Hereditary

She thought it would be the eldest grandchild inheriting her magic. That bright, beautiful girl of quick mind. But no, that one is consumed by dance, already giving her time, her passion, her life to her art. And shining from her stages, both gymnast and sylph, lifting eyes and hearts. 

the moment

caught on camera –

a white star

sails through the sky

impossibly stilled

Nor is it the middle child, the quicksilver boy. Though he loves to search through the earth (or her treasure-trove cupboards!) for sparkling stones; though he already tends plants in his own garden. Life is complex for him: he’s still finding his way. To be a man – is that to excel at sport (he does)? Is it to joke or be harsh when he wants to cry? Where will he find a different model? Does he even suspect there may be one? He is not ready to explore magic, and may never be.

triumph –

from the sidelines 

the father

once a winner too

cheers from his wheelchair

No, it turns out to be the youngest. We should have known from the start. When she came in, it was hard for her to fully arrive – still so connected to the world beyond, which we see (because we can’t see) as death and darkness. Finally she settled, after surgery. She has always been gentle; sometimes afraid of things we deem ordinary – but full of light, of love, of wonder. She did not have an ordinary capacity to hold things; quickly learned her own way; then surgery again to make her appear more normal, more human, more like all the rest. She adapted well (she’s quick and willing) and kept her fae quality too. In conversations with her grandmother, she reveals that she sees things beyond the veil, even though she is now anchored safely here. They are sweet and interesting things, which will not harm but enhance her. 

the grandmother

holds this one close  

yet loose 

enough to let her grow 

and be well nourished

Note: In case you wonder, this grandmother is not me.

Dragon and Mountain

I asked my dear friend Phill, a digital artist, to create for me a sacred image to signify, formally, a role I’d been given. A man overseas invited me into a tradition of dragon magic with communities in various countries – an honour. I loved and admired him; I already worked with dragons; I agreed. Each locality was designated a ‘tor,’ mine named for the town where I live. 

I requested a design suggesting our local mountain: viewed from my location, ia high, pointed summit on the left, then two humps descending to the right. I saw it shaping the word ‘Am,’ for Being. Asked what colours I'd like, I chose green and purple, the colours of the Women’s Movement. (I've since learned that there is a sacred Indgenous women's site on the mountain .)

Phill put this image inside a sphere. He added – unasked, but inspired – a seven-pointed star in the background, symbol of the Faery realm, in a form that could be viewed as loosely woven fabric or gently radiating light.

The magical man’s dragon tradition grew warlike. It was metaphorical; even so, I rejected that identification. The dragons I knew were benevolent. I couldn’t, in conscience, establish a branch of his tradition here. I resigned. He saw this as betrayal. 

He had overcome many challenges, requiring a warrior’s mind-set, so I didn’t seek to change him but I wouldn’t join him. He cut off all communication with me.

I decided to keep the symbol I'd designed, reclaiming it as a statement of my own being, my own connection to the mountain (which I have felt from the first encounter).

The artist, my soul-brother, died: cancer, sudden and quick. From his hospital bed, at my request, witnessed by his family, he gave me permission to save all his digital art to do whatever I like with. I've no particular plans; I just didn’t want it lost if his website lapsed. 

Later, it happened that I was one of a group of white Australians given by a local Indigenous elder the freedom of this land, Githabul land. It includes the mountain.

sometimes at twilight

I look up at the mountain

and glimpse a dragon –

its shadowy back a swathe

along the darkening ridge

Written for Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #120: A Touch of Formality

Visiting the Dead

Patti Smith, in 'A Book of Days,' includes a photo of an angel in a cemetery. She says, 'Visiting the grave of Bertholt Brecht, I always pause to touch her wings.' 

That 'always' makes me wonder about the frequency of her visits … her pilgrimage, one might deduce.

I suppose it's convenient for people to have somewhere to go, to remember and reflect on those who have passed on before us, whether family members and friends or those great figures we have revered. 

I don't much hold with visiting graves, myself. I also don't have much tolerance for funerals. The body, no matter how wonderful it was in life (and they are all wonderful, bodies) is a mere empty shell after the soul has flown. Funerals and graves and urns full of ashes, it seems to me, are really for the living who are  left behind.

I would rather remember my family members by their photos taken when they were warm with life; my friends by their words and actions; the 'towering dead' (as Dylan Thomas called them) by their works which remain to move and inspire us.

your living face 

the timbre of your voice 

indelible –

even after being gone

for years of memories

Note: The Dylan Thomas reference is to his poem, 'In my Craft or Sullen Art.'

In Friday Writings #106, Magaly asks us to include in a piece of writing the full title of a book we're reading or planning to read this December. I have been reading Patti Smith's 'A Book of Days' all year, one day at a time, and am continuing to do so during December.

‘It’s been a long time coming’

‘But that’s good!’ I think, my mind going immediately to the – er – personal, perverting the intended meaning. 

I remember an occasion when a group of us were talking about travel options, and I said, in all seriousness,

‘I always prefer the long, scenic routes.’

But I pronounced ‘routes’ as we do in Australia, like ‘roots’, and my Canadian friend — who had been here long enough to pick up another Australianism — said with a wicked smile, lowering her voice to husky,

‘Oh, so do I!’

Her husband snorted dismissively.

(The difference between women and men?)

For whatever reason, that marriage didn’t last.

long ago

conversations —

a circle

old friends old loves

some dead, others …

Note: The word 'root' is Aussie slang for sexual intercourse. (One of several words Americans should be careful about saying to Australians because it doesn't mean, here, what it does there.) 

For Friday Writings #65 at Poets and Storytellers United, Rommy invites us to write what comes to mind when we see the phrase, “it’s been a long time coming.” (It's not her fault if I have a dirty mind.)

Footsteps

I walk in the footsteps of an old self – mine – retracing that strange and painful journey. I pause at certain places … linger … look long. I don’t plan to make this journey again. 

It’s a pilgrimage. 

If, when I began, I thought it merely a revisiting, a ‘trip down memory lane’ (how blithe that sounds!) – by now I intend completion. 

I have been reluctant to let you go. I wanted to tell our story. The saddest story, yes, but also beautiful. I can’t. It sounds just like hundreds of others, when told. I perceive it’s not meant to be revealed – not in its every detail. It was ours alone to live, to know. That was enough reason for it to be! I only want to tell it now to preserve it, but that’s a false and foolish goal. 

We lived, we met, we loved, you died. I walk again, deliberately, in the footsteps of my journey with you, where our paths intersected, entangled…. 

I reach

that final crossroad 

holding

one last gaze –

your blue eyes

The Love of My Life

The few to whom I tell our story think you must have been the love of my life. I don’t like to think in those terms. I have also loved others well. How could I put you above my dear Andrew, my third and last husband, my happiest marriage? He was such a dear, we were so close, best friends as well as lovers.

But then, I could not say I loved him more than you – even though no loves could have been more different.

You are certainly one of the loves of my life! Though I won’t say I loved you the most, neither could I truthfully say that I ever loved anyone more.

May you rest in peace! (May all my dear, dead loves rest in peace.)

an old lady

many years later

I think of you

whenever love is mentioned –

always that leap of my heart 

The title was a prompt at the Tanka Poets On Site group on facebook.

Folly in the Time of Coronavirus

Folly in the Time of Coronavirus

It’s more than a month since I last went out. (I’m considered high risk.) I realised my podiatrist, whom I see for medical reasons, might close. I phoned. Yes they would, the following week, but could fit me in today. I arrived masked and gloved. So were the staff. They had a chair outside for me so I didn’t have to sit near another client in the tiny waiting-room.

Afterwards, needing a few supplies, I ducked into a supermarket – not the big, busy one but the little old place on Main Street. It was late afternoon, few people in there, some others masked too. We all kept distance.

In the fruit section, I pulled one of those flimsy plastic bags off a roll, for my bananas. But my gloves were cotton (all I had); I couldn’t prise the bag open.

‘Oh well,’ I thought, ‘I’m going straight home. I’ll have a good wash,’ and took off one glove.

But you know how sticky those damn bags are. It still wouldn’t open. Impatient, from habit, I licked my fingers – shifting the mask just a moment – and tried again. Yes! It never fails.

Then everything went still. Oh. My. God. I LICKED MY FINGERS!!! 

Nothing to be done just then. Don’t react, don’t draw attention. Glove back on, finish shopping, get out quick, get home. Scour hands. Rinse mouth with hot, salty water (well I didn’t have Listerine). Pray.

No, I didn’t get sick. It’s been over four weeks. Whew!

So, so easy to slip from a vigilance we’ve never had to learn before.

I get deliveries now. I haven’t been out since.


Packages.
Collect from doorstep.
Wash outsides.
Wait three hours. Unpack.
Wash hands while singing.


Written (simultaneously) for Weekly Scribblings #15: Ink COVID-19 at 'Poets and Storytellers United' and April 2020 Day 15: Folly at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. (This is more about a moment of folly than the major construction the toads were after – but it could have had major repercussions even so.)

Note: I guess everyone knows that singing 'Happy Birthday' twice takes 20 seconds – the recommended minimum time for hand washing?