I saw the poem again, cloaked
under moonlight’s sheen,
its glorious tint revealing a hint
of leg here, there I see its beauty
slipping from its verses, its visage
eternal, yet not.
The poem saw me again, naked
under the shadow of its light
brightened by even my failed word,
in my failure to word where
poetry is crossed.
I saw the poem
yesterday
the poem saw me.
I know it will slip away
again but trust that
this seeing, this being seen, will
suffice to surface me in
this ocean of poetry.
Wild fires rage, fed by
a drought, but no flame
flares from my dry nib,
no smoke can be seen
streaming from my
lack of dreaming.
All I know is that my word river
is dry, and my ears ache
at the sound of the dry
crackle of loose leaves under
foot, inkless all.
Do You know this place of
Wordlessness? You the
Word made less, so that
less may be more. Are
You ever stuck in a place of
utter paucity?
Or is such a poverty, for You,
simply a full-stop?
My skis scratch the snow
like my fountain pen
this paper – a writing
I hear in the wood. These
pen-skis tell me tales
from my blood: of
ships at sea, of
runes in song, of
sheep shape shifting, of
herring, rye bread, akvavit, and more.
My skis move me as
they sing these sagas.
These parallel lines remind
me that I am two:
here and there; my soul looks
backwards to find
my way forward.
These skis inspire me as the
Spirit of the snow swoops
in and I find myself
at loss for words,
breathless.
“Did you remember to breathe?”
This was the question asked by my on-line yoga instructor after having my having held a pose for a bit. I had to think. And the answer was no. I had held my breath. Yoga has invited me to think more about breath in yoga and beyond. Last fall, I recall doing a chin up and realizing I was holding my breath while raising my body. I intentionally tried to breath out going down and to breath in lifting my body. I found that I had more strength that way.
It isn’t only yogis who know the power of breath. I recall my wife, trained in kinesiology, trying to convince me to breath while pushing weights years ago. So, I ask myself, why am I inclined to hold my breath when it is not in my interest?
Breath, of course, represents so much than air moving in and out of our lungs. Breath points us to life, freedom, connectivity, etc. And so, in times of trial it seems sensible to hold tightly to these things. When life is trying, we try want to get a grip on what is valuable, meaningful, and dear to us.
But yoga reminds me that the breath cannot be held – at least not indefinitely, and the power of breath is found in receiving and releasing it both. Breath’s power is in its movement and the same is true for those things it represents. Life cannot be held in if it is to be life-giving. Freedom cannot empower if it is not shared. Connections are not strengthened save by doing what connection does: reaching out again and again.
Of course, holding your breath makes sense when under water, and in times of danger we might be inclined to hunker down and avoid both taking in and reaching out. But yoga and more are teaching me that I find strength not by holding out but by leaning into possibilities as they present themselves.
It is not, of course, accidental that God is identified with breath in sacred texts, where the divine self is not to held to be a good to be sequestered. God is Spirit, who shares and releases the divine self into us so that we can be the spirit we are and the breath we breathe by receiving and releasing both.
Last night I got into a fight with
a poem, at home. It tried to
muscle me out of my comfort zone.
I refused its intrigues and struggled to
wrestle it to compliance.
But poems can be
tricky and this one troped me up,
catching me off balance. The
ground shifted under my
feet. But as it came up to meet my
eye, the verse reversed its animus
and tossed me a rhyme, just
in time. I quickly mined my mind for a
fitting riposte and found a metaphor
to carry me over the worst of it.
When I finally came to
embrace my discomfort, the
poem embraced me, and I it,
now my newfound fast-friend.
And this is that poem.
Speak to me, Poem. You
are intimate with the
Muse, and I not. What is
her story? Does she desire
to scratch my surface? Is she
tracking me, like I her? Or
does she roll over in the morning
and find satisfaction enough in
breeze, mountain, crevice?
I weary of my own rhyme and so pine
for her tongue since mine is tired.
Poem, talk to the Muse and
tell her I sit now in silence – my
pen aching to scratch her surface,
while I – well, I itch.
Another year of writing this blog comes to an end. A colleague at work the other day commented on this practice, wondering whether I have found it to be a good discipline. I think that to be true. I don’t quite write something every week, although most weeks I do – generally alternating poetry and prose. I sort of wind my way through each week, looking for a muse in some form or the other to generate a thought, or spark an insight. It doesn’t always happen, and when that it is the case, I sit downstairs in the basement on a Saturday night and start pondering the first thing that comes to mind. Generally something comes together. Writing is funny that way: sometimes it just clicks and other times, not.
I mentioned this to another colleague the other day; we were talking about academic writing in this instance. She was asking me about a paper I gave at a conference, and I could tell her that the paper under discussion nearly wrote itself. An idea fell in my lap, and I did some research around it, but the basic form of the essay was in place and I researched to span gaps and to strengthen pillars. But at other times, I do copious research; reading and reading with a view to finding some idea to chase after. For such a paper, every paragraph is pure effort.
I think, to some degree, I have been well served by another colleague of mine, who speaks of the classroom as a workshop, inviting students to test out ideas and play around a bit – not being too anxious about piety, or fidelity, or orthodoxy in his space. They can take on those concerns when they leave his class, or not. In a way, I find this space to be something like that. Here, I sit down and write and refuse to worry about my writing passing the muster of an editor, or a publishing gate keeper of some sort. I just write for the joy in writing.
But this joy, like so many other joys, is fueled by facilities empowered by practice. I write more easily when I write often, I think. And so, when it is time to write an academic piece, I think that the time I have spent in this workshop, or gym, or studio called “stillvoicing” has prepared me to get to work. Or at least that’s what I’m imagining today. The freedom this space affords, allows me to stretch in new ways, and develop new skills that make their way into a different kind of public.
And so I write: sometimes prose and sometimes poetry. I remember hearing Leonard Cohen in a CBC interview some years ago, where he said that being a poet is a verdict not a decision, or self-declaration. I suppose that is true for writers of other genres as well. Many people write; but I’m not sure how many writers there are, or poets, or artists. But then again, I don’t know that this much matters. If writing brings some joy, or meaning, or relief, that is reason enough to write. And perhaps, from time to time, that reason translates into something worth reading.
This cloud is a
masterpiece. Wisps
of white stroking a blue
canvas, evoking
breath of mother on child’s cheek
or
slip of fish with current.
So gentle these clouds
that slowly grow
with time and travel until
one day they weep into life
or perhaps rage in violence.
From my vantage point
at tiller, I cannot but
stop breathing – for a time – as
this beauty evaporates
me. Now ascending into
this scene I become
what I see:
Your breath on my cheek
a silver streak in living water.
This loss is lamented.
Conversations that might have been
are never to be, and
words that
breed hope,
feed joy, and
nurture love
have fallen by the wayside.
Weeping tarries for this time
lost. Words that might have flown
have fallen to the ground, now
buried in soil.
There they are lost to us.
We can but hope that
the earth holds them
safe in her womb, where
one day they might be born
anew when muses tap
poets, and kiss
artists, and
set stars
in skies, if not eyes…
Someone called me a poet
the other day,
but I don’t know: all
I feel is my
poverty, my
reticence, my
lack.
Still, I wager a
word now and then;
some wheat to the wind.
I’m not sure what
to make of those
seeds I sow, but I
know that any
omens are not my own.
At times words accost me,
and I see fire above,
and cannot but report.
I am not so much a poet,
but after the
manner of Luther,
a beggar.
stillvoicing 