Poetry is that expression of Truth that can't otherwise be expressed. The kind that eludes prose and linear thought. And yet, these clouded and hidden aspects of Reality (of sub-reality?) aren't inexpressible. Upon remembering the memory triggering phrase I became inspired and excited! What if a group of people gathered, maybe once every month. Or just once to try it out for starters! A poetry group of sorts. Each person bringing a work that inspires or grounds them, that helps them remember something that easily escapes ordinary thought. A poem that contains the elusive seed of understanding and deep knowing. Sharing with each other so we begin to forget less. And original works too, if that was in alignment. I'd love to gather in such a way. Would you join in?
And then, after imagining such a soul-filled gathering, I wrote this. Quickly and swiftly. A little poem.
"For Zanne"
I knew a woman.
Lovely in her bones.
She was me
And her and you too...
But,
From time to time
She spun clear out of those bones
Preferring the familiar moans
The shrieks, the cries
Of Power misaligned
Out of time...or just in it, squeezed.
"Come back to your bones"
Whispers heard
Far and near
Grounded and centred
Oft remembered and clear
Stay here.
Stay.
Near.
Fear...
Can fly free.
Surrender and let be.
Stay in your lovely bones
Steady like the trees
Ingesting those fleeting moments
That float through you
Singing with the breeze
Grace and ease.
I know a woman.
So lovely.
Right in her very bones.
 |
| There is a bone in this fire! |
This is the original poem by Theodore Roethke:
"I knew a woman"
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek).
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin;
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing we did make).
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved).
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I’m martyr to a motion not my own;
What’s freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways).
