Tuesday, December 23, 2014



[e]M Body, what she dreams of living
EROS points where


With each touch
Maggie's name dissolved

in blood where
"blood is good."

Between us,
"the blood is good," she said.

Yet, in language where it flowed "good"
she and I were parted.

O, the untouchable, nascent body, how it bled
how our virgin body fell between us

shade--spaced as if not enough mattered,
an expanding verse lay between us.


In embodied body
when blood is good

shapes presence still & O

namelessly placed, does matter.

©2014 Old Long Since (But Should Old Acquaintance Be forgot?) stephanie pope mythopoetry.com
#mythopoetics #AuldLangSyne #ChristmasSpirit


from Myth & Culture Blog, Maggie Macary,”Telling My Story”, an excerpt from the blog, BloodInk, see  The Internet Archives


“Is my life created gunk? I wonder how much of what I remember is an artificial creamer used to delude me into thinking I’ve got something good here. I sip again on the ginger tea, and realize as it begins to heat the passage of my di-stressed digestive system, that all the memories of my life, all the bits and fragments and pieces that I think I’ve lost or forgotten or put away in the box with my old poems and old diaries, faded pictures and tattered greeting cards, are actually right here. They are present in the cells and the structure, the wounds and the scars of my exhausted body. All memory for me begins with my body, ends with my body, and circles around my body. There is no other story in my life except what is written in the structure of my body. I take another sip begin to wonder if I’m truly ready to speak. For so many years of my life, my voice was stilled and I felt strangulated. But those moments of strangulation felt somehow comforting and safe. No need for me to speak. No need for me to risk anything. There have been moments in my life when I lost my voice for days on end, unable to whisper a word, safe in a silence that held all the blood pounding inside me; a tight hold with no release. I recall other moments of my life getting comforted by a scarf tied tightly around my neck; the scarf somehow holding in a voice that I thought was too powerful, too destructive, too intense.
I held my intensity and my voice and my blood inside my body, and sat on the rocks of my own fevered imagination, gazing out at a barren ocean and mourning for a home that seemed lost forever. Until one day, I risked it all and dove in dark waters, determined to find my way home. For years, I swam and swam in that barren sea in desperate search for some little bit of truth about the tragedies of my life. At times, I thought I would give up, allowing the pieces of my life to fall like wreckage upon the waves. But some goddess always seemed to come through to save me. Some ancient female voice would whisper to me from the deep water, “The blood is good.” ~ Maggie Macary