Thursday, March 31, 2016

THE STORY OF THE GOLDEN GOOZE: On Languages of The Whee, We & Wee

Fairy Talking To A Boy -John Bauer, public domain image


         "As goods are for gold and gold for goods" -Hereclitus, Fragment 90

“there is no consistent pattern
no sound explanation”[1]

“the bed of sound  
lover absconditus”[2]

say howdy do-doo
a ditty

before word meanings
a creation of sounds

the soundness
of the impossible


bend low and listen

for early movements
stirring the sleepless

metaphoric heart living in verse
inverse and verseless […]

invisibly & without thinking―give
[self] utterance to it alone

©2016 March & Mad, Selfless Act stephaniepope


1. For more on the language of wee folk or fairies see  Here is one passage from the blog...

“Wee Folk use more languages than human beings. Almost any human language has at least some Wee Folk who speak it, and in addition, they have thousands of languages of their own. Nevertheless, nearly all of them can communicate with nearly all others, and the lack of common language is no barrier. The reason for this is that their primary method of communication is by telepathy, instead of, or in addition to, speaking.

Because they use telepathy so heavily, their spoken languages tend to be very simple. In fact, an example of an especially simple language of Wee Folk might consist entirely of words we might identify as nouns. A sentence in such language is simply a set of nouns strung together… so [the wee] could say something in the telepathic portion of the message having a meaning the words do not even hint at.”

Keep in mind "the symbolic pull of wordless languages" have “logical” soul and cause a long term effect such as that between the goose and man.

2. The poem is part of an exchange between poets Richard Lance Scow Williams & d. knape.

3. Regarding the pull that symbols can have on the mind see British ornithologist E. A. Armstrong, “The Symbolism of the Swan and the Goose” pp. 54-58.  He notes, “The grey lag goslings are so constituted that they become attached to, or in psychological language “fixed” upon, the first large moving creature that they see when they hatch…. They will follow a man if he happens upon them before they catch sight of a parent. So strong is the resulting attachment that they henceforth prefer human society to that of their own kind.”

[1] The first two lines are a single quote taken from  “Long Term Effects” by d. knape. 
[2] The second two lines are a single quote taken from a poem by the same name, “Long Term Effects” by Richard Lance Scow Williams
[3] An image in the poem, “Long Term Effects”, Richard Lance Scow Williams

Thursday, March 24, 2016



      “The gifted expression is touched by a fiat lux.”               
               –stephanie pope, From
The Unhappy Hero, Part 7

Our magical, (h)our’s 
a manner of making

like a moon reflecting
no earthly light

yet something earthy
in it

poetic things require
a space of their own

Derrida says
I say

calling his temporized zone
the h-space―Ric calls it


which he says is like no
standing on om

making from nothing

what Ric says
I say

is like the light of the one mind
shaping shades out of

the darkness of the one

and so why something
and not nothing


gives birth to philosophy
gives the socratic awareness, too

two to we, wee who knowingly
know they don’t―whee!

Something that is, is
without having ever been


before things
techno h-places things

somewhere elsewhere nowhere else
“h’ere” in a distance collapsing

lenses of perception cleansing
in a temporized zone for making

nowhere in you, a paradise
no place nor thing


what is


but a third not given
and this newness is “youness”

knowing and not knowing ie.

poetic space, image
double doubling

& on

the world, as it is
infinite, always (k)new

poetic things
minding their own

©2016 Yes! It’s A Kind Of Magic! stephanie pope


Monday, March 21, 2016


image from Jung's Red Book; for more on The Red Book
see notes


dies in every day, some days more than others for
something we live in the shades life-changing
sprouts up and changes life revelations

work like this

 2016 Our Angel's Resurrection stephanie pope


1.  To visit NPR's coverage of Jung's "Red Book" visit 'The Red Book': A Window Into Jung's Dreams Be sure to click on and listen to the story at the top of this page. Enjoy!

2. More On Jung's "Red Book"


Monday, March 14, 2016



With great curiosity
blue dawn flower

beneath above across
and down it climbs

©2016 How To Form A Circle stephanie pope
#poetheme 125 #beneath

Saturday, March 12, 2016


Image from a Japanese scroll describing the realm of the hungry
ghosts and how to placate them. 
Currently housed at the Kyoto
National Museum
, artist unknown. see wiki


A March tree
a time of need.

Like a family tree with
hungry ghosts hunting
branches missing apple

and golden ichor. In a time of
need, each familial branch
is like a weapon;

horses circle hungry, too
as if color alone invokes
dead, dread and promise.

This year March ghosts rally
the country like horses
circling a tree.

Each branch of the tree
hungry for spring nectar
misses ichor and apple.

Starving ghosts haunt cities
living on ire which may be
look so hungry for blood
this year

©2016 Hungry Ghosts stephanie pope 


Hungry Ghost is a concept in Chinese Buddhism and Chinese traditional religion representing beings who are driven by intense emotional needs in an animalistic way. The term 餓鬼 èguǐ, literally "hungry ghost", is the Chinese translation of the term preta in Buddhism.  see wiki

Thursday, March 10, 2016

#BENEATH : A Poetheme

"The logics that create the surface of the story
          are never the story." -Maggie Macary


A root formation

Old Moon, and I
beneath you

Being of the one dream
a creature of creation, too


Old Moon
a hidden thrust in core and crust

Beneath you
freezing and thawing

Has begun
in trees to run


Old Moon
dreaming in that language,



Beneath you,
something new


piñon pine


Your deep stone rhythm
pocks my breast

beneath my rest Old Moon      

  ©2016 Root Formation stephaniepope

1. The introduction to "March Moon" ( to read the full essay see )

For The Love of a Woman

by stephanie pope published 03/13/09

Pt 3 March Moon
A Cite For Sore Eyes

After a while, one starts thinking in that language, dreaming in that language, as well as
speaking in that language, and the behavior becomes different.  --J. J. Jameson

These essays around the full moon are inspired by a thought whose soul wonders what it is to reflect the mind of winter. Seeing the moon one gentle evening, this thinking began to imagine the moon had seen a good portion of the ghost world of what came and went many times over throughout countless eons long past. Thereupon perhaps something might remain in these ‘other world’ remains winter minds still and this might be of value and import to us now in our own life resolve. Whereupon our world, too, in the way it remains predisposed to reflect such mythic thoughts always and once more and imaginally so, we might then begin again to share the soul of this world with each other, being of the one dream and begun from within creative life’s image and likeness creatures of creation too. So this now is the imaginal route retraced that brings to me in contemplation likenesses for the ‘mind of winter’ and bears these through the first to this last of the winter-moon essays for this series.

2. "The logics that create the surface of the story are never the story." -Maggie Macary, "Cultural Mythology, A Methodology

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

COLOR & EGGS : The New Math

Justice Clarence Thomas speaking during the Catholic mass
in celebration of last rites for the late Justice, Anthony Scalia,
reads from Scripture Romans 5:5-11

       Indeed, only with difficulty does one die for a just person  -Romans 5:7

no way a seed
a word, alone, an egg

semen on the blue dress
semen on the altar cloth


this last

my god, my god
have you forsaken

supreme justice dead
photographed in black, the seed

this last

of white mythology, won’t
stop using jesus 

this last


red adam
red at night

shown your red winged life already
torn from monism's ghosting imagination

see it doubling the grotesque we’ve
read at night

who can make nothing
of it now?


we don’t even know
we've fallen into water―know

this red-winged black reflection
as ensouling presence―the ghosts’

“ghost” in the melting pot
we once were―see it and believe

what ghosts where dark men require

not in black and white but
in how one will have read

"good people"  
"just" person

out of this differing twoness
where we peck away

the old way we've read;
the difficulty of our dying

laid to rest
and hatched


let knowing and loving
unite where death

feeds you freshly hatched
out of your sensual landscape

beyond matters
celebrating decay en mass


death threads life in what
death wants soul-making clothed in:

an unknown

where no way back faces each alone in the alone
where it alone represents itself to us again

red at night
black and white

may we each find our way
in a new red egg & spring

©2016 No Way A Seed; A Word Alone A Red Egg At Night: The New Math
           stephanie pope

Re: GOP Statisticians Develop New Branch Of Math To Formulate Scenarios In Which Trump Doesn’t Win Nomination - The Onion sent along by poet Randy Lusk-


Romans 5: 5-11 read by Clarence Thomas 

Monday, March 7, 2016

MAID OF WATER MADE OF FIRE : On Eternal Springs and Spring Eternal


He threw a shell on the little bird
and made her wings bleed

then yellow and stellar a stair
how the stare of her throat did sing

till that red-winged blackbird of summer
red-winged in torn descent decayed.

Stained with seed the altar cloth
of time, time-worn through and through 

scarecrow in a blue gown wreathed
stained with seed and worn-out, too.

In a field thrice priapic
she laid her egg and died; a field

thrice as fallow as
her red-winged eye.

A new white egg a bird-price bled
this air that fled had paid

an eye for
an eye―she laid this path!

as if color, alone invoked
both dread and promise

right where she so faded bled
back to black reflection

till all of night
wore red.

©2016 RED NIGHT FEN GIRL stephaniepope

The first line of the poem reflects a Chitimacha legend of the bayou, the red-winged a mythological figure. The red-winged blackbird is a passerine bird of the family Icteridae, from the Greek “ikteros” meaning “jaundiced one.” Red-wings frequent marshes.  I am using the word, “fen” for marsh because I have traced the word to my Italian father’s mother’s father’s family name which translates to fen or marsh. This mythological figure joins those already existing in the night fen.

 In this manner I am staying with the image of a fathered daughter giving birth to her own motherhood by drawing its pattern forth out of a time before time. The sense-making of psyche’s psyche-making that of imitating Aphrodite’s girlhood in the sea.  The sea would be “virgin time.” Images in the poem belong to other poems that precede it forming a poem series and perhaps, marking a via transformativa traced just after waking from a strange dream.  Here is the dream briefly sketched.

The dream me discovers a very young girl’s ghost has attached itself to her.  The ghost child had died suddenly long ago and I didn’t ever hear how this occurred but as the dream progressed I discovered how this happened. She attached herself to me just as I was fleeing for higher ground during a natural disaster of some sort that had caused some flooding of low-lying land. I had stayed ahead of it until just this moment I am delayed.

 She knew she was a ghost child and seemed very happy to see me.  It is as if those words do not do the elation on the young disfigured child’s face justice. I loved her, suddenly realizing how much.  We decided to set out together when we were overcome by a sudden rush of water. The water was lit up and healthy on one side but dark and deadly on another side.  She was standing on the side that drew her under the dark side of the water and I knew she had instantly drowned. 

Yet, my impulse was to dive for her and I caught myself realizing that had I done this, I would have succumbed to the illness in the water. It is then I realize her selfless love and the act that caused her death a long time ago that keeps her saving the lives of others ever more.  Some psychic energy is bodiless logos and protective in the role it plays.

 I now turn to try and find my way alone.  A number of women begin climbing up onto a mountain path and I see one woman that I feel knows how to save herself so I follow behind her. 

The mountain path she takes eventually led us both down to the underworld beneath the mountain.  It turns out this is how to reach the higher ground after all. 

All the women ascending seem to know me, just as the young child seemed to know me. When we reach a safe spot I begin to feel warm and dry.  But as for the woman that led me here and the young child that dies, I cannot remember what either look like because I cannot see them clearly in the dream. 

I do realize in the dream I am in a feminine realm and that being in the feminine realm itself means these two women specifically, are different versions of femininity at different stages of transformation in its “supernatural existence” (that is, in the shocking state of seeing through the eye of nonbeing where , in the form of my dream "I" my ego soul has yet to experience eternal existence/s... !) Here each mythological life reflects a miniature and a superheroine. The tiny and the grotesque seem to be how I experience the child’s face when I call it disfigured. I don’t know what to say about the unknown woman.  She seemed both visually youthful and of an unidentifyable age--somehow both young and old at once, old in the sense of archetypally aged yet old age never is possible for her.  I am thinking now the jaundiced one is a reference to the spiritually alive within the via transformativa during its yellowing phase.  When I awaken what I awaken with is the white egg of the red-wing. This is the word as egg showing new life in the fen just as I awaken. Just as I awaken, so too, in dream a fen again wakes through springs eternal. This dream reminds me of the pattern of inspiration told in the tale of Kastalia, perhaps a clue to that side of the waters  where I stand in the dream which I think are lit up or on fire or “waters of light”.  This fiery water, a landscape giving rise to a human identity, makes up the dream me. It gives the dream substance just as it gives the dream me a reflection for the waking me to see. The colors that color it seem significantly substantial, too, as if they are the matter being gathered into earth.   

Thursday, March 3, 2016



You and I at sunset
inherit racism
our blackness

a christic night white mythology
feeding horses red adam
in a descending series.

The horses know we must
see how they see
the apples that have us?

Those horses re cognize
our appetitive eros have
we must

& should & ought & our parentalisms peal without pea(r)l
peal unpeeled (still red outside and white within the spell as if)
retracing her trace, red at night and winged

what part of monism doesn't have all of us
rose from the sea
falling from above

©2016 Under The Spell of Horses stephanie pope

1. A response to the poem, I Fall Drowsy (March 1, 2016)by Richard Lance Scow Williams.

i fall drowsy
the horses
know i
i know i
must feel
sweetly indebted
to things enclosed
all those cages
locked doors
barred windows
barbed wire electric fences
prisons jails lock ups dungeons
we tell stories that justify our violence
as a natural consequence
of being an animal
reverse engineer
in a line that
a predilection
proving simultaneously
our exceptionalism & our being
subject to brutal but natural impulses
o stories that we tell stories to
i protested that a photo
posted on FaceBook
seemed to be at
hard odds with
Christian values
a responder said:
    stop using Jesus
i asked: against racism?
the link went quiet
drowsy America
Tarot has it
the chains
on the Devil
are always loose
meaning one can slip
out of illusion at any time
i grab a bag of apples
& walk to the field

2.  Under The Spell Of Horses is sparked by both the line in the poem, I Fall Drowsy, "stop using Jesus" and a photo of the funeral service for the late Justice Anthony Scalia. On the altar cloth is a reference to Jesus as the logos spermatikos. It reads, "The seed is the word of god." Justice Clarence Thomas is speaking.

When I saw the line in the poem "stop using jesus" I had the thought that it may not refer to racism. That is, it may not be to the sorry business of racism to which this line refers but to a certain psychic, archetypal pattern, a mythic dominant interpreted as conferring divine status to certain men on earth, privileging a certain interpretation from which is created a rule of law. The archetypal pattern to which I refer is, of course, the logos spermatikos. This archetypal pattern is the one some scholars say is that to which the Platonic Dialogues address calling this form of eros "socratic".  It is what first recognizes the "I don't know" you and I and everyone else doesn't yet know...which is like the flea that tells us the apple is rotten. The socratic gadfly wakes us up. What we have lost is the sense of twoness to which the logos spermatikos refers, knowing and loving. What law can put god in your heart?

Supposedly Plato recognizes in the Socratic form of erotic loving  that knowing and loving are somehow the same thing and more than an appetitive eros, erotic loving is not about having something.  It is about being something. This is "logos spermatikos".  Be a sensual place in your natural depths.

Supposedly, too, theological scholars suggest this pattern that is the birth of philosophy was known to the biblical John and written into John's gospel which then attributes this pattern to the historical Jesus imaginally.  In your natural death, your sensual place is like the rotting seed in the dark earth giving rise to Psyche's orchard, psyche-making, a second Aphrodite.

This suggests to me now we can all reach this state of eros inherited imaginally by turning back this past still present in ourselves, soul as that killing into being within ourselves; psyche's psyche-making rising up in the life force. This must be the timeless sea of the world to which the night garden returns us.

There is an old story that Aphrodite spends her early years with a playmate in the sea of the world during the time before time.  When Zeus calls her to Olympos she gives her playmate, Nerites a pair of wings to try and coax him to go with her. He refuses.  It is then she reclaims her wings and, rising from the sea, gives them to Eros of Olympos.  Those wings!  They are hers!  Early Aphrodite...  a winged woman; the world sea, Aphrodite's vulva is world time not of earth but of the virgin's garden out of which grows the logos spermatikos, her desirable apple orchard. That makes Psyche of the tale, Psyche & Eros this site where loving and knowing unite in oneself while remaining not one's ego soul at the same time. This site acknowledges twoness. In our twoness I and the other are one deeply feminine and we are reborn lifted up in rich soil like the branches of a tree lift having risen out of the sensual place in its natural depths.