Thursday, December 19, 2013

Solstice

Winter Solstice

On this, the longest night, 
I nearly utter, "Not yet, too soon, not now.” 
I'm not ready for the apocalypse of light, 
that asteroid of fire and life, 
to hurtle into my fine-grained silence 
to crystallize these course-grained words too soon.  
I haven't used up my dark days 
as well as I know I could.  
I haven't gone deep enough 
into wells of memory 
shadows, stones and core.  
I made friends with darkness, 
once I finally acceded 
to its purpose in my life,
once I learned to sink in - 
whether as a yield to accommodating sand 
or hard winter ground - I now allow gravity,
my weighty grave, the absence of light,
and I give in, give up to the depth, 
my spine relieved in darkness, 
packed in layers upon layers 
of self, sedimentary and cold.  
Once I discovered the value of humus, 
steamy black compost, 
how it feeds and readies me, 
I became fond of the smell of darkness
like the horse barns of my youth
piss and sweat 
leather and harvested grain. 
I no longer need to quilt darkness 
with the eternal promise
and anticipation of light. 
I like darkness as it is - 
coal, carboniferous rock, 
the furnaced compression 
of all that once lived.


Wednesday, December 18, 2013

“Love takes wing where calculation ends.” Belden Lane





Ruach

Is not love merely
the product of a calculating mind?
like the etching of hummingbird wings
on air – imagined and un-sensed –
or yesterday’s raindrops
beholden to memory,
but sure to come again –
transient yet consistent, persistent
rain – love, that four letter word
poets are warned against uttering,
where does it go
when the flame is blown out?
What is love without
our hands to strike
the match that lights the flame?
What is love without
our breath to stoke or extinguish?

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Unemployment of Advent

This is the time of year for preparing the way, emptying ourselves, whittling the dead branches until the new emerges. This year I am unemployed and ostensibly free to "do advent right," but I'm struggling (because I'm struggling, trying too hard). 

"The teacher of emptiness teaches best by the negation of his own self-consciousness." ~ Beldane Lane

"As the ego sleeps, the heart remains vigilant. Indeed, the more self-outpouring we are, abandoning the ego and all its frenzied needs, the more truly we become ourselves, taken to the heart of our deepest being in God." -Saint Bonaventure

BonAVENTure...appropriate name for now, don't you think? 

These words came to me quickly:

Forget the self
that wanders through
a cold, empty house--
one clock ticking
one tap dripping
echoed footsteps
aimless in pursuit 
of purpose --
a need to be needed.

The phone rings, I answer, so easily distracted these days. Then I return to my journal determined to write a second stanza about letting go of the ego, sitting on hardwood floors and letting the heart hold vigilance -- one steady beat, one hot breath on the cold air until the new self, the true self knocks on the red door -- but the stanza with its frenzied forced extended metaphor and cliche advice came from the self the first stanza said to forget. Oi!

This emptiness in my work life is a challenge indeed. Each day it becomes more and more difficult to settle into the writing time I've so missed in the last eight years. I scramble at bit jobs, giving them way too much time and attention. I set self-help goals of exercise and healthy eating, financial conservancy and pseudo-intellectual Internet surfing.  My soul suffers. Anxiety and depression begin their annual leak in, like that dripping faucet. I grasp at old advent poems and thoughts, recycling insights.

All that should matter now is that the sugar water for the hummingbirds doesn't freeze and that the suet feeder is full and ready for the next mob of baby starlings and that the pen scratches the page at least once a day.