P o e t r y      ~   S o n g s   o f   o u r   S e a r c h i n g   ~ 

 





"
Surrender"

The Binding Tree

 

So much searching in the darkness,

the fog of shadow heavy upon eyelids,

the density of things long hidden,

thick, like cobwebs in my mouth.

Trying to decipher the meaning

of a thing half-glimpsed, half-sensed.

My movement slower, more cumbersome

than the rest of the worlds.

Like in a dream,

limbs weighed down by the fear

of what cannot be seen,

within the darkness,

within me.

And what I seek seems tender as an egg,

fragile like a lone bird calling in the night.

I hanker like a lost thing after the missing pieces

to the story of my being,

the pieces I am blind to.

And sometimes I come to lay my trembling palms

upon a part of me, quieted by the history of ancestors,

that knows beyond a shadow of a doubt

that even in the darkness the song is worth finding.

That the deep underbelly of the world

drinks at the well of these furtive offerings.

I keen for the part of me that will shield

the tender eggs of my becoming,

even though I should already be fully-grown.

And like a giant certainty amidst the shadows,

the crooning comes, “sing, tender one, so unsure,

sing to that which is unborn within you,

sing the song of the half-glimpsed life,

within the night of man’s great unseeing.”

For what I seek seems also

a robust and eternal thing,

smelling of the earth,

its deep roots entwining.

Shrouded like a holy law

that my kind has come to thwart.

My hands caress the complex skin

of this rejected mystery,

Knowing it like a whole-bodied homecoming.

Needing the knowledge of this tree of life,

within which my clumsy nest seeks to take a hold,

though the wind does blow,

and the darkness is thick, all around.

Here I find the bird that sings, on this dark night,

with her nest full of eggs.

She is singing of a living

that does not harm the law of life,

to which we have become so blind.


Brought to Bare

As an artist I am Midwife.

The imagery calls,

whispers from the cavernous realm

of the formless place

and I am charged with the task

of engendering this birthing into being.

Asked to bare witness

to this emergence of becoming.

To turn up and be present

and ride the waves.

Wiping the sweat and the blood,

accommodating with my hands

and heart and words

the inseparable passage of ecstasy and pain,

of resistance and release.

Sometimes sitting still in the quiet corner,

in the dim-light of the pre-dawn,

in the hush, of the eye,

of that magnificent storm,

as creation navigates its own

thunderously graceful

pathway into existence.

Sometimes, and more often than not,

being the boundary that says

“Yes you can, and lets get on with it!”

Scouring the psyche

for the point of most resistance

and laying it bare;

A gratitude deep and wide

for the baring witness

to something holy of spirit,

that breaks the heart

ever more open

to receive

and reciprocate.

 

As an artist I am Mother.

Called upon to carry these vessels of life

upon my hip, upon my shoulders,

even when they get really heavy;

Cupping them with my heart

when they look awkward,

ferocious, raw, ugly even,

loving them still.

Suckling my charge in the night hours,

enduring the animal instinct

of love so strong

it’s an effort not to devour

that softly solid little form,

tucked up in the crook of my arm,

in the hollow space

between my soft, round belly

and my thighs.

Making do with a kiss and a squeeze;

Accepting the weight

of being bound to something,

inextricably, forever;

Suffering the surprise

and sometimes embarrassment,

of when something that was once inside of me,

so utterly intimate and private,

moves out into the world

in a way so unexpectedly independent.

Revealing so much more

than my own censored heart might condone.

The child, rambunctious and proud,

demanding and difficult,

where I am timid and afraid;

Allowing my eyes to shine with the hope

that my love so desperately elicits,

even when the world seems an unlikely

and dangerous place

to house these delicate futures.

 

As an artist I am Child,

So very, very small and new

in a world so very big.

Rooting around like a grub in the dark,

looking for something real and comforting.

So hungry for the succor

of that sweet, warm and mighty breast,

and the light-filled fluid

filling my immense vulnerability to the core

with an equal measure of love and faith.

The circle of my mother’s arms

such a tender haven,

from my endeavoring

to know a world

I am mostly blind to,

so ill-equipped for,

clumsy and mute,

my skin too soft,

in the face of my task.

And yet the spirit that spurs me forth

into that other vast beating I hear beyond me.

A tenacious drive arising

to learn and to grow

and to become more of who I am,

but also becoming somehow less;

Delighting in what I know

and thankfully ignorant of what I do not,

least the path seems insurmountable.

Trusting in the things that cannot be spoken,

and at the mercy of the goodwill of the universe,

with a prayer that nurture

is indeed the guiding principle

after all.

It is the part of me that says

“Can’t I stop now?”

“Do I really have to finish?”

“Will you carry me?”

“How much further to go?”;

The devastating suspicion

that I am nothing

and worth naught;

The precious and dangerous part

that does not know where I end and you begin;

The part that has not yet learnt

to separate my will from the will of God;

Creating secret hiding places

for the precious things that do not fit,

hiding them so well it takes a lifetime

to find my way back to the heart of them

and claim them

truly as my own.

 

As an artist I am Lover.

Endeavoring to allow

the romance of the universe

to ravish me utterly,

to open me so completely to the majestic

and sometimes terrifying

and sometimes mundane seeming,

Other.

To choose to leap

off that death defying cliff

even when I am tired

and feeling the tantalizing pull

to comfort and safety.

To gather up my too many muffins in the belly,

worn-out nippled,

weary-boned body

and say yes to you,

forever and always.

Seduce me even in the quiet, dark corners

I have thought to preserve only for me.

Even in the places I go to retreat

from loves unflinching gaze

and to revel in my wounds;

Even these I must surrender back to you,

so that you may fill me utterly,

my mouth, my eyes, my ears ,

my yoni, my womb, my heart,

squeezing out all my separation,

all my withholding.

Making me new, like a clean sheet of paper,

awaiting the dawn,

awaiting the pen and the brush,

to be born anew as form

and the familiar;

The wooing awake of

the ocean-deep yearning of the heart,

braving the weight of that longing;

Whispering the haunted mating song

to the barren void

again and again

until the ground gives way

and I am swept away

into that turbulent current,

alive again

and love;

The echoes of the aching

like a bruise

receding from the skin,

remnants of the pleasure of it

remnants of the pain of it.

And oh, the sweet pulsing honey-love,

ululation of union

where I forget

who I am.

 

Too often I hide,

I turn and forget,

I pretend that it does not serve me

to surrender my hard won position

to the current of chaos

forming itself into grace.

I find that I must offer

more and more of myself,

as an appeasement to God,

the ransom of my being,

for the bone-crunching,

heart-wrenching gift

that life offered me

when she gave me a body

and set my heart to pounding.






"
She  Meets  Herself "
 





Resting  Place "

 
Our Separation


 Sisters sometimes to sit with you is a great celebration of homecoming,

a jubilant ululation,

and sometimes it is a seeing of the ways I am not always home within myself.

Sometimes I find I am lost still in the brambles of my mind,

your light a distant campfire.

Sometimes, the vibrant display of your radiance and colour

pains the timid, mousey me,

that fancies there's not enough room for one more shining.

I forget that I am beauty too,

singing with my own varied feathers and plumes.

Sometimes, my heart and my womb seem such a long way off

through the hazy smoke screen of my minds attachment to inadequacy.

I feel shame at the faltering steps of my feet on the path,

pausing so often to see if there's a way back to safer ground,

to less revealing vulnerability.

So afraid of being me and of being nothing and of being everything.

Sometimes sisters, I fear the wellspring is barren and dry,

the bountiful women turning to leave with their buckets empty,

to find a source more juicy and flowing than mine.

I feel in this place such a very little girl,

so unknown to the world,

so pale and awkward,

but harbouring such a burning hunger to come home to you,

or rather to come home to me,

to my rightful hearth,

seated in the womb with tenacious courage and exquisite softness.

I long to navigate my being through the haze of my separation,

to find my water's taproot and to flood the dusty, barren plain

and to dance my bejewelled feet in the fertile mud of my perfection,

boldly embracing the timid child, the bitter cynic, the poisonous critic,

who might suggest I am anything less, than one of you.

Many voices that are not love have taken residency in my mind

and they are noisy this morning,

though I see them for what they are,

trying to re-assert their false authority over my heart's knowing

that within me is all that there is to know

and that I will continue to listen in the deep stillness of me,

to the soft and tender song of my becoming bravely me,

nothing and everything.



Threshold


  In the tender fragility of the threshold I dwell,

Always drawn in to the shadows

and the silent watch.

 

In the space between an idea and its execution,

a pregnant inertia, a heavy interiority.

waiting for the sun to thaw my petrified terror.

 

In the space between being and living

I flail in uncertainty,

dwelling too long on the potentials of impact,

in the placing of my foot

upon this precious ground of creation.

Can it hold my coarse and clumsy weight?

 

In the space between nature and the world,

I am frozen, bemused,

Like a wild thing caught in the headlights,

Frightened.

Longing to be rescued from myself

and thrown in to the bright and busy street,

where the signs have a meaning less ambiguous.

Where I am swept along

by the impulses of other beings

and our shared delusion

that everything is for free.

 

In the space between the numinous and the mundane,

I long to be saved from the heavy questions of

who it is that I might be,

and why it is that one so timid

should be gifted something so vast and magnificent

as a life, in a body.

Saved from the solemn and heartbreaking pact

with my child self

to be good

and to be true.

The seeking to understand the heart of this beingness,

and  the eternal wondering 

of how to come to occupy the humble greatness

that is this particular livingness

in this particular body,

made pendulous and full and stretched

by this perpetual inertia,

this perpetual hunger,

poised on the brink of becoming,

my heart skipping beats.

 

In the space between logos and mythos

I doze,

eyelids flickering with the inbetween realms

of suspended reason,

gravity abandoned,

my spirit set free.

 

In the space between the dream and the reality,

the deep feminine heart knows not how to still

the poisonous critic and the bitter cynic

of her wounded face.

Knows not how to point

her bright optimism on the trail

and take that bold step

and then another

and another,

scent keen, eyes vivd and bright,

finding the rhythm of her pace

with a sureness of foot and a steadfast heart.

Sure in the knowledge

of her inherent goodness,

her formidable instinct,

her razor-sharp claws,

ready to cut away all that would impede

the brave birthing of her direction

and her holy movement

and her ferocious living

of her boundless love.

 

In the space between my birth and my death

this blind and tenacious grappling

with that which is unknown

and unknowable within me.

This soft cocoon of my pain

like a veil that protects me

from the seeming cruelty of your gaze

and holds me away

from my winged heart’s knowing of you,

knowing of me,

in the crazy dance of pheromonal flight,

thrown to the wind,

unmasked.

Still alone but beside you now

able to finally see and feel beyond myself

to the glorious majesty of you

and to feel the sleek, honed, primal rightness

of muscle and bone put to its born-for purpose,

the stagnant accumulation falling away

in the face of this playful vigor,

this bold claiming

of the birthright

to make mistakes.

 





After  the Fire "