Passionate Fire

I wanted my first appearance at Poetry Thrusday to be with a poem that followed the prompt (brilliantly, of course!) but . . . the muse kept handing me balls of fire.

Burn

He could have cracked
through the island of his mind -
he finally understood:
it's not just that everything
she touches burns,
but she burns to touch -
to let her fingers hunt
past his lust
to find his thirst.

But his skin is pale
from sensible fluorescent light-
his feet stalled over
all his points of departure -
his eyes sensitive to flare.

So he hunkers down
under the cover of indifference -
avoids the sparks of her hands-
slams the door of his psyche
against the back draft.

He could have cracked
through the island of his mind-
but he didn't understand
the fertility of ash.

The Dream

CS2 Stock Photo altered in Photo Shop CS2

At eighteen I struggled with the effects of an abusive childhood, catapulted myself into marriage and motherhood, and felt totally disconnected from everyone except my child. Along with fear and regret, delight and small triumphs have carried me into today. Back then, I had one of the most unusual and vivid dreams of my life, one that began as a nightmare and ended in awe. I tucked the dream away safely in my journal and since have molded it into a kind of prose poem.

In a uniform of uncertain loyalty, I struggle barefoot through mire - marsh grasses crackle in my ears as they part. Stubborn, my muscles squirm out of mud's grip until I slide like a snake on solid ground. Terror stalks my scent, warps the air - miles of chase turn into suffocating desert. Somehow, desert drops away and the uniform strips from my skin to whirl like leaves in damp breezes. I sleep warm and naked - covered in sheets of shadows. I wake to hear the rush and drum of pounding surf and walk the murky passageway between two cliffs. On the other side, my senses are consumed with an ocean cast in the colors of living fire - a red sun in mid heaven - a lavender moon with its belly resting on the horizon. I know I will learn to exist in the poetry of this sky and the mystery of these fluid flames.

I think now, even with the struggles I face, I am finally learning.

More dreams at Sunday Scribblings

Insomnia

First, I want to thank everyone who has commented on my posts. It means a great deal to me to be welcomed here. And your kind words about my writing made me blush.

Outside my window I hear crows and watch them hop from branch to branch, notice my neighbor has painted all his wire plant baskets sky blue and stuffed them with red geraniums. A part of me nudges to take a walk, but I stay put cradling my tea cup in the palms of my hands. I haven't been sleeping more than three hours a night and I'm starting to feel edgy- like all the days of this week have been jammed into one long never ending day. I suppose it's stress and disappointment. The move to the Eco Village has fallen through and I'm feeling the implications of being diagnosed with Menier's Disease. I can't drive and there is always the potential for a vertigo attack to manifest unannounced. It's like having Epilepsy except there is no medication to control it. The only thing I can take is after the fact to control the inevitable nausea. Most of the time I am ok (except for the persistent ringing in my ears), but I have to be sharply conscious of my surroundings in case I fall. I don't like to dwell on it and the vertigo episodes are getting farther and farther apart. According to my doctor, there is a possibility the Menier's could disappear as quickly as it came. When I am feeling extra confident, I ride the bus to some of my favorite places or I would go loony cooped up in this apartment. Added to that, my daughter is having some of her own struggles and all I can do is accept the situation and love her. And of course, I could go into my litany of how I feel like such a misfit living in Orange County - I just don't fit the ultra conservative profile. But so much for lamenting. It's good to get it out, even have a good cry if I need to. But lingering there too long is like batting my eye lashes at depression and giving it a "come hither" look-- and it just makes for a lousy date.

I wanted to participate in Poetry Thursday this week, but lack of sleep and writing are apparently incompatible in my world. I have been reading poetry in the wee hours and came across one of my favorite Pablo Neruda poems - I think it is my credo for now.

If each day falls
inside each night,
there is a well where
clarity is imprisoned.
We need to sit on the rim
of the well of darkness
and fish for fallen light
with patience.

The Sun Magazine came today. I always feel a flush of pleasure when I realize it's in the mail box. It's just a luscious read (and photos) from cover to cover without a single ad. I think I will settle into a warm bath and read.

Superstition

(For Sunday Scribblings)

The lines between superstition,
myth and religion have always blurred into one another for me. Their literal meanings don’t hold the magic; I find the magic in what their symbols and language conjure up. It’s why I collect tarot cards – not to foretell the future, but to use my reactions to their images as a way to dig up what is going on beneath my surface. It’s like the way we can discover the multiple layers of meaning in a poem by paying close attention to its language. But it’s not the cards I want to write about. New Orleans has always been the most delicious concoction of superstition, myth and religion. A place that, even when I didn’t ask, has pressed her breath close to my ear and murmured her offerings. Sometimes I was thrilled with her gifts; other times it took me a while to warm up to them. She’s not always easy to fathom. Here’s a piece for her:

A moon hangs low and yellow while the bayou sits hourless. The white orchid tree offers up new blossoms to the night, one red drop pauses at the edge of a petal. A Screech owl’s stunned eyes search for its hunger. I sit behind the dragging branches of a Cypress, the echo of the city in my eyes and the heat over my mouth like a heavy hand. The Gris-Gris bag hangs damp between my breasts. Everything is waiting.

Disorientation

I wake up to the hum of traffic from the freeways that loop and curve around everything in Southern California. It’s the way people here orient themselves – east of the 55, south of the 91, just off the 57 . . . sometimes it’s hard to remember that the mountains and hills define the boundaries of this place – not the asphalt. I get up because my mind hints at poetry - a spark of rhythm and pattern, the shadow of an image. I light a candle in the living room so I won’t wake up P and remember a time when I would have thought it romantic to write by candlelight – now my vision just strains.

I write lists of ideas, snips of one-liners, a stilted stanza – doodle along the edges of the paper until I drift into the sounds I used to wake to: a train making its way along the tracks spanning across the water at Bay St. Louis, the late night echoes of musicians jamming long after the party was over on Bourbon St. I usually snatch up those memories and pack them back into the suitcase of my psyche. But tonight I let myself know that all my points of orientation have been erased. No matter how far away I've lived, thoughts of home kept me grounded – held my identity. I don’t recognize myself in the gaping buildings, the miles of land turned into junkyards, the markings on houses left by those looking for the dead . . . To bring myself back I run my fingers over the tear in the corner of the couch, listen to the drip of the kitchen faucet, see my cat’s eyes shining in the dark from under the coffee table.

The repetition of a big rig’s horn snags the air but this time I listen past the traffic to the silence trapped in the folds of these hills and mountains. Maybe before long I will find the poetry in mourning.