as it is

…and so it begins with essence—unmeasured, all-seeing, untranslatable, present.

What is really there–here?  Everywhere.  It gathers nowhere, takes all in.  Releases the vast emptiness of center.  Unpredictable but never random.  Jumping through and crossing over.  Falling down down down into the other side of what was never, into the opposite of what is.

Only the light. The compass that points in all directions, overlapping and then merging into pure vibration.  A conduit of currents, waves with wings, voices without identifiable form or name.  Pinpoints glittering against the darkness, floating on the gasp of final breaths, forever on the verge.

Belonging neither to man nor to god nor to anything in between. 

Immersed in song.

This prose poem is a revision of a revision of a revision (no doubt to be continued). The art, on the other hand, was an experiment that exceeded my expectations. And so it goes.

For NaPoWriMo Day 15, on the eve of the full moon, where the prompt is to “write a poem about something you have absolutely no interest in”. To put it plainly,

I have no
interest in writing
a poem
about something I
have no interest in

But I’m enjoying reading the rants of my fellow poets on the subject.

Conjunction

She had been too much with herself for too long.  She remembered all those years of nights spent sheltered by the warmth of another body, two forms fitting their angles and curves into the same space, under the same quilt, following the same moontides.  Even after the inevitable discord of their diurnal interactions, the darkness enclosed them in a safe place.

Or so it seemed in retrospect.  Their anatomies had long since diverged, inhabiting vastly different and irreconcilable dimensions.  Where were those piercing chameleonlike eyes, the uncomfortably perceptive mind with its acerbic tongue?  She missed them.

The flesh she inhabited now seemed to belong somewhere else.  Why was she still trapped inside?  Sleep had become a mystery, with a map that consistently confused her.

When she dreamed, she wandered a vast dark underground, always missing the train.  One night a penumbra approached.  It seemed to be human, someone she knew, and yet she could identify nothing about them.  “You are alone.”  It was not a question, and it was true.

Without warning, an extended and overpowering embrace filled all the empty silences of her being.  She yielded to the invisibility of the voice which spoke a language she had once known but forgotten.

morning songs—shadows
of blue, a flash of red wings–
returning the light

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write your own prose poem that, whatever title you choose to give it, is a story about the body. The poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image. I’ve also included the murisopsis prompt word yield.