Month: November 2012

No wonder the words

were so dramatic,

all that smiting and rivening

and splitting asunder,

all those elephant gods

and serpents with wings

and voices inside fires or clouds or mountains.

 

Now we make bright magic on our screens,

we see the billowing gladnesses

at our fingertips

and turn down the thunder.

 

Now we need different words

to nudge us,

images that lure us away

from the flash

to breathe in one real dew,

or actually notice

how three snowflakes are different

from each other

and from the mitten.

 

We need words

that help us find the space between them,

the sound of a bloodstream

with as much or more intense beauty

and complex function

as the system on Olympus.

 

Athena, Shiva,

Thor and Yahweh

pulse magnificently

as they did before,

beckoning or beseeching,

inviting or commanding

our immersion.

 

The river is the same eternal one,

the riverbank still awaits,

the sound is still trickling or tumultuous.

 

The access points

are everywhere.

I am ashamed of these riches,

this shame is what has helped me hide;

there is an embarrassment

of plenitude,

this rich unfurling passion

that is not lust

but its opposite,

a honey flowering of generosity,

a lush spilling of diamonds.

 

It is the shame of the woman at the feast,

consuming delicacies

while the urchins crowd near

but out of reach;

not gluttony,

but a fearfulness of stretching,

and maybe too

that caviar will be received badly,

too salty or fishy.

 

I am embarrassed by the strength

of my own need,

the power of my own undone contractions,

the deep effervescence

of this bright champagne

uncorked.

Trust means I am falling

and I really really hope

there is a net,

or several someones with a blanket,

or warm water.

It means I am trying to relax

into the blurred view

on the way down,

trying to let the wind rush

through my willing ears

and still hear my own music

and maybe breathe a few times

and try not to wonder too much

what happens next.

I am a poet-janitor,

not the philosopher-king of old

but one who cleans up the mess,

figurative and literal.

 

Oh, I used to say “innkeeper”

as a mask of propriety

or even “consultant”

for other kinds of mopping up

but the ego loves these labels

and has trouble

with the wet rag

at the base of the toilet.

 

And I don’t believe in genuflecting

so deeply

that I have to put my nose in it,

since the ego also loves

to push these rigid forms

 

…instead I try to wipe

with an uncertain kindness,

notice patterns on the floor

before the broom.

All these women

who have found their own voices;

some in mini-skirts

or muscle shirts with bold tattoos,

the asperity of age,

the wondering silken glow

of teenage seekers,

the dreadlocked permaculture amazons

hoping for longevity,

the mothers in crumb-filled vans

and loud rages

… admiration rises,

a deep appreciation for the sound

of freedom dancing.

 

The tinkling of icicles;

envy and regret

slip from my shelter

as I feel behind me

for gumboots.

How much more naked

can I stand

when the clothes are long gone

and the skin

feels transparent

and all these organs

do their work without my help?

 

Why do I feel

that the stripping has barely begun,

that new places of exposure

are waiting,

that while there is still skin

there will be flaying,

and a binding of wounds

before yet more abrasion?

 

Why does this sound cruel

when the trembling in my legs

is all about the softness

that has brought me here,

a willing oblation

and also the grateful receiver?

Not shame,

oh no, couldn’t it be anger

or trauma improperly stored

or some deep sadness

with more noble qualities?

 

Shame is so embarrassing.

The nose-picking quality,

the finding out

that really there is a bigger piece

and I want it.

The fear of masturbating in public

and not well.

The discovery of shallow self-loathing,

not even deep to the core

but buoyed with platitudes of reassurance.

 

Peeing my pants

due to a lack of kegels,

a deficiency of strength.

 

Discarding my loyal lover

for just a scent on the street

or an imagined half-smile,

or a fuzzy face not seen in a dream.

 

Shame is a nausea that can’t be purged,

an inevitable distaste,

a snapshot not even gone viral

by an unforgiving paparazzi,

but hidden

under a cheap polyester cloak.

Shame is too shameful

to admit,

it poisons the inner lining of our lives

and I can’t find

the emetic fluid,

the waiting bowl.

When does it shift?

How do I find the version of the song

where my mouth can tingle

in silent appreciation

of others’ music?

How do I stop

the yearning desperate willingness to share

the tumult of my words,

these offerings of vibration

with the hope of resonance,

the tangle of my voice

dangling in front of a kitten,

slightly out of reach?

 

Where do I find the quiet unsaid invitation

to let the kitten close

in silence?

You cannot engineer this birth:

the waiting is necessary

not as a condition or a chiding

but simply a fact of body and life.

 

You can ignore it in the bustle of the season,

moving through your house or lack of one

with a great intensity of nesting

that you may not even notice.

 

You can prepare for it with deep attention,

creating space with kindness,

arranging for support and towels,

quiet perfume and music;

but this gestation has no timeline.

You can feel the kicks inside

or choose to re-interpret the burgeoning.

 

None of it matters. Whether you choose

quiet room or street,

warm women or the cab,

the birthing will grip you,

the pain and joy will seize you

willing or unwilling,

there is no control required

and it only prolongs the pain,

delays relief.

 

And even the relief

is not a place of rest

but a tender joy in knowing

that the pain of life with love

has just begun.

This Pandora’s box

is being emptied,

fearful angry ravens

fly out screaming

and my son says

that sounds normal.

And really,

that is how a raven sounds

when it is freed from a trap

that it made for itself

without realizing,

so it screams with some shame

and bravado in flight

and then there is an echo of raucous noise

and then there is an empty box

with no lid.