I don't usually preface any of my poems, but I thought I might say a small word about this one. That word is: Ambien. I sometimes write after the Ambien has kicked in. This is the weird kind of stuff that popped out the other night. ************************************************ Sometimes it is magical to be suspended in someone’s mind like a cobweb forgotten in the dusting, still taking notes on the day to day.
Day 26: “She still sets her glass on the edge of the sink I think she hopes it will fall and shatter, the pieces Some mess of an abstract artists brush Insinuating that a thought went into the destruction.”
But really, the more authentic tale is that their minds are just tangles and warring traumas fighting for release and shockingly absent of any documentation. No numbering systems for the blind behaviors which, after awhile, are tedious and dull.
Shall I tell them, “You are free! You are free! No longer required to brush your hair just so, or react just so, or think just so.
"The whole world of thought and connection await you! Whatever colors you want may go together, there is no one here who will tell you different."
Most minds are these tangles. But some, these ones I live for, are great symphonies of light energy and flow - passages of thought as beautiful as wild African sunsets, endangered just so, too.
There are elegant strings of light that move thought and emotion and body all at once.
But we cannot stay for long in these places, they are only for the wild wild owner to wield.
What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere; The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward . . . and nothing collapses
I swear I see now that every thing has an eternal soul! The trees have, rooted in the ground. . .the weeds of the sea have. . .the animals.
Where did I begin? From some Great North Road, through the womb? That is the place from which I come.
And here. Here. Here there is light in every direction an undulating river of light that plots my course. There are stone walls to guide the sun and the Great Arrow that leads me home.
But who am I? I am a builder of clay some boulder of time who erodes so slowly, so carefully. Every intent gets woven into this vitreous stone which, upon breaking, has made the proper sacrifice so that I may begin again.
This cairn that buried me these thousand years is cracking, freedom, inescapable and fearsome, bites at my heels. An angel archaeologist chips silently away at petrified bits, flesh and bone made stone and precious gem - a shining prism turned to light at last.
Summer was like your house: you knew where each thing stood. Now you must go out into your heart as onto a vast plain. Now the immense loneliness begins.
The days go numb, the wind sucks the world from your senses like withered leaves. Through the empty branches the sky remains. It is what you have. Be earth now, and evensong. Be the ground lying under that sky. Be modest now, like a thing ripened until it is real, so that he who began it all can feel you when he reaches for you.
-Rainer Maria Rilke Rilke's Book of Hours (Translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)
I am far out to sea, newly wrought from when I had you last. I have been reborn, reshaped and set to sail into new currents yet I mourn you still.
My phantom pains are sneaker waves, the past colliding with the matter I have now become.
1600 days since you were taken and torn but in your place (that emptiness where you once lived) filaments of the sun have been strung, mapping out a blueprint of sorts, a new topography that lights the core of me.
It is an unexpected grace.
What could not grow in your waters, what I could not birth then now escapes through my skin in finely stranded echoes of light, an indirect labor in the harbors of these new lands.