I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. ~ Anais Nin
I had to be awake by 4:30 am today, so everything cooperated uncongenially from bad dreams of the dog eating my good shoes to a storm taking out the power (also in the dream) to the half-hour-on-every-hour vigil of glancing at my phone alarm to make sure I hadn’t missed it. By 3:30 am, I gave up any notion of sleep. I did get to see the sunrise over the paddocks a few hours later and wished I could have been out there with my camera. Alas, photography is not on the docket today, so all I can offer is yesterday’s gaping grin from the fence where the yearlings teeth.
On this day last year, I was standing on the corner of Kirk Street and the alley walk to Cromarty Firth when I felt again the undefinable but undeniable presence of mystical things working in my life. I felt like I could walk right through closed doors.
It is the cuirm-bhliadhnail . . . the anniversary of knowing that I have done exactly that.
After surviving the fanfold and admiring
your oblique body, don’t be surprised
when a chain of perfect strangers
unfurl themselves from the raw material of you
and hold your hand. It’s normal to be anxious
but if you’re as good as you say you are,
you won’t worry about who created whom
in whose image, or begrudge the loss of touch.
Or which one of you is the mother,
the father, which one came first.
Pray when the crayon touches your face
that the god of expression blesses you
with a smile, remembers the two dots
for the eyes. Pray for shirt, for hair. Be thankful
you’re not that poor lonely twin
at the end of the line, one arm raised
and reaching out for someone
who will never reach back.
~ Colin Pope, If You Ever Become a Paper Doll
every word speaks
insatiably of you, stirs
me as coriander into
the roux of you . . .
if meager prose
must — quotidian of dust,
substituative and starved
and parched as husks,
let a green grape tractate
us . . . our mouths on toast enjamb,
passional with feasting
– You be slaughter,
I’ll be curried lamb
© Liana, Speaking in Tongues
Last year, I admired wines. This, I’m wandering inside the red world. Last year, I gazed at the fire. This year I’m burnt kabob. Thirst drove me down to the water where I drank the moon’s reflection. Now I am a lion staring up totally lost in love with the thing itself. Don’t ask questions about longing. Look in my face. Soul drunk, body ruined, these two sit helpless in a wrecked wagon. Neither knows how to fix it. And my heart, I’d say it was more like a donkey sunk in a mudhole, struggling and miring deeper. But listen to me: for one moment, quit being sad. Hear blessings dropping their blossoms around you. God.