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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Protected: Overdraft 100—New Home

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