Spring has been gentle and abundant this year, in the outer world. We’ve had rains, unusually, and so everything is blooming and shooting and there are baby birds in almost every tree it seems! In the inner world there is growth, too, and harvest but this can’t happen without loss, death and some suffering, it seems. There is that which clings and it doesn’t help, I keep on discovering, to wish it would stop clinging.
Here’s a poem-thing from last night:
‘Say something true,’ the voices said
Said, or clamoured? Or whispered?
What can be heard over the roar of water?
What can be heard over the din of frogs?
Only the mind, the infinite voices of the mind.
All the friends and enemies you ever had
Preserved in aspic or honey or amber
Doomed to replay your version of them
Your pale imitation
Your creative interpretation of them
And still you keep collecting more,
for heaven’s sake!
Maybe if you collect a thousand, a million
they’ll drown each other out?
Ah, but there remain those potent ones
Those that stained your soul
You can’t bleach them out
No matter how many washes of white noise
You douse them in.
Last night, for instance, I dreamed I awoke
in a strange bed
In a hotel room, high up white
Around my neck was a string and attached to it
was a tag
And this tag lay where I would see it
when first I opened my eyes.
On it was half-written the name
of my girlhood sexual abuser
The other half continued onto the sheet
to the sleeping body
Everything was alarm bells and sirens
I had to get out before he woke
Had to had to had to
But as dreams do to it
My body was a sack of sand
Barely able to move and only
with the greatest effort
Slowly, so slowly
Desperate, so desperate
The sheet over me was made of lead
I freed myself
And then I was running
For the rest of the dream.
Am I still running now?
Is that all I do, day in, day out?
Is that all any of us are doing?
All day long
All night long
All life long?
This morning when I finally arose
Almost as heavy as the dream
I found a seat in the sun
And gazed at green
And yellow irises
opening in the pond
I let my head fall back
Exposed my throat to the sky
Back, back my neck so
it might snap
But the intensity
was a relief
Was a word
I thought of beheadings
And that if it could be like this
It might just be a relief,