Stolen alchemy

Soft stone pressed in my palm
as a promise of calla lillies,
laced from our loam.
So calm, secure
the rock solid promise
lulls me -
I oblige;
opening for a pebble, my poem.
Lush oval warmth
becoming known, treasure,
a secret tucked in my center
ardently attesting you're not alone.

Til with obdurate pain,
having struck a ring of my own
(inscribed cold cobble of
father's memory, an
ancient artifact, dressed
deceptive in marital gold)
from the stone,
not a word.

And through fear's alchemy
the pebble freezes, fractures,
transmutes to air.
Silently attesting
the lost promise of carmot.

And I'm alone.

VIsiting Poet I: Christina Liu

Dearest friend, thank you for giving me this poem to post. I'll read it often - for enjoyment, but mostly to learn. 

Ophelia in Stasis

I won't imagine how long she's

been there -- in silver river,

or a bathtub,

with her head bent back

against the hard, white marble,

or fingertips slipping along

the edge of flood.

I'll try to imagine her body's

movements now, swept along

with the currents and eddies,

her hair seaweed waving for sailors,

her own sailor, never to come again.

She must move now

as she did in life -- flowing

with whatever wind and words

whispered in her ear,

with scarcely an afterthought,

propelled, always, by another's

momentum, by the sword

and thrust of another's words.

She could be ageless,

but most likely,

she's a girl; her limbs

are slender and white.

I would see the pronounced clavicle,

her throat opening to night.

Over and over, her drowned form,

this silenced transgression,

has been linked to waterlilies,

crowned by flowers and reeds,

surrounded by small, golden fish.

Captured in words and frozen

by the master's eye.

But I dream her core sometimes

as a red fist

ready to awake.

Shaking off the clinging flowers,

ready to eat the world.

Song with Mary of Magdala II - draft updated

Draft. Reposting as I have updated it. Pieces in place but still torturing me....Telling a story yet maintaining the music... aligning concept and craft... The imperative of architecture...

Said Mary:
 
Even I, Mary Magdalene was loved

For my corporeal sin I

Was forgiven, anointed

In scripture appointed

A place at Jesus' side.

Said I to Mary:

That story was only pernicious fiction

Gloved Medieval sex affliction so

Your name conflated with whore

Celebrated

We all went along for the ride.

Yes, Said Mary:

My seven demons quietly cast
From a biblically accounted past pursue me
Still, mythic 
Grown monolithic as
The love of redemption abides.

Cried I:
Your story Paul emancipated, But 
Mine now a noose, my post desecrated
Discipled by hangman, by jury

By unyielding fury from Prophet's fear! 
A story of sin that misguides.

Said Mary to him:

Her story configured by external hand like mine

Through sleight of pain and graft of man

Encumbered by a catholic bent

You threw the hermeneut's perfidious cant! 

I ask you: 

The greater fiction hers or yours?

The one she wrote with financial cause

Or yours, imagined, paranoia born

Cast through eisegesis a

Woman scorned!

As he loved me, mirrored sins untrue,
Reflect love: what would Jesus do?

Sculpture garden

Three verses for U

1. Breathless

Oh you. You who, you
Who took my wind so,
So my hollowed breast echoes
Echoes so
So my wings won't fly.
Blow
Blow through
Through my chest. You
You who flew with me
Oh You
Breathe me to the divine.


2.
Though you fled, it seems my soul snagged on you, and as you fly further it unravels in infinitesimal glint,
spiraling your soar in a white love whisper, keeping you close.

or:
You Fled.
It seems my soul snagged on you
Fly further.
Unravelling in infinitesimal glint
Spiraling your soar in
White love whisper,
Keeping
You close

3.
In the middle of the night I cry out,
Who lives in this love I have?
You say, I do, but I am not here alone.
Who are these other images with me?
I say, They are reflections of you,
just as the beautiful inhabitants of Chigil in Turkestan
resemble each other.
You say, But who is this other living being?
That is my wounded soul.
Then I brought that soul before you as a prisoner.
This one is dangerous, I say.
Do not let him off easy.
You wink and give me one end of a delicate thread.
Pull it tight, but do not break it.
I reach my hand to touch you.
You strike it down.
Why are you so harsh with me?
For good reason.
But certainly not to keep you away.
Whoever enters this place saying, Here I am
must be stopped.
This is not a pen for sheep.
There are no separating distances here.
This is love's sanctuary.
Saladin is how the soul looks.
Rub your eyes, and look again with love at love.


Rumi. trans. C. Barks.

Tiny poems

During the past week or so, words have been clumping together in small quantities. Either I lack the energy or motivation to force them into more elaborate, longer strings, or the ideas themselves sit comfortably in small groupings. Actually, I think I haven't the energy to develop more complex ideas that require longer exploration.
Anyway, I've posted a couple of these moment-sized poems below. I suspect there will be more.

Ancient oil

Patchouli laced clove cigarettes
Your scent lingers lingual til
Word work works it out