The sea gathers me in, keeps me between, a creature of neither water nor land, held forever inside spirals of moontides, echoing back into what is neither mine nor self.
Around and around the waves spin me along the path of an immense Möbius loop. I oscillate on the edge, barely there, beyond human sensing.
Deeper, extended, enhanced. I am in need of rendering. I am in need of being opened until the stars wrap around my core, untill all of me is whispered into music like light.
I absorb the flickering of images—felt but unseen, channeled within each breath, ungraspable. Always this interpolation, this blurring of what lies beyond as it merges into the finity of my body. Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings me into the place where my boundaries fall into the cosmic abyss.
For the dVerse prosery where Lisa has given us a quote from Oliver Wendell Holmes:
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:— –from The Chambered Nautilus
We wanted to go to the beach– it’s within reach– New York coastline– capacious, fine.
We were young; we stayed up all night– before the light, starting to drive– happy, alive.
The sun rose, the ocean was near– we parked the car– the sky was blue, the people few.
Undaunted by sunburn, we slept– our bodies wet, salty from waves– those were the days.
The W3 prompt poem this week is Britta Benson’s “Longing for Water”. She asked that our response include the name of a city and asked us to use a form appropriate for that city. I wrote a Minute Poem, in reflection of “a New York minute”, which is a very brief span of time. Looking back at my 20s it truly was all over in a New York minute. Lacking technology, we never took photos or tried to document our lives then. We just lived them.
I was looking at this High Priestess collage the other day. I did it awhile ago, as part of my Egyptian-themed tarot collages, and it’s been hanging in my office since then. But I’ve never had the right poem to pair it with. Of course the Oracle is always attuned to what I’m thinking.
I’ve also been thinking–how could I not be?–about the current attempts of our government to once again deprive women of equal standing with men. Which are of course intimately tied to the destruction of Mother Earth. The High Priestess represents all the parts of women that many men fear–“what lies beyond the veil”. As Rachel Pollack states in her tarot commentary: “Our society, based completely on outer achievement, fosters a terror of the unconscious….The High Priestess represents all these qualities: darkness, mystery, psychic forces, the power of the moon to stir the unconscious, passivity, and the wisdom gained from it.”
As always, the Oracle knows.
as if I could rest between the moon and this long wandering path listened with rootforest rainlight songs seeding the wind
why do we grow only quiet as our seasons leave us?
come she said– follow my secrets breathe into always
If I could see horizon’s light at first dawn, Venus would greet me shining up the rising sun. But I live in darkness, almost-full moon suffused with secrets, luminous, surprising me–reflecting through my window, later, soon– casting shadowed leaves that shift, mesmerizing, absorbed in Van Morrison’s musical dance– hazy as to borderlines, transformed, entranced. Perhaps Diana orbits inside my dreams– I almost catch her in the wavering beams– and following the fragments, drift—caught between.
An eleventh power poem for the prompt offered by Grace for the dVerse 11th anniversary celebration, also in answer to this week’s W3 challenge, a response to Steven S. Wallace and his poem “Oh Luna” that contains three proper nouns.