Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

20 February 2010

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other" doesn't make any sense.

                                                                   Rumi - 13th century

(Clinton Pottery, Utica Street, Clinton, New York)


seventeen hundreds.  flowers and water for children.  i couldnt read my own writing on the sheet laid down to show.  a red register and i think i stepped on the green paint.  forgive me.   housebones made from the woods about it, ankle deep in the snow he allows me to wander up close and down theres just so much to see.  come this summer and throw a pot, a cup, a bowl, something defined by the space it makes for something else.  come this summer and find yourself gently engaged in the matter of being Alive. 


 couldnt read my own writing, erudite doodle to fill the page, a blue field with oak trees did you see the star?  the sign of chalice well?  i critiqued his mithers handiwork and couldnt read my own pen on the page.  what i meant to say was how monsters and angels are one and the same, we are monsters and angels we are atomic and cruel, the impossibly sharp teeth obsolete in the skin of a red berry arranged on a plate.  the chocolate is gone i cannot eat it anymore the white bed duvet thrown back to morning standing before the window before the chair regarding the day the water running through.  

ankle deep in snow feeling like id been gone a long time.  effortless, or maybe its my total lack of social graces the little room upstairs window open to february evergreen thaw looking out on the wrought iron table and chairs looking out past times grit in the eye into something under the skin hes been throwing clay long as ive been alive.  are you you?  i stood there awhile in the toxic crimson particulate before i knocked on the inside of the door.  thank you.

came home and had ty-phoo in the cup with soymilk and local honey, ate from the bowl with my silverhandled ebony chopsticks.  thought of the Beloved, underloved and overwhelmed, how i must be Too Much and Not Enough, like they all say i am.


is the baby here?  did she turn toward her mothers hand?  last night Solitary Circle to Call the Baby Down im still running on that Dark, that Light.  sometimes i think Dresden is easier to navigate alone, youre not distracted by the Others distress, you get farther.  but if the object is Reunion, why would Together be a second choice?  without the Boon the words come plain, but they come at all and i am grateful.

 pledges have been made but in my broken heart i doubt them.
forgive me.

1 comment:

  1. “There is nothing more dreadful than the habit of doubt. Doubt separates people. It is a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations. It is a thorn that irritates and hurts; it is a sword that kills.”


    forgive me.


Blessed Be.

"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well."

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)