Macbeth Does Not Remind Me of Pasta

I walked 40 minutes to stand in line for a coffee and confetti

sprung to my mind.

I never think about confetti, or spaghetti, or yeti;.

Perhaps it is the last two syllables…

An unusual allergy for which there is no remedy.

No remedy for love, or lust, either, one of them most of all.  Ah,

Those things for which there’ll be no remedy, no cure, no surcease,

Until the last two syllables of recorded time…for instance,

That enchanting young girl with the big shoes,

It is the shoes which cause despair, all else

Endurable if it were not for them.

To live is to embrace what you cannot endure, and, therefore,

Tread water frantically,

Knowing you shall soon be spat upon by a noodle end;

Life is pasta sauce on a clean shirt,

Only noticed at its most embarrassing.

I think that, unfortunately, a wookie is really a yeti,

So I can no longer watch Star Wars,  just as

I can no longer use a three-hole punch…

The little bits all look like confetti,

Impossible to vacuum—thus, I avoid weddings.

Yet, (or yeti) all things being unequal in nature,

I am driven to confront those last two syllables

Just in case, recorded somewhere on mp3 or granite

Desperately twirling the spaghetti about the great fork of existence,

Knowing you shall soon be spat upon by a vagrant noodle end;

Life is pasta sauce on a clean shirt,

Only noticed at its most embarrassing…

I think a wookie is really a yeti,

So I can no longer watch Star Wars.

Nor can I use a three-hole punch,

The little bits all look like confetti.

I spurn weddings, therefore.

Yet, or yeti, all things being somewhat unequal,

I am driven to confront those last two syllables,

Of time, recorded on mp3 or granite slabs on Sinai,

Just in case the end of the world is spaghetti;

I must, therefore, devise a sauce.

 

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Another from Anais Nin

Quoted in the novel   he’s gone….by Deb Caletti,  this great quote from Anais Nin:

 

We don’t see things as they are, but as we are.

 

Rhonda Poem 3: Beltane

She met me at the door,

My arms were full of daffodils.

I watched her rummage for a vase.

“Here, this one will do.”

She held an Okanagan wines carafe.

 

She set it on the bedside table,

And drew me down with her.

As we lay, she glanced at the table.

“Look, ” she said, “the label!”

‘Summerland Riesling’.

She laughed.

The Summerland was the celtic afterlife.

Daffodils in Summerland…what symmetry!”

She said, “Springtime to winter…

It’s an omen, my friend.”

 

I already felt cold.

Must it be?”  I asked.

 

Trust me,” she whispered.

 

Out of the corner of my eye

The blossoms shone like the sun

All the afternoon.

 

 

 

Anastasia’s song

Upon reading 50 Shades of Grey, I decided to rewrite a verse I penned some time ago.  By the way, I do not feel 50 Shades is great literature, possibly not even good literature, but, it is important literature, in that it shows elements of  human relationships before this confined to porn pages.

We tend to forget that in the 19th century, there were brothels devoted to the exercise of sado-masochism.  Spanking, or birching…these were known as the ‘English vices’.   People as diverse as T.E. Lawrence and Percy Grainger were devotees of the cane.  It is just a choice we make, some of us, anyway, those not bent that way by childhood abuse.

(By the way, for those interested in the literary aspects of s/m, Sophie Morgan’s ‘Diary of a Submissive’, is a stirring document.  Do prepare a cold shower, if you are going to read it alone.)

Actually, my only firm objection to 50 Shades is its unreality.  Let’s face it, most dominants are not billionaires like Grey, able to give their subs or bottoms top of the line Audis, most are folks just like you.   Ana, however,  is replicated in the male and female everywhere.   I await eagerly a male version of something like ‘Diary of a Masochist.’

I became fascinated by the whole business very early in my adult life, but, was far too chicken to explore deeply.  But, I thought about it a lot.  What is the zing, the fascination with accepting pain and humiliation?  Is it possibly that the infliction of pain on one causes an awakening of the ‘fight or flight’ feeling, there is a release of something like pheromones when the body is pushed to the limit?

I do not know.   Of course.   But, out of that came this poem.  I decided to write a poem from the point of view of the bottom, or submissive.   I called it:

The invulnerable

Do you wonder that I seek,

The keen edge of pain welcomed,

The service of that other beauty?

 

There is no light without darkness,

No pleasure that does not begin or end in pain.

Do you marvel that I reach out thus,

To deny the loss, take hold of the losing?

 

That is how to take command:

When the doors to pain are opened

Fear is all that is lost.

 

As in the body, so in the soul.

 

When I am before you, an offering,

I am triumphant.

When the sacrifice is taken

I am victorious.

 

Come.  Inflict.

Your command,

It is mine.

In truth

My hand holds the whip.

 

Now,

Would you taste my wisdom?

Come then,

Lie here.

 

Conan’s patron god

Conan mostly invokes his name, only in curses…”by Crom!”  that sort of thing.  But, there is enough in the Conan stories to suggest the nature of the Cimmerian god.  One of many, of course, most peoples throughout history and before have believed in many gods and goddesses.  Perhaps it is a subtle realization that a universe as capricious as ours had to be made by committee, that no one really is in charge.   Therefore, make a deal with a god, and, if he or it or she comes through, great, if not, choose another deity.  The notion that the bad things that happen to us are “sent to test us” would have been ludicrous.  Surely the gods already know whether we are going to pass or not.

In some way, Crom reminded me of aspects of the god Odin, a god still celebrated among pagans in the Norse and Germanic traditions.

Anyway.  I always kind of liked the idea of a god who simply gave gifts at birth, and then left us alone to make our way.  Conan’s patron deity, Crom, is like that in the Conan stories.  When I was even more a space cadet than I am now, I once dreamed of creating a religion based on Crom.   But what the hell, he wouldn’t care.   He might even get pissed off.

So I wrote this instead.

Crom’s Way

It is said I live only in books;

If so, I am in good company.

Nothing lives only in books,

Unreal except between covers.

Although, books offer only a representation,

An image of a shadow in the author,

Not the thing, itself.

 

So,

My home is a great hall,

High on a misty mountain.

I am Crom,

And I have little to do with you.

At birth, my spirit puffs gifts into you,

Gifts of strength and hardiness,

Strength to hold and strength to slay.

What?  I do not care.

I am Crom,

Most honest of all gods,

For how, or whether you use my gifts

Means little to me.

Although, it does please me to see men,

Yes, and women, too

Rejoicing in their power.

 

Some pray to me for help,

To them I send curses.

No god can help cowards or weaklings.

Who can help those

Who have forgotten what they already have?

 

Some pray to release their power,

They say:  You have given me all I need,

Now may I draw it from my heart,

And if you do not care to help,

Get out of my way!  To hell with you!

 

These are my true children.

 

 

Odin

I have always had an attraction to the Norse gods.  I grew up reading their stories.  Somehow, the grand tragedy of the Norse myths…the fact that the gods, themselves, faced the same end as the rest of creation, appealed to my heart.  The notion of an omnipotent, omniscient deity who had no beginning and no ending was beyond my feeble intellect.  In the Norse myths, the universe begins in chaos, and form emerges from it.  The gods are a product of that process, just as we are.  Their tales entrance me, especially the tales of the ordeals that the god Odin endured:  plucking out an eye for the power of clairvoyance, hanging, spear-wounded, on the tree of the universe to learn the runes.  Odin goes under many names…Wanderer, Ill-worker,  Alfather, among others.  I think Conan’s god Crom represents at least an aspect of  Odin, or, I like to think that.  Anyway, over the years I have often attempted to work with the visions that come to me from the north…the sacred direction!  Here is a vision of  Odin

Valkyries at Save-On

I am constantly returning to tales and visions of the gods of my distant ancestors in northwest Europe…the spiritual ways of a people before the shadow of the cross fell across our hearts.  It is a constant.  (witness my page:  Asatru proverbs)  I am drawn also to the literary spinoffs of those old visions…like the vision of the god Crom in the Conan stories.  From time to time, in this blog, I will settle into that groove.  Like now.  This one is kind of funky.  I saw three blondes in a Save-On parking lot, and immediately thought of Valkyries…I often think of valkyries when I see blondes.  I thought about taking something for that, but decided the disease was more fun than the cure.  Apocolypse Now and the Ride of the Valkyries!  Yes!  Remember their song, their war cry:  Ho-yo-to-ho!

I have often wondered where Wagner got that for their song.Three Blondes in the Save

Murshida 2

For a moment, walking hand in hand

I felt we ceased to be.

Passers-by saw not two, but one.

 

Friend,

For a moment,  my love for you

Was no more, for I was not;

For a moment,  even you were not;

For a moment,  what remained

Was love without an owner,

Without a source, without an object.

For a moment, what remained

Was all that really is,

For a moment.

 

My friend, when this had passed,

I felt the touch of your hand

And we were smiling

In a still, warm day.

 

Murshida 1

Years ago, I had a magical affair with a young woman who was into the sufi traditions.  In those traditions, a murshid is a teacher.  I think i coined the term murshida, to refer to a female teacher.  Maybe it is for real.  She certainly was…is.  I composed my Murshida poems over a period of some time, after our relationship changed form.  I will feed them into this blog a bit at a time.  I felt they needed a place other than a notebook on a shelf.   Murshida 1

Mt. Tolmie: the Rut

Been looking again at flash fiction.   I am particularly interested in postcard stories.  I like the challenge of getting a story/vision/dream/whatever down in about 250 words, about what would fit on a postcard.  I will file a few in posts to come.  I am setting myself a challenge of  100 days of postcards.  Nothing like aiming high!

Anyway.  I wrote a postcard story earlier today, but, this afternoon penned the following, largely while sitting in Starbucks.  Mt. Tolmie Park is only a few minutes from where I live, and I did, indeed, see a fine buck this morning, while walking the family beagle.

Mt tolmie