Brendan, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, invited us to “write a poem about power in [our lives] and the world… about power or creativity or instinct… heavenly or earthly powers…” I don’t know of anyone who’s heavenlier or earthier or modest(ier) than moi. So, as you might’ve predicted, I birthed a wee poem about things that feed my power:
There is power in mind-kissing
words and wit, which quickens
hips and heart-bits.
There is power in dancing
to well-fingered tunes, which kindles
brain and groin.
I find power in song and story…
in loving play… in lusty ink…
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?
I woke up dream-drunk… my skull full of worlds with walls made of words and wants that demand to be written into a tale. Between my eyelids and sleep, I watched two slick shadow-clad bodies frolicking in a pond that was mostly mud.
Still half-asleep, I reached for a notepad I keep next to my bed, and scribbled the first three lines of this post. I didn’t want to forget the dance… or the mud. And I didn’t. The dream was in my mind as I watered my plants, as I waited for the sun to kiss my grin, as I sipped my passion fruit tea, as I typed these words, thinking, Don’t worry, my muddy sweets, I shall dream you and write you a world. Soon…
Speaking of dreams, writing and other things I love, my passiflora is budding…
flower dreams summer
in my hand
…my mango plant, which is proudly bushy, is sprouting new color…
…and this morning, my bean plant woke up flowering.
The world isn’t perfect, my Wicked Luvs. Most of the time, it isn’t even happy. But… if we take a deeper look, if we dare to dream wild dreams, we might just find one thing (or thirteen) that makes us smile (delightfully wicked) for a while.