why i write sad poems / triple tanka {napowrimo '11, #9}

in self defense, a
broken 16 year old sought
meaning in her pain;
a struggle to become whole
after the splitting apart.

later, rebelling
against misplaced love and rage,
poems became condensed
emotion; ways to speak my
soul in small, unsafe spaces.

as healing flows, the
habit remains. poems, my blue
train; slow burn jazz riffs
contrasted with life's joy. sad
poet with a blissful heart.

sustenance & starvation

currently sustaining:

the moon
sleep
this
this
and this.

i am particularly drawn to the story of golden hair...

Golden Hair was her name; a woman so beautiful of soul and so gifted of spirit, with such a lovely singing voice, that all the villagers wanted to be near her, and all wanted to be like her. No one gathered to her out of deference, but out of true love. And that was returned to them by her a thousand fold.

Whereby some in the village were always pointing fingers at whomever they thought were sinners, she gave love and encouragement to the goodness in all, including those designated by scowlers as “sinners.” Her way of being was to lead by singing of the ways of love, and by giving others time enough and reason to grow and develop and learn, through errors and through inspirations, both.

But a giant of a brute saw her lovely golden hair, heard her lovely singing, and noted her beautiful hands that wove cloth so fine it could be passed through a golden ring with ease, and he coveted her -- not just her body, but her mind, her spirit, her very soul for it was so filled with life and vision and love. In contrast, he had made his life self-important, darkened and harsh. He was given to punitive judgment, and he wanted to somehow devour the golden haired woman, as though by so doing, he could somehow take on her light inside his own dimmed self.

And so he courted her, but she refused, preferring to follow her own visions of weaving and being, of ministering to the people who flocked to her to just be near and hear her songs.

The brute became wildly jealous of the love others had so easily for this woman, for no one cared for his stern visage. He became enraged. Who did this woman think she was to turn him down, he who had pillaged gold and jewels unlawfully from others, he who lived in splendor but surrounded by a sterile land, he who was the biggest condemner, criticizer and fault finder in the valley. Shaming and blaming, blaming and shaming, those were his power madnesses.

And so, he laid in wait for her one night, and when she passed by alone on the road, he sprang out and killed her. Down to the road she fell, her blood soaking into the earth. He dragged her body into the forest and there grunting with sweat, buried her body, believing this would hide his crime.

The villagers grieved terribly, but as time went on, an uncanny event occurred: her golden hair continued to grow in the grave. It grew in the soil of the forest, a small field of golden reeds swaying in the dappled light and singing ever so softly in the wind. Upward and upward it grew until it pierced the earth overhead.

One day, along the road came women and men musicians. Upon seeing the golden reeds swaying near the road, they tramped into the forest and cut the beautiful reeds and fashioned them for pipes.

Thinking how fine a music these unusual reeds would make, they tied them together with raffia and cut their stops, but when they lifted the flutes to their lips, the oddest song came forth, the same song for each of the pipes and the only song the pipes would play, a song that told over and over again who had killed Golden Hair and why.

The brute and his horrible deed were revealed. And the villagers, now seeing the brute down to his cunning and rotten core, shut the brute away and gave away all his ill-made booty.

In our family, the old people say the only song the golden reeds would play, went something like this, my translation of a translation from the Magyar:

Here I am, woman golden hair,
killed by a brute who gave no care.

Lonely hatred is more base than lust.
And so he killed to still my holiness.

But kill me once
and 10 will rise to ring,
for I am not the singer of the song
I am the song the Singer sings.

it makes me think of how i was "killed".

how he always praised my wonders while remaining unable to hold, love or care for me properly...unconsciously draining my light, my love.

unlike golden hair, i was not content to remain alone. i wanted to love him.

he wasn't as obvious as the brute. i thought he was safe...

now, i am here.

in this moment, i am acutely aware of my bruises and scars. aware of my loss of faith.

i will never be who i was before the pain.

but i can emerge anew.

some days i know what that looks like...or at least what i want it to look like.

other days, i have no idea.

baby wisdom

my inner child half smiles at me from my ori altar.

in her thick pigtails and striped shirt, she could either be entering a fit of giggles or preparing to ask some profound question in the way only a 4 or 5 year old can.

i have no way of knowing for sure, but i am fairly certain she is a more innocent version of me. the sweetness before the pain.

my last therapist was also a shaman. once, near the end of a session, she asked if i knew someone named anne. when i told her no, she asked me to think about it. anne wanted to teach me, needed me to listen to her.

i became still, and it dawned on me: anne was part of my own name.

full of grace, mercy.
prayerful.
god favors me.

my inner child was speaking. she remembered why i came.

and now, finally, i feel like i might be catching on.

The Day the Sun Spoke

Did you know the Sun spoke for a day? It's true!

One day, Mama decided people must want noise everywhere, all the time.

In the cities, there were few places left for quiet, and more space for noise was being cleared all the time. Nearly everyone was running to the cities anyway. So, She decided to give the elements voices.