Showing posts with label ghost body and blood soul. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ghost body and blood soul. Show all posts

Thursday, January 1, 2015

DEAD & BREAKFAST
























IN VOLTAIRE'S CUL DE SAC


With the village mostly dead
and the journey oddly harmless
impasse awaits like breakfast
in a night garden.


2015 Voltaire's Cul de Sac Is No Dead Ending
stephanie pope mythopoetry.com
#ohjDailyWords #4lines #mythopoetics

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

THREE SPIRITS FATHERING CHRISTMAS
























THREE SPIRITS


[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

O
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


notes

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

 http://web.archive.org/web/20020907171119/http://www.tellingmystory.com/OurStories/mmacary_bloodink.htm

[quote]
“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

[unquote]

Friday, December 2, 2011

MYTHOPOETRY SCHOLAR

                Revolution & Mythless Myth

One of the reasons for this three-year ezine project is to try and draw into a virtual space images of the unconscious life of the world, the soul of this world as it speaks to us today, mythlessly. What is the soul of our earth doing when we act the way we act toward each other globally and communally?
Some say the "new age", the "new millenium" began at ground zero. One can suppose the image today at work in a revolutionary manner. What manner of soul is this expression of the presence of the absence in which that moment now presences itself? The one event, depicted in the twin "shadows" lit by night, and the soul of this soul-loss carries an unknown value, a zero a zero; soul-making "rounds"! And, may I add, still at work underneath our radar, such soul gets around!

So, too the various ways contributors present this year's theme: revolution...as in "the action for turning again" as one of our authors below suggests. David L Miller says it this way,  "The world is archetypally activist." For more on the meaning of this metaphor see David's essay, A Myth Is As Good As A Smile. Meanwhile, here are four more authors and a bit about their contributions to Mythopoetry Scholar eZine vol. 3.

Catherine Svehla

I received a beautiful painting done by cultural mythologer and essayist, Catherine Svehla called "Creation Story." Catherine will be contributing a reverie piece titled "Between the Worlds."


Catherine writes

Coyote comes and kicks the empty skull of that world. Old Man Coyote constructs a place fit for us all by deconstructing principles. Like the black dog that tugs on the loose thread in the garment of the world and pulls it apart so that it can never be completed and the weaving must continue and so the world keeps spinning.


Dave Alber
Cultural mythologer, Dave Alber wrote from China where he is teaching this term to say a little more about his contribution, "Myths and Moon Cakes: The Cosmological Symbolism of the Zhou Revolution."

The myth of Hou Yi the archer shooting down the nine suns is a polemical myth that describes the Zhou people working with the Hou tribe of barbarians ("yi") in the revolutionary overthrow of the Shang empire. The Shang, you see, had a solar calendar with a ten day week. Hou Yi shoots nine, leaving one left. Hou Yi is married to Chang-e who is associated with the moon. And so people with a lunar calendar defeat the people with the solar calendar. The Chang-e myth is known to every Chinese person as it is associated with Moon Festival celebrated every year. However, the cosmological origin of the myth has been lost. So, dare I say, I think that it would be revolutionary to publish something on the recovery of the cosmological and political threads of the myth.

Dave intends to send some great photos of Shang bronze vessels and city walls; wooden molds for moon cakes that depict scenes from the myth.

Meanwhile, the poetry section is set into the publisher and poetry submission to the 2012 zine is now officially closed. One sample of fine work is the experimental poetry of mythopoet, Richard (Ric) Lance Williams.


Ric Williams
Ric's image-idea for "revolution" appears in the title, "Revolution: The Act of Turning Again."  For me this brings to mind the image of the world soul at ground zero revealing itself in the photo as a "golden shadow" as if to say, " Now, we are two going on from two" "without value", meaning we are the door guardians of the gateless gate by which only the one who knows they don't know may pass into the realm of the unknown value to experience this shadow double's gold. You might likewise consider as do I this "golden shadow" might be a new metaphor for the soul of the soul of mythless times.


Stephanie Pope
Which brings me to one of three contributions of my own efforts to support this year's zine, "Mythopoesis in the 21st Century or 'Poetry In The Extreme.'"  The essay examines how a poetic revolution both affirms Ric's image idea of revolution as a turning action that "re" turns (aka, new and again) and reveals what gets around meaninglessness.  My thesis is that "what" indeed gets around meaninglessnesses; it isn't a substance, it is a perspective achieved through a mythic and poetic literary method.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Writing For Ghosts

the best episode

of Buffy
brought together
in solution
the slayers of all times
& formed them into a
timeless series
gathered at once
to muse upon &
doing as they do
you and I will too

to touch this new meaning
the wounded image used,
we imagine our stories
the way ghost writers do

when what they do
is write for ghost bodies

how, in newer poetry,
timelessness moves
a timeless story along

ghost ritings
honor virtual things having
no futures & are not passing
anymore for things;

not things
they
shape the way
haunted blood flows

I loved the fiery tongue
of that final Buffy season
suddenly torched by the
wounded fate in a
divine female form
offering the bodiless fleshed
slayers to paler font; the

little minute― the many
on fire at once
made this talisman