DAILY POEM / Felt Sense

Rodin's "Hands", Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese"

To E.M.

and then drew
wild geese between them
what is loved

©2012 Auguste Rodin’s “Hands” &  Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese”
                       stephanie pope mythopoetry.com

DAILY POEM Creating From "Scratch"

photo credits: www.sun-gazing.com

Fruit From The Azure Vault ~©1986 stephanie pope

In exoteric Taoist thought, cultivation of Yin (lunar) energy is vital for good health, long life, and a richer experience of life beyond the social roles of the daylight world. ~ Dave Alber,  "Myths and Moon Cakes: The Cosmological Symbolism of the Zhou Revolution"

So now this rhythm of arisen rises
through the old gold, mist of numen-hissing movement
and railing rattler prattle in a long-gone run-on logos groaning
through the trailing tailor of the on and on and so-in-so’s in tales.
Who sewed this soul in souls; who sold the Eve’n souls;
what tailing tattler tempted?

All is well that ends, you know… that myth of motherhood
that seems to like us damned and stone
for owning; who will roll this stone away?

I’m busy in the kitchen cracking egg into an Om-let
you know that couplet, don’t you? A father/son and
whole wheat toasting, made such a substance, god
in a heaven hostess twinkle…you know, not quite a food

created equal;
creating sweet and low
like sugar in a con

substantial? No
creating something sweeter and lower
in down-going, something held natural to her
nature or like something sweet held eternally
something made in mooncake on a midnight tree

©1986 Fruit From The Azure Vault stephanie pope ©2012 mythopoetry.com

For an interesting essay on the Taiwan Moon Festival and myth see Dave Alber's fine essay: Myths and Moon Cakes: The Cosmological Symbolism of the Zhou Revolution

DAILY POEM/ The Uncut Version



Soul-Making The Uncut Version by stephanie pope

The uncut making
not-making capably not

makes up the enjambed body…
…now whose metaphors encode wounded in-sides
precisely recorded in the round version?


The uncut lines are mute rock singing rocked insides
and rock mutes the fluid markers
precisely un-incised; they

play the word in play playing me playing likenesses
(i.e. you know ones recording even the static)


especially the static, wounded lines precisely stuck
in a record on a turntable.

And we call the record “broken” because it
won’t quit playing; but it’s not, it's
not. It’s where the treasure lies.

BURNING THE MIDNIGHT OIL

image credit: SHOPPEDorNOT.com

the fleshed night
burnt by the hour
shining her



oiled hair;
she who burns away
shines darkly



when throwing
h’s on the wall
behind me

©2012 Midnight In Oil stephanie pope mythopoetry.com