The authentic! Shadows of it sweep past in dreams, one could say imprecisely, evoking the almost-silent ripping apart of giant sheets of cellophane. No. It thrusts up close. Exactly in dreams it has you off-guard, you recognize it before you have time. For a second before waking the alarm bell is a red conical hat, it takes form.
The authentic! I said rising from the toilet seat. The radiator in rhythmic knockings spoke of the rising steam. The authentic, I said breaking the handle of my hairbrush as I brushed my hair in rhythmic strokes: That’s it, that’s joy, it’s always a recognition, the known appearing fully itself, and more itself than one knew.
The new day rises as heat rises, knocking in the pipes with rhythms it seizes for its own to speak of its invention— the real, the new-laid egg whose speckled shell the poet fondles and must break if he will be nourished.
A shadow painted where yes, a shadow must fall. The cow’s breath not forgotten in the mist, in the words. Yes, verisimilitude draws up heat in us, zest to follow through, follow through, follow transformations of day in its turning, in its becoming.
Stir the holy grains, set the bowls on the table and call the child to eat.
While we eat we think, as we think an undercurrent of dream runs through us faster than thought towards recognition.
Call the child to eat, send him off, his mouth tasting of toothpaste, to go down into the ground, into a roaring train and to school.
His cheeks are pink his black eyes hold his dreams, he has left forgetting his glasses.
Follow down the stairs at a clatter to give them to him and save his clear sight.
Cold air comes in at the street door.
The authentic! It rolls just out of reach, beyond running feet and stretching fingers, down the green slope and into the black waves of the sea. Speak to me, little horse, beloved, tell me how to follow the iron ball, how to follow through to the country beneath the waves to the place where I must kill you and you step out of your bones and flystrewn meat tall, smiling, renewed, formed in your own likeness.
Marvelous Truth, confront us at every turn, in every guise, iron ball, egg, dark horse, shadow, cloud of breath on the air,
dwell in our crowded hearts our steaming bathrooms, kitchens full of things to be done, the ordinary streets.
Thrust close your smile that we know you, terrible joy.
Photo by the blogger; if you copy, please link back.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."