A Poem, Perhaps a Love Poem

Rhiannon, Epona, Chariot–GO!
Let music carry you through fear
the chickadee’s song is sweet–listen
spring is not the only season for flowering.
Decorum–what does that mean to nature
when Venus is in retrograde,
love stands on its head
while in love, everything is ultra.
The islanders tell stories
hearts are many shades of red
chant the sacred syllable
that opens yours.
Dive into love, don’t make excuses
even the aristocrats can’t buy it.
Have a love couturier design your dress
old clothes can no longer be altered to fit.
Start brand new–make it easy.

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I thought I should have a love poem of sorts to share today, Valentine’s Day. Truth is that I’m not celebrating it myself. Not like in years past. But then, love is at its best when it’s expansive and inclusive…like I love the stars at night, the new fallen snow, the crisp winter air, the smile from a stranger or a friend, the clear eyes that greet me above the mask, a funny film, the opossum or rubber tree plants, sun on my face and more. I could find thousands of things and sentient beings to be in love with today. I’m going to go outdoors between the snowflakes to see who or what wants love today.

Take Time to be Quiet

archetype1

Quieting the mind isn’t easy.  There’s so much news and noise!  And then, there’s our inner reaction to it all!  So much that fills our heads with blah, blah and blah!

She has found a cave, a refuge where she can rest and contemplate…away from the noise of the media.  At first her mind can’t slow down…there’s this, then that and on and on.  Yet she stays there, in her cave, until finally all the thoughts seem like passing clouds, not noteworthy, nothing to react to, attach to or address…shhh.

Within this quiet, she begins to become aware of her own deep knowing.  Ah, yes.  Something that looks like a truth glimmers and then rises to the surface of her awareness.  She softly lingers with it.  Watches it.  Lets it inform her.  So that when she goes back, out into the world, she has something of value to offer.  She almost doesn’t need to speak it…because, now, she emanates what she has learned.

Shhh, go and find your cave…go there again and again in these times.

 

Yearning

now1This was one of my first attempts at merging art and poetry.  I write what has been termed personal poetry.  This sonnet was the first poem in a series of twenty-one poems that I was determined to write.  I illustrated the first two poems of this grouping.  It’s not so easy to do, I found.  This poem was written several years ago…the mood at the time.  Poetry is a great way to manage our various moods and emotions and to help us move beyond or integrate these passing energies.

I’ve written poetry for at least thirty years.  Within that span of time, there were periods when I didn’t write poetry.  The tangles that we can get ourselves into with words.  The things we tell ourselves.  As author Byron Katie has reiterated “Is it true?”  The things we say to others–did they receive it as we intended it?  The words we hear– are they fact, theory, opinion, judgment?  How do other people’s words–the media–color your own thoughts and opinions?  Where is the truth in these tangles?

That’s why I chose the paintbrush over the pen for a few years.  No words!

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This blog has become a commingling of art and words with which I feel comfortable these days.

 

 

Mermaids I

Jane Davenport is an artist, teacher, author and inspiring creative woman with a lovely online presence.

Not long after I began painting, I discovered her.  She has a signature drawing style.  Her paintings are imaginative, whimsical and expert.  I took a few workshops with her, one of which was called Vitamin Sea:  Mermaids!  Jane took the participants on an immersive journey into the discovery and painting of mermaids.  The Mermaid Queen below is my mixed media piece.Mermaid Queen1

 

Following is an interesting excerpt about the Selkie.  In many tales, Mermaids and Selkies are interchangeable.  I appreciate this type of mythology.  Typically, mythology is based in some truth.

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Then, there are the manatees, an endangered species.  Sailors at sea–I’m guessing they were a bit delirious–spotting  a manatee sunning on a rock sometimes mistook it for a mermaid!

What is your belief around mermaids, fictional or factual…magical or mythological?

I wonder if mermaids believe in us.

Changing Colors

In her memoir, An Unfinished Woman:  A Memoir, Lilian Hellman writes:

“I do regret that I have spent too much of my life trying to find what I called ‘truth,’ trying to find what I called ‘sense.’  I never knew what I meant by truth, never made the sense I hoped for.  All I mean is that I left too much of me unfinished because, I wasted too much time.”

I haven’t read her memoir…I’ve held onto this quote of hers for years.  Perhaps I clipped this from an article I read because I wondered if it was true for me.  Have I quested after the truth long and hard and what do I have to show for it?  Have I fruitlessly tried to make some sense of nonsense to no avail?

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Changing Colors
© by Christine O’Brien

The Goddess is the mistress of these cycles.
“I’ve found a sense of my place in the world,” I say.
as we share a pot of milky oolong tea on the deck of the boat.
The early evening sky is bathed in sunset hues.

“Sharing your gifts is the path to enlightenment,” you say.

We sail our boat in the protected bay.
“If you want, coast when the wind is right,” I offer.

Red and gold tint the sky.
“There is no black and white pendulum of truth,” you say.
“Crystal clarity is rare.”

Our wisest thoughts dissipate into the blue serenity of water
and the dove peace of this day.

The yet to be lived is our uncertain map.

“People’s dreams are where the nectar is,” you say dreamily.

Colors change regardless.

scenery`

“Truth”

I live in the mountains of northern California.  In early 2018, my sister, Kathy, moved one hour south of me at at a lower elevation.  Prior to moving, Kathy had fought cancer for several years.  She followed her own instincts in treating it.  In January, 2018, she opted for chemotherapy.

Following is an excerpt from my journal at this time.

Angels meet and greet.  Glances exchanged, hearts engaged, hands touch–sisters–when the end is near, the truth becomes clearer.  I couldn’t drive her to her first chemo appointment.  It was yesterday.  It was rescheduled from last week.  Last week, I had a good excuse–a big snowstorm.  My sister, lymphedema in her right arm–swollen beyond recognition.  A warrioress with literal wounds.  A bandage is swathed under her arm and across her chest.  This wound that hasn’t healed–the bandages need to be changed daily.

My word today is truth.  Her word is courage.

I told her that I couldn’t drive her because I couldn’t sit there beside her in the hospital as she underwent this intravenous process.  I wouldn’t have been the best support.  She thanked me for telling her my truth.  If we can’t be straight with one another now, when?

She got her hair cut short.  She asked me to knit her a hat, which I began working on immediately.  I painted her a picture of a woman surrounded by butterflies.  I think that she’s going to make it.  We need optimism.  Truth is, I don’t know very much.  The mystery is here, is in us, is around us, is us.  Nature helps.  I send her daily photos of the nature where I live to calm and center her.  To support her with beauty.

Truth is, some days I think that she’s doing better than me.  Truth is, love is a strange animal–she is always showing up at odd times, giving us opportunities.

Like that night I sat on a log beside my driveway, stargazing.  It was so peaceful, I shut my eyes.  A visiting cat sat beside me.  Out of the shrubbery beside me, a rustle. Opening my eyes, I see a creature emerging.  I can’t name it immediately.  And then,
Skunk.  A few feet apart, we stare at one another.  Neither of us felt threatened.  I watched him waddle away.  Truth is, it felt like love.  Does recognition equal love?

Truth as an expression of love.  I love you enough to tell you the truth.  Is there something that stands in the way of truth?  At least, I can try telling it to myself.  When my parents were in their declining years and the family was in chaos, I began a poem with this line:

“Truth lies in a shallow grave
while perspectives hang out everywhere…”

transformation.

 

Opposite Perspectives and Communication

I have a long-standing question:  HOW DO I COMMUNICATE WITH THOSE WHO THINK AND BELIEVE THE POLAR OPPOSITE OF WHAT I THINK AND BELIEVE?

AND,

IS THERE A REASONABLE WAY TO BRIDGE SUCH A GAP?

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Is it best to skirt the topics that could engage us in conflict?

Asserting one’s truth in a way that “annihilates” the other person’s truth, making them 100% wrong isn’t a way to foster communication.

In this world of diversity, variety, multiplicity, it seems unreasonable to expect that there is a one-size-fits-all point of view.  Humanity is more of a bouquet with each distinct flower asserting its right to be!

So, in agreeing to disagree, is that a way to bridge the gap?  Or if the gap is too large and
spanning it doesn’t seem possible, what then?

My younger and older brothers along with my older sister hold passionate political beliefs that are far right of my own.  The odd thing is that the leadership that they support isn’t very different from the way our father ruled the household.  This is the very father they rebelled against.  I wonder why they don’t see what I see.  Loving them, do I hold them at arm’s length especially when they forcefully deliver their diatribe?

I came across this quote as I was rearranging some papers this morning:

We are all 
wanderers
on the
earth
our
hearts are
full of wonder
and our 
souls are
deep with
dreams.

Gypsy Proverb

 

I’m open to your thoughts on the matter.

 

 

 

A Few Patterns of Communication

I wonder about this…when you engage in a conversation, do you look for ways to confirm what you already believe to be true or are you truly open to learning something different?  Even while listening to a lecture, I sometimes find within myself a resistance to new information.  Oh no, I might have to shift my hard won beliefs!

Seeking confirmation for what I already consider to be the truth, closes the door to discovering something else.  And if I am confirmed in what I already believe, is there sometimes an air of “evangelism” about me–if I believe that I know the truth, then do I think I have the right or responsibility to force my dogma on someone else?

When I’m in conversation with someone, am I really listening?  Or am I already planning what I’m going to say in response?  Often, our patterns of listening and conversing are so programmed that it’s hard to step out of the box of our behaviors to allow something or someone else in.

Or, have you noticed that sometimes, a conversation is more of a monologue than a dialogue?  I look into my own patterns and see if I’m guilty of stealing the stage and not allowing the other person to get in a word.  Or when a certain friend gives a soliloquy while we’re taking a walk in nature, I sometimes strategically interrupt and request “quiet time.”  This can help to bring awareness to the lopsided nature of the conversation.  And, it allows us to appreciate the beautiful surroundings.

In observing conversational patterns between men and women, I’ve noticed that some men take the role of “I’m the teacher,” while a woman may allow and even encourage that role.  Other times, she tries to contribute her own different but real wisdom, only to find herself disproved by the “dominant male’s absolute surety” about whatever it is they are discussing.  He might raise his voice or show some sign of physical prowess (body language) to emphasize his correctness.  It takes an aware male to help to create a safe atmosphere where true sharing can occur.  Is he able to inquire into her thoughts and ways of being and seeing without overpowering her?   It takes a super conscious male to understand that he may actually learn something from her!

 

Truthbound

Sometimes a quote stays with you.  This one is from the 1956 film, Anastasia, starring Ingrid Bergman:

“Truth serves only a world who lives by it.”

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In their later years, when things were so difficult with my aging parents, I was taking a creative writing class.  The instructor, a wise woman, witnessed my turmoil.  One day at the end of class, she took me aside.  She knew some of the challenges I was facing with my parents and family.  She challenged me to write a type of sonnet called a Sestina.  I didn’t know what a Sestina was.  I asked her for a timeline.  She said I should write it that evening.  I went home, studied the form and this poem virtually flowed out of me.  It was the perfect vehicle for what was happening in my life.  As art, poetry and writing can do, it shifted the energy for me.

Truthbound
© by Christine O’Brien

Truth lies in a shallow grave

while perspectives hang out everywhere.

Semantics argue with the unwary

as he admonishes “feelings aren’t facts.”

She remonstrates that mine is not the only opinion!

I inquire “How does one unearth truth?”

 

A sly animal is truth;

in its lair as silent as the grave.

Taunted by every brand of opinion,

each certain that his truth binds everyone, everywhere.

Scientists are burdened with facts.

Buying facts carte blanche is for the unwary.

 

My mother has been unwary,

living my father’s lies, denying truth.

Out in the cold, the stranded facts;

a story of lies they take to the grave.

Wounded healers, their children lay everywhere.

On unalterable facts I do base this sad opinion.

 

Really, what is there to opinion?

What warning can I give to the unwary?

The pain from his misdeeds is everywhere;

his forked tongue can’t speak the truth.

“Oh Dad, set yourself free before the grave

takes you and the unspoken, faltering facts.”

 

Weakening into old age, do they matter less, the facts?

That my mother be separated from him was my opinion.

Yet, there they are growing fragile together, headlong to the grave.

His rage bursts her peaceful ending, she the constant unwary.

In this sad scenario, can one find the concealed truth?

Fragments of perspectives and hurt feelings lay everywhere.

 

When division and broken hearts are everywhere,

are they less important now, the historical facts?

Is forgiveness the elixir of truth?

It seems opposition only supports an opinion

as egos argue in the territory of the unwary.

Let’s bury our perspectives in a grave.

 

Though facts, feelings and opinions are strewn everywhere

is it only the unwary who bind them to truth?

The grave is the end for all; is it wiser to pave the path with love?

 

Permissive Poetry

An intrinsic premise of poetry is the permission and freedom to TELL THE TRUTH!

When I first began writing poetry, I was in a state of unrest.  Old inner worlds were crumbling as new ones were being born.  What I had built my life structure upon was proving false.  What was trying to form was insubstantial and unknown.

Poetry can chart the course between what is known
and what is unknown.

Do you think this statement is true?  It isn’t the route for everyone, but it certainly has been the permission-giver for me.

In those days, while I might not speak my truth to my husband or father (both of whom inspired fear), I found I could write it (finally) in my journals.  And then, poetry entered my life.  A form that could hold both emotion and unravelling beliefs and the uncertainty of what was next.  Pretty amazing.  And it could do all of this in a succinct way!

Throughout known history, poetry has been the “go to” for sensitive souls.  The minstrels were the storytellers, often in rhyme or rhythm.  The poets were the sensitive touchstones of a particular era and culture.  They could talk about what was right, wrong, intolerable both personally and in the context of the larger society.

Poets and artists are the heart of any culture or era.  They are the sensitive underbelly and resonate with deepest feeling and often, what the culture needs to embody or embrace in order to healthfully evolve.

Writing Prompt:
This is my perception of permissive poetry.  Has poetry, whether you read it or write it yourself, given you permission to tell the truth?

artinaworldinperil