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Samhainic Verse


Samhainic Verse

Caught up in my Demeter role
I brought winter to my grieving soul.
Numbing ice, concealing snow,
No nurturing soil for seed to sow.
Longing to sleep in dreamless haze,
Aching for peace from ravaging rage,
I ask to serve, to give to others' lives
what I am bereft of.
But the gods in their wisdom,
send me to fools,
wicked, nasty fools who mock me
knowing not my sorrow, knowing not what I disguise.
Hiding behind hysterically blinded eyes,
I prepare for my journey deep below.

Others have travelled this path before me
and lived to tell the tale,
strengthened by their devotion
to their stolen loves.
In a bubble of my own clouded atmosphere,
I shall fear no evil.
Blood coagulates around my heart
allowing no feeling
but deadening pain.
My lips are bound.
My tearducts desiccated by vacuum.
Thus am I prepared.
I am not prepared at all
for what I may find.
But neither do I care.
This is all about desperation.
This is all about emotion so intense
that I am beyond response;
there is nothing left to feel.
Step by step
I descend.

Something about a veil.
But more like
a brick wall --
there may be explosives
hidden behind that solid image.
It seems unyielding.
There are glimmers,
minor crumblings.
At times the bricks seem to shift.
Unexplained.
If I let myself,
if I am very quiet,
molecules move silently,
disarming resistence,
there will appear a stair
to my senses of solid granite,
wet with the drip of
melting ice.

Treacherous.
A misstep could kill me,
falling all the way,
breaking stair by stair.
I must take care.
Make careful measure:
What is the true worth
of what I might find?

My weight is unsteady.
Gaping below --
a colorless vortex,
a lake of emptiness
sucking in all sensation.
It is enormous, all-consuming.
My salvation.
I leap.
Overwhelmed,
I am sucked in and through,
breathlessly,
silently,
alone in the Universe
of silent, inexorable,
intensity.
Pulled into an event horizon
a singularity
another, nether realm.

Every act
Every thought
Every dream
Every wish
Everyone I'd lost
at every stage of
our shared experience.
Every sin.
Here they live,
each acting out it's own story
in a cavernous space,
of encapsulated diaramas.
I don't sense my body
-- only a vague weight
of uncertain dimensions.
It is time released --
all happening at once eternally.
No choice but to let it wash over me,
wave after chaotic, metaphoric wave.
Sound/light/fragrance/taste/touch/emotion
craftily embodied in exquisite, endless pain.

Is there a voice here?
Is there a way to make it talk
in reasonable tones?
Is there a way to unravel the senses,
to frame neat packets of sense
and talk with them reasonably?
Is there a rationale within which
to deal with the feelings,
to put them in place,
rational and calm and dignified?
Is it too much to ask?
And of whom?
There is no guide, no authority,
none but me, infinitely mirrored.
What will become of all these "I"s
staring at me, demanding
retribution, stark, cold justice
Just Ice and Cold and bitter, stinging snow
to wrap my frozen soul in hope of sleep
while Nazgul track my dreams.

The innocent must bear the sacrifice.
Power too dangerous to the wise
and power-enabled,
that would overtake their skills,
turn them to evil purpose,
may be safely given to innocent hands, destroying
only the sacrificial lamb.
The wise, in their compassion,
may suffer unhealing wounds
of painful knowledge;
but the innocent are destroyed,
pitted inside out by corrosion,
unable to fight,
unable to understand.
I am not wise, nor innocent.
I look into the battalion of
mirrored images
and am left just short of
destruction,
picking at scabs,
unwilling to heal
my agony of remorse
and betrayal.
I didn't know,
couldn't know,
no one told me.
They said:
"Do what you are told.
It will all be alright in the end."
But whose end, right for whom?

What is the treasure I have come here seeking?
That sweet, sparkling child,
who played upon the hillside,
picking flowers
to weave into our hair --
I didn't mean to leave her unprotected.
I left her in the care of trusted friends
while I went off to earn our daily bread.
The screaming
in my heart
as she was taken,
the shattering reverberations,
I'd never known such pain.
It stopped me in my tracks,
overcame my senses,
never leaves me, never lessens,
though in time, like anything, I guess
recedes into background noise
that I may hear my orders,
do as duty demands.

But, duty to what demands?
The gods,
my very brethren,
I realize, have betrayed me.
Cut to my womanly core
to drink my blood in bacchanalia.
The mirror images smile grotesquely.
I am sickened,
brought to my humbled knees,
not in obeisance.
I have not the strength nor will
to stand.
Perhaps I shall dwell here in hell,
unmoving,
unresponsive,
bleeding out,
pale and ashen.
Serving them no more.
No bread upon the table.
Just Ice and snow.

II.

"Mommy," she cried, dead eyes open,
awash in tears,
"I didn't mean to leave you.
I didn't know I would be gone so long."

My desiccated heart bathes gladly
in those soothing tears.
I am brought back to my journey.
The mirror images have softened.
Every face, every form, every failure,
every sin
I can't quite grasp why it would matter,
how these essences
combine with mine.
Perhaps I am hallucinating.
Perhaps none of us
exist at all.

Baby girl, I have always loved you.
Hated you for dying.
Hated life and death for dividing us.
Hated, blamed,
damned to hell,
all those mirror images,
all those wraiths and wretched
wayward souls who pass me by.
I have loved and lost and
lonely wandered.
And wondered why.
I hold you close as
I look into the mirror, deeply,
drink of the magick of lethe.
Falling, gently, easily, even leisurely,
letting go and drinking in,
all that Hell allows
now that we create the rules.

Caught up in my Hecate role,
I feel the power of my soul.
Rain and wind and ice and snow
I feel you all from here below,
and revel in elemental energy.
I am the wind, the seas, the fire
I am all will and all desire.
It is me you love, and me you hate --
I am the master of your fate.
Yet I am hidden from all sight,
beyond the reach or need of light.
I have found my peace,
my place, my voice.
Take heed, O' mortal,
create your choice.
Create it every day.
Oct/30/2011, 7:31 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
Terreson Profile
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Re: Samhainic Verse


I might be able to speak to this poem. But it will take a little while and a little distancing. Right now I am stunned by it. All three faces. Demeter's, Kore's, Hecate's. All three faces telling herstory from the inside out and so close to the blood.

One thing. Title sucks.

Tere
Oct/30/2011, 11:22 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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Re: Samhainic Verse


Can't get the poem out of my head. This poem isn't a product or an invention. This is what A.E. Houseman called a secretion.

Tere
Oct/30/2011, 11:46 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Katlin Profile
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Re: Samhainic Verse


Hi Libra,

Unlike Tere, I am not familiar with "all three faces" of "herstory," and in that sense I come to the poem at a disadvantage. I'm hoping Tere will "speak to this poem" and share what stuns him about it. Good info for you to have as a writer but good info for other readers to have as well.
Jan/22/2012, 8:36 am Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
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Libra's poem brings something back to mind. A Yeats poem first read, read many times since, at age 25. His The Phases of the Moon

There is this thing I call lunar wise reckoning, the rules of which I am certain I can't explain. Only know it when I come across it. Know it is different, radically so, from how we are taught to quarter up things according to, what?, our revolutions around the sun maybe. I also know that ultimately it is a woman's wisdom, comes naturally to women who keep to their own rhythms, who get that hers are intimately tied to both moon and earth. For the rest of us, trained differently, the logic isn't so easy at first. My approach to Libra's poem is to follow it as it builds on itself from the inside out. Which, when you think about it, is how all life constructs itself. From the inside out. Goethe came to the same conclusion, is credited with discovering nature's rules of morphology.

Yeats's poem is not an easy read. Neither is Libra's. In both cases maybe the trick is in the rhythmic, cyclical swing.

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Tere
Jan/22/2012, 2:44 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
libramoon Profile
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Re: Samhainic Verse


Now you've done it:

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I will be busy for awhile.
Jan/22/2012, 2:54 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Jan/22/2012, 3:04 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Re: Samhainic Verse


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"Like Freud, Jung contends that there are two types of literary creation: one in which the writer's
personal intentions predominate and the other in which personal intentions are subordinated to the raw
material with which (s)he is working (the myths, legends, etc. handed down)."
Jan/22/2012, 3:47 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
Terreson Profile
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Good thoughts, Libra. Been thinking on the last post especially about how there are two types of literary production. I can go with the distinction. The substrate of mythology, in fact, can shape the poem, say. Experience tells me there is a third provenance. That is when the poem itself shapes the hand writing it. Or when the poem shapes itself, if you prefer. Just read over an old poem. Remembered it needed 12 years to get right. That is, 12 years before I understood what the poem was after. I call that the poem shaping itself. I am inclined to think the third type is sui generis, something in a class by itself. Interesting, n'est pas? That a poem can tell the poet what it is, what it is after. Notion suggests poems can be independant objects and with their own motility. Here too experience tells me that such is, or can be, the case.

Tere
Jan/22/2012, 5:38 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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ah, neither the writer's intention nor the collective material, but a mystical (or not) speaking of the poem through the poet's hand
Jan/22/2012, 7:57 pm Link to this post Send Email to libramoon   Send PM to libramoon Blog
 
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Just so.

Tere
Feb/4/2012, 11:17 am Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 


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