Saturday, July 27, 2013
Monday, July 22, 2013
Friday, July 19, 2013
From: "Toward the Same Shore", Yves Bonnefoy
Between sky and room
Sometimes our mirror
Takes the small earthly
Sun in its hands,
The paths, the hopes
Of things and names
Joined on the same shore.
We start to dream
That downstream from this river
Of peace, words will not ask
Too much of the world,
That words will not cut
The throat of the lamb
Follows our speech.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
11 pm, the night open like a calm lake, clean, pellucid, yet darkly opaque. six blackened silhouettes, boys, move through our back yard ignoring barriers, while their voices, pure, enter through our front open windows, songs of childhood, rare crystalline perfection, unadulterated for now. alone in the kitchen but not alone, i watch them out the small back window, know divinity poured into a cup, know awe of body, know unlimited stretch of spirit, their small voices rising up to the gods, not in prayer but knotted in the indulgence of being, know opportunity, know too pain to come. i both die and am born again in the complicated place where both birth and death exist as one, taken form and flight in the uncontainable embodiment of mid-summer laughter.
mindemoya, summer 2008
it hurts to know these moments exist, existed, no longer exist, nor can ever exist in exactly the same way again, but will exist again - newly. it hurts. and we are blessed.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
the point, killarney, july 2013
all potentially exists always
perhaps it is the illusion of time, the extension between happenings which has convinced us otherwise
perhaps it is because we cleave to the ease of luxury that we are astonished by brutality
reflections of sky in water on rock, killarney, july 2013
from: The Sixth Meditation: Faces of God, Jack Gilbert
It is convenient for the old men to blame Eve.
To insist we are damned because a country girl
talked to the snake one afternoon long ago.
Children must starve in Somalia for that,
and old women be abandoned in our greatest cities.
It's why we will finally be thrown into the lakes
of molten lead. Because she was confused
by happiness that first time anyone said
she was beautiful. Nevertheless, she must be
the issue, so people won't notice that rocks
and galaxies, mathematics and rust are also
created in His image.
The forest must
not show the other face: slugs and grubs,
nematodes, and greenhead flies laying eggs
so their white larvae squirm in the filth.
Tent caterpillars, high in the trees, swarm out
from their offensive shrouds to eat the green
luxury bare. Spiders cast their nets in the dark.
Aphids gorge on lice. The braconid wasps lay eggs
under the skin of sphinx caterpillars so the larvae
will bore their way out through the host.
The other faces of God are not mediated by our
heart's need. We are not stone, nor even jungle.
We are animals haunted by love. Not spirits
buried in flesh, but the flesh itself.
And the spirit we are is not separated from it.
There is a god who prepares the locust in the blind
earth for seventeen years, to have it born without
Friday, July 5, 2013
my computer is old, cranky, temperamental, slow. i try to open old images and the computer's motor whorls, works, goes uphill and down, to the breakdown of time and space, out into numbers and dashes and pulls back images from the ether. i wait. one photo. and then another opens. there you are, my son younger, my lover not yet my husband. you are on the shore of a great lake and in the first photograph together in what i know is the tunneled cold. you heft a log. oh my, what will happen? in the next, incrementally, as the luxury of technological photography allows, you move your arms in tandem a fraction backward, swing the pendulum of girth and weight effortlessly now, although i see the evidence in the history of your shoulders and knees. open, open! i want the next image to open! i want to see what you will do, what you have done, what i already know and even then knew. you will set the log sailing through the air and then splashing into the cold water. but it comes over me, the desire to see again, to witness the unfolding of the simple event, not in my mind but through my body! and i am filled as though with the longing to eat a fresh vegetable, one i can not identify nor name but a vegetable stubborn, resolute like the cantankerous radish, the jerusalem artichoke, the turnip, something difficult and notable, but how i want to - how i want to - like a revelation of flesh, the translation of the earth's soil - eat it! as i wait, i salivate. as i wait, it is all that i am, this hunger for the vegetable, food of the earth, natural progression through earth's time, born into skin! but not all that i am for if i separate the thing from its shadow i am starving for the hunger too and desirous to hold it all a moment in my mouth, to have taste break inside my being into being and to know it absolute, beforebeforebefore before the unforgivable swallowing.