beautiful things

seven straight days of physical pain, and i am desperate for relief. so today i sought beauty. when i lived in amsterdam i became so overwhelmed by the power of pain, by the sorrow and suffering, i shut the door to experiencing pain. life was easier that way. so the woman who wept in my lap when her two children were taken from her-- i didn't feel it. i will never forget it. i had a friend alex who i tried desperately to keep from a drug addicted boyfriend; i didn't feel anything when months later i saw her still with him. i will never forget it. but in shutting out pain, i shut another door. i spent a week in the breathtaking beauty of the black forrest. i didn't feel it. spent a month in the english countryside taking long walks down wooded paths. i didn't feel it.

today i found the music of my second favorite film score composer, zbigniew preisner. he composed the music to two of my favorite films (kieslowski's rouge and bleu). faulkner once said, "Given the choice between the experience of pain and nothing, I would choose pain". camus on beauty, "Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offering us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of time". janis joplin sang the blues. it's said that her mom once asked her why she screamed when she had such a pretty voice. it's because she had "soul", wanted "you to feel what i feel". "You know why we’re stuck with the myth that only black people have soul? Because white people don’t let themselves feel things. Man, you and any housewife have all sorts of pain and joy. You’d have soul if you’d give in to it.”

preisner's work is a thing of bitter beauty. listen and weep. it's that good. it's got soul. i've been listening to it this afternoon and i am transported by the beauty, by the music, and the pain seems.... trifle. it's like being in rivendell.

http://www.preisner.com/

"When despair for the world grows in me, and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be -- I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought or grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free." Wendell Berry

"Joy, sorrow, tears, lamentations, laughter, to all these music gives voice, but in such a way that we are transported from the world of unrest to the world of peace, and see reality in a new way, as if we were sitting by a mountain lake and contemplating hills and woods and clouds in the tranquil and fathomless water." Albert Schweitzer

1996 lake tahoe, view from heavenly by micah holcombe

writing life

everyday has been hard to write through. today is gonna be really bad. last night i wrote through intense pain. i had to take the day off yesterday to cope with the pain. stayed up half the night with it. got up at 1am to take a bath because of it. i rolled out of bed this morning 10 minutes before work because of it.

because i'm really bad with boundaries and saying no, and because of my people pleasing tendency, my desire to make everyone happy both out of selfishness (to make myself look good) and a desire to serve, i had a relapse.

i came to work to find a huge mistake i take the blame for. pride was wounded. all will be well. but i made a mistake.

i allowed by nosey nature to get the best of me this morning. and i wounded my pride. i made a mistake.

confusion is king today. i have no clue today. i don't know anything today. boycott beijing? elections in zimbabwe? darfur? nafta? tibet? housing crisis? failing economy? go to school? move to new york, mexico, costa rica, africa, amsterdam, england, vancouver? stay? am i good enough for publishing? am i ever going to be good enough? will i ever write for money? encouragement? hope? love? what's wrong with me?

so, i plod and write. i got to have lunch with my writer's group and the luci shaw (http://www.lucishaw.com/) yesterday. i'll write about that next week after this week of poetry is over. revision is key in writing i learned. and some reason i feel extra insecure about my writing. but i'll keep writing.

really, i just want to kiss and be kissed. hold and be held. love and be loved. be without pain. have energy. be strong again. and write.

challenges and valleys

it's a dreary rainy day today here in austin and the humidity is evidently as high as my curly hair. a grief induced headache finally disappeared this morning after a nice long visit to the chiropractor. visions of annihilating cancer cells dance through my brain as another one loved is diagnosed with the disease from hell (i imagine grabbing them and smashing them on a wall like rotten tomatoes, or whacking them with a giant mallet, or shooting them out of the sky with an ak 47, or decapitating them with a great heavy sword, or....) sorrow and depression grabbed me this weekend despite the lovely setting i was in (a house over looking the lake); and i couldn't write.

when i was in the throws of my strange 2 month illness, brie challenged me to keep writing from that place. it felt as if nothing good could come from my wearied fingers but i kept writing.

last week i decided to challenge myself to a poem a day for a week. i will start today and end sunday. even though this is not the best place to write from, i'll give it a try. life will always hand you sandpaper when you wanted linoleum. there will always be grey days when you wanted shiny ones. a poem a day. for a week. we shall see what will come. quantity produces quality? at least there will be quantity.

sir caedmon's plight

a highland claymore supported
a heavy sigh,
a dark horse rode west
without his knight,
armor lay rusted and worn,
and wild dogs run off with the kill, a pheasant,
today's nourishment now feast for headless hounds;
a bow and arrow broken by samson's might.
clothes tattered and torn
barely shielding evening's dreary fog
from saturating bone and soul;
his face weary from travel,
his heart dismayed,
his pride wounded,
his countenance contrite,
the fallen knight waited by the road.

he knew not where the road led
but he knew where it led not;
he knew not what lay ahead
but he knew what did not;
uncertainty stayed his steps
and fear pulled muscles and sinews
from any forward movement,
for regret and remorse
he wore like a cloak.

his fire smoldered by soaking rains,
cold now became master;
he was not defeated
and he was strong for this kind of battle;
but yesterday's battle
dethroned him,
bested him
like sir gawain's shame;
all had fled
and the fallen knight agonized
all he had lost.

with no meat or mead to sate hunger and chill,
the knight set out
down the road through heathered fields
and stony hills;
he could find provisions in this wild land,
he could hunt and kill;
a stag ran past,
and another.
a coney skipped the path followed by a clever fox;
game was plenty;
the knight could survive here.
the hills could hide and protect, shield and defend;
pelts could be made to blanket the cold,
fires could be kept.
self sustainment was possible in these untamed hills.
the knight could survive.

ten miles west
a banquet was prepared
where snowdrops adorned a well worn table
and provisions were plenty;
a soft whisper called for return
while hearty hands snapped peas and kneaded bread;
a fire was raised blazing
and song could be heard over the distant murmuring brook;
lamb prepared,
the almonds ripe,
fresh apples filled the basket,
and pie steamed on the sill;

a warm hearth waited
while the door remained open.

woman worthy

to a sister fringed and frayed from life's rags, afraid of being unknown and unloved

my love,
your eyes carry your spirit's wearied wear and i hear
you ask in words spoken otherwise,
loved?
cherished?
honored?
haved and held?
beauty surrendered to spoiled milk stains
and youth's fancies and dances gone with
soiled hands and chapped cheeks;
friends now fading;
time constrained to
serving others' mouths and wounds
and life's rhythmic demands.

seek deep within
and remember,
rise from these ashes
as woman worthy.
you are worthy of love
you are worthy of cherishing.
you are worthy of being held.
know yourself and stand in truth;
you are not alone.

seek the beauty,
mark the joys,
reminisce past confidences
and choose to walk in their light,
for my dear, you are woman worthy.

remember your strength?
remember your adventures?
remember your heart?
remember the spirit calling you?
remember the mountains and rivers and waterfalls?
remember your voice?
remember your fluid tongue and the languages it loved?
remember your eye that captured visions not seen by others?
remember play?

put behind the lies,
the words that linger to bind you to this
life of self lost.
put behind the feeling
that significance is found in the glory of other's praise;
search for it in the voice that never changes,
the one who dances over you because he calls you
daughter.
put behind the mantle that
has been crusted by other's shit and shame,
the mantle that weighs you down
and hides starry eyes and widened smiles.

beautiful one, you are woman worthy.

somber meditation

"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. "

-John Donne

strawberries and cream in a snowstorm

today there is happiness
today there is dancing
today cherry blossoms bloom within
today feet tap just a little bit more
today cheeks ache with smiling
today joy radiates
today hope rises

why?

vacation is at hand.

just waiting for the cherry on top
to topple this mile-high whipped cream joy over
in exuberant giddiness.