Saturday, August 15, 2009

Everyday Poetry

It is the weed of life
that grips the garden to your need,
that roots you deep into its soil
which is immortal

Frank Polite

I wanted to share this cornucopia of various grains, including this beautiful plant ripe with berries, that has been growing exactly front of the number post (in the lot where I parked my motor home) when I came to Tucson in June. There is nothing else like it anywhere else, as far as I can see, and the rest of the lot is devoid of vegetation. As I prepare to leave, I reflect that I felt as if the Corn Mother left me a little blessing for the endeavors of this summer, a little "nourishment", a little reminder. I have not failed to be charmed every morning since, and pouring water on this lovely gift as a libation has become my morning ritual .

It's all a gift, a blessing of enormous generosity. I just want to affirm that, here, and every morning. Gratitude. I think that's what I most want to express in my article The Mask of Sedna about the Inuit myth (soon to be published) on Coreopsis A Journal of Myth and Theatre is ultimately about - our urgent need to remember that our relationship with our Living Earth must be based upon gratitude, and an understanding of spiritual as well as physical reciprocity and responsibility. And I'm grateful as well to this wonderful new magazine, founded by mythologist and performance artist Lezlie Kinyon.

I felt like sharing this poem, which I wrote on a long ago.


The colors and taste of it!
Praise the light, dappled
among amber leaves, the light
framed by an open window.
And all things blue! Praise,
praise summer skies,
their endless exaltation,
and all waters reflecting blue,
and a blue-eyed cat, sleeping on the windowsill.
Oh, praise the light, and all windows!

Praise the sand between my feet:
Praise the Song the ocean sings
today and forever
with or without me to listen.
Praise these ears, these eyes,

praise to the pearl of sweat
on your brown arm,
Praise, praise to you!
And praise to all eyes,
to the woman
who regards me from mirrors.
Praise to the dark eyed waitress,
the bus driver, the cashier,
a child in a yellow sweater
running among the trees.

Praise them all!
All those I've loved,
the ones gone, the ones that remain -
the multitudes I've walked among
the company that's shaped me:



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