I felt inspired to write some fun poems. The sun is peeping through the dense of green, following the breeze through the leaves. It’s a happy feeling, this summer evening.
Fibonacci built a house with a spiral staircase to infinity, but the hearty choke is dressed in organic mathematics. The tenebrous of the heart mulls its elegant bracts that look green to me, but it's pulpy under the choke of design. So when she scents it with rosemary, spices it with garlic and sets it in the kiln, it turns like the stuff homes are made of. She thinks it's overcooked, I think it's simply the spiral of time.
These sandals are a personal artifact and I like the beadwork so much. I promised to write a poem to them, so here it is but I consider it a work in progress.
But Musonius, you had the expanse of the Aegean in exile. I have the constraints of turquoise on my feet that have been too stoic to seek sand. Poetry is not a luxury say some, nor philosophy in beach thongs. I say sandals are a privilege because the artisan in Nairobi fashioned countless hours into beads on leather, so I may feel grand on a sofa.
At a friend’s place yesterday, these peaceful artifacts were out in the garden …
Butterfly prayers flutter in an afternoon breeze, pluck chords in the heart, sublimating memories congealed into a coal tar viscosity. Filamentous yearnings in a mycorrhizae of connection sparked a universal solfège and the heart is startled to hear these invocations from an older time making their way like a bodhi ivy spiraling the calm of stone. They seem to whisper of syllables exhausted in prayers and poems. Leaves in The Book they say, are the poetry of Ivy prayers.
It must be a spiritual salve to have faith in God or in the three universal truths of Buddhism. I find solace in neither so I try and find ways sometimes to align my intrinsic compass with plants, to their organismic life force and vitality. Having no other crutch of faith and belief, this is where I invariably turn to in gratitude, happiness or even despair.
Prior to the pandemic and the enforced isolation, I recollect a few times the lack of poetry to my consciousness was akin to finding myself in a swamp teeming with the poisonous, a general lack of air and a stuttering inner voice. It took the mask of the pandemic to notice once more that the marshlands are a place where the cattails thrive, there are krill in the tearful swamp, and Terrapins make light of thick clay, that air is everywhere and free to breathe. The poetry returned in the leaves, twigs, Mulberry, blanket of fall, coniferous needles, Spartina, the winter coat of squirrels,the sparring of spring blossoms, a universal solfège.
I find that the living, filigree themselves along the mycorrhizae of connection, I use the term as a metaphor and not in the fungal sense. It is not exclusive tribes or frenzied mobs, or diverse networks of societies I think of, it is simply the fabric of life consciousness we all attach to perhaps, the kind that makes us tune into the thoughts of the collective, imagine words before they are spoken, have visions of the future or pasts we don’t recollect having lived, conjure knowledge we think, out of thin air but that actually exists alongside us. Living organisms embody this spiritual or ‘name it what you may’ in ways that language hasn’t yet found a way to adequately describe, no poems, no prose, no mantra.