In space, in time, I sit thousands of feet above the sea. I can see everything, all things are passing through me, I can feel it all. In this moment I weep for the joy of everything, while yet I am weeping in sadness, a grief for all things. I notice the tiny wren’s nest, the perfection of a dewdrop, the great leviathan in the deep, a robber fly in the damp corner. That child’s face who is its heart, a mixture of feelings finding a way. The noise of humanity, louder than any nest of squawking hatchlings celebrating life and the urgency of desire. Here I lightly sit, taking it all in, right in that tender moment between the inward and outward breath. It is unconscious, beyond the mind. There is no soaring, no looking down, this is embodied, the journey deeply within.
At dVerse Merril is hosting Prosery (144 words) with an invitation to write a prose piece which must include the line “This Year’s a different thing, I’ll not think of you.” from ‘I So Liked Spring’ by Charlotte Mew.
“He wanted her and didn’t care who knew it.” Douglas Adams
I Don’t Want to Think of You
This year’s a different thing, I’ll not think of you. I’ll not think of you as I miss you in the mornings, or at the close of day. I’ll not think of you as I sit and sip as we always do. I’ll not think of you as I miss our long, deep conversations. I’ll not think of you as I fall into bed with you every night. I’ll not think of you as I remember the sensations in my skin, how we communicate without words. I’ll not think of you as I sit with my long ache of desire for you.
I can’t think of you, I’m possessed by the very feel of you. Your presence is electric, around me the air crackles. I don’t want to think of you, I want to hold you, caress you, kiss you, and be overflowed with you.
At dVerse Lisa is hosting Prosery (144 words) with an invitation to write prose and include the line “Everything I do is stitched with its color.” from ‘Separation’ by William Stanley Merwin. For more details follow the link below.
“Love is a fabric which never fades, no matter how often it is washed in the water of adversity and grief.” Robert Fulghum
Love Is The Fabric
I want to claim its orbit, its grand, beautiful reach into my heart of hearts, and onwards into the vast world of everything. Love is just that, like dry sand through my incapable fingers. the ache, the indescribable thing that it is, the pain so sweet and the joy, always searching for that feeling which seems just beyond, out of reach. And the more I reach the further away I become.
And so the grand hunt continues even within this cell of yearning, just as the early riser waits for the crest of dawn, knowing that it is there, though not yet here. There is a faint memory of the experience I want to return to, perhaps to capture and hold. Elusive as it is, in its fulness I know that everything I do is stitched with its colour. Love is the fabric of me.
“Poetry and beauty are always making peace. When you read something beautiful you find coexistence; it breaks wall down.” Mahmoud Darwish
Poems From The Night Sky
I look for the day as if I were a village watchman tired of his shift, having danced with the moon and the stars, ready to drop. The goats stir not. The sky is clear. The only cloud is in my heart which moods a longing for resolution for feelings I cannot as yet name. But would I name it anyway? Not immediately. Surely longing is a kind of ecstasy that when ended leaves an emptiness? who knows? But I am not ready to address this, for I do not know yet what it is.
What I do know, or rather, what I can do, is hymn the night sky and listen to its wisdom, see its language of beauty, its rhyme of reason. There, then, I will open, for in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems that will set me free.
At dVerse Bjorn is hosting Prosery (144 words) with an invitation to take his suggested line from Dylan’s song Desolation Row (from Highway 61 Revisited) – the line is: To her, death is quite romantic.
She often talked of death as if it were sublime. Some mistakenly thought she meant the passion of the little death but in fact it is something more, to her, death is quite romantic. It called out to her from every fibre of nature’s breath. She sensed doors and windows, secret gardens, forest paths. For her this was a journey to life where death fades.
She was no tragic Ophelia seeking to lie down early, death was no surrender, this was life free of burden and furrow. She was quite sure that day would come as prophesied by Donne, Keats, even Blake she mused. A day when the living was lived and the leaving was relief, where ending became beginning and nothing was final, the greatest adventure. On that day she would wear white, and the wedding dance would be sweet like the fragrance of jasmine.
“Practice listening to your intuition, your inner voice; ask questions, be curious …” Clarissa Pinkola Estes
Being Sung To Life
I’m not sure how long I sat, or conscious of the passage of the sky twins, sun and moon, or that I’d strayed from where I’d begun. Neither hunger nor other need pressed upon me as I Travelled my mind freely. Having lost my original intention, which I noticed was neither good or ill, it just was, I lost myself in myself seeking pieces of something that would make a picture, no matter how abstract.
I sifted and rolled thoughts as sweet things on my tongue, taking pleasure with each one. Initially this maze was a swirling mass, then suddenly, through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings my secret name. Just that. Nothing else was sung, but I implicitly understood its energy. Nothing was given, yet I received so much. There is a wholeness when being sung to life.
At dVerse Lisa is hosting Prosery (144 words) with an invitation to respond to a line from a poem ‘Notes On Uvalde’ from Girl Du Jour. To read that full poem follow the link below. The line offered is “These are the things they don’t tell us”
“This is the ultimate weakness of violence: It multiplies evil and violence in the world. It doesn’t solve any problems.” Martin Luther King Jr
I grew up torn by love, when the world was bruised by war and violence I was in pain, and I still am. When people are marginalised, hated and discriminated against I hurt too. Sometimes my anger boils in frustration. Why? Why can’t women determine their bodies? Who decides someones sexuality? Why Poverty? Why war? Why guns? Grief can be overwhelming even when it is vicarious. But we’re all in it together, it affects all.
The real pain of it all is the pain that comes from love, compassion and empathy. The alternative is to stoop into that gutter I am calling out. There is a cost to positive, non-violent action, to standing with the underdog, to protest, to speak out. Sometimes the cost is loneliness, sometimes it is wrangling with the impotence to effect change. These are the things they don’t tell us.
At dVerse Merril is hosting Prosery (144 words) with an invitation to use a line from the poem ‘May Day” by Sara Teasdale: the line is – “For how can I be sure I shall see again The world on the first of May.”
At dVerse Sanaa is hosting Prosery with an invitation to write a piece of prose (144 words) including a line from ‘A Daughter Of Eve’ by Christina Rossetti. The line is – “Talk what you please of future spring and sun warm’d sweet tomorrow.”
“Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.” Elizabeth Bowen
Talk what you please of future spring and sun warm’d sweet tomorrow, but today my mood is mellowed by autumn dews, russet leaves and memories falling into me again. A season of funereal beauty, so easy on my eyes, yet unsettled in my heart. Many leaves now carpet the earth, old and turned often with little to add, save that they hint at something more to come which temporarily coddles me. I just can’t see that far ahead, and in some ways I don’t want to, no one season is experienced like its previous appearance, it can be anticipated but never presumed, longed for but never known until it chooses. Until then I must winter well, reflect and refresh. Spring will come in good time but for now I sit closely with greying skies and misty dawns that challenge my complacency again.