POETS OF MYTHOPOETRY: BRADLEY OLSON : Four Poems #mythopoetry #guestpost #NationalPoetryMonth2017

FOUR POEMS

PAUL VERLAINE'S AIM

You have me disadvantaged, dear Arthur.

You possess the sharp, quill tip of your pen

And your youth.

I have only this pistol…

If only my wounds were so easily mended.

I have not yet come to terms with written words

As you have--when you were yet a boy!--

And now you leave them,

And me,

Adrift in a drunken boat.

©2017   Paul Verlaine’s Aim   Bradley Olson  mythopoetry.com
©2017  Paul Verlaine’s Aim    Bradley Olson  All Rights Retained

WINTER LEAVES

When I first heard it, I thought

It was really only rumor,

That this late in December's unforgiving draught

One golden leaf could still be in good humor.

Yet there it was, a palsied beggar,

At the mercy of winter's biting caprice.

How often have I (unwitting figure!),

Governed by an unattractive eye, failed to give notice.

I entered his world a puzzle, mostly skulking about

Then, by turning each leaf, I saw myself reflected.

His folios revealed me, so shockingly fleshed out,

That the sound, the fury, the Lear-ing suspicions no longer infected

A dislocated soul.  A corroded spirit.

The littered psychic landscape unveiled by a warm spring sun

Is healed by the call away from winter if one can hear it

And grasp that, though logos contradict it, there is never, finally, a "done."

©2017   Winter Leaves   Bradley  Olson  mythopoetry.com
©2017   Winter Leaves   Bradley Olson  All Rights Retained

FLIGHT INFORMATION

I watched her from behind my newspaper

Trying to read a pulpy paperback

While the disembodied voice of flight information

(in both English and Spanish)

destroyed her concentration and sent her

eyes scouting the page for the word she last read.

When she left to board I wondered if she would ever finish

If the heroine would find love at long last

If the evils in her life would be overcome by good

If the someone waiting for her at some other airport gate

loved her Passionately, Deeply,

And Truly. 

She looked like someone I usually wouldn't think about twice

Unless she were to trade the battered paperback for Hegel

Or someone else I couldn't understand.

I don't want what's familiar to me; I ran from the provincial long ago

I know instinctively by watching her

I ran away from everything like her; not towards anything.

She looked happy--comfortable in her own skin--it alarms me to think she actually was.

©2017   Flight Information   Bradley  Olson  mythopoetry.com
©2017   Flight Information   Bradley Olson  All Rights Retained

LIMINAL SPACE

I am puzzled of  late

by my single and peculiar life.

I am not what I used to be:

An airy dreamer

with a too truant disposition,

nor any longer a dark, upheaved soul

alone and lonely,

but rather betwixt and between

suffering from a usurpation of the senses.

La belle dame sans merci

draws from her black sack

“beautiful untrue things,”

the necessary deceptions

symbolizing and signaling life;

those heralds most deeply felt and dreamt of,

yet remaining oddly unapprehended…

the soul’s fugitives

bringing substance to an insubstantial life

and imagination  to a mundane world.

From this sack,

the very same one,

She brought forth Ilych’s death.

Grotesque to those who watched,

but did not see,

beautiful to him

whom it brought forbearance and joy.

Beautifully used and artfully worn was It.

Beautiful and holy.

So holy It seems

It can hold nothing at all

but air…

and light…

and time…

and space.

Giving room enough to live,

saving room enough to die,

proposing room enough to discover (to my surprise!)

where It is,

Death cannot be.

©2017   Liminal Space   Bradley  Olson  mythopoetry.com
©2017   Liminal Space   Bradley Olson  All Rights Retained

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bradley Olson, Ph.D is a former police officer who returned to school to earn a Bachelor’s degree in psychology and literature, two Master’s degrees in psychology, and a Ph.D. in Cultural Mythology. Dr. Olson is currently a psychotherapist in private practice at Mountain Waves Healing Arts in Flagstaff, Arizona; his work with clients is heavily influenced by his interest in Jungian Analytical Psychology and Mythological Studies. Brad is also the author of the acclaimed Falstaff Was My Tutor blog, which has earned him a nomination for the 2012 PUSHCART PRIZE in nonfiction.

BRAD'S BLOG

FALSTAFF WAS MY TUTOR

BRAD ALSO BLOGS FOR JCF.ORG

MYTH BLAST

WEBSITE

MOUNTAIN WAVES HEALING ARTS

VISIT BRAD ON FACEBOOK AT

https://www.facebook.com/bradley.a.olson

POETS OF MYTHOPOETRY: BRIAN LANDIS Two Poems #guestpost #mythopoetry #NationalPoetryMonth 2017

TWO POEMS

EL RANCHO GRANDE

Avocado trees planted in rows

       walnuts and grapes

In the arroyo, pampas grass

       as if trilled or plucked

A chord of pampas grass

singing down the breezy cañon

       to the sparkling sea

Two dogs in the sideyard

       barking

A lazy cat opens one golden eye

©2017 El Rancho Grande Brian Landis mythopoetry.com
©2017 El Rancho Grande Brian Landis All Rights Retained

FAMOUS PEOPLE

Pablo Picasso

          sits with Jean Cocteau

          praising miracles

(not life, which is common).

They drink espresso

          and eat Italian pastries.

"God," Jean philosophizes,

"judges us by our appearances

          and is the ultimate idiot."

Pablo paints God's portrait

          and is the ultimate idiot.

Idiocy is relative.

Albert Einstein, at the next table

          scribbles in the margin

          of his New York Times:

                   "Relativity is next to godliness"

He signs his name.

He leaves it on the table

          for the waiter to see.

(If you don't promote your own work,

          who will?)

©2017 Famous People Brian Landis mythopoetry.com
©2017 Brian Landis Famous People All Rights Retained

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brian Landis is a Buddhist/Jungian psychotherapist, because poetry is a very bad way to make a living, living and working in San Luis Obispo, California.  As the years unfold, he looks more and more like his beloved arroyos and potreros, wild and unkempt.  He likes it that way and is ecstatic to be going to seed after a lifetime of bloom.

BRIAN ON FACEBOOK

Visit Brian on facebook

BOOK

POETS OF #MYTHOPOETRY: MARY HARRELL 3 #poems #NAPOMO APRIL #GUESTBLOG

IN THE GAP

For years too long to count

I had been stuck there

in the gap between soul

and the words that speak it.

I see me

first mute, then wailing,

then seared with pain,

looking for my little boy.

His face, a memory

stunningly beautiful,

blue-black from lack of oxygen.

“I will find him. 

I will know him.

I will hold him.

I will take in his baby scent. ”

And in that moment of thirst quenched

and pain relieved

my heart will explode with pleasure enough

to warm the world.

For just one glance upon him,

one gift of seeing him breathe one breath

I will search an eternity.

Crazed beyond imagining by his cry one night

cat-like and forlorn,

I go down to find him.

I am Demeter, inconsolable

crying out for Persephone

her precious child stole from her,

swallowed by the underworld.

In the gap between soul and the words that speak it

I look down to the palm of my hand

where my own son rests his lifeless head. 

I am there always in times of breakdown.

We all are there in times of breakdown

to die, to suffer, 

to be turned into gold.

Out of this time in the gap

I find the words to speak my loss.

Pain is transformed into a union between worlds.

Tiredness in this new place is clean,

renewed with simple sleep.

Soft imaginings come on butterfly wings.

I am not afraid of the gap.

I am not afraid of hell.

Now I go with others,

fellow travelers.

I stand at the edge of the world

and give them the gift of knowing

that they can survive.

They will live for a time, long or short, it doesn’t matter

in that gap between soul and the words that speak it.

They will go down

and search

and grieve.

I will extend my hand.

I will go with them.

I know this place;

here lies the path to the end of grief.

©2017 In The Gap Mary Harrell mythopoetry.com
©2017 In The Gap Mary Harrell  All Rights Retained

THE THREAD

Mythic hearts seek

old stories, lost loves,

riddles clothed in new robes.

Each circles wide,

meanders slow and

marks the way with jesters’ stones.

They find the truth

within the lie,

the lesson of the quest.

And still they’re meant to

start again, to

lose the newly found.

To hold the thread

that meaning makes

in soul’s recursive round.

©2017 The Thread Mary Harrell mythopoetry.com
©2017 The Thread Mary Harrell  All Rights Retained

WHISPERS

In soft whispers and quiet evocations

We are called by soul to seek the depth of a thing.

To wonder what else, or who else is present

In the cavernous mystery of lived experience.


"Whispers" is republished by permission from Mary's first book,
Imaginal Figures In Everyday Life: Stories From The World Between Matter And Mind, Chiron Publications, 2015.

©2017 Whispers Mary Harrell mythopoetry.com
©2017 Whispers Mary Harrell  All Rights Retained

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mary Harrell, a Jungian-oriented psychotherapist, and licensed psychologist received her Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute. She is Associate Professor Emeritus at State University of New York (SUNY) at Oswego. Her chapters, in the areas of educational reform and imaginal psychology, appear in five books. In 2014, Syracuse University’s The Stone Canoe, a Journal of Arts, Literature and Social Commentary, No. 8 anthologized her poetry.  Her first book titled, Imaginal Figures in Everyday Life: Stories from the World between Matter and Mind was published in 2015 (Chiron Publications).  Mary recently completed her latest project, a young adult novel titled, The Mythmaker. She lives with her husband Stephen in South Carolina.

MARY'S BLOG

http://www.maryharrellphd.com/

MARY'S BOOK

CAN BE PURCHASED THROUGH AMAZON

Mary’s Author Chat 

Mary answers readers’ questions on the Chiron Publications website 

MARY ON FACEBOOK

MARY ON YOUTUBE

Mary’s YouTube interviews include chats with Dr. Dave for Shrink Rap Radio, and withBonnie Bright for Pacifica Graduate Institute’s Discussions in Depth.

#NAPOMO #GUESTPOST APRIL #POETRY SIX POEMS by RICHARD LANCE SCOW WILLIAMS for #NATIONALPOETRYMONTH2017

SIX POEMS

"pelts"

pelts & feathers

dead things

o my god

the thunder

says: you lit

me up then you

left me alone in the dark

or how you cannot remember

how the sea took you from shore

the dead in the streets of your heaven

suddenly underwater sign this with red seeds

with the leathery face of a madman aged in a day

the thin men in their gray mourning jackets

backs like wings of sullen angels

he did not want this distance

(but the distance knew)

the wheels turn

until only

the wisdom

of invisible light

reveals the stain of

having been the blood

removed without a longing

©2017  “pelts” Richard Lance Scow Williams  mythopoetry.com
All Rights Reserved

CARNIVAL

a sea side carnival

the gaudy against the grey

no one on the boardwalk save

a few lonely ghosts—shadows hunched—

hurrying to appointments more mundane than sinister

all the rides locked tight—the barker’s voice replaced by gull’s cry

inside the tunnels the ghouls & zombies wait for their electric trip

no screams no giggles no nervous laughter to reward a patience

of plastic steel enamel paint the peeling of their cause

we imagine murder rape assault on body & soul

but no teenage fright fest hero today—worse—

a distance—a foreboding emptiness

the waves a hundred yards away

relentlessly pulled back

©2017 CARNIVAL Richard Lance Scow Williams mythopoetry.com
All Rights Reserved

Tortoises

tortoises bleeding

eggs calcified

Ramona

reports on

her exotic

charges

how to

keep

the wild

inside a cage

without damaging

what makes the wild wild

you don’t—you adapt

you make excuses

you wince & say

this is not

the end

& you act

as if you are listening

to a voice that is so familiar

but you have heard it so often

that when the world ends

it is like you never knew

the tortoise crossing

that finish line

the hare long

given up

for dead

falling falling

into a boiling pot

black iron deep & vast

it does not matter the stars

for at that distance they are already asleep


©2017 Tortoises Richard Lance Scow Williams mythopoetry.com
All Rights Reserved

Sparkle Pony

Sparkle Pony was the name of a one-woman folk singer in the TV series Portlandia

those episodes were excruciating to watch in that they hewed close to the truth

i think of Antonio Salieri as portrayed in the movie Amadeus

of talent & near talent & no talent but ambition

an ambition to be seen as beloved

in & thru all time all space

you matter you glitter

your life is as wide

as you imagine

the depth of

all that is

fairy dust

sparkly

unicorns

magic princesses

knights in shining armor

deafening applause never ending

your name writ larger than Ozymandias

o ghosts of the nameless tell me you are

like blooms of stars to offer my small ego your coat

let me burn with you in the eternity of galaxies yet born

Sparkle Pony parades of countless knights & innumerable princesses

what matter the nature of a a burning truth

burn with me like time itself

burn burn Sparkle Pony


©2017 Sparkle Pony Richard Lance Scow Williams mythopoetry.com
All Rights Reserved

SCAR

many can wound

do wound &

pick at

the scars

& you wince

wondering what

mercy could harm

the history of abuse

my friend says

we come now

to the end

of such

things

the world

now suppurating

in wounds too many to count

more than ready to form a weaving of scars

i do not want to look away from it all

i want to rub my scars

& remember

how kind

the flesh

to love

me enough

to remind me

we live in a world

that is always ready to heal


“scar” from Helga, ©2015, Bite Press,available from Amazon


©2017 SCAR Richard Lance Scow Williams mythopoetry.com
All Rights Reserved

THE FIREPLACE HAS A MESSAGE

shoveling ash from the fireplace into a metal bucket to take to the garden & pour it on the frozen ground—pour it or dump or deposit it (to pour seems more sacred)—my father said ash is good for roses (he knew about the growing of roses)—there are still some glowing embers—fist-sized pieces of char—when a human is cremated bits of bone can remain—bone & teeth perhaps & nail—my father’s ashes are in a box on the nightstand next to my mother’s bed—i do not know where we’ll take them & hers when she goes—Arkansas likely—Fouke or Texarkana north off Highway 71 or 82—my father when he would pass his grandfather’s grave (on Hwy. 82) would say, “i’ll smoke a Lucky for you” & turn to me smiling, “LSMFT—Lucky Strike means fine tobacco”

cigarette ash is not as fine as the seasoned oak piñon pine & cedar

that burns to a dust in our fireplace—bed of ashes still warm twelve

hours later—turning the bucket upside down the mountain winds

carry a cloud of the dusty ash north past the wooden garden gate—some ash still clings to my boots as i walk back thru the snow to fill the metal bucket again

©2017 THE FIREPLACE HAS A MESSAGE
Richard Lance Scow Williams
mythopoetry.com All Rights Reserved

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Richard "Ric" Lance Scow Williams was an associate editor for The Austin Chronicle from 1988-2012. In 2007, his, the secret book of god was chosen by Robert Bonazzi of the San Antonio Express-News as "The Best Book of Poetry by a Poet Living in Texas." He lives in Glorieta, New Mexico, with his wife, astrologer Helga Scow Williams, and two cats, Bat and Mouse. His latest books are Helga (2015) and Jealousy Cured: Cancer & Other Invisible Matters (2016), both from Bite Press. His collaborations with David Jewell are and their latest 52 Pickup: Last Word/First Word: Volume 2 (2017), both also from Bite Press.



For Book Titles On Amazon

Helga, Bite Press, 2015

Last Word/ First Word: Volume 1 BitePress, 2015

Jealousy Cured: Cancer & Other Invisible Matters Bite Press, 2016

secret book of god, 2007