"Prophet" Red Hawk, I see this poem, written in a short sparing style which is very like a stick being tapped on my head, as an extremely intelligent integration of the feminine Shadow. Or rather, as seems so customary in your work, a direct portal to this intelligence, readiliy available as it is to the shaman in a place where the subterfuge of perpetual vigilance is intantly transformed into a pleasant conversation. Yes, it keenly "taps" into my own inner wisdom, largely what I am using to write this, for the shaman in his own wisdom "is silent in his words." He is transparent. He is deconstructing his self and describing this death-like life-like ritual as though performed as many times as there are thoughts through our mind or stars in the sky. This leads me to believe that the "dense self" of the poignantly previous poem is not just creating "much thought" but all thought or thinking. That is, the "Music" is becoming what it already is, trans-personal, non-local, infinite and distinct (Here where there is a there), relishing the rich texture and pleasure of relationship (or anarchitecture) which now has moved a distance from the Music, leaving a tomb or womb - bodi - Tree - to guide it back. But does he (or She) really need to go back anywhere? From a place so deep within us inside "the depth inside everything" that it is frightening or seems so, the Prophet answers: 'Where lies the final harbor whence we are more no more. In what path be who travels the world in which the weariest never weary. Where is the foundling's father hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in burying them. And the secret of our paternity lies in their grave. And we must there learn it.' (unbeknownstome) You write, "Where is the man that eats the unspoiled fruit?" (line 1) Place and Identity One, He is She who is moved away from Herself - She in love with She who moves. This poem seems to suggest that the very gendering of Her and He draws an eternal creatrix (a 'figured fixed wound' ) into an instant. He does not point out (nor does the shaman) - he suggests, augers or engenders meaning; me of the mindfulness of the first and last wombman, the holy Place. "Will he shield himself from the world?" Or will he, in the tradition of Achilles and Odysseus, be inspired by the world, this World of Meaning, of Body or Kairos Logos Ontos Daemon et cetera, to be himself and, in so doing, run from Her Love and simultaneously complete Her vision, His vision equally "to be or not to be." Inspired by the serpentine logic (logic) of word and mystery, of colore, dark and light, will he himself become that which will, like Death, son of Night, become him - Death now myth and ritual by which and through which Mystery knows/births Her Self and Child and Lover and Mother and Nature. He is "silent in his words" because and always in sprite of the fact and feeling (as intertwined as night and light) because, like his Shadow (Her Shadow or Other Self), he needs "let them come," one and many and all in one from many in this sacred american faerie "mixture of life" anthrosophy which was is and will be our Genesis. Eat and live forever "understanding everything," for He, Self, and Shadow and Mother, "loves", no telling "woman from the man." (marley) Cheers, Jim Sirius* Pleiades* ...light creating from nothing/Night...*ION *R *O * Lyra Sonnet XCVII Once more a time for reaping what So many cycles say to fearless Night; Once more again I dance with you not Different as in love with Light, The darkest whole through which I fall Penetrating vistas not yet borne Aloft perennial winds from whence Love beckons all In all is what we are once shorn From oceans inside every ocean eddy And, moving what moves me to love The pain thine ancestors breathe through us, steady As the stars reflecting us above Who minister through Nature Natural Law As Nature's cunts once many spendored verdant fields that once that spoke what Night time saw.
Next Page
. . .
