Lyrics from the rainforest, and chains of beaded rain. Among them, a story weaves its sad way through. Everything is much more than it seems.
About the author–One might begin by picturing a small oldish lady with buzzed grey hair who lives near the ocean, on the edge of the Pacific coastal rain forest. The poetic work that happens here is both neo-classical and post-psychedelic, which is not entirely unusual in this highly myceliated neck of the woods. Doors that were coaxed to open many years ago remain open, as much as one would want.
Here’s a telling glimpse of character: My signature poetic line for many years has been amphibrachic octameter. That is, short-long-short, eight feet per line. My late partner called it my ‘long bardic line.’ I can call these amphibrachs classically influenced, as the Greek-derived name suggests, but the truth is that I grew up dancing to all sorts of songs, and my favorites became old Welsh ones. When I began composing poetry, the dancing rhythms returned. I learned my line from the Welsh tune, Cadair Idris.
Many poets and songwriters have taught me, but Robert Graves exemplified how to see farther in and back through poetry and all the lore surrounding it. He was also a many-times-over celebrant of the mycelial mysteries, as I learned only after my own encounter with them. My state has recently legalized the study and use of psilocybin in healing, especially in end-of-life care. I think about this a great deal these days. I haven’t consulted directly with mushrooms in years and years, but what they taught me is still revealing itself.
The mare’s nest of my personal past and baggage was sorted through long ago. I have reached the blessed stage of having considerable experience to share without having it immediately monopolized by my own old boring problems. Story is shifting about in a half-sleep now, preparing to wake up and tell me more about itself.
Apart from the ongoing revelation of story, one purpose is close to my heart right now, and that is to do all I can from my own limited sphere to look after the quiet folk of the world and pray for their peace. The quality of life for my neighbors and myself has been decreasing in recent years because of openly antisocial behavior on the part of those who once showed some shame. I am praying for peace strong enough that nothing can disrupt it and break the communication between beloveds who move between worlds. Even, perhaps especially, when the ones who love and are loved are children, animals, ghosts, and unglamorous friends. Let us all do all we can to secure the peace and safety of quiet friends. Poetry as I know it depends upon the nearness of silence.