Poem No.15: For The Record

What a perfect letter for what's already a shitty day!

It pains me to think that you might consider the only evils worth distancing yourself from are those of what people decide to wear, those adorning their architecture, those displaying their religion, which all seems pretty much the same to me. 

I've had this recurring dream (over now I hope), of climbing up these concrete slabs of stone towards a grotesque altar owned by priests. The altar is so ugly that it is as soon seen as mentally blocked, and in the dream I run so far away, down all the stone steps. Once I'm far enough away, into a town square or something like it, I am already awake. 

My opinion may not matter one whit to you, but I'll say this for myself: a family that uses the word capitalism casually, with or without a smattering of bile, is a family I'd prefer not to meet, just the same for the other side of the spectrum.

Anyway, I'm glad you had a great time. Truly. Personally, I'm looking forward to movies that shatter, after finishing your missives. 

Poem No. 10: Learning

Maybe what we're working towards
is in actuality
a working away from:
the process of work
in reverse.

Away from merely fitting in,
away from impositions
of meaning, away from
power, authority, and
all opposites.

Instead we work towards
communal navigation,
the creation of values
not assigned but
produced through
the hard labor
of action,
thought,
reaction,
sensation
emotion,
intention,
intuition,
elucidation,
illumination,
on and on.

(Hard work
finds rest
in its softness;
the unknown result.)

Don't initiate value;
it arises on its own
from our minds, bodies, hands,
wingtips, tentacles, veins,
hair, claws, manes -
all seeking something inherently beyond it,
uncovering what's true, making it real;
a finding out; a discovery.

Spells and Enchantments (Pink Supermoon in Libra April 2020)

Last night I cast a spell... though I'd like to keep most of it private, there are two elements I'd like to share. The first was preparing myself for the night and for being able to witness it. I cleansed and adorned myself in a slow ritual. 

Secondly, I gathered the ingredients; pink rose petals and my jasper heart stone.

Finally, I cast the spell while the thunder roared and the lightning sparked the bruised sky... humidity enveloped me until the rain broke gently, softly, quieted and stopped. 

Before bed, I wrote down a poem as I glanced through the blinds at the glistening Supermoon... rising higher and higher in the sky, just a little shy of pink...

She doesn't stand alone.
For our eyes she is laced;
the delicate lace protects her;
the lace of clouds, wispy, 
the steadfast, transient boundary  
of the heavens 
and of the Earth. 

She is charmed so
simply, yet never plainly, 
sharing light from an abyss 
threatening to withhold 
its mystery,
its secrets.

Our moon reveals one truth:
the absolute annulment
of that which is meaningless. 

- F

Poem No. 8: Dusk

It is dusk as I write. 
Deep denim blue jean dusk,
little molecules of white in the darkening sky
showing through the blinds before night. 
In the clutter and clatter of inside,
the bulb of a single lamp sheds itself 
on days years ago written down,
talking about how things come together.

I don't like to throw things away, making garbage,
more trash for the pile. This goes especially for all those 
gifts, like the tiny lime-green plastic Buddha I received,
five birthdays ago from the waiter at a Chinese restaurant
who saw how sick I was, ill inside as I celebrated another year
surrounded by friends and family and coworkers, some who 
I've lost contact with, some who I've cut off, some who are still
very present in my life. So many odds and ends, special rocks, even,
treasures to remember trips and happy accidents, 
small pieces from the ground. 

I don't collect -
but I save every last bit waiting 
to prove worthwhile in the long run.

Today, I put Buddha in front of a candle
for a photo and it looked awful. Buddha's
head was on fire with what looked like a 
flaming feather; the whole thing looked like
a mockery of Indians and Buddhists and Asians 
alike. 

It's the lens that scares me. It's OK to notice it,
its' cutting to the core, its' wideness. That uneasiness 
you feel makes it OK to intervene too, to fix it, make of it
something better, something soft, something 
not needing to pierce with its sterility, but a shaping -
needing not a clearing out and hauling away,
but a reassessment, rearrangement, a remaking of it all: 
a coming together. Only then, after all of that trying
and testing, trial and error, one actually has a chance 
to look and see what it is that simply needs to go 

Poof! Like magic.

Poem No. 6: From Memory

Down the memory pipe, 
there are mirrors 
I don't wish to return to.

The form of it - a 
kind of missing:
a middle of the night
nightmare gasp,
a sharp inhale,
the murmur 
of a name. 
Or strange dreams 
where I wake up
and ask why?
And hold that close. 

Which is to say,
missing is a memory
already a part of me,
it's buried deep,
a subconscious seeping. 

Or else missing is a kneading
like a cat kneads for her mother
when it already knows there isn't 
a mother to milk; an ingrained action,
no longer meaning the tightly wound knot 
of shared moments lost, but rather the precious
presence of those moments in real-time:
seeking that which isn't there, finding
contentment otherwise in what is. 
Emotional adaptation? I'm not sure. 

But I do tend to miss my mom and
my cat. No one else really. (Maybe
there's a worry aligned with that missing.)

Only because 
our moments 
worth missing
were those experienced
while we were running for our lives
towards where we all are right. now. 
We each know this: there is no time to miss. 
For too long anyway, to dwell on it. To write on it. 

I once wished for a room with everything I've lost. Items, I mean. Eye-glasses. Rings. Stolen clothes. A diamond earring. Gifts. A blue velvet ballet flat in the middle of a tunnel. Each time I'd felt so bad for losing the thing, for it was worth money and/or it was a symbol of a relationship, you know, like a matching friendship bracelet.  That missing I didn't want to feel of the lost thing would come back if I only saw it, held it in my hands like a forgotten relic, talisman, protecting its wearer from the very thing this is all about: missing. 

Oh! The thing I miss most: the piano. I just remembered. Not then, with the knife chopping in the background or the television blaring on about roses and bachelors. I don't even miss it for now - there's no where it could go. I miss it for the future, a future enveloped safely in silence until the first strike of the first key. 

Poem No. 5: Pity

Squandering is hard. 
I'd like to believe  
you know this,
but I'm not so sure.

We make it seem
easy. To entertain - 
to be entertained - 
to pleasure - 
to feel pleasured
by another,
through warmth
by conversation
through settling in 
common ground,
to have the opportunity
for boredom to become
friendship, the best
present of them all,
an honor that requires
nothing to give,
nothing to take.

(Because you won't
find it if you're not looking.
Stillness is a movement 
that allows for nothing 
to happen, to really 
happen so we can turn 
our insides out. And 
later, laugh real laughs 
at the soul-carrying face.
So it's hard to find fellow
squanderers when no one 
looks. But luckily
for me, I can name a few.)

Though I've squandered alone.
It's against your rules, but
tell me, is squandering so
different than daydreaming?
Staring out into space,
thinking, forgetting where
you are in wondering without
thought, in feeling the simple
fact of existing: asking that 
question: Am I really here?
I know, for some, that causes
fear. It never did me. I 
like pure sentience. And 
playing with it. Like light
through fingertips, like
a song emanating from 
my mouth, but not knowing 
from where. What is a 
mouth? A song?

I don't know 
in this instance
how to speak directly
to your musings on
production, waste,
excess, punishment,
time pre-spent (to what end?)
Capital, wealth, and
decadence.. the sun.

But (I think)
I get it, and 
I know
I like it.
I'll be able
to speak to it
one day. You 
said something 
about cooking?
I don't really
know how.
Were there days
we just found food?
To burn, to eat.

I'm aware of
oxygen thieves (as a
teacher used to say):
when a body stays
as merely a refusal 
of anyone else being there,
I wonder why?
To that lie 
I'm sorry for this truth:
how sad. 

Wings of Desire

Wings of Desire:

People are distracted by objects of desire,
and afterwards repent of the lust they've 
indulged,
because they have indulged with a phantom
and are left even farther from Reality 
then before. 
Your desire for the illusory is a wing,
by means of which a seeker might 
ascend to Reality.
When you have indulged a lust, your
wing drops off ;
you become lame and that fantasy flees.
Preserve the wing and don't indulge 
such lust,
so that the wing of desire may bear you
to Paradise. 
People fancy they are enjoying
themselves, 
but they are really tearing out 
their wings
for the sake of an illusion. 

Short review from me, here: https://feliciareviewsbooks.blogspot.com/2019/01/the-pocket-rumi-by-rumi-edited-by-kabir.html

- F

Where Does The Dance Begin, Where Does It End? by Mary Oliver

- Mary Oliver (1935-2019)

Regards

Sure, the clouds had already shattered. And now they've coalesced together and a bit too tightly, without a trace of patchwork, billowy and cold, refreshing all the same, leaving space for just two traces, one spread in flight, the other a piercing heart, both made of light, the splinterest difference of truth between them and their cover. 

Here, above my humble abode the other day:

- F

Pensées de la lune (Moon Thoughts, a poem by me)

The shadows of the moon
are not her choice. 
The clouds sympathize;
they want to embellish her,
while she just wants to shine,
bask in the cold light,
of her strong glory,
owing it all - 
every bit of her presence -
to the heat
of the sun. 

When the sun dies, 
as he will, 
as all stars do,
what will this rock
of infinite shadow
feel in the truth
of its darkness?
Being a blank slate,
scars visible to no one.
No mere human
at least.

(Objects feel.
They must,
at some infinite depth.
For they are alive
only after
some form of death
by technology
or otherwise.)

- F

A little learning is a dangerous thing"

from Alexander Pope's Essay On Criticism

- F

Surplus

What to do 
with this
surplus
love
which is
repelled
by its 
recipients?

All this love
which is
then absorbed 
back
doubly
and drips 
like a messy sponge
or else
an overfull 
water balloon
about to burst?

How can this excess
be used wisely?

How can this
built up pressure
hold
its perfect,
soft shape
intact?

Why compare love
to a commodity
at all,
when love
should be
free?

- F