Pas de bruit ce matin
Sauf pour un vent leger
Qui fait danser ...
Sauf pour une horloge
Qui fait voler ...
Regarde par la fenêtre
Pas de neige
Seulement la terre endormie
Pas d'enfants
Seulement la balançoire démunie
Regarde dans le salon
Un arbre garni de lumière
Un symbole visuel
Un espoir promis et mystère
Ce matin de Noël
I do write in French as well. It was Christmas morning. And like most other mornings, I was up long before anyone else. It wasn't always like that on Christmas mornings, but little children grow up to become adults. That growing up steals the magic from them so that they learn to sleep in later, even on a magical morning. I decided to leave the poem in its original French rather than translate it here fearing that to much would be lost, especially with the passage of years since the poem was written. As you will notice, I have used a blue type for the poem in order to represent the language, the language of my ancestors.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Are You My Mother? - July, 1998
A woman-child only sixteen
not yet married six months
gave birth to a boy-child
is now a mother.
Holding babe to breast and the milk of life
while in a foreign place exiled from family
into a riotous place tangled and tumultuous
being mothered and smothered in
sweaty and musky closeness
is now, again, a child.
A woman-child, a mother-child
pregnant again.
And he left her for military service
for the glamour of the big gun
left her in his mother’s care
alone in the crowd
to give birth to yet another son.
And he returned to a hero’s welcome
returned to act the man, the husband
and she moved in with him
and is now, wife-child.
And who is mother while this woman-child
this mother-child, this wife-child
has eyes and focus on this hero?
And the first born wanders lost and frightened
through the world of the feminine
asking, “Are you my mother?”
This is a difficult subject to bring up, that of mothers. As you can probably guess, this is my story, the story of my mother. She was a young and vibrant teenager who fell under the spell of "Tristan and Isolde" when she met my father. This makes for a powerful love tale. However, it wasn't a good time, it was an interesting time. She lost her rights to her parents' home and went to live with her husband's parents while he went off to Korea. When he came home, the spell was still upon her and the offspring continued to arrive with little delay. I was the first born and have wrestled with being motherless, with taking on the role of mother to my younger siblings as I got a bit older. Yet for all that, I have no anger. I willingly spend time with this woman and guard the sadness in knowing she never got to know her first child.
not yet married six months
gave birth to a boy-child
is now a mother.
Holding babe to breast and the milk of life
while in a foreign place exiled from family
into a riotous place tangled and tumultuous
being mothered and smothered in
sweaty and musky closeness
is now, again, a child.
A woman-child, a mother-child
pregnant again.
And he left her for military service
for the glamour of the big gun
left her in his mother’s care
alone in the crowd
to give birth to yet another son.
And he returned to a hero’s welcome
returned to act the man, the husband
and she moved in with him
and is now, wife-child.
And who is mother while this woman-child
this mother-child, this wife-child
has eyes and focus on this hero?
And the first born wanders lost and frightened
through the world of the feminine
asking, “Are you my mother?”
This is a difficult subject to bring up, that of mothers. As you can probably guess, this is my story, the story of my mother. She was a young and vibrant teenager who fell under the spell of "Tristan and Isolde" when she met my father. This makes for a powerful love tale. However, it wasn't a good time, it was an interesting time. She lost her rights to her parents' home and went to live with her husband's parents while he went off to Korea. When he came home, the spell was still upon her and the offspring continued to arrive with little delay. I was the first born and have wrestled with being motherless, with taking on the role of mother to my younger siblings as I got a bit older. Yet for all that, I have no anger. I willingly spend time with this woman and guard the sadness in knowing she never got to know her first child.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Unio Coniunctionis - December, 1976
Sheathed in translucent silk baring your beauty softened
you appear before my eyes a phantom
Shadowed and erotically luminous in the light glowing
from our joint soul
Your eyes, glowing sapphires, filled with a promise of passion and hinting of magic and mischief
Eyes that invite my soul to a dance, to feast in communion.
Bending the texture of silk, your breasts, perfect
nourrishing me with their milk, your tenderness and love
Aureoles encircle fountains that feed both body and soul
aching for the tug of tongue and lips
and the kisses of need.
Framed in the strength of body
erotically alive to my touch,
the birthplace of passion and the human race
A place of mystery, shadow and magic.
Within your depths, this homeland of the soul, I am reborn
Reborn in love, a love child, a loved man.
Your centre, a warm hearth that embraces,
melts denials and banishes shadow
Life ... creation ... love flows as warm nectar
in moist union of spirit.
Thus two become one
and the universe is complete through the communion of souls
A sacrament of love between ghosts
A song between soul mates.
For a period of time after completing my Master's program, I found myself almost zombe-like in relation to people. In the autumn, I sought help with a reaching out to another man who became my counsellor. He didn't waste much time before suggesting that I attend a retreat session for teachers such as myself, who were struggling. I knew that this was important, and attended. While there, I began to listen to different music, really listen. I also began to re-establish a routine of meditation, something that I used to do more than twenty years earlier. My dreams began to make themselves more present. It is around this time that I saw that I had ignored my soul, the anima. I had to begin to develop a relationship with my soul. Curiously, it meant that I had to fall in love with it, to acknowledge it. Yet, at the time, I heard, saw and felt this need but refused to understand. And so, it remained something simply trapped in my head.
you appear before my eyes a phantom
Shadowed and erotically luminous in the light glowing
from our joint soul
Your eyes, glowing sapphires, filled with a promise of passion and hinting of magic and mischief
Eyes that invite my soul to a dance, to feast in communion.
Bending the texture of silk, your breasts, perfect
nourrishing me with their milk, your tenderness and love
Aureoles encircle fountains that feed both body and soul
aching for the tug of tongue and lips
and the kisses of need.
Framed in the strength of body
erotically alive to my touch,
the birthplace of passion and the human race
A place of mystery, shadow and magic.
Within your depths, this homeland of the soul, I am reborn
Reborn in love, a love child, a loved man.
Your centre, a warm hearth that embraces,
melts denials and banishes shadow
Life ... creation ... love flows as warm nectar
in moist union of spirit.
Thus two become one
and the universe is complete through the communion of souls
A sacrament of love between ghosts
A song between soul mates.
For a period of time after completing my Master's program, I found myself almost zombe-like in relation to people. In the autumn, I sought help with a reaching out to another man who became my counsellor. He didn't waste much time before suggesting that I attend a retreat session for teachers such as myself, who were struggling. I knew that this was important, and attended. While there, I began to listen to different music, really listen. I also began to re-establish a routine of meditation, something that I used to do more than twenty years earlier. My dreams began to make themselves more present. It is around this time that I saw that I had ignored my soul, the anima. I had to begin to develop a relationship with my soul. Curiously, it meant that I had to fall in love with it, to acknowledge it. Yet, at the time, I heard, saw and felt this need but refused to understand. And so, it remained something simply trapped in my head.
Alchemy and dangerous acids - 1997
a small hole
drawing inward
edged in white heat
a solar event
implosion
and the psyche
writhes unseen
victim of a
singularity
shadowed
silent
temenos
tempered
tampered
torn
This poem written in the middle of October, not long after I had written "I am here", traces an increasingly downward spiral into a cauldron that appears to be being heated, ready to burn the contents of the cauldron. The door to the unconscious contents had been opened and my conscious self was not yet aware of how to close the door, a skill which I had been so deft with over the decades. Control. It was slipping significantly. Daily it was more and more of a struggle to go to work and pretend that I was engaged, pretend that I was sane. I knew better. And, I continued to work small spells of concealment, hiding the truth of what was happening to me, even from my "self".
drawing inward
edged in white heat
a solar event
implosion
and the psyche
writhes unseen
victim of a
singularity
shadowed
silent
temenos
tempered
tampered
torn
This poem written in the middle of October, not long after I had written "I am here", traces an increasingly downward spiral into a cauldron that appears to be being heated, ready to burn the contents of the cauldron. The door to the unconscious contents had been opened and my conscious self was not yet aware of how to close the door, a skill which I had been so deft with over the decades. Control. It was slipping significantly. Daily it was more and more of a struggle to go to work and pretend that I was engaged, pretend that I was sane. I knew better. And, I continued to work small spells of concealment, hiding the truth of what was happening to me, even from my "self".
I am here - 1997
I am here ...
caught between night dreams
and the world of day
eyes ringed with sleep
again disturbed
I am here ...
in this netherland of
current and cursor
eyes tracking
the flow of words
I am here ...
stuck
Nineteen ninety-seven. At this point of my life, I was seriously coming unglued plagued by dreams that I called "nightstorms" and living a nightmare both at work and at home. None of these nightmares were due to anyone or any circumstance of my daily life. No, it was all about inner shadows demanding to be acknowledged and released from their solitary confinement. The Internet was the medium in which finally I was able to "know" that it was all about within and not without.
caught between night dreams
and the world of day
eyes ringed with sleep
again disturbed
I am here ...
in this netherland of
current and cursor
eyes tracking
the flow of words
I am here ...
stuck
Nineteen ninety-seven. At this point of my life, I was seriously coming unglued plagued by dreams that I called "nightstorms" and living a nightmare both at work and at home. None of these nightmares were due to anyone or any circumstance of my daily life. No, it was all about inner shadows demanding to be acknowledged and released from their solitary confinement. The Internet was the medium in which finally I was able to "know" that it was all about within and not without.
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