6 June 6 2014
There’s a story here, and it is dedicated to someone I very deeply love—someone I will not see again. This won’t be spun for drama; it is sorrow that is already in many ways well sung.
There’s always going to be a deeper story weaving through the lines. (There’s always going to be a deeper sotry, I first wrote.) The first sign that passed between my mortal lover and my poetic mind was a seal, a creature of the salt sea deeps and islands, seen by him far landward in warm fresh water. He saw it in the river by which he went out walking, and posted an image online. I, coastal-dwelling hearer of multitudes of sea-lions and seals, recognized the creature by its very face, and sent its cast metal image, in the form of a seal-face pin from my leather ‘selkie-skin’ jacket, back. My friend was magnified, as was our friendship from that moment. When I saw him, he was very much changed from what he had recently been, and the image of the seal was clearly imprinted on his face when we were quietly together and I could see him through my soul. We had very little time for this, but it was beautiful while it lasted, and its imprint lasts very strongly and beautifully now. Many songs have come of our friendship, and many, many more will come, until we both hang up our harps.
The song to follow is mine and yours. The Muse is with me always, and so are you.
6 June 2014
Deeper, Deeper Dance
Then, there the old rose glowed with such demonic apparitions, light
took leave of her, and let her sway, a head above a stalk, all night,
but then again, an angel showed the sap within her why he came,
and how she need not die alone, but merely call his old, old name.
I’d have perished long ago, but something in my mind took hold
like little shoots from off a tree inestimably, nobly gold
each autumn, and alike as gold as fresh new dawn each dawning’s break.
Now I’m knowing why I hold in either hand a sad live snake—
I’m knowing, and the oracle I just became allowed you in
the little partial moment you require to play the mortal sin
you carried with you when I heard you first pronounce your name to me.
We were swaying round and round a ghostly dance floor, just we three,
where roses threw themselves on lapping waves to die of utter bliss.
When we’re dead, my angel, we—will die, for having swallowed this,
but fresh sweet roses—watch them now—will rise up, bloom, and breathe forth song.
Trouble comes to haunt you. Turn it into where we all belong.
Snake so closely coiled about a set of braided roots, kind sleep
is what you need, and you shall have it. Meanwhile, dance thrives in love’s keep.
My poems are dated for the sake of any sort of later record-keeping. I number them in sequence, month by month. They are nearly always started and finished within an hour or so; they must reflect the very subtle state of mind they were conceived within throughout, as if their composition takes too long, mind will interfere, and make up nonsense, and talk itself out of trusting in music and love. A lover of song just cannot let that happen—thus you see how hard I am willing to work to keep it from happening to you!