Blank Page

This blank page
this sacred empty space
receptive and luminous
cool and billowing

It is the palm of an open hand
a pool of water
a plate of soft powder
a cloud

A bowl of cream
a cluster of snowflakes
a block of marble
the white hot center of the sun

A bone
A mirror

This clean canvas
vulnerable
lying here in its birthday suit

This smooth face
soon to be pock-marked and wrinkled
by my worries and my deeds

With swords
with rivers
with light

With confetti
with melodies in minor
With phantom limbs
with boomerangs
with ragged breaths

This white temple
waiting my confession.

Passage of Light

Years after your anger boiled itself dry
scorching the vessel of your being clean
I came to understand
that we are the same animal
that our wounding bleeds the same color
only a different shade
and yours has left you softer.

It has not disfigured you
sucking pain to your shoulders
like pins to a magnet.

It has not gnawed through the nerve sheath
leaving you at its feral edge
like me,

where comfort knows no home
and my name changes
with the passage of light.

Breath

I arise from the void
to fill the ancient core.

It was I who first swept across the dessert
scattering ashes from the explosion
blowing seeds into tiny crevices of rock
that in a billion years will gather water
sprouting new seeds to life.

I connect all things and all people
separation is illusion
in the dance between molecules
I heat up
I cool down.

It is I passing through space
who bumps and rubs against matter as I go
howling
shrieking
moaning
strumming the marimba.

I balance an easy orbit
between the bowl of your sacrum
and the globe of your skull
seeking out the most spacious regions
where I may resound.

Often I race into you and stop short
often you don’t even notice
when I’ve wandered out.

Sometimes you gasp as you take me in
grunt as you let me out
pant
sigh
hum
bellow at my breast.

Always I am here
waiting for you
to remember me.
I am the one with my hand curled like a fetus
around the spiral shell of your ear
whispering: incantations, love songs
lullabies, prayers.

I am the one licking your lips when you sing
when you weave miraculous tales
when you scream orange anger from your belly of fire
when you sob slow blue tears.

When I fill you you shudder rapturously
when we walk hand in hand
we are the Cirque de Soleil
the aurora borealis
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue
When you play and love with others
I kneel before the harmony of the chorus
In quiet moments
We are one voice singing to God.

I want to fill you until you lose yourself completely
Until I slip the barrier of your skin and flesh
to taste the spaces of your emptiness
I am the one reaching, stretching
pushing out to the thin skin
of billowing balloon
that holds you tethered.

I am the one climbing with you out to your edge
until I am boomeranged back
deflated and dissolved
I am made to surrender everything.

All I have just gathered in my greedy arms
I dump at your feet:
your summer gardens
your rain-fed fountains
your sun-scorched stones

your apricot stained mornings
your easy green daytime strides
your ragged nights
your mystic rivers

your motes
your labyrinths
your Celtic knots
I have dwelt in them all.

I am your faithful companion.

You have held me
in all of your canyons and reservoirs
taking me with you wherever you go
without ever having to think
you have always done what is most natural
to take me in
to let me go.

Still I am always waiting
for that rare moment
when you allow me to hold you.

In the end I have only offerings
I ask nothing and want nothing
I am empty and free
with no story and no dream
I crumble into ash
into dust
into nothing.

If another wave picks me up
and rolls me through your body
then I will sing reborn
if not
I rest resolved.

Glenda

My name is Glenda. I was named after my grandfather, Glen. My parents wanted a boy, and it was not until I was two, when my baby brother Henry was born, that my parents finally did me the respect of adding a D-A to the end of my name to make it more feminine. I went from being Glen to being Glenda, and you wouldn’t think it changed things all that much, but it did, at least for me. My daddy never could remember to use the new ending, at least not until Henry starting blabbering a million miles a minute and running through the house yelling Glen – DUUUUH!! It was Henry’s way of telling me that he thought I was stupid. But I wasn’t stupid; I just didn’t feel much like talking. I already was talking, to God and to the Spirits of things.

There’s not a whole lot to do here in these Tennessee hills. I’m all growed up now, pregnant with my fourth baby. And I’m only 21. That’s the way it is around here. Life has been quiet and kind of lonely for me since my sister Caroline left for the big city. These days, my best friend is Bessie the pig. But that’s okay; I like pigs. Pigs, chickens, goats, I like them all. Heck, my husband James is a bigger pig than Bessie. And my three boys are some kind of animals like no one’s ever seen. I’m hoping for a sweet girl this time who I will name Angelique and show her all the best swimming holes. Bessie’s hoping too.

Anyway, even though nothing very exciting ever happens around here and there’s nothing much to do except daily chores, I’m always busy and nothing ever gets done. The boys need lunch and James comes home from work tired and wants supper and a little pussy and he always falls asleep before I cum, and so I crawl off into the field behind the house thinking I will touch myself but instead I just lie back, my dress up around my waist, and lose myself in the stars. I fall asleep out there more often than I’d care to admit and I have to run in at daybreak pretending I’ve just been out collecting eggs for breakfast. Only my oldest notices.

My oldest boy, Orion, he’s always calling for me in the morning. He’s a dreamer and slow getting started. He’s special though, got his grandmother’s eyes, all sparkle and wise, like he knows things well beyond this Earth. He always pops his head in just when I am thinking about him. Sometimes I test this by thinking about him in the way I do when I am starting to worry that one of my boys is drowning in the pond, and he always shows up at these times, but I can tell he’s a bit put out like he knows I am testing. He’ll come in and just flash me a quick, disappointed, “you’re wasting my precious playtime” look, and then leave right back out the door. Whereas when I’m really worried, he’ll show up and stick around for a while.

James says I was asking for trouble naming Orion after a constellation, but heck, I’ve gotten more inspiration from the stars than I ever did from any particular person, especially a relative. So why should I go and name my kid after my husband’s father who was an old mean drunk and never did nothing good for nobody. I’d rather believe my kid comes from a lineage of star warriors whose only weapon is the light.

Joshua Tree

I have been shivering
since the desert welcomed us
with fingers of ice.

I have crawled into the cave of my body
and I’m not coming out

until the breakfast of springtime

when the heart breaks open
like an egg.

A Name of My Own

Tianna.
It is a cracked tea cup
a gypsy reading tea leaves
pointing me Northwest
pushing me home.

My mother's name
and my mother's eyes
blue as glacial ice
cold as Alaska alone.

Tianna is the cry
the seagull wails
as it fights
for a bite of bread.

It is the wish-bone
the wishing well
the wish I never made
I will make it now
when no one is looking.

I wish for a name of my own
one that doesn't tinkle
in the glass
like ice-cubes.

One that fills the house
with the smell of crushed flowers
warmed on the stove
where my grandma
baked blackberry pie
and smoked cigarettes
before women were allowed.

Why I Write

I write to hear my voice, because there are places of honesty and beauty that I go in my writing that I can't always go in my life, and I must, and because writing is where I grant safe passage for the shadings of meaning that I don't always communicate to myself and to others. When I write, I let the parts of me that hold my breath, breathe. I write to let the light into my being and to let the darkness out. I write to release my pain and my past, to understand why and who I am, to savor my life by naming the ingredients that flavor my moments, and to celebrate life in all of its excruciating tenderness. I write to own myself, to capture the rhythms of my cycles: my journeys into the abyss and my travels through glory. I write to allow myself to feel, to climb inside my emotions and explore their reaches and textures. I write to summon my tears, to let them wash me hot and clean then drain me empty and free. I write myself alive and reborn. I write myself whole and holy. I write to experience myself transformed. I write because it involves me in this mysterious process of discovery, and because writing is a ritual whereby I create myself. I write to get naked and authentic, to delve into the marrow of my being where I make my blood. I write because I hurt and because I love. And so I won't lose anything. I write because I have always written and writing is how I know myself. I write because I am lonely and sensual and spiritual, and I need to make contact with the divine, and writing for me is like touching: it is rubbing and rolling my body against the divine until my boundaries dissolve and I no longer know where I start and where I stop, and I become part of the universal hum. I write to make myself eternal, to leave a piece of me stained into the ethers. I write because I believe God listens for the places where we love and own ourselves. I write to keep myself company. I write because I can't sleep, because I find the darkness at 3am electric and intoxicating and writing is the way I communicate with that life energy. I write to grab onto the edge of shimmering chaos and ride it through lightning storms and come out stronger and clearer and a little bit crazier from having tasted the other side. I write to access my subconscious like a Ouija board, to learn things about myself I may not have known and to make sure I master the things I’m learning. I write to make the world my own. I write to keep myself honest and to keep from watching TV. I write to keep my Muse intrigued. I write because I can't draw.

Skeleton

Crimson sea drained
from ivory tower,
           dry coral cathedral.

Cities stacked,
rack upon rack,
           hollow calcite tunnels

hinged between cage rungs
ribbed soldiers,
           guarding the homeland.

Bone marimba,
a name
           whistled and answered

through the narrow door
at the edge
           of the pump house.

Round Brown Stone

Round brown stone
you were born in the painted mountains
behind my mother's house
under a sea blue sky.

When you were four
you had a birthday party
and you learned how to roll
you've been rolling ever since.

At seven you packed a small bag
kissed your mom and dad goodbye
and tumbled down the hill.

You negotiated your way between trees
stopping occasionally for a slow dip
in a cool stream.

At nine you met a frog
and you learned how to jump
you've been jumping ever since.

At eleven you jumped into my hand
while I was walking through the woods
you were warm and smooth
you smelled like iron
you smelled like the wind.

I wanted to put you in my pocket
and take you home with me
but I sensed that you wanted to keep moving.

So I returned you gently to the earth
where there was a view of the trees and sky.

And I walked home knowing
that you had taught me
about freedom.

Grandma

Your body is a rundown tenement
broken bricks your back
fractured windows your eyes
ravaged beams your bones
yet you stand a monument
to both the fragility and resilience of being.

The five senses of your walls have withstood
the constant thrum of your heart
slumped inward on itself
beating the slow bitter dirge of ruin.

So what holds the soul
of your house together
old woman?

Threadbare and sutured
your frown holds like a scar
bolted across the door of your face
shut in and shut out
Grandma it’s me: LET-ME-IN!

89 years you march
waving your flag for martyrdom
I will not follow you.


A Prose Poem in 5 Parts
Inspired by The 5 Rhythms Dance Practice of Gabrielle Roth

Flowing

Flowing has just been birthed, gnawed her way out of the dark chrysalis. Still wet in her gossamer skin, she sways, listening inside to the deep, ancient rhythms of life: Breath. Heartbeat.

Flowing trusts that she is held in the belly of life itself. She remembers the experience of oneness lets herself go.

She rides an inner whirlwind that spirals through her body in waves and currents. They pulse into motion, sending ripples through her limbs. She articulates each shimmer of energy and each movement is all there is.

As she moves, her core warms, stoking the inner oil that nourishes her being. It oozes into arms and legs, hands and feet, innervating her from the inside out; she glows, incandescent.

Becoming fluent in the language of her body, Flowing has found her mother tongue. She has learned her native language, and she speaks!

Staccato

Staccato is a warrior. He was trained in martial arts from the time he was four. The masters who taught him the ancient fighting arts taught him also to wield the forces of healing.

In the town where Staccato lives, he is called the miracle worker. People with otherwise incurable disease come to him from all over the world to be healed. Staccato knows that the root of all disease is fear, and what melts fear is our attention, breath, and love.

Staccato builds the energy within him until he hums like a swarm of bees. Then he stamps the ground with his feet and cuts through the air with his hands. His pumps his breath in and out He cries out with his voice and shakes the earth. He is waking the sleeper!

The sleeper is those parts of our self that we silence, inhibit, and ignore. They grow into a darkness inside us that eats away at our life force. As the sleeper awakens, it must face its fear; only then can it breathe freely and reclaim the power in the urges it originally stifled.

Staccato learned that the only demons he can fight and win are the ones that live within, and that each demon is really a plea for what has been repressed to be awakened, embraced, and set free.

Chaos

Chaos is a shaman. He is ageless and walks the earth in worn brown buckskins, a wing of eagle feathers in his hand, and a medicine pouch around his neck that taps against his heart as he moves.

Chaos is blind. He was wounded while playing with a wildcat when he was seven. Though he cannot see in this world, his vision in the otherworld is sharp. His eyes are tunnels, doorways into lost cathedrals. You will see yourself there, if you're willing to look.

Being blind taught Chaos to move by feel, trust his instincts, and develop his inner sight. For him, it is always the hour of twilight, that time of passage between worlds, where lines blur, air has texture and tone, and the shape of the self loosens.

If Chaos reaches for your hand, take it. He is an excellent tracker and guide. He will lead you safely through your darkest terrain. He will teach you to navigate by feel. He will ask you to face your demons and to let go of everything you identify with until all of your masks fall away and burn and all that remains is life itself, dancing you like a river.

Lyrical

Lyrical swings on a trapeze, blowing bubbles over a candle lit stage. She is naked and beautiful and totally unashamed. She is humming a song she's known since childhood. Oftentimes the melody changes, but she knows she's got it by the way she feels as the tones resonate in her heart and belly.

It is one of those mystical nights of deep summer when the moon is full, warm breezes blow from the canyon, and the chimes sound from the realm of magic. This is Lyrical's favorite time to take a long walk, alone. It is then her wings unfold like sails and she is lifted as she strolls.

She has blossomed, full and ripe. There is a sweet sadness in her that she sips like brandy, savoring the moment. She knows that after a blossoming comes a dying. But for now, she sips and she shines.

Stillness

Stillness lives in a small cottage nestled into the cliffs above the Pacific Ocean. She sleeps on a platform on the roof, even in winter, because she loves the moist, briny air. Stillness is a gardener. She spends her days tending vegetables and wildflowers. Even on the grayest days, you will find her outside, close to the earth, listening to the flowers grow.

There are days, like today, when all she can do is stare out at the sea. If you saw her you'd think she was daydreaming or lost in some ancient memory, and perhaps she is. You see, she has these moments of clarity and calm when all sense of separation dissolves and she feels part of the oneness of all life. She breathes as the ocean roils, as trees sway, as beings are born and die, as tears and laughter echo in her breast, as the earth spins through space. Still she breathes. In her bones and her sinew, in her tender heart, in the marrow where she makes her blood, Stillness feels the hum of all life.

Why I Sing

I sing because it feels good. As one sound starts bubbling up from my belly and resonating in the cathedral of my chest, it feels as if the whole earth is breaking open and that a river is running up my serpent spine until the gate of my heart is sprung and I wriggle free from this tight suit of skin. When I sing something bigger than just me emerges, chanting the life force in an ancient language of tone, breath, and rhythm. My heartbeat is percussion, my breath the space between notes, I am a bellows breathing fire into the heartland to ignite and blaze, not only for me, but for everyone. To sing is to invoke, to chant, to yell, to moan, to sigh, to sob, to coo, to laugh, to reach for fullness and to empty all at once.

I sing because it keeps my muscles lithe, my mind loose, my flesh warm, my bones supple, my blood rich, and my heart ripe. I sing because it makes me cry when I need to, express what is tangled and tight, and celebrate what is joyful. When I sing I am able to let go of my smaller self to communicate with the divine in a language beyond language, before language, when tone, melody, and emotion were the only language.

I sing because it is my way of placing a prayer in the open palm of the goddess, and my song is an armful of wildflowers gathered at sunrise and placed on her altar like a million tiny tongues chanting their harmonies to the universe, calling out the names of every being, everywhere, to come home.


All Poems - Copyright © 2002 Meredith Heller