Art thou pale for weariness of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth it's constancy? Thou chosen sister of the Spirit, that gazes on thee til in thee it pities. . . -Shelley (To The Moon)

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Bridget's Fire

Beneath my living ribs
a mutable single cell is leashed
in coloured garlands - richly energetic vines.
Her twin, who is complete
fights for life while she renews.
This inner garden merges onto sinews
creating space - plateaus of peace - for light
to come from the brainy perch of balance.

* * * * * *

Ordered stars are building worlds
whorling constellations, warding 'way
poor conflict with its opposite: Balance.
Invisible caterpillars in the sky are horrible yet pure;
we make our consciousness revolt to fathom them.
As it is in the sky, can you see in my eyes
the path of the heart of a star?

* * * *

I learn and learn, through pain, through pain
I burn and burn, again to tame
the dragon that controls my brain
and teaches me to weild the flame.
All I witness lays cocooned
in the constant ash,
growing wings and fitness,
for its rebirth in a flash upon my mind's eye.
Cycling through my memory,
the only thing it does is die,
seeming extra-sensory, so wonderful
that I conclude it has intrinsic value
and no amount of dust occludes
the good I shall do.
* * *

He who is not my kind cannot provide relief.
Unless I make a friend of him,
I bear my burdens, unreleased.
It's not that I want him to pull me from the mire,
there is nothing he can do but let me love him.

I try to keep unloaded lest I can't look up to him
from bowing under weights my soul's diseases drop.

He is meant to share
My life as does air.

I feel brave standing
on the legs of a lion;
all things are so bright.

I am deeply sorry but I'm only a child and I seem to have lost my way. . . I've angered you, I've made a mistake, only. . . . I think that everything here is topsy-turvy! The wrong things are the right things. . . but I'm punished if I turn it 'round. I'm sorry but I must ask - is it me or is it you? Oh no, I didn't mean - I'm sorry! You are right - no you are wrong - I mean YES you are wrong! I'm only a child, and it's getting very tiring spending my life dreaming - for, pardon me, could you please say - is dreaming right or wrong? What do I mean by "right or wrong"? Why, I just asked you! (Now we're beginning to get somewhere) No I said I wish I had linen and velvet to wear! Im sorry to mutter but I'm only a girl, a whale, a wolf, a hawk, a snake, a cat, a man, a dog, a woman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A choice, a bird
Never to return
To see one flee at sunset
Is different than to watch at bright of day.
The bird, then, on an apple bough,
Does not shy away
I wouldn't eat a russet after dark
Or expect her stay 'til noon.

* * *

Laughing, bullishly,
winding up a spiral stair.
Sheathed in ice, with one torch for light,
I see nothing but one step ahead,
when I reach the height I want
I will throw my fire down to spread.

Under palatial conifers
crows, shining in shade, weave together
de-bedded roots, for a wildly-webbed gown.
I will wear it like witches' clothes or martyrs' robes
to grow roses in moonlight,
and toss their petals into cauldrons,
where they link and mirror stars.
Their symbols, shapes and stories influence afar.

A table of blue marble houses gilt-edged china:
my scroll is home to verses.
The better that each morsel tastes,
the longer it will linger.
Herein is my true fortune, not meager,
wasted, lost or dead;
here you are fed by things you feed,
and the leaves that hang abundantly
over river banks, doubling in the water,
are the soul's currency.

* * * * * * *

Born in liquid fire (blood)
the infant surveys the world
she begins to build.

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