I take refuge
in the whiteboard
in my body
the blank page
where I gently wipe clean
all the lovely thoughts
and painful stories
where the pastel shades
and violent hues
of sensation and emotion
show their colours
and leave no trace
where I trust
that even scintillating awe
and the wonder of star-song
will return in good time
and just now I can wipe their beauty away
there is freedom
moving through the eraser
and my choice
to keep tending
this empty space.
Have you heard the news?
Listen to the leaves,
they’ll tell you
– they’re excited
in their patient, rooted thrumming
they murmur in the night
whispering delight
over sleeping feathers
and all who stalk and scamper
under the moon.
Have you heard the news?
The planet is alive,
our cells
are full of love
for us
and all her kin.
Have you heard about the woman
who moved thousands of miles
from her home
to speak out
for our right to choose who to love?
Did you hear about the one
who travelled over tar sands
to scoop up music
out of the muck?
Did you hear of the woman
whose sorrow ran so deep
that only tears could save her?
Have you heard of the women
with grey in their hair
and bounce in their step
who generously bestow
fierce blessings?
Did you hear about the children
carried inside women
who will birth them soon
in a world
that will be different
from now?
Did you hear
about the thousand eyes
and ten thousand lifetimes
that swirl in your DNA
and propel you with infinite tenderness?
Did you hear the news, rustling?
Will you share news?
What will you make new?
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.