Month: November 2014

There is a place

beyond doubt

 

where meaning speaks so clear

that purpose is obvious

even as it makes no sense

 

artists splashing their detritus on walls

hailed as beauty or junk

– opinion

so secondary

to the primacy of the call

 

urgency

of the life force rising

 

the kunda demanding allegiance

from pen or clay or spices

 

a flow beyond reason

like a dance mistress

thumping her stick

on the floor,

terrible and true

in making movement.

 

I keep thinking I know
what you’re working on
or should be

especially when you tell me
you are lost

my list of maps
to helpful treasures
is inspiring

but the truth is,
I have no clue.

I see your flint and steel
and see your candle
sometimes lit

and wish you well
so deeply.

He said it so sweetly,
rugged and innocent,
and I was so moved
I almost missed the message,
caught by the realness
of his voice,
air moving through his heart and lips
to my vibrating ears.

Almost missed it
coming from her embrace,
the stranger I had feared,
until I crumbled
to sob briefly on her shoulder,
held by the ironic grief
of two who know happiness.

Almost missed it
in my own words
spoken back with love,
channelled by my teacher and my friend
as a gift to the room
and me quavering in it.

Almost missed it
in my google search for dance,
looking for local invitations
and finding traces
of my own presence
in movement long past.

Almost missed it
in the voices on the phone,
my loves reaching out
to offer solace
and ask for my help
when I rose
oiled and trembling
from my own wallowing.

He said
“I hope you get what you need”

and it wasn’t until much later
that my emptiness
was filled

no satiation, just this deep dive
into unrequited love,

a writhing in my own juice,
a tenderness of wanting.

All these years
of trying to get what I need
by keeping need at bay,
tending a candle in an empty room

and now I sit
at a feast
of my own sacred greed,
savouring aroma
without gorging,
the kid in the marshmallow test
who actually wants one
but understands timing,
grateful for yearning.

This fire is not just pubic,
not only creative,
not only the bright ether
connecting space between planets,
not only my passionate call
for yet more hugs
and new flavours on my tongue

it is a soul fire
that has been waiting
for a body to burn in,
sized to lick at my edges
from the inside,
beyond a need for finite fuel,
no dousing possible.

I understand

how joy smells like rain,

how fermented flowers

rot into perfume,

how laughter is most rich

when there are tears

 

but today

even joy feels out of reach,

a bar raised too high,

a shelf beyond my outstretched arms.

 

Today the threads entwine

worn out,

nubby, frayed beyond repair;

stark sky a dull cloth

behind the painted trees on stage,

wrinkled angels staggering,

unseen disequilibrium causing nausea

offset by ginger tea;

 

joy a shrill lie,

beauty a muffled truth.

I feel a truth rolling,
a snake in my belly
learning to fly with no escape,
finding expanse
inside this bag of skin.

So long I tried
to calm its wriggle
or seek a different heaven
to soar in,
trying to tame my own creation.

Now I cry
the finite tears
of a limited sky,
feel the rough roar
of a dragon burning,
understand that destruction
is necessary
and flight essential.

No noble quest
has brought me here;
fatigue and sneering
led me to this birth,
this wicked churning.

I had my plans
for alignment,
expectations of flow,
and now this burn
runs circles
around what I knew,
leaves me helpless
and very strong,
ready to move
and knowing
there is nowhere to go.

I have feared the razing,
held myself in check
against the hot breath
with its power to injure others;
feel in this moment
how I need it
to burn my icy fear,
sizzle in my own steam.

Flight is here and now;
no future journey will save me,
no teacher offer any wisdom
different from these strong strokes
with trembling, unpracticed wings.

This succulence
is surely too easy,
hence the strong walls

keeping the secret at bay
so someone will keep working

fields of someones
with pinched faces
efforting

while grapes dry into raisins
and sweetness condenses

silk and mounds of light
shaped in morphing pleasures

everyday perfumes
telling new stories,
silent and audible
laughter.