“…it is true, poetry is delicious.” ~ Virginia Woolf
I know love works
not like a machine. Still,
its parts must
be handled with precision,
touched only by a heart
that understands how
love truly works,
when artistically twisted;
you must taste the thorns,
if you wish to eat sweet fruit
from lips worth your while,
birth wild things—
moons, succulent cackles
and belief-made rainbows,
be the story
that inspires you
(and your wants)
to dream tangible realities,
you must be you…
. the wee notes… – The 1st, 3rd and 5th stanzas of this poem were birthed separately. You can glimpse the originals on Instagram: 1st (handwritten on a coffee filter), 5th (blacked out from quotes of mine), 3rd (inspired by the thorny blood orange plant *see below*).
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.
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?