“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
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.