When I miss you most,
I haiku made-up factoids
about things that grow.
a passion flower
blooming in New York City,
could be Audrey II
in autumn, leaves blush
red because winter’s coming,
bringing Snow to all
But, when my want grows
hot and wild, I think,
warm lavender oils, filling me with dreams of us, of you… lost in me
. the wee notes… – Someone dared me to write something that “includes haiku, horror comedy and Game of Thrones references, sexual longing, and emotional depth.” I gave it a go (for a book).
– I shared a passion flower (below) on Instagram and a friend suggested it looked like Audrey II. I agree. And, of course Jon Snow. Do I have to say a thing about Jon Snow?
– Linked to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry 369.
“The man lectured his pupils on anatomy, cosmography, and magic: the faces listened anxiously and tried to answer understandingly, as if they guessed the importance of that examination which would redeem one of them from his condition of empty illusion and interpolate him into the real world.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges
I woke up dream-drunk,
darling, with the taste of mud
in my mouth…
or, was that a cackle,
fighting for the gift of being
real, after the awakening? Not just
a memory of pine
-apple chunks and wild swallows,
but night shade(s) made flesh.
Darling, I’ve written you
alive, in ink and bone
and thoughts (no illusion).
. the wee notes… – Over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, an extremely stunning Toad invited us “to write a new poem that begins with a line out of [our] own words.” I chose a bit from a blog post I published a few weeks back, “I Shall Dream You and Write You a World”, mostly because… well, I’m sort of in love with the phrase “I woke up dream-drunk”.
– Nightshade: atropa belladonna; belladonna; deadly nightshade… is remedy and poison.
I just know that passion fruit flowers were grown out of a dream.
Music travels through blood and flesh and bone at the speed of thought… The right note is living breath on wanting skin… liquid kisses making it all better… wild song chanted in healing’s native tongue.
Yesterday, I danced my howling pain into fuel. Then I wrote and wrote and wrote… fingertips drumming keyboard, until the click-click-click shaped itself into a story. I won’t try to fool you (and never me), my body still hurt like the dickens afire. But it did so with a euphoric (and, mayhap, mildly psychotic) grin.
When the pain got really nasty, and the throbbing became more than distracting, I reread Paul’s Break Me Open, stretched my back and shoulders and hips and legs… while “surrender[ing] to the rain of arrows”:
we are fragile things in all ways
and that is our gift if we will accept it
that allowing of the broken
that surrender to the rain of arrows
bones and blood
breath and skin
that golden repair
~ Paul Scribbles
…and got back to writing.
Pain is the most jealous of bastard gods. So, of course, it soon sank its claws under my ribs again and demanded to be worshiped. I flipped him off, called him several creative names, told him I kneel to no one, and I danced Safia’s “Embracing Me”:
The original song is delicious. But this remix is made of the liquid kisses I mentioned. As my sexy hips rolled to the beat, I let the melody and the lyrics and the mood… coat me, soak me, remind me of who I am… of all the wondrous things my slightly broken flesh and bones have done… of what they can do if I must, if I push myself to want, to will, to take… And I took the pain, and fed its screams into a poem.
As you might suspect, there were other retaliations. When pain hit again, I spent some time with my plants, invited their natural yumminess to help me rebloom…
summer blooms passion
flowers that brighten the dark
while spreading sweetness
There you have it, bastard pain. You will never have me. Not while I have words and music and flowers and dirt and wants. Not while I remember to embrace me and love me more than anyone can know. You’ll never have me while I have my Self. And I do.
What about you, my Wicked Luvs, how did your week start?