Words that sing

My oldest friend

July 10, 2008 · 12 Comments

We grew up together, so naturally
I know her better than any other soul
Passing together through puberty
As adults, discovering how to become whole.

She would argue with me, her words burning
And toward her alone I express bitter rage
With time and practice, we are finally learning
How to avoid this soul-destroying exchange.

And with that understanding, life is good,
For we are never apart. And I advise
Her lovingly, as a best friend should -
Patient with the weaknesses, so clear to my eyes

And proud about the strengths that I see.
For truly my oldest friend… is me.

Inspired by Sunday Scribblings’ prompt to write about “my oldest friend”.

Categories: Uncategorized

Myths

July 10, 2008 · 20 Comments

The dusty attic of the human mind
is choked with a sprawling, cobwebby pile
of junk accumulated over the years.

A cramped glass stiletto
(with a mouse
trapped in its toe)
and a pair of red shoes with an evil leer.

A frog croaking wistfully,
lost in the gilded circle
of a princess’ heavy crown.

An overflowing porridge pot and
a golden apple, marked with a
bite gone brown.

A donkey skin which is stained with blood,
and a pair of
- amputated -
silver hands.

A few pomegranate seeds scattered like red tears
on the lid of an empty box with a bleeding key
A broken laurel branch carelessly jammed
Into a dusty jar of magic wands.

From under the heap, a woman emerges
brushes poppy seeds and salt grains from her body,
revealing its (non-symbolic) naked glory.

She stretches cramped limbs,
ties back her flowing hair,
and heads off to create a more original story.

 

This post responds to One Single Impression’s prompt of “myth”. It picks up on a theme in an earlier post – that some myths imprison rather than inspire, particularly the myths about women.

The myths or fairy tales referenced here are all about women in some way or other, and have often been used to suggest that women’s domestic or passive sexual qualities are the only ones that matter, and that curiosity, desire and independence have no place. Some are less familar or oblique references, so I’ve provided links below.

Some of these stories feature in Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ Women who Run with the Wolves, which digs into the heart of these stories to find a much more affirming message for women. (For example, many of the interpretations of Bluebeard are judgemental about the woman’s curiosity and lack of self restraint in opening the door, rather than applauding her courageous determination to find out the truth.) I really enjoyed that book and found a lot of resonances in her interpretations. Here I’m thinking of the surface meanings which are much more apparent in our societies.

Photo – Junk by Carrie Always at flickr.

Links:

Cinderella
The red shoes
The frog prince
Crown – any story where the ideal is to be a princess!
The magic porridge pot
Golden apples appear all over the place e.g. Atalanta, the judgement of Paris
Donkey skin – for a heart-breaking retelling of this story, I really recommend Robin McKinley’s Deerskin
The handless maiden
Persephone
Pandora
Bluebeard
(see also my earlier poem “Opening the Door“)
Daphne
Magic wands – thinking mostly of Cinderella again!
Seeds and salt – tales like Vasilissa or Rumpelstiltskin where the heroine must sort huge piles of grain.

Categories: living · writing
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The condor soars

July 10, 2008 · 3 Comments

The condor soars above the ruins where sandstone glows like fire 
And infinite blueness haloes the idols that inspired a lost empire.

And the condor soars above the ruins and rubbish on city streets
Where barefoot children play with stones and pester tourists for sweets.

The condor soars over jagged peaks caught by glaciers in a serpentine net
That shone white-bright against the sky - the continent’s proud coronet.

And the condor soars over jagged peaks, now denuded of their icy crown
Now only rocks and gravel remain to show where the glaciers once ground.

The condor soars past hills which once were made of silver and gold
The land of nobles bright with diadems, skilfully hammered and scrolled

And the condor soars past hills whose gold was shipped away to Spain
Now dusty relics in darkened museums are all that still remain

The world is changed. This is no longer the realm of Tiwanaku and Inca
Yet still the condor soars above its ancient Andean finca.

 >>>>>>>>>>>>

This poem is a response to Rick Mobbs’ inspiring picture above. As I’m currently living in South America, I was struck by the many shapes which seemed evocative of the artefacts found in Tiwanaku and Inca ruins, as well as the image of the condor that is so characteristic of the Andes.

And yet the lower part of the image seemed to suggest decay, and made me think of other sights that are sadly just as characteristic as the Andes – the consequences of poverty, climate change and past imperialism. And so I wrote this sonnet, which contrasts the past and the present.

(Finca is a Spanish word meaning the land that is someone’s property.)

Categories: living · writing
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