And God said to me, write
And I tore the mare’s rib
And I swallowed my own heartbeat.
Nothing, Gaupa, has it’s tongue
In you. I grew my confidence like a stone
In the middle of a city. Bells told me to
Love. He bit half a tomato. A man,
whose hands—how could I know
if they prayed, know if they’d
hold me the same in another place. If I was born
With chants in my mouth, if I was a strong wind,
if I grew again into the mountain mouth,
I’d sing—Take me. Now, I sing take me. Now
My heart beat His stone.
Comparing your success or failure to others success or failure can cause a variety of symptoms in an artist. Small example:
A) You lose touch with your own valued voice and become def to your Genius.
B) You begin to swim in others, and your own, glory, sinking into wasted time, pursuing an easy, non-sustainable path to not-being-known-after-your-gone or,
C) Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And then more Nothing. Except missing out on life and real happiness and genunie living from which your True Voice speaks with or without you.
However, we all do it at one point or another.
Francine knows the shadow is slow to wake.
I understand the man inside me like a light. I wait hiding under a stone, she writes. He’s afraid of my face.
At night, Francine opens her chest and plant words there, or flowers, if the feelings right.
When the real one comes I will let him see my bones. But only in my dreams, she writes, for that is when we undress.
Francine knows the shadow of her man lives inside her as a creek. Slow to wake. But when he does, she writes, the stones will open their stem-eyes and grow.
Francine knows the power of how to wait.
I will let him see my bones.
I haven’t updated in a while. Part of this is due to not having wireless at my new place until recently. So, here’s a link to two poems that were published in Night Train at the end of April. TAKE A LOOK!