“Real magic is the art of bringing gifts from another world into this world.” Robert Moss

Magic has been mentioned here several times recently, but we haven’t said what we mean by it. One thing it can’t mean is stage magic, sleight of hand, any sort of clever deliberate trickery; surely that goes without saying. And it makes no sense to include in its definition anything that more mundane means could accomplish. Maybe in the end it will turn out to have been technology too advanced for us to recognize, as some suggest. The definition above is workable here, for now at least.

Robert Moss is excellent on the subject of dreams. Mine have been largely closed to me lately, for known reasons, but they are trying to come through again. I will welcome them back as soon as I am less isolated with my highly active inner world.

The trance-visit to my long-ago poetic friend was powerful when it happened, and more powerful later when I looked in again. I felt such intense presence, I actually wondered if he had crossed to the other side! Of course I had to search out any news. I found something to indicate that he was alive and well quite recently. Was I just borrowing his likeness to show myself something else? Dreams do that often; this was perhaps a waking dream.

Tonight’s work is mysterious even to me right now, but I am sharing it anyway.

11 March 2021

11

She Is Carrying

If I stood in the rain with my hand on my heart

and you witnessed a miracle there as it poured,

would you grant me an answer? I’m nothing–apart

from the echo of source in each resonant word

that keeps creeping toward you in verses and lines

you seem to recall from your own early days.

Why will I whisper when all those strange times

still echo as loudly as clouds in a grey

calming storm as the rain washes over, and you

raise your face, and well know what I’m trying to tell–

little by little a holier view

comes toward me so clearly–I’m casting a spell

over either or both of us, moonlight in rays

shining through it, a glint from a source still unseen,

and a tangle of passionate answers that praise

one who walks through the gloom of the forest too green

for the vision–too fraught for the viewer who stands

with their head hanging down and a wan look of dread,

a too-pounding heart under both of their hands,

staring down at the hole that’s their last wedding-bed–

but then startled, uplifting the lids and the wires

that are eyelashes after their burned eyes disclose–

open again to the high flaming skies

as she smiles and, in smiling, she’s learning from those

who curve like a sickle of Moon or an ice-

rime of fingernail chipped on a tile floor of blue.

If I stood out in rain as I cast line by line

this very love-spell, would it captivate you?

No more than nothing; the rains will pour down;

after they have, we will both have to go

through the stasis of winter, so that’s where I’m bound–

I can’t carry water. I can carry snow.