Category: Beauty
“smiles and cries”
coming into full being as a crone, one thing i have learned — and practice — is to not suppress my emotions or thoughts
whether in private, shared, or public space
but to feel or express them right then (with very rare exceptions) —
and to NOT control “my smiles and cries”
i spend a significant amount of time solo —largely, by choice,
so, when I feel immense grief or joy, or experience beauty or pain, humor or outrage,
i let my tears
or my teeth
or my uvula
or my tongue
or
my voice
be in the moment,
and this often manifests even if i am in a public space
i have become as uninhibited and honest — as a young child,
or — as someone on their death bed.
Continue reading ““smiles and cries””popular!
the path of the hylic
she had always prized
quantity over quality
with both people and money
never interrogating
the integrity or provenance of either
never asking the hard questions of herself
nor pursuing the big ones,
now,
she’s left only with errant glitter,
an impotent wand,
a cortège of pink fools,
her plated crown of paste jewels, atop her head, askew
you see, i knew that was all distraction, decoy, masked unconfidence
home, is within your Self
so, i chose to be [come] “Wicked”,
i wear my gold
in my bones,
in my blood.
Continue reading “popular!”The Song of The Lark
The Song of the Lark has always been one of my very favorite works of the French naturalists – the gorgeous, day-glo, corally-salmon Sun and the woman’s arrested and reverent attention — her ear-witness to the birdsong — she reminds me of myself on any given day at golden hour — dawn or dusk //
while most criticism — almost all criticism of this work agrees that this painting depicts a woman at dawn — at Sun’s rise: i’m not wholly convinced.
i have experienced Jules Breton’s “The Song of The Lark” twice in two separate exhibits — at its home in the collection of The Art Institute of Chicago; and most recently, in 2015, at the University of Nebraska’s Sheldon Museum of Art for “Visual Cather: The Writer’s Pictorial Imagination” — where i was able to linger a mere foot away from the painting, studying it, for as long as i wanted — i stayed there for a reverent half hour in its glow.
The Writer’s Pictorial Imagination
Author Willa Cather spent her formative years in Nebraska and was an alumnus of the University of Nebraska; her third novel, published in 1915, was named for Breton’s painting — The Sheldon was a natural recipient for a loan of this magnetic artwork ///
while viewing the painting at The Sheldon, i conversed and queried with the fellow-Chicago-born docent — the only other person in the gallery:
will the lark sing their song most sweetly or urgently at sunrise or sunset?
does this work actually depict a neon sunset in the west; or is it, in fact, a day-glo sunrise in the east?
DayGlo color, pigment, paint would not be invented and commercially available until the 1930s — yet, Breton painted his glorious Sun in 1884 — he had already figured out the recipe ///
and, is the woman’s fatigue residual — from yesterday — she, a worker rising so very early, again, — or, might it be fatigue from a just-completed long and hard day’s work under the Sun?
i asked the docent the rhetorical questions i had been silently asking myself.
is it both? it’s both? it’s both.
let the mystery be*
Continue reading “The Song of The Lark”With a tail as big as a kite. With a tail as big as a kite.
She strained her eyes
what is that dark lump
in the road
traveling into my throat
Out she went
sighting the black beauty
from fifty paces
nearer, the bright blood
pooling beneath ki’s face
Did he even try to brake
or swerve?
“no”, the tracks and trees say
Maybe the driver didn’t see
the pitch black, moving body
against the snowy white, otherwise red dirt road?
Maybe ki darted out,
in front of the royal blue truck
a truck fit for a rural king
[doubt of the beneficent on Christmas]
machines
everywhere
machines
carssawsgunsplowsshipsplanesmillstractorsthrowersdozerstruckscombines
boatsturbinesrigsdredgerstrainsbargesroadsrailharborspipeshousesbridges
wellshighwayssewersstructuresquarriesreactorspowerlinesstreetslotsculde
sacsfencessatelliteslockscelltowerssignsculvertswallsdockslandfillsdams
she gently pincers the end of ki’s gorgeous black tail
gingerly pulling kin off the road
redundantly committing ki’s spirit
to the universe, aloud
with apologies for humankind, silently
purposefully committing kin’s body
to a safer spot
for mourning
and carrion feast
Ki’s body was unexpectedly heavy
full of walnuts and seeds
fat and strong for a long winter ahead
so alive just minutes ago, I saw out the window
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
for me
for my kind
for our machines
for our structures
for our carelessness
for our selfishness
for all this,
engineered, manufactured, destroyed
the falling snow christens quick
she wanted to go inside
and sob
selfishly,
because the possibility
of an aberrantly painless holyday
ceased with the dead black squirrel Continue reading “With a tail as big as a kite. With a tail as big as a kite.”
Crown
my hair holds memory,
i know this because
i cut my own hair today
as i held the ends
in my hands
i said
did you touch the Merced with me and my boy?
i said,
do you remember my father?
and my other precious loss?
i said,
do you remember the first dog?
i said,
were you here when
i still loved
and was loved?
i said,
you were there when my mother was so near death’s door
i said,
and when i found and lost,
and lost and found, my Self again?
smiles
sighs
cries
laughs
rage
wail
and
song
i still have possessions from all those times
and places
but no skin,
my skin long shed, my bone resorbed
but my long hair is still me from many years ago
that is why hair is so precious,
i thought,
this is the genesis
of what i have always
mistook as phobia
but no,
i know today
that
physical memory is held particularly, and only, in my hair
more than Samsonian
or vanity
or femininity
my long hair
is
my body
my health
my energy
my sensation
my emotion
my years
my identity
my essence
thank you
for growing
for remembering
for showing
for staying
for flowing
for tangling
for blowing
for graying
for glowing
for floating
for knowing
with me
all these years
no more cuts
without ceremony
and
i promise
i will never agree to lose you
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 