pearls

Willed, Done

Posted in notes, nothing special by maggie on 2016/11/30
       

A myriad poems I have written.

Many more I have spoken or sang without writing down. 
And many more I have fragments of, 
waiting to be tied to the rest. 
And countless more I have seen or thought of 
or dreamed 
or known to be there. 
All within reach. 
But these myriad I have committed to ink here 
and in my other books.

A myriad poems I have written during the past decade. 
Slightly longer, as a month is to the cycle of the moon,
as the circumference of a circle is to the line across its center, 
as a man's ten is to a woman's three times three. 
A myriad poems I have written during the past four thousand days.

Four thousand days ago today 
I lost my first muse to a cruelly abusive early death. 
She left me pieces of poems she had to leave behind, 
and she sent me to her mentor. 
A decade ago today after I had found in him a mentor my own, 
he pointed me toward a casting call that led me to my new muse. 
One thousand nine hundred days ago today 
my mentor began a new life 
after walking through death for us a dozen times.  
Forty four months ago today I lost another kindred spirit 
and partner in crime for my poetry and my devotions, 
again to an untimely death.  
And in those four thousand days 
and through that decade 
and with these past nineteen hundred days 
and their forty four months, 
a myriad poems have I breathed through my pen.

Credit Nancy for the fire. 
Credit Adrien for the discipline. 
Credit Sara for the breath.  
And for the life and the love, credit one who wishes not to known.

Still in grief after losing Nancy, 
ten years ago I initially had every intention of quickly following her, 
after first obtaining from Adrien the archives 
she had entrusted to him to be held for her daughter. 
Adrien sensed the risk I posed to myself 
and pointed me to a 100-poem challenge, 
then specifically bringing to my attention a casting call 
made almost simultaneous to my challenge launch. 
I met Sara as I was working on those 100 poems.  
The rituals instilled by that poetry challenge 
and the spell woven by that casting call 
and the fun I had with Sara 
saved my life and reignited my heart.  
Those 100 poems were and will always be the core 
of the myriad I have written around them.

Those 100 poems I began at this very moment a decade ago, 
I dedicated to Nancy and the faith she and I shared. 
I wrote those 100 exclusively in sonnet form, 
reflecting the fortnight of the days in half a moon's cycle, 
from new moon to full moon in the odd-numbered sonnets, 
then from full moon returning to new moon 
in each succeeding even-numbered sonnet. 
Reflecting the continuity of the moon's passages, 
each sonnet was connected to both its predecessor and its successor, 
as in a close mirror. 
With the full circle of sonnets representing 50 moons, 
the images I worked with were designed to approximate a 4-year leap cycle
centered around the moment I first met Nancy, 
although I doubled up on images and memories and expectations 
to suit each fortnight's particular timing. 
I wove in cycles of our stars, 
made love to many of Nancy's own poems, 
collaborated with Sara, 
and blended my voice with my muses both old and new 
as best I could.  
Throughout, 
the ritual served me 
for devotion to our one Muse.

Those who choose to wish me ill 
have falsely accused me of speaking in riddles, 
of employing poetry's holy language of metaphor to conceal. 
Our faith has held our knowledge in secret from the earliest. 
Such secrets are not fashioned to withhold knowledge 
nor to kill it, 
but to preserve it 
and to believe it 
and to give it new life 
from one to another. 
Those who choose not to accept me for who I am 
have falsely laughed at my faith 
and made fun of my words as if they were mere games. 
Our faith has been rejected by countless of every people. 
I do not write seeking publication or audience, 
no hidden agenda. 
So also I crave the acceptance of none, 
not even that of my mentor nor my muse, 
none save the favor of our Muse.

For reasons related to my rituals 
and for those with whom I have been writing, 
I consider this moment as the midpoint of a 20-year cycle, 
as also the midpoint of an 8,000-day period of my writing, 
embracing 3,800-day periods and 88-month periods of life and love.

As dreamed, so willed.
As willed, so created.
As created, so done.
As done, so blessed.

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Afterthought 134—Aubade

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2015/06/14

  
  
                St. Jacobs, Ontario
                   December 2012
      One hour of grace. We may now extend morning by our home clock. Timely e-mail, thank him his watch over our aheads, where we'd drive            if you allow. Keep our connection until we're out the door. Something might change. Give us sign to stay. I'll make a call and this excursion north needn't end            on threat and doubt. But you've moved on. She went too. Only he waits. While I don't pack up until I've not enough time to go back for something left behind she'd meant            me give to you.
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