Sometimes we’re living in science fiction. Sometimes it’s more like a Borges story.

[I used to publish my non-devotional poetry on my LiveJournal account, but their recent TOS changes make me unwilling to do so.  Until I figure out whether I’m going to bother with Dreamwidth for anything other than reading others’ journals, I’m going to post it here when I feel so moved.  Honestly, since I dedicate all my poetry to Brigid, none of it is actually non-devotional…]

Inspired by this article from Atlas Obscura, I give you:

Uncharted

In some wind of internet terrain,
A program waits, patient, bits
Ticking over.  The glass turns, algorithms wake-
Random bumps appear, are eroded;
Meticulous calculations churn for
Ninety seconds (geologic ages in server time),
And maps emerge- mountains looming over valleys,
Coastlines carved in with bays and capes,
Islands jewel-scattered across oceans.
All this done in hand-drawn style,
Fantasy-labeled with names hinting of
History and deep language, fit for the
Endpapers of novels.  An atlas
Building itself from water and topography
Every hour- and the rivers always reach the sea.

Advertisements

She also rules hearth and home

I dream of the bones, risen ghosts
Flitting fitful from longer poems,
And wake to a more concrete set
Of tasks, still given by Her.
The heart-deep fires She commands
Are also hearth-warmers, and do not
Light themselves.  So, to, inspiration
Leads to a stropped blade, then the sting
Of onions chopped to sizzle, and lay
The ground for alchemy of oil and spice,
Meat and sauce. Her candle burns in the glass,
Casting a blessing glow on the pot
Bubbling slow, transforming, as water
Soap and scrubbing set right the aftermath.
Now only to wait, stir and taste, and let
The spell of sustenance unfold in time.

  • 1/22/17

W&P #32 – Polytheism

I just finished reading the Polytheism issue of Witches and Pagans, and it’s a winner.*  As well as a mind-expanding essay by Edward Butler and good solid pieces by Gus DiZerega, Galina Krasskovka, Niki Whiting and Silence Maestas, there was an excellent letter from John Beckett on what makes religion work.

* Of course, I’m also happy that there’s a review and a poem by yours truly in it… 😉

Poem

[Something I wrote a couple of months ago…]

We cannot do this: see the world as They do-
Somewhat removed from time, suspended in
A suffusing, after-storm light, wet gold
In the west; a renewal even at sunset,
A promise more freighted with subtle awe
Than a rainbow; a pregnant peace, cloud-
Formed magic on high meeting the damp below.

Or as She sees it, as all Muses do-
All things as words to a poem, parts
To the greater work, fuel or tool or
Metal ready for the forge; gems to set
Just so, refracting; the shape emerging
Under patient hands, carved or pulled
Or picked out by paint, shaded into life.

But They cannot (choose not?) to touch direct
The world of hours; upswing, downfall,
Chrysalis-change; our senses are the ones
To take in this dust and delight, our hands
The only to mold the mortal; They may guide, order,
Even drive our actions, but our blood, brains,
Will and thews are the means of making.

Poem

Imperative

It comes this time as a burning word, in
No script I know, landing foursquare, feverbright
Somewhere behind my eyes. Unseen, a lambent
Absence; around it my thoughts swirl, the work
Of the day in abeyance, while I observe,
Hesitant, a lone walker on a known shore,
Struck staring at the opaque waves, drawn
By a call from deep between the crash and
Hiss back of surf, below the surface
Glitter and foam, nerving myself for
The shock and lash of the glorious unknown.

Happy Imbolc!

My Imbolc celebration included, amongst other things, the dedication of a new shrine to Brigid over my crafting space in the basement.  Although my primary creative outlet is through poetry, I also honor Her with works of my hands, when inspiration strikes me.  So I painted and decorated the anvil and the shelf, and installed it all so I can honer Her presence when I doother crafty work  in the future…

Image

And here it is “in action”:

Image

Click on the photos for full views…

A poem, for a change

To give everyone a break from my autobiographical ramblings (and since I did intend this as one of the purposes of this blog), here’s a poem from some time ago:

Tide and Fire

When the spark catches, the spiral
Begins to coil, the wash of glow
Shimmers in my head- this moment,
Chain of moments, I feel in the grip
Of a tide:  floating on a surface,
Uplifted by the ninth wave; peril
Of the helpless, loss of the bottom
Beneath my feet, obscured by shadows
Below.  The spell on me, I cannot give in-
Mere surrender drags me down.
I must poise, move with and in,
Let the fire burn out, along, down
Nerves, onto page, wondering that smoke
Does not follow my pen’s course, while
Thunder crashes, foam flies, the surge
Swells and then subsides, leaving me
To float, rest, and be thankful.

– 3/16/2008