gathered in
like harmony
spilling out
like wings
like harmony
a stillness
like wings
unfolding
in stillness
each chord
unfolding
the world
each chord
filling
the world
with song
filling
the edges
with song
reaching
the edges
uncontained
reaching
the invisible
uncontained
singing
the invisible
to eternity
singing
beyond reason
to infinity
all needs
beyond reason
spilling out
all needs met
and gathered in
An unrhymed pantoum for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above.
Do we bless the worn, the weary,
the visible scars?
or do we replace what remains
and begin again, forget?
What do we owe the elements
that lack breath?
They too hold spirits–
remembering, keeping watch—
sentinals of imperfect journeys–
the everything of alive
For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above.
Because of all the energy usage due to the heat, Con Ed has been threatening power outages for weeks. Now it’s the tropical storm/hurricane. I haven’t had power problems except for intermittent internet. So if I’m not around much, that’s why.
For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above. Our skies have been like this on and off for a few weeks now.
here sky language dreams
enormous symphonies
sings in the tongues
of a thousand winds
beneath the shadows
of the hidden moon
storms wait
playing the music
of still bare light
time
distills
into the
slow motion of
half-forgotten hours–
astral sunsets emerge
inside the dense dazzled air–
waiting to join the fading light
that veils the edge between earth and sky
A nonet for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above, and Colleen’s #tanka Tuesday, with synonyms for blessed and hex, provided by Anita Dawes.
I did two rorschach paintings which turned out slightly different.
But somehow I always end up with wings.
After “The Owl” by Arthur Sze
I believed I was lost.
Night was on its way–
the path was purple in the dust
and seemed to have ended.
I had arrived here
without a destination.
I longed for sanctuary,
a resting place.
I saw an owl, perched,
watching me.
I spread my arms,
willing wings to appear
so I too could shelter
on a branch.
But I remained earthbound,
weary and alone.
And when the owl stirred,
a fine dust formed patterns
in the disappearing light.
It was as if a portal had opened.
Constellations
fell from its wings. I was
surrounded by the cosmos,
spiraled into a glowing darkness
and deposited in a held breath.
All was silent then. And I felt
safe, like the arms of the universe
held me in a vast sacred space.
Nothing stirred forever–then I sensed
the owl quaver. And at dawn, waking,
I saw with clarity the world
becoming new, transforming
into a landscape that never existed
before now. The path was green
and meandered back into itself.
I could not see where
I was going but it felt
familiar, like I had circled
with the seasons, following
the path of the planets dancing
with the sun and moon.
We emerged
reborn
into the
May light.
I’m bringing together a lot of different trains of thought here, so bear with me.
The Kick-About challenge #6 is Rebecca Solnit’s A Field Guide to Getting Lost. Though I have not read that particular Solnit book, I have read at least one essay she has written about labyrinths (“Journey to the Center” from The Encyclopedia of Trouble and Spaciousness), and that’s the first thing that came to mind.
A labyrinth is not a maze–there is only one path in and one path out. Labyrinths have been found in cultures all over the world, and are often used as forms of ritual or pilgrimage–a way to return to the source, to lose yourself in something larger and as a result find yourself again.
Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above, gave me that feeling too–could not those paths be circuits on a labyrinth, doubling back to the beginning of the journey?
Labyrinths have been linked to circles, spirals, and mandalas–all patterns of sacred geometry. They have been compared to a map of the brain.
Solnit: “Getting lost was not a matter of geography so much as identity, a passionate desire, even an urgent need, to become no one and anyone, to shake off the shackles that remind you who you are, who others think you are.”
When you walk a labyrinth you are walking the same path to and from the center, yet the journey in and out are not at all the same. The seven circuit labyrinth is often layered with rainbows, mirroring the 7 chakras, the 7 notes of the musical scale, the 7 sacred planets, the 7 days of the week. The journey creates a bridge from earth to the cosmos and back again. In a symbolic death, you return to the womb, shedding the things you have acquired but no longer need. Rebirthing back to the entrance/exit you open yourself to finding new patterns, new ways of being in the world.
Lost can mean adrift, forgotten, missing, but also captivated or consumed. Lost can be hopeless or bewildered but it can also be rapt, immersed.
Solnit: “…to be lost is to be fully present, and to be fully present is to be capable of being in uncertainty and mystery.”
This poem is another instance where I spread out the lines of someone else’s poem and filled in the empty spaces with my own thoughts. You can read Arthur Sze’s original poem here.
Who drinks your tears, who has your wings, who hears your story?
Rebecca Solnit, “The Faraway Nearby”
solitude
unwinding beneath
meandering
skies, layers
circling back on themselves, cross
currented by wind–
trees sweep leaves
into shapes–shivered,
spilled over
edges, cast
shadowed with spirits holding
earth connecting air
scattering
blossomed voices—bells
calling words
into breath,
into dances that whisper
sanctuary—“come”
For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above.
I recently came across a video that talked about asemic writing, and using it as a prompt for extracting poetry from your unintellible scribbles. I decided to use Sue’s photo as a guide for my asemic composition, first using fine point markers in colors that echoed the landscape. I then freewrote what I thought my marks were trying to say.
After that I took watercolor pencils, dipped them in water, and wrote asemically again over the markers, blurring both. I looked at what I had written in my initial response, extracted some of the ideas, and formed them into a shadorma chain to go with the final composition.
When I saw Sue’s photo, the first thing I thought of was the traditional Scottish song “Wild Mountain Thyme”. Joan Baez did a famous version, but I think the one I remember most from my youth is by the Byrds. It’s been covered and reinterpreted by artists as varied as Van Morrison, the Clancy Brothers, and Ed Sheeran. I listened to a lot of them, but I really like this one by Kate Rusby.
For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above, a shadorma collaboration with the Oracle.
between earth
and clouded air live
secret paths
that follow
water and wind—ask the light
to sing your soul through
Watercolor with neocolor lines drawn over it
she said, but
count them, count them and
remember
what has not
yet been dreamed—what follows each
silhouette–
a breath that
removes what is not
required, keeps
what fills need
and refills it whenever
it becomes empty—
spellcast in
air, each wing gathers
force, compressed
like secrets–
talismans numbered and tossed
waiting for the wind
For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above, and also posted to earthweal open link weekend.
I do not
know this body—is it
mine? It does
not obey
the years that hide the past—it
unravels like lies.
It tries to
pretend, believe in
what never
was—always
the wrong age for the face I
imagined, the face
remembered
by the self I thought
secret—now
I stand exposed–
a silhouette seen in the
doorway of the night.
I tried something a little different with my collage for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above. I used a generic thank you card I had received in the mail for a donation as a base, and decided to go over the edges and make a kind of diorama with it.
And then of course it needed a story.
Here is how it looks when laid flat.
an infused
world, changing with sky
light weather–
we construct
alternates to confusion,
editing ourselves,
trying to
change the stories, shape
how we fit–
our doors swing
only in and out—not through,
not passing between—
our edges
are meant to divide–
what do we
really see?
surrounded by leeways–who
can control the wind?
A shadorma chain for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above.
K. 