Maypole in Bloom

When May comes, with Beltane’s heat wrapped around her hips, I weave primavera ribbons into every dark. My all—flesh, bone, the womanliest curves of my soul—taste the silk flirting inside my heart… curling towards my thighs… kissing the soil that dances with the bottoms of my feet.

The taps and twists of my soles chant a song of getting and of giving, of sex and heart creating ecstasy, of quickening flesh and dirt, of enticing the Maypole to please Nature’s need of rebirth.

Come for me, May, dance my will wild. Let me love you for multiple whiles… touch me with what Spring hides from Summer, wear me out until my Fall daydreams of slipping into Winter.

the Maypole in bloom,
spring teasing out desires
from all living things

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wee notes
Beltane: the anglicized name for the Gaelic May Day festival, most commonly held on May 1st, or about halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice.
Primavera: the Spanish word for spring.

written for Yesterday Never Dies – Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month, 2016 (Day 13)
I chose the 30th April prompt, at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:
Poetizing the Maypole

Maypole in Bloom

She Wasn’t a Creature of this World

The weapons instructor who taught me how to properly place an AT-4 on my shoulder told me that his people spoke in poetry.

“It’s an anti-tank weapon, Warrior,” he said. “Treat it like an untrustworthy friend—always keeping a strong hold on it, but touching it with light fingers.”

“I will, Chief,” I said, and watched his poetry speaking lips tighten into a line that couldn’t hide the mirth crinkling his eyes. He hated when I called him Chief, so I did it every time he called me Warrior, and not by my name. “Will I feel the flash on my back? After I fire it?”

“War is hot, Girl Warrior, full of recoils and burns. Just like raising a child,” he said, “it leaves the mother cracked and stretched and changed and scarred.”

“Reading does the same for the mind, Chief.” Remembering what he said about his people, I added, “But the scars left by stories are poetic tattoos.”

He said nothing for a long while. Not even after he removed the practice AT-4 from my shoulder and placed it back on the weapons rack. Then he gave me one of his deep amber-eyed looks, and said, “What have you been reading, Word Eating Warrior?”

One Hundred Years of Solitude, Poetry Speaking Chief. It’s about—”

“I’ve read Márquez,” he said. “What’s your favorite part? The war between Aureliano Buendia and Úrsula Iguarán, I bet.”

I shook my head. “I love how Márquez portrays Remedios the Beauty. The woman is clearly mad, but he decides to write that she ‘was not a creature of this world.’ He didn’t write lies. He just made madness beautiful, even desirable and uplifting. He plucked Remedios out of the dirt. And she ascended.”

Chief smiled, an enormous smile full of gums and teeth too white for his dark-honeyed complexion. “A Caribe Warrior who sees beauty in the lunacy of another. I wonder if you’ll find poetry in war.”

“I don’t,” I said, leaving the classroom without looking at Chief’s face.

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Process Note: Sanaa, sweet mistress of Prompt Nights, invited us to write a poem or prose piece inspired by our favorite book or one of our favorite quotes. I chose to repost this tale, birthed out of the following passage, from Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude:

“Remedios the Beauty was not a creature of this world… She reached twenty… wandering naked through the house because her nature rejected all manner of convention…

Remedios the Beauty began to rise… abandoning with her the environment of beetles and dahlias and passing through the air with her as four o’clock in the afternoon came to an end, and they were lost forever with her in the upper atmosphere where not even the highest-flying birds of memory could reach her.”

AT-4: an 84-mm unguided, portable, single-shot recoilless smoothbore weapon.
Caribe: Spanish word for Caribbean and spicy/hot, another word for piranha; its variation, Carib, refers to a fierce indigenous people of the Lesser Antilles in the Caribbean.
* First published in 2014. I clipped a word or two… aside from that, it remains unchanged.

Floating Woman“Close”, by Martin Stranka