Today, I stuck with the words the Oracle gave me, more or less in the order they appeared. The first poem was strange, and I know what I think it means, and it’s not something I’d be comfortable putting my name to. So I asked for another, also strange, and the third one is so sad I gave up. She’s in one of those moods today.
Those are not women, this not their honey-garden. Their screams rise like bubbles into the elusive pink of an unattainable sky.
Sleep, she says, and dream, rolling back the mistaken paths, find the origin, unadorned, not an idol to worship, no entrapment, but the true light of day.
Listen to the singing, the songs that have always been, immutable as the bed of the sky, the silent stars, the stuff of our making.
Sun like wind roars red we have one skin yours is black a man-smell I watch it rust in the frantic blowing.
Could it be we are only dreaming of this cool forest its dark gentle depths?
Who put out the lie that spring was coming fast and I would be with you?
From this rock all I can see is water neither you nor diamonds and the men taking you away.
I’m very late visiting the Oracle. I tried yesterday and ran out of time. Tried to pick up where I left off, but she gave me this instead.
A painted day dream
It was a painting of sun on water, white sand, a paradise, so far from the grey, the ordinary things. I imagined walking the woods of a tiny tongue of land, misted by distance, its low hills lapping the sea, a green largo in a concerto for blue and gold.
This garden soothes like the breast of the sea, like the shell of an egg in a wild bird’s nest, like a pebble as pale as herons’ wings, in the rippling shallows beneath the sun. It soothes like the head of a long-lost dog, laid on my lap, the look in his eyes deep as the sea, soft as foam and feathers, confused with those wisps of hurrying clouds.