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This is my newest collage that I keep on my altar. It sums up for me the journey I have taken in this past year here in Lemuria.
To dance
Wildly, with fierce
Abandonment, letting
Hidden longings escape through my
Moving limbs.
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The above poem is written in the form of a cinquain, sometimes referred to as American Haiku. Cinquains use a fixed syllable format set in 5 lines as follows:
Line 1: 2 syllables
Line 2: 4 syllables
Line 3: 6 syllables
Line 4: 8 syllables
Line 5: 2-3 syllables.
What is procrastination — laziness or fear? Is this inability to just get started and begin whatever it is we are called to do, really a reflection of of our terror that perhaps we won’t eb able to do it, that we aren’t good enough, that everybody will finally see through us for the frauds that we are? Ooooh all these critcal inner voices!
Most teenagers are horribly familiar with these piosonous voices and I certainly suffered from more than my fair share. Yet these same freezing breezes that blew through my transparent and fragile soul, also birthed the longings and yearnings for something different. This was when I discovered the gift of soul dancing, though I never would have called it such back then, and in fact have only recently discovered that it is considered an acceptable route to ones deepest, darkest, inner sanctum. Using movement as a freeway to my soul I danced into my longings, alone with wild and fierce abandon. I danced when I was happyand the vibrant juices of life coursed through my veins, pumping my heart into overload until I was sure that it would burst and flow warm and dark through the edges of the worn out floorboards. I danced also when I was angry, allowing all that aggression and frustration to race through the highways and byways of my arms and legs, my limbs daring anyone who came near to try, just try and stop me now. Afterwards when my energy had spent itself, dissipating in rivulets of sweat that ran down my back, I lay down and wept in utter exhaustion and tiredness. Sadness often brushed her wings across my cheeks fluttering near my heart.
These days sometimes I dance, but mostly I don’t. Quite simply I am just too tired to even consider it, which ought to awaken alarm bells really that something isn’t as it ought to be. For a long time dancing was a way in to the creative rooms of my inner being. Recently my creativity is expressed through writing — poetry or journaling mainly, though sometimes it feels very adventourous to attempt a brief story, albeit very brief! Loud rhythmic music interferes with that. So for the time being at least turning on some rock music would have to join the list of possible procrastinations…..
Red sun, slow riser,
Paints the wings of the white dove.
Dawn comes soaring in.
I am sooo excited to be able to share this new version of one of my poems with everyone! Lori responded to my initial poem and I asked her if she would help me by reading it alongside another version sent to me by my poetry mentor, a version I felt stripped it of its essence, which happily Lori agreed to. Then Lori did the masterful thing and took the best of my mentors assessment and created this version instead. Thank you Lori!! And a very Happy Easter to you!! (and to everyone else as well!!!)
Incense floats
on purple raiment
and fish breezes
where Carnival,
red with desire,
once laughed
and danced
its way across
the cobblestones.
Where wild streamers
caught by March winds,
flung up to the Phoenix
whale-road,
soaring forever
towards the sun.
Now the ashes
are thumbed on my forehead
by morning rain.
Monks chant laments.
Sombre days stretch into
hair-shirt nights.
Easter is a
Resurrection away.
Incense floats on
purple raiment and
fish breezes.
Monks chant
psalms of lament.
Sombre days stretch into
hair-shirt nights.
Easter is a
Resurrection away.
But first, the carnival
red with desire,
laughter day,
dances and sings its way
across the cobblestones.
Wild-winged streamers
caught by March winds,
flung backwards and up,
up, up to the Phoenix
whale-road, heading
straight for the sun.
But they cannot
fly forever and
soon the ashes flutter down,
down, down from above,
until they settle on
our foreheads,
thumbed by the morning
of the purple rain.
WINTER
Harshest season of all you come again,
Returning like the dark moon.
Sneaking behind us, you catch our coat tails and
drag us to the frozen lakes of tears unheard.
Powerless we fall, as Inanna did.
Yet still we try to hold our shawls close
as if we could resist your grasp.
Long nails in claws that cut through tender flesh,
strip us bare of hope.
And so we stand naked and empty,
having dropped all at each of the
seven gates of hell.
The coldest season hangs on to her prey,
releasing her not.
Inanna screams her song of terror and lamentation.
Together with her we cry ”All is lost”.
Voices plead for mercy through thick fog.
Icy breezes drift across the dead landscape
like the vapours of Inanna’s soul.
And then at last the turning comes.
The darkest days are over.
The time for ascent has come.
A new moon is born.
Inanna rises.
WE ARE DAMNED, MY SISTERS by Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill
We are damned, my sisters,
we who swam at night
on beaches, with the stars
laughing with us
phosphoresense about us
we shreiking with delight
with the coldness of the tide
without shifts or dresses
as innocent as infants.
We are damned, my sisters.
We are damned, my sisters,
we who accepted the priests’ challenge
our kindred’s challenge:who ate from destiny’s dish
who have knowledge of good and evil
who are no longer concerned.
We spent nights in Eden’s fields
eating apples, gooseberries; roses
behind our ears, singing songs
around the gipsy bon-fires
drinking and romping with sailors and robbers;
and so we’re damned, my sisters.
We didn’t darn stockings
we didn’t comb or tease
we knew nothing of handmaidens
except the one in high Heaven.
We preferred to be shoeless by the tide
dancing singly on the wet sand
the piper’s tune coming to us
on the kind Spring wind, than to be
indoors making strong tea for the men —
and so we’re damed, my sisters!
Our eyes will go to the worms
our lips to the clawed crabs
and our livers will be given
as food to the parish dogs.
The hair will be torn from our heads
the flesh flayed from our bones.
They’ll find apple seeds and gooseberry skins
in the remains of our vomit
when we are damed, my sisters.
This has got to be one of my all-time favourite poems! Actually this is a translation from the Irish, the language it was first written in. However the poet’s first language is English and she did collaborate with another very well known Irish poet to translate this poem into English. The original Irish of course captures nuances that are lost in translation, yet still the poem remains strong, largely because of its imagery, especially all those images that refer to Irish Catholicism (”We spent nights in Eden’s fields” and ”handmaidens…the one in high Heaven”) and consequent feelings of deep-seated guilt. The last verse especially captures the sort of fear that every ”good” Irish Catholic would have felt in their bones about turning away from the ”one true faith” — all those images of the female bodies being torn to shreds with the suggestion that this will be done in line with what the ”parish” requires. Oh it is so beautifully vicious!!! And then the revenge at the end — what ”they” will find
”in the remains of our vomit”–
”apple seeds and goosesberry skins” — the Irish equivalent of poemgranite fruit.
The theme of course is how the women have turned away from the men and male imposed rules and religion, and instead have discovered together the inner secret of their hidden joys. Now they swim at night, and the stars laugh with them (what a beautiful image!–a very Irish way of phrasing).
The language of course is very striking, as when the poet juxtaposes innocence with the fact of their being damned. To find themselves and live authentically they will be ostracized.
Some time it has been since I walked
Upon these paths of peace and delight,
Still remember I well the day I first saw
Those city walls of splendour, so bright.
The city itself sat on a hill
Surrounded it seemed by walls of gold,
And any who saw it in the sun
Were dazzled by beauty, as is often told.
The City of Light lay resplendent in glory
Magnificent spirals and churches abound;
A peal of bells rang out a new story
It seemed as if angels alone were around.
Its beauty seemed both untouched and unreal,
And I merely human with feet made of clay,
That little there was but for me just to feel
Such a City of Angels was not mine on that day.
[This poem was written as an attempt to create using traditional rhyming stanzas. It is based on a piece of prose written about a vision seen while wandering in the environs of the City of Ladies.)
Sun breaks the night spells
cast by veils of chiffon and lies.
Satin clouds part to reveal
what darkness hides.
Whisperings of icy breezes
trail over the horizon.
Snow arrives,
reaching into shadows
with fingers of dazzling truth.
But the traveller prefers to
follow trails that lead him to
far and distant promises.
A still pool remains,
reminding any who
care to listen that
secrets more ancient
than they know
lie at the bottom of
her realm.
Night sky glitters with flaming stars
While Eros drinks his purple wine,
Golden tongued poets murmur in memory
On the parting Muses for whom they pine.
Bittersweet desire lies on the altar,
Tokens of moist lotus trail in the dawn,
To sing and dance in the sea as they bathe
And caress the desire for She whom they yearn.
Wild girls heard singing in ecstatic tongue
Daughters of Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love,
Who drink the bee’s nectar from the heavenly urn,
Then lie on the earth with the red-fingered dove.
Heart broken poets burn incense at twilight
Walk down from the mountains in procession and song,
Find sweet ambrosia to quench dry, parched lips,
Then dance in Her grove a-cloaked all night long.
Soulsister
Silver moonlight falls
upon ink darkened water
boats drift out to sea
breeze carries a memory;
clinging together as one.
Soulsister
I am just beginning to exhale
The breath that has been held in a
Life stifled by responsibilties and must-dos.
A new voice calls through the wind
Flying through my mouth and down my throat
Before I can close the shutters of my soul.
The crystal castle shakes and rattles,
Its foundations crumbling.
There is a mad woman in the attic
Screaming ”Let me begin”.
And so I let the stale air out,
The breath that I have been sucking in
For years, until it finally feels
As if my lungs should burst
Leaving my life scattered in bits and pieces
All over the front porch.
Someone else would have to clean it up.
Guess who’s coming to dinner?!!!Heather, I thought that maybe now was the perfect time to introduce you to all my gang. Each and very one of them has being listening to the tales and lore of Lemuria, and at this time feel as if they are as much part of the community as I am!! So it seems fitting to bring them along to visit you today on this very meaning ful day in your life. Allow me to introduce them to you, starting from top left and working clockwise:Sorcha (16 years old and my eldest); myself; Orla (5 years old and the youngest); Donnie (my husband); Grainne (12 years old and the middle child); Meabh (8 years old, second youngest); and Eoin (14 years old and my only son).What are we listening to? — It had to be one of the great love stories, like yours and Darryl’s, so we chose Puccini’s ‘La Boheme’.
What are we reading?- Ah since starting to write my Riversleigh Chronicles (which have yet to be posted) it seemed only fitting that the family bedtime story should be one in similar spirit and mood as the prevailing winds in Lemuria, the one, the only, ‘The Secret Garden’, of course!
So here we all are, the younger children are running around your front lawn playing chasing and having fun, while trying not to spill any of the adult’s drinks; Sorcha is standing beside you and alternately telling you about her life in Ireland and listening avidly to your stories, Eoin is checking out all Darryl’s friends, hoping to get a ride on one of the bikes; Donnie is distracting your mother-in-law attempting to keep her occupied and out of your hair (lovely job, by the way!); and me, well I am here in the background for whenever you need a shoulder to cry on, and otherwise having a few quiet words with dear Monika and Lois.
Yes Heather, today we are all standing right there beside you.
With all our love and more,
Edith, Donnie, Sorcha, Eoin, Grainne, Meabh, and Orla.
1970. 3rd class, St. Pius X National School in a suburb on the outskirts of Dublin, capital city of Ireland. Approximately 40+ children sitting in rows facing the blackboard and the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. Windows on one side of the class, stretching from one end to the other. Late autumn, not that there was much evidence of seasonal change in this newly built modern educational establishment featuring concrete blocks and empty glass, the newsest application of archetectural design, apart from the dark cloud filled sky and that very particular slant of light, the one that harbours the shadows of fast approaching winter. The school heating system was up and running, with water clanking like bricks through the pipes. There were no thermostats in those days, at least not here in Ireland, and so very quickly the room grew overheated, stuffy and airless. As the day wore on, children and teacher alike grew tired and lifeless.
”Take out your religion books”, announced the teacher, her voice tone emulating perfectly the children’s response at the prospect of christian doctrine class. Still at least we could sleep with our eyes open through this period. No special demands were likely to be made on our mental capacities. And so, like everyone else, I listlessly pulled my textbook from my bag.
”Open page 39. Begin reading Sarah.”
Sarah read slowly and laboriously, and quickly growing bored at following her pace, I read on instead.
”In the beginning was the Word,
And the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
Feeling as if I had just been hit by a bolt from the sky, I sat up, holding myself rigid, heart racing and breath coming in short and quick gasps.
(H)e was in the beginning with God.”
I had no idea what these words signified or meant, yet something stirred within, jolting my soul awake to realms hitherto never even dreamt of. A few mere words had pulled back a veil and in doing so spread before my 9 year old mind the promise of possibilities and riches that far exceeded any that had previously entered the narrow confines of my world.
Reading the Prologue repeatedly, the words seemed to trip over each other, rolling and frolicking along. At first I had to devour it silently, but with hungry eyes, terrified that I might miss a piece and lose it just as I had found it, quickly and suddenly. Later that evening, alone at last in my room, I could utter the words aloud, over and over again, savouring each one, experiencing the secret, inner delight of newly discovered, previously hidden knowledge. In the space of a few moments my whole world, my entire universe, had shattered wide, wide open, and seemed to glitter with infinite shards of possibilities and promises.
On this day surely I was born again. On this day I found poetry.
Soulsister
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