts of problems.
“What is it that you want?” the magician asked the princess as she stood shyly in his chamber. Her eyes were still damp from the tears she’d shed when she saw a dead sparrow on the way to see him.
The princess took a deep breath. “I want a life without tears.”
The magician looked at her kindly. “Are you sure that’s what you want? Almost all lives have some tears in them.”
“I have cried enough these past sixteen years,” the princess replied. “I want a life without tears!”
“Very well,” said the magician, who was duty-bound to use his magic to fulfill the requests of those who solicited his help. “You shall have a life without tears. Once you leave this room, you will never cry again.”
“Oh, thank you,” the princess exclaimed. She hurriedly paid the magician his fee and left the room.
As the heavy wooden door swung shut behind her, the princess realized she could no longer see or hear anything. She reached out blindly for the door handle, but could feel nothing. In a panic, the princess tried to call out for help, but she had no voice. She tried to turn and go back to the magician, but she had no legs. She was bodiless, nothing but spirit, with no eyes to see suffering, no ears to hear others’ cries, no way to connect or communicate with the world, and, true to the magician’s word, no eyes with which to cry.
She was never seen in the castle again, not by her parents or her friends or anyone else who loved or was loved by her. Sometimes at night, they thought they heard a rustling or saw a shadow in her room, but no one in the castle really believed in ghosts, so they went on searching for the lost princess as long as they lived, but they never, ever found her.
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