On A Final Day

The sky
is in its mirror-like phase,
silver-coated glass
echoing the distilled grief of dawn.
Somewhere in a garden
of Joshua trees we stand,
marble figments of dream, statues
molded this way by our indifference.
Even as we awaken
the chiseled splendor prevails
and the wasted stone,
heaped ashen like a pile
of breath we should have sparked,
the fluster of excitement

lovers share
despite those hours
which have veiled the clock's face
in shadow, fallen sluggishly
through iron-wrought fingers
that could not grip time
with a purpose. Their weight was transient;
yet, we remained dense, forms of silence
I fear cannot be moved. The beginning
has come too late, but light burns through the glare
fuels the horizon with a star.
______________________________________________________________________


Note -- Picture is called "Romance" by Artist, Linda Bergkvist. Her provocative work can be viewed at this on-line gallery,
http://www.furiae.com/index.php?view=galleryda Bergkvist.

Airmid

(A few days before Samhain.)

The wind unbraids her hair
and lets it wander
into a woolen updfraft, a cloak
she wears near dawn.

One hand carries a pouch
where herbs exhale
their pungent scent,

the other pulls down
a string of stars, a sinew of light
from this holy leg
of October's joumey North.

Slowly, she laces the bag
with her stellar cord and faces
the distant cliff
slightly eroded, casting its stone dice
into the sea.

A toss of blue shale,
a shake of blossomed weeds,
and she gambles on magick
invoking the body to heal
and softly breathe in
the pipe song of spinning leaves, passing souls.
__________________________________________________



Goddess of the Growing Green: Airmid of Ireland
By Erynn Rowan Laurie

Previously published in SageWoman #25, Spring 1994

The Celts honored hundreds of deities throughout the British Isles and Western Europe. A few are known through tales and poetry, but of most, little is known beyond the names, taken from inscriptions in stone. When thinking of Irish healing Goddesses, most minds turn immediately to Brighid, but she is not the only healing Goddess of the Irish. The stories of Airmid are few. She is mentioned only two orthree times in all the translated Irish tales. Airmid is an herbal healer, part of a family of healers among the Tuatha de Danann, one of the groups of Gods and Goddesses of Pagan Ireland. Together with her father Dian Cecht and her brother Miach, a God of surgery, she tended a sacred spring that brought the dead back to life. The tales tell us:
"The slain and mortally wounded were cast into a healing well over which Dian Cecht, his sons Miach and Octriuil, and his daughter Airmed sang incantations, and all were restored to full vigor." [1]

As a healer, Airmid surpassed her father in power, for while Dian Cecht replaced the severed arm of the de Danann king Nuadha with one of silver, she and Miach regenerated the flesh arm to perfect health. The healing charm they recited remains in Celtic folk use even today.

Bone to bone
Vein to vein
Balm to Balm

Sap to Sap
Skin to skin
Tissue to tissue

Blood to blood
Flesh to flesh
Sinew to sinew

Marrow to marrow
Pith to pith
Fat to fat

Membrane to membrane
Fibre to fibre
Moisture to moisture [2]

Folk tradition is powerful, remaining in the memory of the people for generations after the reason for the traditions die away. There may be no explanation, only that "this is the way it has always been done." Such is the power of the growing green. Cut down a rowan tree and a dozen young saplings arise from the stump to take its place.

As the origin of the charm was lost from memory, so the secret of the healing herbs was lost to the people as well. Dian Cecht, jealous because he could not compete with Miach's surgical skills or Airmid's powers of regeneration, killed his son and confused the herbs that grew from his grave so that mortal humans would not share in the power and immortality of the Gods.

After that, Miach was buried by Dian Cecht, and three hundred and sixty-five herbs grew through the grave, corresponding to the number of his joints and sinews. Then Airmed spread her cloak and uprooted those herbs according to their properties. Dian Cecht came to her and mixed the herbs, so that no one knows their proper healing qualities unless [she] taught them afterwards. And Dian Cecht said "Though Miach no longer lives, Airmed shall remain"

Airmid's herbs, spread upon her cloak, were scattered by her father. Yet Airmid still remembers the powers of the herbs, and can teach us their secrets. Through her, we may learn to use and appreciate the sacred power of plants and healing waters. Her medicinal herbs were powerful, offering cures for every part of the body. The symbolic number 365 tells us that, with time, Airmid's herbs can heal all wounds. Airmid's herbs have power throughout the solar year, whether in seed and root, bud and stem, or flower and leaf. Fresh in spring or dried in the dead of winter, the herbs have effect. She works through nature's cycles, and through the energy that connects the body's joints and sinews in lines of power.

Is Airmid, the Goddess of medicinal plants, only a healer of the body? The simple answer is no; the healing power of every green place looms palpably within it. We have but to stand in a grove of trees or listen to the rush of a fern-circled waterfall to feel the weight of our spiritual and emotional wounds begin to lift from our shoulders. The healing power of plants goes far beyond their physical effect on human biochemistry. When we delight in the color and scent of blooming flowers, the heady green scent of pines and cedars, the healing power of Airmid is there. In our cup of honeyed tea, she resides. She dwells in forest and field, and for those of us living in cities, she dwells in the potted herbs of garden shops, the apartment window box, and the stubborn yellow dandelion pushing out of a crack in the sidewalk. The essence of Celtic religion is found in contradictory states, in the neither/nor, the liminal fringe. Airmid is that Celticly odd balance of toughness and delicacy that manifests in the blackberry -- bright, fragile blossom and tangling thorn. She creates life from death, bringing healing from the grave.

A Composer In The Park

Recently, I received a letter from my French friend and artist, Marie-France, describing her surroundings in Paris. She commented that Spring had come to this historic park located five minutes from her condo. And this place was also noted for its beautiful trees and artistic visitors. One of those visitors in the past had been the famous composer/singer -- Gilbert Becaud. She inquired if I knew any of his songs or had ever heard of him. Unfortunately, I had not and was a little embarassed by my lack of knowledge. So, Google came in very handy.

I was fasinated by what I discovered. He was known as Monsieur 100000 volts for his energetic performances and charisma. He frequented the music halls and cafes of Paris during the 1950's and 60's. His melodies were very popular with the French audience and extended their popularity to the US, the UK and other European countries. His most famous songs included "Nathalie" and "Et Maintenant". I was drawn immediately to the lyrics and whimsical beat of the first one. Nathalie is a song of love ripening between a Russian guide and her adoring tourist.


As a poet, I wrote a scene from Monsieur Becaud's older life. It opens with him strolling in a city park, still dapper and filled with the vitality of music. He passes by some old men playing petangue, a game of lawn bowling, who discuss his presence there. They contemplate his reason for the afternoon walk and lead into the possibility of a composer searching for his lost muse. Details like red geraniums and a gold foil wrapper provide a sudden flash back to the day he first met Nathalie. It was a cold day in Red Square where the domed towers of the Krelim guarded the plaza with regal silence. She was not a guide as suggested by his song, but a blonde girl who simply turned around to ask him, a convenient stranger, to light her cigarette. The unlit smoke was held like a piece of chalk, ready to sign their encounter with red sparks of heat, (ellipses of fire), that would pause the scene and leave him thinking about what might happen next. Flirtation dominated the moment but words were omitted and things were just assumed. The flame generated between them and that flare emitted by the cigarette, became points of suspension inferring more, this romance would continue. Their meeting would be a fateful one. And in the end, it led to the creation of his beloved and imaginative chanson, Nathalie.


COMPOSER IN THE PARK

Devant moi marchait Nathalie
Elle avait un joli nom, mon guide
Gilbert Becaud


Along Spring's plaza of trees
he still walks
charged by volts of sunlight
and old music hall tunes.

He wears a white shirt
with a marlin-blue tie
as he moves past
some hunched men
bowling on the lawn.

They grumble
about the game and then look up
questioning their neighbor's
afternoon stroll.
Some insist he is here
to simply exercise.
others say he is searching
for traces of Nathalie,
the Russian muse
he immortalized
in his lyrics --- years ago.

As the players gossip,
their pétangue feet
relaxed with the break,

he notices the red
geraniums blooming
near a stone fountain
and the candy wrapper
left glittering on a bench.

No chocolat
but its gold foil
flashes to the domed roofs
of the Kremlin and the curling
glamour of a girl's hair.

She turns around
and asks for a light, her cigarette
poised like slender chalk
to sign the cold air
and their encounter
with ellipses of fire....the rest
of the picture drawn
later in a café and his song.
________________________________________

Epigram is translated from the French song, Nathalie, meaning – Nathlie walked in front of me. She had a pretty name , my guide.


The art is by French artist, Marie-France Riviere, entitled, "Au revoir Paris" See more of her work here, www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Click on Nathalie to hear the song sung in French with lyrics visually shown in both French and English.

It Began With A Mouse

scampering across my breakfast nook floor. The first time, he fleeted by I only saw a shadow from the corner of my eye. It was so sudden, I could not tell whether it was mouse, a house-trapped sparrow or even a hobgoblin. I was not disturbed by the incident but rather intrigued. A few days later, I literally saw the gray creature
scurrying across my living room heading for some dark hole behind the stereo speakers.

I became rather amused and remembered a delightful poem I had read on Poetry Foundation called "The Paris Mouse" by Sandra Gilbert. She also had an audio version of this poem where she explained the origins of its inspiration. Namely, a bevy of mice in the walls of her Parisian flat. One decided to scavenge for food in her kitchen and she expressed her angst and humor in this poem.

I kept thinking about my encounter with the mouse and my first impression of what it could have been. That depended on the mood I was in. If I had been wearing elegance in both perfume and dress, I might have wanted something more quaint, more agilely whimsical like a bird, an acrobatic sparrow. A plain mouse would have seemed dowdy, even commonly droll. Then I imagined a woman posing in a Parisian atelier for a sculptor. Stripped of her defenses and her clothing, she would need to attain an air of perfect stillness. She would want the pose to be beautiful and inspiring. If this gray varmit suddenly skuttled across the room, she might only see the shadow of something. And that is the key phrase, "The shadow of somethng". Keeping in tune with her fine posture, her small repast of fine cheese and fruit supplied by her employer, and the ambience of a "sculptured afternoon", she would define it as the song bird, the charming acrobat. Or she might see it as imagination's trick, her own inhibitions stowing away to the corner of obscurity while she modeled nude with confidence and pride. It became the magic of possibility and how the mind could or would react to the suddeness of motion and light



MAYBE

I dwell in possibility
Emily Dickenson


Maybe

she called the scampering shadow
seen from the corner of her eye
a pert sparrow, a cirque du soleil
acrobat --

because she was wearing
Chanel perfume
and her shoulders became
a valence
showing off the sheer light
of afternoon ---

as she posed naked
for a sculptor
at 16 Place de La Boheme.

Maybe,

her mind mellowed
by champagne grapes and grazing
on white slices of Brie,
made her deny

how a silly mouse
flitted across the floor
trying to trick the garden cat
or waiting to snatch
the leavings of another day.

Or maybe

the mouse was not real
and her modesty shaped
this impulse to find
a niche and hibernate
while she sat shimmering
on a stool that possessed
three legs
and a liberal point of view.
_________________________________________

Note -- Artwork is called "Pose d'atelier" by French artist, Marie-France Riviere.
www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Considering California's Drought And Her House-bound Ants

My cabinets hold
an open view --- clear pine
attracting a caravan
of ants. Nothing sweet
lingers there and still they come.

I have sprayed the surface
with orange oil, festooned
the corners with mint and bay leaves
but still they come, servants to the queen
and thieves crawling around this tall city
of cans and bottles.

Someone told me to sprinkle salt
along their trail. I'm thinking
about the power of that ancient spice.
Maybe, it will dissolve this army
and turn its harlot empress
into a pillar of thirst,

lead her wingless
into the land of Lot's wife
where she slowly dies
at the feet of a woman

whose shape is crystallized rock,
(no desert pietà) and the wind's tongue
sharp, cutting through any dreams
of green shade or rain..

Afghan Daughter

My father lives
inside his opium pipe
dreaming he is a hawk
or a kite expanding
into a sky that overlaps
the mountains of Islam.

He does not remember
how my mother struggled
to give birth, or how
he and my uncles tied
her body to a ladder
and carried a pregnant woman
to the clinic on foot.

Later, the ladder broke
and he used it for firewood.
Splinters of my mother's agony
peeled off the sycamore's rung
and curled into red cinders, eye lashes
of the damned.

Her death was tallied
in the ledger's column
as a common loss.
She had produced girls.
The hillside goats and fig trees
yielded more promise.

Tonight, my father doesn't smoke
He simply breathes
as dust blows through the window
and the curtain shrugs
in the wind, a woman's breath
lamenting

what is left of this house,
who matters and must be seen.
I stand in front of him,
my hands tightly clasping
a book of poems.

_____________________________________________________________________________________


Two nights ago on CNN, they featured a documentary on the life style of Afghan women called, "Lifting The Veil". I was profoundly moved by the hardship and humiliating status these women bear. Yet, they also showed a resillient spirit among some of the women defying the system and risking their lives in the process. This induced me to compose the above poem. The painting is by a young, Afghan artist called Nablia. Her work and the work of other Afghan women asserting their
individuality and expressing themselves through art can be found at this website. The collection is extraordinary, a breathtaking mixture of scenes and perspectives that evoke the inner soul and creative nature of these women. It is definitely worth a visit at ---
http://www.ccaa.org.af/images/Female_Artists/index.php

Also, if anyone wished to catch highlights of that CNN special on youtube, please click here --
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFn9ZpWn7SM

The Fair One

The Fair One

(Translated loosely from the scent of Dolce Gabbbana perfume.)


Catch her running
in the London rain
as umbrella and raincoat
loan her the white bloom
of a tulip marking
this sky,
this place,
this moment
with ingénue charm.


Polished blonde,
she appears this way
rushing headlong
into life, excused
for her lateness, her tantrums
stemming from tiny buds
of inconvenience.

Don’t ask why.
She just is
lovely and slim,
diminutive
against gaudy dreams
and this massive garden
of green
leaves and envy
lining streets that lead
to her studio ---

where she sings
and judges other performers;
their looks weighing
far less than perfect
on the platinum scales
of screen or stage.

So catch her running
in the London rain,
salt her hemline and see
if the songbird still flies
and holds the crowd
spellbound, her shadow crossing
over their wingless feet.