Tenaramente
SUNDAY POEM
TENARAMENTE
I stand at the boundary. On this side, familiar
terrain. Hills like lyric waves brushed with sage, dew
an aria on my tongue, golden wedge of light on my
elbow. My arms know precisely my baby’s
milky weight, his warm mouth loose against my
breast, my nipple cooling in this lambent dawn.
Moss fur nuzzles the soles of my feet.
This is the threshold: this granite arch soaring
skyward in the middle of a mustard field, keystone
lost in the limpid blue of heaven. Ahead, unknown
country. Images pour through my head like rain:
Death in rusty black cloak, hooded, faceless, scythe
gripped in blanched fingers. And bodies, light as
dried laurel leaves, borne on bamboo biers, covered
in marigolds; tinkling cymbals, heartbeat of drums,
chanting voices bearing the soul back home.
That which is before me is veiled in light. My hand
through the archway no longer a hand, effulgence
of ultraviolet pulsing to a rhythm familiar as my
heartbeat, enigmatic as an atom. I lean my upper
body through the arch. Soft. Smell of almond
blossoms, sticky fig-juice, olive groves. Shiver of
argent sound, bells, chiming inside and out into one,
my skin no longer my skin, no boundary, but a
dissolved definition. An exchange of electrons and
protons with ambient life which once bore many
names–tree, fish, star, mud. My flesh and theirs
transmuted into vibration, dance of particles into
waves, waves and particles, call and answer, calando,
dolce, dolce, tranquillo. I am a sympathetic string in
a great aeolian harp, vibrating to the melody of these
rushing winds, vast ripples of light and air and spirit.
Step now across the slate-gray stones. Prelude over,
my voice flows into this canon which sings the Real.
My infant son plays in the crack between worlds,
time in his right hand, eternity in his left. He puts
God in his mouth and savors, rolling divinity on
his tongue, face rapt, chortling his own cantata.
………………………………………
As always, I’d love to hear your own poems in Comments. Let’s share the voices of our hearts with each other.
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so so so lovely….*swoons with delight*
Oh, Hiro. This is gorgeous and I especially appreciate these lines..
ultraviolet pulsing to a rhythm familiar as my
heartbeat, enigmatic as an atom. I lean my upper
body through the arch.
My poem today is titled:
“Oh, I would like to be close….”
Well, Nobody’s perfect – but for once, I would like to be close.
Vaguely close to quintessence, now there is a word
Close enough to smell perfect in the just-right splendor
Of a perfect dawn – snuggled up, skin-to-skin,
Within someone I love the sky transforming from
Deep blue to purple to a hint of light to
All my favorite lavendar pinks orange yellow mauvey
Sunburst forth in vivid, lively confidence
Fresh, crisp, porridge that neither burns nor freezes
Coffee brewing in the background
A pencil and notebook, waiting, at an antique
Mahogany desk, soft robe to wrap me in as
I find the ideal words to describe, to evoke,
To engage, to invigorate, to connect with
You and him and her and them and us
Yes. Nobody’s perfect but oh, I would like to be close.
Julie,
This is wonderful! Thank you!
Miriam
Lovely, Julie, thanks for sharing your poem!
oh! “Hills like lyric waves brushed with sage” – that was the first line that pulled me in to the land of this poem. I swear I was THERE – leaning forward to see what was next, and then relaxing into the both-ness of “time in his right hand, eternity in his left”.
And Julie, how beautifully your poem resonates with Hiro’s. Me too, lots of times I feel like I’d like to be done – kinda felt a little done-ISH when I was inside Hiro’s poem.
Loved Teneramente. I agree with Karen that the both-ness of the baby inhabiting the archway was compelling and complete.
Here’s my offering for the day:
A Peony Bursts
Somewhere between the kitchen and the front door, the blowzy
peony lets go
unnoticed.
On the way back from the greenwaste can,
a trail of false scarlet.
I leave the outdoor offering to wind, dew—
the helpful scatterings of nature.
Petals on the stoop and just inside the door,
I gather into one palm. They are soft,
remarkably fragrant.
Frangible. I roll them in my hand,
conjure visions of bone dice and tea leaves.
No use. The petals remain
inscrutable.
“I roll them in my hand,
conjure visions of bone dice and tea leaves.” Sigh!
Great ending, Laura – and “Frangible”, what a wild-cool word!!
Square-Peg Karen’s last post … Hybrid-ism-ish
Hiro,
When did you write this? I am so startled by the imagery, how much it is like what happens to me too.
“my skin no longer my skin, no boundary, but a
dissolved definition. An exchange of electrons and
protons with ambient life which once bore many
names–tree, fish, star, mud. My flesh and theirs
transmuted into vibration, dance of particles into
waves, waves and particles”
Yes, this happens a lot – delighted to have it put into words.
Miriam
Miriam, I wrote this poem nearly fifteen years ago. It describes how I’ve always experienced the worlds of form and formlessness, and my relationship with the arc between them.
This is the most beautiful poem I have read in a very long time. I hope to spend the day in this poem, savoring it, reflecting back upon it~ feeling its call, its pull, the invitation of it. Thank you for this gift of radiance. You have opened my heart to the flow of its own music. Thank you.
Thank you Hiro for the part at the end about the baby. Now I understand so much better the true essence of a life beginning. Absolutely beautiful.
Julie Stuart’s last post … Interviews- About me- And doodle bombs-