Today’s poem for NaPoWriMo.
Birthdays are, for me, remembering mothers. They are the star of the day, are they not? Going through that climactic episode after 9 months of carrying and carrying and more carrying. I have a cousin who every year travels to spend his birthday with his mother. He said, she is the reason he has a birthday, so she’s the best person to celebrate it with. I agree.
by RUMI
Last night
I lost my grip on reality
and welcomed insanity.
Love
saw me and said,
I showed up.
Wipe you tears
and be silent.
I said, O Love
I am frightened,
but it’s not you.
Love said to me,
there is nothing that is not me.
be silent.
I will whisper secrets in your ear
just nod yes
and be silent.
~ Rumi
Day – tanka
The sun slides across
the skin of the day in a
hot, searing caress.
What can I do but sigh in
voluptuous contentment?
~~~
For day 9, a sweet, sad poem on a dream I saw the other day –
A terse dream this was,
broken, anguished, blurred,
of which a fragment remains
in my memory, embedded.
A wayward bullet strikes
at lightning speed your chest,
passing through it spears,
calmly, through my breast.
Locked in a gaze we stand,
as love flows out the wounds.
Caught tight in death’s hand
as the dream softly fades.
On waking, for long I ponder;
did our souls our bodies flee
at the same moment, together?
Did they merge to become free?
Did pain set our insides afire?
Is sorrow the bullet that incinerates,
torching our ignorance, our desire,
and into freedom thus liberates?
~~~
For Day 8, an ode to my house.
MY SECOND SKIN
My house bathed in moonlight, rests,
silent and welcoming,
and I breathe love into its spaces.
It seems a reflection of me,
the way the furniture is arranged,
the chairs facing each other.
Do they talk among themselves, I wonder,
in the stillness of the night,
picking up bits of broken-off conversation?
Does the warm air twirling up the stairs,
or the slippers, discarded, under the bed,
remind it of us, when we are away.
Do the walls rejoice with the tinkle of laughter,
does the carpet hoard shards
of my shattered dreams.
Does it feel protective, caring,
shielding us from wind and rain,
silent witness to silent pain.
Content, replete, joyous,
I settle into its calm stillness,
and it wraps itself around me.
~~~
For Day 7, a hymn –
My Lord calls to me
in the early morning light
‘kuhu-kuhu’ she sings
in joyous dulcet tones.
My Lord enfolds me
in the early morning mist,
ethereal and uplifting
like mother’s love.
My Lord sings to me
from the violin’s bow,
gliding on the strings
in heartrending melody.
My Lord looks at me
from beggar-child eyes
in desperate hope,
for alms, for love.
My Lord comes to me
in hands that help,
voices that comfort,
and hearts that hug.
My Lord whispers to me
amid the clamour of worship,
“Be still. Just be. ”
“I am in the silence”.
~~~
For day 4, a Love poem.
My heart is a shrine, it seems,
loves come and go like pilgrims.
Some come seeking solace,
some to unlock the joy in their hearts.
And yet others come with footsteps heavy with sorrow,
and I wait for them to undam their pain.
Until release comes in torrent upon stormy torrent,
all pain washed clean by blessed tears.
And yet what can I give,
but the God that is within me?
This lamp of love you have lit with your hands, Oh Lord,
and sheltered it from innumerable storms.
My song of praise is my only offering,
and my heart lifted up in gratitude.
Eddies of memories – tanka
fleeting sandal scent
like a rogue wind whirlpools leaves
stirs up memories
chasing the light on your skin
all the way into shadows
~~~
~~~
She looked at herself in the mirror
and shimmied a little, smiling at her
wan face, saying, “you look lovely!”
As though in apology to her own
reflection that didn’t smile back.
But replied in her head, “you liar!”
Her heart dropped into her belly,
that sea of tremulousness. “I love you,”
she cried in desperate defiance.
“You sentimental fool!” Old, hazy
voices rose from forgotten graves.
“You are not real.” She railed at
their fuzzy persistence. “Who do
you think you are?” Old shame
surfaced like dirty foam. “You’re
lies I believed for far too long.”
“Don’t delude yourself.” “I am
truth. I am light. I am pure love.”
She leaned toward her reflection
blurred through the tears, kissed
it. Her lover, her eternal friend.
It glowed and grew. It smiled back
through the misty glass. The sun
rose from the sea of grey, lifted
her heart, gave it wings. Light
pulsated through her veins, “Hello
Sunshine!” Her eyes twinkled back.
~~~
dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Victoria this week asks us to write a poem in conversation style.
.
This being a woman
is a holding back
words caught in the throat
pebbles, rocks, boulders,
but isn’t it the stones
that make the river sing?
This being a woman
is a flowing around
a liquid grace,
a sinuous tenacity,
what obstacle has ever
stopped a river in flow?
This being a woman
is a relearning
no matter how much
the world breaks you,
were you not always
unbreakable and whole?
This being a woman
is a discovering
amidst a world that
denies you your dignity,
finding a world inner,
pure, precious, powerful.
This being a woman
is always about love
you may love one
or may love many,
but most of all
you must love your self
~~~
Just Joyfulness 