The song springs like light on the sea,
driving away the purple shadows
of lingering dreams.
Dawn sings, pink-petalled,
in the winding ears of shells,
and the blood in my head
rings with forest birds.
I ask, what did the moon whisper
in the still of the night,
in the water-tongue of storm and stream?
Listen to the dew diamond-drop, she says,
into the bowl of the first rose of summer,
to the feather-soft falling
of the robin’s egg, new-hatched,
to the rain soothing the burning skin of the sky,
watch the answer grow
in the steps of the red goddess,
in the rising milk of the ewes,
the green juice of the trees.
And in this wind
that blows in the morning,
sails the moon and the stars
across the dark sea of night,
Once again, I knocked on the Oracle’s door and read the first page in the book, and the words that jumped out were the words I never use. Before I concentrated on finding the poem, I noted down some of these unusable words, then the words that I could use, just out of curiosity.
Words that never inspire:
boy egg butt peach puppy lust sausage candy cake bug baby angel sex pie caramel
words that always inspire:
dream lie head play say run raw spring spray smear skin still want water sky drink voice
words rarely used:
men woman god goddess sister brother son concrete
I am drawn to the abstract and natural, and I am totally uninterested in food, divinities and heart-warming or just plain human relationships.
The painting is by Odilon Redon (again).
This broken sky pours its sadness
to sop and slop hollow earth,
its salt tears gnawing.
You ask, can wounds heal so deep, so far,
if we reach into the blue
and close the lips with a kiss,
listen to the words and remember the song?
We’ll dance, I say, let the breeze bring comfort,
fly over flower-grass spangled
with cast-off stars of old night,
open the window
to the stream of waking laughter,
and join the singing voices of eternity.
Blue as above,
a dream lies crushed by indifferent feet
to the music of rain falling,
wind sighing and tides rising.
I ask will they return
the languid days of insouciance,
of moon-dancing where the storms never come.
She whispers light as mist,
so low I can barely hear,
The singing sky has lost its tongue
wind blows away the words
and blood runs black
as shadows on the sun.
But I feel the touch of fingers in my hair
she shows me light, poppy-red,
water flowing to an untroubled sea,
the ship beyond rose-tinted rocks
and you waiting.
Together we will be enough.
I remembered that today is Saturday, Oracle Day and she gave me a lovely one!
Behind the banal, the breath of a child,
scented with the meadows of the other side,
red sky and blue laughter among the ghosts,
mother, father, through the mists, drawing you close
to break like day, like waves on a shore in green and gold,
pulsing with the light of the world, the music of the heart,
and your mother’s belly bleeds flowers
with no thorn, night-velvet, star-bright—
no words too wild
to poem this birth.
I asked the Oracle for her thoughts on the end of the year. It was a strange message with a strange ending, but appropriate I suppose for this strange year.
Bloody sky bed heaves,
a swollen sea above,
and behind the mad clouds,
mother moon rises, a rose opening,
casting her sweet shadows
through the whispering rain.
All about is black and bare,
gowned in dark water running,
but there is light shining,
singing in a thousand tongues,
and as the rose opens, pink petals
turning to purple as they fall,
I hear her speak.
You you you are here and now,
hearing the year’s music
smoothing the path to spring.
The sky ship awaits
to steer us through the storm.
As we were, we are and will be yet.
I had a second visit, different word set, and the hope comes through in this message. Even death is not to be feared, the dark full of beauty, and beyond the night, there will always be a morning.
Dance away and die, I say,
to the feathered things and the ocean fish;
dance away into soft waters, the gentle blue
that sips eternity from its horizon’s rim.
Dance with the ghosts,
their hearts bared and guileless,
for there is nothing more naked than the night,
nothing darker than the cloud before the moon,
and nothing more full of hope than the morning
that remembers the flower
in all the glory of its wild beauty.
No need to ask the meaning of
the whispers blowing on the lake,
black as stormy days, and nights
of restless tongues.
They cry death,
and even in our dreams,
the red ship casts its shadow
on the waves.
All about, above, beneath,
and through the spaces in-between,
the light that leaks is grey
as sea spray, cold as bitter rain.
We watch the pictures form in blood
and weeping, and pretend we walk
light-footed, cloaked in blue
soft as summer seas.
Yet in the cool and damp of forest leaves,
I hear the purple voice of mother-mist,
singing the sweet sun, not lost,
but sleeping with the fallen rose.
My first time participating in @TopTweetTuesday with this poem.
Dreams are boats, white-sailed
on seas flowered with sun-spangles.
We watch, you and I, the way
the spray sifts seagulls
between cloud and wave crest,
until the thread flutters out of our grasp,
dark clouds of waking gather
their gloomy skirts and credits roll
on that lost horizon, white with wings
and the yelling of gulls.
is in the breeze that carries away the swallows
and brings them back again
the rhythm of the waves
trembling leaves foam-hissing
and the blush of red in the sunset.
is in the morning
that hangs heavy with last night’s rain
clouds snagged in branches
and night doubts when the wind howls
through empty rooms.
is the haunting of memory
the fleeting fish-flicker in a deep pool
the look and listen when the tree shadow shifts
and a deer leaps
the voice that calls from far away.
the one, the only is in the morning smell of coffee
eternity in a kiss repeated over and over
the peace that fills and overflows
so one heart is not enough
the hand that parts the clouds so I can see the stars.
I asked the Oracle, why so much blue? This is what she replied.
Joy is in colour,
the red of mornings,
the slow glint of silver fish scales in the stream,
ice dazzle, and the cool steel glitter of stars,
in the milky coffee of storm clouds
tinged with flame at sunset,
~but blue is day and night~
at the earth’s heart,
veining watercourses and dead marble,
filling the sky, pooling in cupped flowers;
it is the wild voices of the birds,
the colour of oceans, and, when we sleep,
of sailboats full of dreams.