Today
you will eat too much
and you sit too much
laugh and cry and browse through
photo albums sitting quietly somewhere
in your frontal cortex.
You will read at least one poem
or write an essay
maybe.
Today
you will eat too much
and you sit too much
laugh and cry and browse through
photo albums sitting quietly somewhere
in your frontal cortex.
You will read at least one poem
or write an essay
maybe.
"I am in your clay
You are in my clay"
Am I in your clay
and you in mine?
I've never thought
of these thirty years
that way; not even once.
I've thought of making
good meals and a comfy home;
flowers from the garden
for the table, a good poem
occasionally, and royalties
to pay the mortgage.
Am I in your clay
and you in mine?
The question makes me uncomfy.
It's too exaggerated for
my English conditioning,
too demanding for something
I had taken for granted.
Still it won't go away,
so I start to count more carefully
the five to ten fruit and veg
I prepare each day,
read the odd book you recommend,
and self-consciously wash
the sheets more frequently.
I have sex a little more than I want,
and plump the pillows every morning.
Am I in your clay
and you in mine?
Still the question remains
unanswered between us.
Besides the added zest
I am trying to add to each element
of our partnership,
is now attached guilt and shame
and embarrassment at my
somewhat less than perfect love.
Am I in your clay
and you in mine?
The quote has become a koan,
so one dawn I wake
in a fever of failure.
I note you are lying against me,
hand on my breast,
and I have a determined
arm around your shoulders.
Then, in an instant,
I know not how, all dissolves
and I ask myself in confusion,
Whose hand? Whose breast?
Whose arm? Whose shoulders?
And the tears run down over my clay
and your clay, your clay
and mine.
from Wind on the Heath, Naomi Beth Wakan. www.amazon.ca
Struck by something—a recognition, a face I knew but had never met before.
A divine call in the heart? Love at first sight? The first love? The non-verbal.
His arms around me—a warm waterfall I never anticipated.
Yes it is possible to live for sixteen years and not know love. To be filled with
do this, and don’t do that! Holding oneself within, tense, afraid,
guarded, defensive, quick to shoot. The passage that is open to the world
can leave you pregnant with scorn, loneliness and poverty.
We were warned so often.
And what about the drive within? For fools and horses!
No warning that love fills the street with a golden beam
radiating in front of your feet, and thunder in your chest
you fear everyone can hear.
And he is gentle the way he holds you so that nothing else can intervene.
when suddenly—danger on the grass! The ancient pull of desire fulfilling
the womb’s mission and the reptilian call louder than any other.
Stop I said. He stopped.
We walked that silence back to school. Then I did the unforgivable.
Sent him a note to say it was over, as if it was all his fault.
What the writing of it meant I do not know, but too soon realized
the precious thing I threw away. Divine heart reaching outward
onto streets where I wept out the vanities of who I was and was not.
After weeks of crying myself to sleep, my father quietly stood at the door
to ask why. My face in the pillow, he waited for words I could not speak.
He waited and waited and waited. None could be found, but in that tension
I realized that he loved too. Mind and heart connect at the place where
grief is mute.
(from Infinite Power, Ekstasis 2016)
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This is a stark conclusion. It has always been true during the Colonial era. The pecking order has a system that simply blames the victims and sweeps their own misdeeds into a vortex of war and hostility.
But its still a mental illness to live in a constant state of power-worshipping patriarchy. Centuries of grooming people is not easily overcome. We tend to fall into yes-but reasoning to make us feel better. "At least we don't live in Afghanistan" we might say as if this is a separate issue rather than an outcome of contempt for life.
Even if we are privileged enough to have the food and shelter we need, we cannot see our own structural violence routinely meted out that keeps us apart and living in fear.
Your heart swam through ocean to air
how to breathe where you couldn’t swim
no-one to show you how
you were the ocean, the plankton
and everything that flowed into you
also flowed out of you.
Now you gasp in the dry heat
on a sandy beach
and even though you can’t see it
everything from now on
will be a struggle
to find your legs
and catch flies for supper.
You will be told in many words
you are an isolated ego
fighting for survival until you die
and the only thing that will save you
is a good night’s sleep
and this lullaby.
(from Sleep With Me: Lullaby for an Anxious Planet, Ekstasis 2020)
George Monbiot has dedicated his energy and his writing abilities to educate us against the lies of Capitalist politics as they have developed over the last 40 years.
Nations that were once rich and powerful have become poor and powerless. We have been told we are isolated units competing for what we want because our leaders are oligarchs - people who have established their power based on personal wealth. We are broken said one of my cousins.
Monbiot acknowledges that the success of our species is based on our ability to cooperate.
This ideas program is clear and uplifting.
"There has been a 68 percent decline in vertebrate populations worldwide since 1970, with freshwater species such as amphibians registering a jaw-dropping 84 percent loss. Insects have been faring just as badly, with reports of “insectageddon” from some areas that have seen populations crashing toward extinction levels—such as the Monarch butterflies that migrate annually from Mexico to the United States, and have declined by 98 percent over the past thirty years." Jeremy Lent
Dear Janet, Today, on International Migrants Day, the federal government released a statement claiming to “reaffirm our commitment to p...