Wednesday, April 15, 2009

And my very life lived in my voice.

My very wise sister sometimes speaks with the voice of God.
She/He told me where I am and where I must go.
I am in a dark room sitting at a desk,
trying to write--
of course of course I am trying to write.
But my paper is crumpled and refuses to be smoothed
and my ink invisible;
my pen has a feather, but I can't fly with it.
I am worse than Icarus.

Then, into the darkness, a man, an angel, a being
breaks in and throws a javelin (a javelin!) at the wall,
bringing in a beam that illuminates my desk with what I imagine is inspiration
(thank god, a lightbulb above my head!)
But still no words from my quill.


"Use your voice."

Not just Nancy or Nina or Roxy--Jessie.

"You are known. Speak and you will know it."

My song will not be silenced; I will not be Jonah; my life-voice will live outside the belly of a whale.

Meditation at the Duck Pond

Lily pads catch light like oil spills on stagnant water.
In the center, a rock,
and a jar, balanced precariously,
but still.
So still it takes stillness to tell where center rock ends and jar begins.

From the jar's emptiness
reversed is nature:
rain falls up
and branches drink before roots.
Through still emptiness of jar
murky water meets light and air:


After touching another living thing
it falls back to its beginning.
Gravity is persistent.

Each briefly sparkling drop goes full circle
and is absorbed
back into its sludgy starting place,
but not without
a sound
a reflection
a ripple
that rips the surface and changes everything.