spinning winding then weaving spiraling into endless connections which appear to be hanging nowhere suspended without edge ending always at inception never does the fiber fray the beginning continues
follow where it leads through the unknown miles of endless webs a glittering reflection metamorphoses illuminating the darkness accumulations of ancient intricacies
dispersed without direction resonating chords of the cosmos naked glory of formless flow undefined by outlines unshadowed unbroken blurring the boundaries between us and we
For earthweal, where Sherry asks us to Contemplate the web of life and see where it takes you.
For how can I be sure I shall see again the world on the first of May? Until the end I thought it was the beginning of the middle. Time happened, then all of a sudden what you once believed in could no longer be retreived. The truth was hard, never soft, never easy. But it contained a life.
May came, but you did not see it.
And so it begins, and so it ends, always with a question. And if there is no answer to give—only a silence that acts as if asking were enough—how does the wheel turn? Or is the question the pivot on a circle whose edge contains only unknowing, infinite stillness? Is that where you are?
How can I be sure? Every answer is the wrong one in a world where there is nothing left to say.
A prosery for Merril’s prompt at dVerse of these words from Sara Teasdale.
“For how can I be sure I shall see again The world on the first of May”
I see you superimposed on the landscape, melting in to the shadows of buildings, sidewalks, trunks of trees–
woodfern sweetpepper bush cherry maple oak panicgrass fleabane hornbeam chestnut marsh blue violet–
I float on streams to the river– pickerel perch otter duck– climb paths up forested hills– bear fox rabbit deer–
My Lady of Mannahatta– swallowtail buckeye spring azure monarch–you gather me windwhispering
on hawkwings– full green animate, this island— return me to the timeless before, when land was shared, not owned
Welikia means “my good home” in the Lenape language. The Lenape tribe were the original inhabitants of Manhattan and the surrounding lands. Their main village was where Yonkers is now; they had temporary structures on the island of Mannahatta for use in hunting, fishing, and gathering.
The Welikia Project is an interactive map of New York City, where you can find out about the biodiversity and landscape of the island in 1609, before it was developed by Europeans. The idea that the Dutch “bought” the island was not one shared by the native peoples they then forced to leave the land.
Today, the NaPoWriMo prompt is “to write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which you live.”
The day feels as limber as a body carved in stone, and yet time remains elastic. A Möbius strip to which I cling, never certain if I’m inside or outside or whether, in fact, I’m located anywhere upon the twist of fate at all.
Dylan sang it simple, but simplicity in his mind means traveling on a roller coaster through an arcade of hallucinatory smoke and funhouse mirrors blindfolded and bound by myriad inexpressible desires. “A little confused”? That statement is not only under, but buried so deep beneath layers of denial that the concept of clarity no longer exists.
We are all born too late, really, searching over and over for the lost eternal beginning, the still center, not the unmappable edge we cleave to, against all reason, with the desperation of an addict looking for a permanent fix.
So which way does this finite world turn? Does the Universe have its own compass, or is it, too, like humanity, lost in space?
plus, minus—neither more nor less than tomorrow, yesterday, today
The NaPoWriMo prompt for today is to write a poem in which you describe something with a hard-boiled simile. I’ve also used Muri’s Scavenger Hunt words, limber and elastic.
when you leave yourself behind, where do you go?– clouds a shimmering path
blue like a robin’s egg– this liquid sky, darkening into shadow– when you leave yourself behind
does the mirror look back like a lake regarding the sky? where do you go?
do fish see themselves in the stars? do birds ride feathered waves?– clouds a shimmering path
The prompt for NaPoWriMo today was to write a poem that uses repetition. That prompt was made for me. I had been working on and off all week for a poem for Sherry’s prompt at earthweal, to write from that place of holding onto wildness of soul. I thought that today, Earth Day, would be the time to post it.
So I took my ideas and made a cascade, but there were ideas left over, so I did a pantoum too. You can never have too much repetition in my poetry world.
when you leave yourself behind (clouds a shimmering path) where do you go?– windsong the surface
clouds a shimmering path, the lake regarding the sky– windsong the surface displaced by light
the lake regarding the sky– as it hues the reflection displaced by light, does the mirror look back?
as the earth hues reflection, do fish see themselves in the stars? does the mirror look back when birds ride feathered waves?
do fish see themselves in the stars on the remnants of moontides? when birds ride feathered waves, do they flow into calligraphy?
on the remnants of moontides, where do you go? will you flow like calligraphy, leave yourself behind?
As I’ve noted before, I attended the first Earth Day celebration in 1970 in Washington DC. Not too much has changed since then. We can do better.
You think me a delicacy, braised and grilled with tangy sauce– raw, prepared as sushi– in a salad perhaps, tossed. You think my senses merely serve to aid in my survival– that my existence is secondary to what you deserve– a special meal without rival. And what of my disappearance?
My body is all potential, alien to your bones– my way of life, untranslatable as words or thought alone. I study you, your habits, both curious and sly– resisting my captivity, escaping from your limits– forcing you to abide with me if me you wish to study.
I am my own canvas, I paint colors with light and disguise– my form always in flux, I create patterns of magic, surprise. Once we were one, at home in the sea, the waters of birth– since opened by history, cleaved– now you claim land as your own, along with all creatures of earth– disenchanted inside your vast greed.
When I saw the NaPoWriMo prompt this morning, to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food, the first thing that came to mind was how I could never eat octopus again after reading Peter Godfrey Smith’s book about them, Other Minds. These paintings are from a previous post where I also used the voice of a cephalopod, though not from the point of view of being eaten.
I promised Muri I would attempt an Ode–just as difficult as I expected. And this one needs work. But the octopus is more than worthy as a subject for one
When you stand beside the ocean resonating with each wave, Shimmering beside the ocean ebbing flowing with each wave, It’s as if you’re moving with it spiraling and uncontained.
When the moon shines in your window and it wakes you with its light, Near full moon shines in your window wakes you up with silver light, Even shadows turn to magic and everything’s all right.
When the birds begin the morning fill the air up with their song, Robin cardinal and blue jay sing the sun up with their song, Even grey days seem to open make you feel like you belong.
If someone should think about you get in touch just say hello, An old friend is thinking of you gets in touch to let you know, All your worries are forgotten all those things that brought you low.
Then your mind distills and empties leaving room for what you’re not, All those thoughts retreat get quiet now there’s room for what you’re not, You can hear life’s heartbeat whisper you give thanks for what you’ve got.
For NaPoWriMo Day 18 where the prompt is to to write your own poem that provides five answers to the same question – without ever specifically identifying the question that is being answered. and Muri’s April Scavenger Hunt where one of the prompts is to write a blues poem.
K. 