...and the dead came back to me when they'd heard I'd found it
sitting on the rock sunning itself, a coiling unpinned
thing, a wing, burning and glowing chorus growing in the water there on the rock like me a loaded knot like me unknotting suddenly and green; ascendant in amphibian sing coiling unpinned plopping down(like me)
betrayer, she(betrayed the rock)
my night of madness in a drop forced back by death and calling
surely some tremendum is at hand
a night of madness in a drop teetered there and clung to stone until what shook began to rock in rocking splendor terribly the moan through frogs and toads and tatter garment torn; belittled and dismembered spot smaller, weaker, harder to believe raised itself still wet and shorn and dressed in wing(and of its own accord began to sing)
here is where is still the growing tree
her bright spot glazed in christic night and in betrayer too, the wing eternal danced das ding
O Sing! O shadow word (but just this once) of that to which the lord of frog and toad relies of that to which the dead return with rage and cries
the unperfected stillness
in the speech
of man; O shadow, slur this speech and stir
came back to me and when it did
athanatoi came too;
the whisper full in emptiness and sign; a glowing
darkly burning yet divine
the shape of things
the state of tensions
and people engineer
the mind reaches out
to know a space desire opens
a necessary fiction & pteros
transpire to woo us ―I
don’t know if metamaterials
make better burqas when they
swallow whole how she is
not to be seen although the
work to shift reality exists
where nobody profiles anybody
yet at the McDonald’s
here behind the veil
where someone breast feeds
not illegally, someone
is told to leave policed
out the door scaring the hell
out of the six year old
eating his happy meal;
sowing the body means
sewing the cloaking device
one uses to reach over
such spaces covering them up
something illegal as if alien
in something deeper, something
ill & lethal
as if to insist some mojo
in dark death is to happen,
of Arizonan margins or
but isn't this a milk bond
knowledge of erotic things
'as if ' reality says
the ‘real’ happens
as if the known and the unknown
align themselves one behind one
behind one behind consumption.
a retreat into matter,
a retreat in to the soul
of the season in vale states that
uplift images; something―a secret
wish, a blocked eros
is behaving its say which will
retreat into immanence and ways
to work the shape of things
sufficiently rotted that once
upon a then I thought holy;
sacreds are fast foods. So
get back, Mojo!
back to work back to school back
to providing some real 'nourish'
each passion holds in suspense
other floating images to
surface things I’m not to see
alas, I’m fooling, too! I see!
So let me offer my own life’s
endings back to themselves
in these shapes of rotting
matters and turn the restless
sure-veiled, surveil lance material
which meta matters, too.
And, if these presences help you
to see you
and will I, too
see in these the soft body organs
and necessary inner knife, we’ll
see separately and together how
a desire in camouflage
fully envelopes everything
in lack ―living psyche
is living immanence is
no body at all. And our
living psyche, an erotic ruse
where tangible, visible bodies
disappear, collect and divide our
passions, too in negative capability
lets our knowing return an absence
space that knows what we do not
You know how it is here at the end
the inseparable separation is a necessary one
like loosening from the herd stolen heads
and moving a bit backwards
Or loosening from one’s own head
the unheard, stolen life honey-hidden
in the cave of resonance long ago
there is a reverse metamorphoses in the
mother-daughter reflection a man carries
between his eyes under his hat and
nobody gets in to the ballpark anymore
without checking under his own hat
psychic shadows; both the differentiating
lovely spirit bent on a psyche’s destruction
and the loving one reaching across its own
abysmally painful separations with the
newer, (but still disturbingly) unknown
will to live is no longer a monochrome
of singular reflection –everything is
contingent on how two go on from two
blue water is, you know, a milk bond
one and many separations at once in a life force;
the power to let go is something bigger
the power to seek one’s own boundary way
in the many ways draws together and separates
drawing and separating inalienable
fluiditities of any two rights
not enough or too much
the same thing
reshapes matter out of love
and hate and the will to risk
what shadows will say
in the roots above
to the roots below
and when you climb into the tree of your
inversion, each picture show will feel
mythopoetry.com has been running a column called "Blogs You Don't Want To Miss" for some time now. Recently, mythopoetry.com on facebook debuts "BLOGS I ♥". This past weekend a new poetry and art blog by the multitalented South African poet, Amitabh Mitra is featured to mythopoetry.com on facebook under the post titled "Fluid Colors". I got the bright idea then and there it was time to share with blog readers of "Mythopoetics In Culture, mythopoetry.com" the full list of links to myth and poetry blogs I love . Along with that I'd like to feature one of
Amitabh's watercolors. Enjoy! Tree In The Fort -Amitabh Mitra
One of the most popular poems published to mythopoetry.com has continued to increase in activity to the page over the summer. As a result I thought I would blog news of it and treat you to the page link. Enjoy!
Once there was a young woman who lived in a fragrant pine forest at the base of a mountain. Her husband had been away at the wars for many years, and when she heard that he was coming home, she was overjoyed. She shopped and cleaned and cooked to prepare for his arrival. But when her husband reached the edge of the trees, he refused to come closer. He stayed outside.
So the young wife gathered up the bowls of food, put them on a tray, and shyly carried them out to him. She laid them all out beautifully. But her husband kicked the food over and yelled at her. "Go away," he roared...
Every couple years I go after a writer's workshop or gathering around explorations into poetics, depth perspectives or something related to my discipline as a cultural mythologer. This year's event brings together my interest in all three. This year's event is a writing retreat with Professor (and poet) Dennis Slattery held this August in Santa Barbara and sponsored by PacificA Graduate Institute. There are two sessions in August. I'm attending the second session held August 19-22, 2010.
There are a number of blogs on line you can access to read more about this year's retreat for poetic kinds at heart. Here are a couple and the link to the PGI website.
If you are up for some writing (not to mention riting!) this August, JOIN ME!
The poem marks a watery realm a tri via, shaken and disturbed the poem marks a de termini for the poet.
The poem is a kind of boundary marker; the poem is where the gods came and went The poem is what the gods left
The poem is where aesthetic mythoi in form, an image dissolves back and in a transpersonal past dimension of experience transcendant ground soil of Ge the poem re livens the story of itself in the gods
The poem is where images reform themselves forward into personality and person
a poem changes the matter in the matter
The poem is a story a legein like the one imbedded in the peplos of Athene
The poem is golden and gold is the tool in the skin and hide of Hephaistos
The poem returns gold
The poem is a woman changing her cloth her peplos her closure
changing woman herself
the poem reforms beauty where beauty herself passes between aesthetic expression and transpersonal arrest; since
not all beauty is beautiful in the aegis
the poem marks this de termini for the poet; beauty in being
nothing be-ing the one property of all things; the poem
weaves and what is not beautiful that disturbs identity is reunited and reabsorbed back into what is
If you only buy one poetry book this year, mythopoetry.com recommends you buy this one: A Hudson View Poetry Digest Summer, 2010 Volume 5 Number 2. It is a stellar issue! ... I’ve not seen a collection of poems work so well together in a single poetry volume for a long time. ... Congratulations to Skyline Publishing and its very fine poets, book reviewer and illustrator for this collective achievement.
Some time ago I wrote an amazing poem by working with a dream image. The image came in the form of a disembodied voice which spoke the following words: "What is a sparrow to borrow and to marry?" I thought it might be interesting to turn that around and ask the same thing of the dream image. First, what do the three terms sparrow, borrow and marry have in common? And, second, what is the value of that idea? Want to discover what happened next?
Today, in the twenty-first century, our blindness to the underworld appears to have intensified. Our culture’s aggressive denial of death is the complement to our equally aggressive pursuit of instantaneous transformation. Philippe Aries, who studied the evolution of western attitudes towards death, found that it took only 30 years at the beginning of the 20th century to uproot thousands of years of tradition. Death ceased being a commonplace, acceptable and social experience and instead became something "shameful and forbidden" (1974: 85). Baring and Cashford (1991: 159) point out that our attitude towards death had already undergone an enormous change much earlier, around 2500 BCE, when we lost the archetypal feminine perspective that acknowledges death-in-life which makes possible rebirth and transformation. Thus it is that contemporary people regard the slow, arduous journey into and through the underworld not merely as unwelcome, but as abhorrent....
Descent initiates the individual into a new role and a new relationship to life that is irrevocable. In fact, the individuality of descent might be evidence that humanity is moving beyond what Woodman and Dickson poetically describe as “Mother Mud” and “Father Law”—that miasmic and authoritative body of custom and convention that bind collectivities (1987: 181). Descent is a profound individuation process, which Jung defines as “fidelity to the law of one's own being” rather than the law of the collective, and the realization of our individual and unique wholeness (CW 17: 172, 173). It is a “high act of courage” that feels as inescapable as a law of God (175). Because individuation pits us against the collective, leaving us to sift through inherited values and beliefs to find authentic ones, it wounds. But that is not the end of it. To borrow Sylvia Perera’s lovely phrase, wounding creates “separations across which fresh passions can leap” (1981: 80). Trauma and passion are bedfellows.
The painful and forced separation of Demeter and Persephone is, of course, the trauma which sets the Hymn to Demeter in motion. We can see that Demeter’s hymn is the story of fresh passion created by two deep wounds, abduction and betrayal. Hades abducted the maiden but Zeus and Gaia were complicit in his action, Zeus by giving Persephone to his brother without Demeter’s permission and Gaia by “growing the narcissus as a snare for the young girl—a flower herself, as her mother says—instead of supporting Demeter against him, as might have been expected” (Baring & Cashford, 1991: 383). There is another erotic wound that is implicit in the Hymn, too, one that goes unmentioned: Hades’ longing for a consort and queen. Eros is a potent force throughout the Hymn; the visible passion of Demeter and the invisible passion of Hades are just two of many examples. Here, though, I will turn my attention to an even more ambiguous and possibly “invisible” force of Eros in the myth: Persephone’s passion in the underworld, as I first imagined it through reading the text and then as I danced it in a ritualized enactment of her journey.
The Patio Maidens The little one in the nursing felt poorly; knew what scared was scarred was; it didn't feel good and nursing mattered… it's
Nursing for the home at any stage where is that other side?
Several weeks ago a quail of Artemis laid an egg in my geranium pot on the patio and something like a stone began rolling away beneath me.
Next day she lay and laid another and then another and the next and the next till finally on the seventh day she rested.
Meanwhile Aphrodite's dove in haste built a scanty shanty in another corner of my patio on the backside of a potted cactus living atop the bookshelf where I have no book left unread and a seashell where still I sit sometimes and dream...
I was lighting the grill and got the salmon half-way done when she came and lay laying two eggs then left again.
I water the geranium from the underside now putting an oversized iron skillet with a flat bottom underneath the pot which, by the way I had to set atop a chimenea to keep javelina from eating its blossoms the night before. Indeed, some ways of nursing seem odd…
yet, the little ones in the nursing have me by the heart and I feel like I'm all the way back to where I come from. Something holy has come over me; I am fierce about life again which has started something else laughing
Picture it! The eggs got laid one by one in a frying pan to incubate and hatch while I must water the frying pan to feed what fires the geranium and all this sits atop a curvy chimenea where Hestia apparently and presently keeps safely life's eternal flame tending this fire by keeping up dis
appearances; nursing for the home (at any stage) in deed is unseemingly odd. Yet, presently and even though they will come and go these little ones in the nursing have made it feel like home to me again. In your nursing…
the outpouring word more sound than word yet, both―Oh!
i don’t want to leave you you said, then left me
without alone along the edge. It was
the end of the season & the sound inspired beginning
beginnings over & over began without symbols or centers―Oh! darkness fell in my throat and felt delightful memories & squeals & what was soft copper beaten and hardened banged on boxes of your things gestures in what we
lived loved lost
shared together; each rhythm sucked in never held the sound
i exhaled & intoned but oh never vanished & then the fear―oh! my god! you left me (forever)
i confront your absence everywhere & over & over my loss grows larger and larger (but never in a larger word)
in the distance in the discourse broken like a vessel lost at sea―Oh!
i is loathsome
in a word a sound a thing
unloveable & left to sing a blue and spotted in between put off, put on―Oh!
the sound for you grows thin in i the you the way you wanted without and
not within dotted blue the oh begin
again an i & i in you my spotted flesh
my earth and loss not living her in me unheard
hears the call in naked cry to me to trust it still
...in a dream he sat discussing the nature of the real...ahhh, brilliant work! but, what do I do about my loveliest daughter...
Here in the southwest there is this... pattern
it's called the step-pattern suppose you take it in steps...nom-mon where antimony steps en route anti nomos = antimony
The first step: annihilation get naked; greatness feels into every thing zer- Oh's as close as it can get to the real mystery god in the pubic zone
to take on the god you have to enter death so descend like Inanna (meat on a hook[er]) stripper take it off take it all off
her language hung limp like ours now in the air, the very air where it vanished...let's say, like ours now, in Duchamps... and like a porn camera lens zeroes in: we zer-0h hard core but, before stepping down step first a step back (step two)
the steps conjugate negation (1-1) in negative forms supernatural object abjection gets rid of the solid core no body has what it takes it (the objective psyche) zer- 0h's i.e. targets the value a value within lostness
mmmmm! Gone South! [*]
see? it takes the two to tangle (as in maid + maid = mades to mis[s] con-strue) kekropids (like sparrows) get sold in pairs & cons for far-things
(meat on the table)
...will it take away abjection (1-1); does it supply the repetition ???
sex zer- oh's is as as is and there the absence where's her scarcity as stockings
how the horror of an emptiness draws us in 0h! how the dark sex draws us
do not try to see into it try to see as it sees; step 3: tertium non datur
see like a bird that is no bird where no zoom-in lens will matter cause the faux con cannot here the fauconer (& keeping hope requires this suspense)
for the greatness is not achieved in the fullness of time the greatness has nothing to do with time the greatness (suspending even hope) is presence underfire; presence not here but, coming and in its being lives be-ing as is in the eros
leaving the gap positive
& so as is is as a word with vapored wing shot from the slow zer 0h in the myth the language (of sex) is being and it hangs in the air of the animal
the mystery hangs in the coming language poetry hangs in the air, Step 4
& yes to leave the matter ...................Hanging
[*]The poem is inspired by the wonderful essay of Craig Adcock, "'Faucon' or 'Perroquet'? A Note on Duchamp's Morceaux choisis d'après Courbet". Duchamps' bird is a pigeon but it turns out to be a pigeon that is no pigeon for he calls it a falcon. To complicate the plot even more, his 'falcon' is no falcon either. (He's punning.) The falcon, faucon in French, is a faux con. It looks like a pigeon but not quite. To paint his 'pigeon' Duchamps moves between two paintings by Gustave Coubert one of which is "Woman In White Stockings", 1861. Needless to say, they wear scarcely more than stockings! Looking and not looking; looking and perceiving; looking and the manipulations of the viewer's gaze are not a direct encounter with the woman, herself (wearing the white stockings.)Duchamps' faucon 'parrots' something, something that involves the viewer's inability. The viewer is a dupe, a 'pigeon', one who can be made to misconstrue a faux con, according to Adcock's point of view of Duchamp's presentation.
Yew chalks a boundary between death and immortal life; its symbol is I -Book of Balymote, 1391
Imagine once upon a yew that she still lives and spins anew in maidenhair to mend the blue wide avé nous once spun throughout and through the whorl that thundered through the white hands where the pale maid sits turning just a girl. And when she wheels and spins and moans into the shad, into the ‘oh’ ness of the crone behind the spray and veiled, she weights a thread, thus come
how once she more than realized the tuffet moppet spot she sat upon beds wet in mid and trough a knotting taut to realize the ‘is’ because she was and is and calls her metis wove in h’s like a shroud, a cloud
she watched as kings reigned the weave within the spot where she is not and wore instead a knot -a maiden shadow thrown to orchestrate king-order in a vast disaster-us-affair, home-grown
poetic sublimation connects the image to its pain. Raw. Wet. Red; girlhood in first flower what is primary (flowing & deflowering) is a certain loss in a certain flowering which is irreversible (meaning certain swallowing) because all natural processes are irreversible and why time flows one way and things fall apart
but not why Zeus in his cunning & in his zeal swallows the mother of the real; swallows her subjectivities and then agrees, Persephone, too must be taken. Eating or sleeping what is primary in the maternal subjectivities through the flower upon which the god erects himself in the name of the father is
did she bleed?
the energy of an isolation will increase in time & in time, come to matter even more says the second law of thermodynamics blood to ink in the use; each phrase made to order, turning toward the order to mete to measure the moonlight in it
Dis (order) ing carries the deep use of the figures in speech as if they are real, as if it is we who control them, although we only reduce them to specific figures of speech to draw out the abstraction. Raw. Wet. Wed but
she never gave birth in our world; instead she gave insight into our suffering in conspectu mortis (said Jung) and
she had a mother (who must be laughing) right where she passes –especially where she passes turning toward
Always there has been this reach And its limits Ringless, jointed, feather-fingered--a hand Not meant to be kissed or touched Instead it touches Fingers curled Salve for the broken, sweet-teared, salted cheek A living bandage Folded neatly, unfolded, folded again
And it appears too often patient One can see the patience Filed nails, smooth, imperfect A cared-for invitation Patted and plumped, dusted and swept Surely, a god creates a shape as this Meant to be cherished---ahh Man should love not worship A child often does But, even more than this This hand may know The significance of being made for real And not for show
not without stillness does thy soul yet make lying now & always because eyes lied then although not many i’s can hear the heartbeats the dead soil on low floors eons long in thumps thumping like titans of ancestral strum a dark heart from below this ghost breathes in the earth-shaker’s snore, his work seen now in sunlit morning, done
years die again during the night like my friend who died earlier this year –in waves & trembling & she who was god then pays dearly in brideprice to god now; her life, what’s left of it, shared once with me in that moment leaves me remembering even now & god, still feigning death, a breath to life darkens without reason; life in a death year fills me to the last with the first… “i” is not even the absence in this odd dissimilar of phrase but is calling down the ice bird in what immortals whisper still to me neither of her nor of here; not of the risen up nor of the half-dead, neither her nor here a god-spirit hanging in the very air of vanishing
no one is blessed beyond fire where eyes are stung left undone where no one hangs now & being is empty & becomes no one again to fill thy ear not here in everything listening too who with me like winter waits knowing where nothing hung, life shook and not knowing, knows that if i am possessed or inspired or wounded beyond tears it is here in emptiness she dies knowing what she knew then that she has become the wound without the woundedness in her & what inheres in starkness & sigh through grave and perfect symbol dies; for she is still pretending (even now) clothed in winter
& she thinks of April & someone vanishing wrapped blue & crystalline in linen with eyes not dead & a hole left in the sky & right there where her memory is stung someone has hung the moon
mythopoetry.com is pleased to announce the publication of its premier issue of Mythopoetry Scholar: Annual Essays In Depth Perspectives. The ezine published January 2, 2010. The theme of this year's annual is Health & Well-Being.
Mythopoetics In Culture is a written collection of poems, essays and excerpts from essays by mythopoet, Stephanie Pope published to mythopoetry.com beginning in 2001 to the present. In 2017 mythopoetry.com brings guest blogging to its cultural mythology blog expanding its format to include poems and essays by the cultural mythologists of today.
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DEAR MOM: A WWII MEMOIR by R J Van Dress
LIKE A WOMAN FALLING: SELECTED POEMS (out of print)