Mythologies

Mythologies

A phoenix first must burn

Fire rising ... ashes ...

hatching into full flight ...

Daenerys with her dragons....

Pop culture’s pervasive

infiltration of the brain,

uniting us across countries,

ages, social divide.

Fantasies becoming 

truth we share:

fb memes believed,

fictional people

alive in our heads 

as Friends or Neighbours.

And Bitcoin

is real money.

So rip off the mask:

it’s all a conspiracy.

First the flame.

Last summer fighting fires,

fighting horror.

A failure of preparation.

This year watching, hushed,

as they threaten already

to begin again.

(At least the Virus

hates heat.)

We know we’re being lied to.

And even when not —

what’s engineered

and why?

Turning our faces away.

It all gets mixed

in my head. 

Sometimes I just want to be
a super-hero.

Or soar on the first

shuttle to Mars.

(With Elon Musk. Is he

a real person?)

But first the Phoenix

must burn

and give rise to poetry

even if it’s never writ.

Written for Poets United’s Weekly Scribblings #36.

At Times ...

At Times …

I have, at times, a slight wheeze
in the back of my throat,
which, coming up unexpectedly
as if from nowhere, sounds just like
the plaintive miaow of my last cat –
my darling, my treasure –
a strange foundation
for loving memory, I must say,
yet no less affecting for that,
catching me quite like a sob….


Written in response to Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings #34: Foundation.

I am the deep subterranean ...

I am the deep subterranean ...  

I am the deep subterranean

Goddess of the Magenta Ray,

the glow in the musical dark

of unknown chords echoing

from hidden instruments.

A Lady of no name still known,

or not known yet, I come

to haunt your dreams as if

I were either enemy or lover —

perhaps they are the same.

But I am not the same as 

anything ever encountered

in the white-hot distance

of your furthest imaginings,

or the up-close immediate now.

What do you name me? Dread 

or longing? Beauty or sorrow? 

Misty lies or luminous truth?  

Useless to scream it into my kiss.

I swallow screams for dinner.

This mysterious being started speaking through me about two weeks ago, bit by bit, with days between the arrival of each verse and sometimes even between sections of verses. (Composing so slowly and intermittently is highly unusual for me.) Then Magaly's Weekly Scribblings #33 prompt at Poets and Storytellers United – to use a line of poetry by C. Sandlin: 'swallow screams for dinner' – seemed as if it belonged to this poem. And so it proved; it gave me my final seven lines! Thank you, Chrissa and Magaly.

Let Me Explain

Let Me Explain 

It was after many weeks

of solitude and silence,

staying indoors to deter

the spread of the virus; now

just beginning to go out

and only when I must.

My hair was long and wild,

needing a trim; my friend lives
close to the salon. ‘Come visit me,’ 

she said. ‘We’ll sit in the garden,

together but far enough apart.

No hugs, just tea and talk.’

I let myself in the side gate

to her yard, called her name

up the back steps. But she
had put her hip out, couldn’t 

come down. I climbed up 

instead, to her living room.

We blew kisses without breath,

mimed hugs while standing back. 

A quiet man, slight, white-haired,

waited for introduction.

I put my hands together

in prayer position and bowed.

  

He'd come to visit too.

We spaced ourselves 

in chairs around the room.

He asked, politely, about my rings: 

why those two, on those fingers?

What was I drawing to me?

I instinctively knew he was one  

I could tell the tales of those rings.

My friend and I agreed, our jewellery 

is never mere decoration. We spoke

some hours, of many magical things.

His few words were gentle, wise.

When I made ready to leave,

she asked could I take him home;

it was on my way. He’d walked

from over the other side of town

to come and see her. Normally 

she’d drive him back, but her hip....

I said I’d be happy. She gave me

a bag of greens from her garden.

He carried it to my car. The ride

was mostly quiet, peaceful. ‘Nice 

to meet you,’ I said, thinking,

‘I hope I meet you again.’

So that is how I finally entertained 

a possibility which various seers 

have been insisting on: There is
another man out there for me; this time 

a love not of passion but friendship.

(I most miss the mind-on-mind.)

Was that the one? I doubt it. I’m
not engaged enough to try to make
anything happen. But he was thoughtful,
kind, curious; didn’t even begin
to hog the conversation or pontificate.

A rare man. Perhaps there are more.

Written for Weekly Scribblings #32: I am explaining a few things, at Poets and Storytellers United.

Memories, like ghosts, appear at night

The cats prowl and purr – each 

uniquely loving, funny, proud.… 

Every man, too, who entered my life and left 

returns, with many details…. 

I smile and I weep.

Memories, like ghosts, appear at night.

My children – always the surest path

to joy and heartbreak – arrive at various ages. 

They are middle-aged: friends or strangers….

They are infants, running and laughing.… 

I weep, and I smile.

['On Joy and Sorrow' – Kahlil Gibran:  I say unto you, they are inseparable.]

Written for Weekly Scribblings #31: What Makes You Smile? at Poets and Storytellers United, using the 'elevensies' form where the title appears as the middle line (invented by Kit Kelen in conversation with Kerri Shying, who has used it extensively. See detailed notes here.). 

Authorship

Authorship 

While it may be true that we create our own reality, as the gurus tell us, and indeed I like the idea that I’m writing the story of my own life, and perhaps even wrote the basic plot outline before this life began — I don’t need to be a drama queen, I’ve been known to remark.  I’ve created bigger and better dramas in my life script than any of the superficial dramas some people like to manufacture (hollow laugh) — still, into these fictions we weave as autobiography, there enters the hand of The Editor to introduce the unexpected: some pruning here, some expansion there, a different mood, a change of pace, perhaps a touch of conflict to spice things up — until the prose suddenly (it seems suddenly) acquires a different rhythm, the tale a new perspective.

Well, it’s always good to surprise the reader — even when it’s me, writing and reading my own story. Or thinking that I do. I have some say, some authorial input, even quite a lot ... and yet The Editor, just like that, can alter it in a moment.

Perhaps that movie about Truman, whose whole life was a TV show only he didn’t know it, the only one not in on the joke, is in fact the truth for all of us? Does a panel of alien extra-terrestrials or a bunch of disembodied supernaturals watch our personal stories, and even the larger planetary dramas, unfolding as entertainment?

Yes, contemplate that thought. But know, even if it were so, not a lot we can do about it. Either way, we are left to work out our scripts, including the surprises / editorial interferences. I say: better write well, better submit the most excellent script that one can before The Editor begins tampering.

And if changes are made anyway, we can still decide to work with them. Perhaps some are improvements. Maybe The Editor sometimes gets it right? Even if not, what we’re stuck with is what we have to play with. If we must revise our plans, must go in a new direction — well, so be it. We can still determine the fine detail, still spare no effort to write ourselves to a splendid conclusion.


Written for Weekly Scribblings #30 at Poets and Storytellers United: Writing as a Metaphor for Living.