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Song of the Animist

Although I have in the past been an avid member of various Christian denominations, I have always viewed the world differently from those around me. Attempts to explain or describe this view have traditionally proven futile and would elicit responses ranging from curiosity to open disdain. This is perhaps due to a lack of common ground.

It was only relatively recently that I stumbled upon a word that more or less describes my way of seeing the world—Animism. If you look this word up in the OED, you’ll find three distinct definitions, all of which can apply to my way of seeing the world. Basically, the animist sees the material world as manifest and inseparable from a spirit world. This statement is crude, at best. The dictionary definitions are themselves inadequate, but they at least point in the right direction.

Either way, animism is a substrate, not a religion. It is a basic way of seeing things, not a way of living, and certainly not a doctrine. The English word “spirit” derives from the Latin “spiritus”, which translates as “breath”. So, my 21st hybridanelle.

Song of the Animist

The rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
clear up the canyons to the glaciered peaks,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves.
From molten ores to flashing thunderheads
to fields of glowing gasses joined with dust,
all the universe is fused with breath.

From lakeside pebbles ground through centuries
to mesas looming black against the dusk,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
inhaling rains into their liquid lungs,
exhaling mists that turn within the light
to fields of glowing gasses joined with dust.

The sands are breathing. Branches also breathe
amid the play of feathers claws and beaks,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
that tremble twist and sway against the sky
like dancers twirling over sheets of ice,
exhaling mists that turn within the light.

Jutting from the depths of plains and seas,
or crumbling to the steady boom of breakers,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe
in moonlit meditation through the night,
slight reflections wimpling in the dark
like dancers twirling over sheets of ice.

Our dreams are breathing. Stillness also breathes
in quiet contemplation like an oak
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
as moments dissipate beyond the stars
to visions shining from the distant past,
slight reflections wimpling in the dark.

Throughout the crust where granite forces seethe
and drips of water ripple cavern lakes,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
across the living contours of the land.
From molten ores to flashing thunderheads
to visions shining from the distant past,
all the universe is fused with breath.

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Echolalia

As I read an in-depth article on the differentia of Verse, Prose, and Poetry, I stumbled across something called echolalia. A beautiful sounding word. Too bad it’s more or less useless outside pathology, educational psychology, and the trivia of obscure definitions. Still, I wanted to play with the concept, and so I ended up tapping this out.

Echolalia

Stars are falling falling through the dark
and through the dark a strong wind thrusts and parries
a strong wind thrust and parries like a sword
thrusts and parries like a long broad sword
and like a long broad sword your words cut deep
your words cut deep and disconnect the tendons
disconnect the tendons of my trust
my trust which slacks and falls like quartered meat
which slacks and falls like quartered meat for sell

I reminisce on stars for some strange reason
for some strange reason I remember stars
I remember stars which fell and faded
which fell and faded in the long dark night
and in the long dark night we held each other
we held each other by curling sea
and by the curling sea our toes were curled
our toes were curled with broken ecstasy
in broken ecstasy we slid to sleep

And stars are falling now from baring skies
from baring skies which deepen like a flood
which deepen like a flood of blackest water
of blackest water spread throughout my soul
spread throughout my soul like acid loss
an acid loss that eats away my trust
that eats away my trust until I’m left
until I’m left like bleached and barren bone
like bleached and barren bone devoid of life

The content is more or less inspired by actual feelings and events. And despite the silliness of the poem, the impact of the echolalia is kind of surprising.

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Thanksgiving Night

Normally, I avoid writing poetry that’s focused on things like Thanksgiving or Christmas, or any holiday. It’s just not the sort of thing that tends to interest me. However, as Thanksgiving day approached, I found myself pondering what Thanksgiving day, a day when most families come together and reconnect, would be like for the kids who live at the group home I work at.

I actually had my own Thanksgiving days in group homes. In fact, group homes not unlike the place I’m working at. Then there were the two Thanksgivings I endured as a runaway teen. So I have my own memories to draw from in trying to bring the hidden voice of these kids to the world. This is my 21st terzanelle.

Thanksgiving Night

A long cold wind blows down the long brown hall.
The lights are dim. The night man gently paces,
and one by one we drift beyond brick walls.

We AWOL through our dreams and greet the faces
that make our stomachs sick with love and dread.
The lights are dim. The night man gently paces.

Outside our doors the floor creeks from the tread
of memories, like ghosts within the halflight,
that make our stomachs sick with love and dread.

We’ve eaten much, and yet there looms a hunger,
an emptiness that writhes amid the gloom
of memories, like ghosts within the halflight.

We stir the darkness in our broken rooms.
We’re full, for well we ate to stuff our sorrows,
an emptiness that writhes amid the gloom.

The heater drones, yet chill seeps to the marrow.
A long cold wind blows down the long brown hall.
We’re full, for well we ate to stuff our sorrows,
and one by one we drift beyond brick walls.

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sea dog

I was reflecting on how Robert Service, a favorite poet of mine, would write poems in various Scottish, British, and other dialects. Some of these poems are very moving. For instance, “Bills Grave” and “Pooch”. If you read them, you might suspect that Service was well acquainted with the dialect used in the first poem, as well as the mindset, and that he more or less guessed at the dialect used in the second poem. I believe the first uses a Northern England dialect, where he grew up, and the second uses the dialect of a Black American, possibly Southern.

I was also reflecting on this book I had just finished reading, The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty by Sebastian Barry. The nature of the story was such as to cause me a lot of after-read reflection, and there was some life at sea involved therein.

So, with all this stirring about in my brain, I found myself tapping out a few phrases, and shortly thereafter, my 21st villanelle fell out thus.

sea dog

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Writing poetry in various dialects is something I plan to explore over time, so it was nice to have this experience. The title was suggested by Chris England, an acquaintance I run into at the cafes here in Ukiah.

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Exhale

This, my 9th trisect poem, is inspired by my experience of learning to play the bansuri flute. I have a long way to go still, but people no longer run for the hills when I play, which I hope means I’m getting better.

Segment one depicts the bansuri flute itself, by way of its origin and construction. Segment two depicts breath, without which the bansuri is just a piece of wood. Segment three depicts my process of learning to play.

      Exhale

            Reed

            Shoots reach forth and crack the earth
      with nodes that telescope into the air
until green blades dance out and sway against the sky

            A column falls before the saw
      drifting like a feather through its peers
    which lean and separate with rustle whisk and clack
until the parted clone lies cradled lightly in their midst

            Hollow sections lose their green
      hardened by the touch of open flame
until the thin walls cure to caramel colored hues

            Blemishes are smoothed away
      a plug is set with delicate precision
    bores probe and burn with care an empty space inside
until the slightest sigh sends echoes coursing through the wood
 

            Motion

            Ribs expand like gaping jaws
      and current rushes through a maze of tubes
to fuse with membranes hidden deep within the shell

            Rivers churn within their walls
      cycled through an all pervasive flow
    from channels of aeration through rapids fraught with force
to many-fingered deltas strewn across half-charted planes

            Bones contract a casual grip
      and moisture dissipates into the air
to mingle with a stream of circumscribing winds

            rained in far-flung alpine lakes
      absorbed by rolling seas of desert sand
    and perspired from the leaves of oaks and conifers
to drizzle dew on blades of grass half a world away
 

            Ambience

            Fingers dance on shades of brown
      as whispers vibrate down a narrow shaft
in waves that slowly learn their resonance and form

            Night after night uncertain sounds
      gather confidence beneath the moon
    phasing with the silhouettes of cherry trees
in movements half remembered from a long forgotten age

            Expression gradually finds its way
      to sagebrush valleys ponderosa peaks
in subtle overtones that grow in strength until

            timbres weave through redwood trees
      like whale song steeped in oceanic gloom
    resounding off sheer outcrops covered thick with moss
in undertones that settle like a mist among the ferns

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beads

I found myself writing this in response to a blog post someone made at MySpace, back when I had a MySpace account. She was one of two girls who used to make it a point to sit at my table when they saw me at Denny’s or one of the local coffee houses. I never understood why. When they did, they would strike up completely random conversation. I just entertained them like a good host since I didn’t see the harm.

At some point they found my MySpace account and sent me friend requests, which I accepted. The younger one, while intelligent and intriguing in her own right, had an unusually strong negative streak which she would spill into her blog like an acid.

beads

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

After responding to her bitter tirade with this poem, she and her friend soon lost interest in me. Kind of strange since I was under the impression that they were curious about me because I would sit in the coffee houses or at Denny’s working on poems, which they would ask about. Ah well.

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influence

Sometimes I wonder how different I would be today if I never chanced upon the poetry of authors such as Robert Service, Julia Dorr, Alfred Tennyson, Thomas Campbell, and others during my youth. My early teens were fraught with fear and confusion, and not much made it through that haze. But the poetry of such authors—always structured poetry—was able to cut through the haze and give me something to focus and meditate upon. Without that, I have to wonder if I would have even survived my youth.

influence

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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Confounded

Before starting this poem, I spent several days reading up on various subjects that I felt pertained in some way to tensions and circumstances that not only led to the demise of my marriage, but my choice in women and the types of relationships I get into in general. Subjects included attachment theory and related disorders in adults and children, including some of the methods employed to help children and adults overcome their “attachment disorders”. Along with this I read up on human bonding, age disparity theory, and even read a little about the limbic system, amongst other things—Just things I wanted to know about.

This lead me to reflecting on the nature of play in relation to my early and mid childhood “attachment traumas” and realizing that I’ve never experienced what’s referred to in attachment theory as a healthy “secure attachment”. Secure attachment is what allows a child to feel safe exploring and playing in ways that are constructive and developmentally sound. If there’s some problem with the child’s attachment system, then play becomes more reactionary than natural due to the lack of a secure attachment base to return to. A lot of this stuff made sense to me and jives nicely with my own reflections.

Looking back, I was able to remember enough to realize that one of the first casualties of my childhood was play and playfulness. I was a very serious child, and I tended to use play to express my general state of anxiety, distrust, and ambivalence, destroying my toys and those things I would make with them—with building blocks and Lincoln logs for example—rather than letting them stand awhile, and then tearing them down for the sake of building something else. I didn’t build things for the sake of seeing and enjoying the creative fruits of my labors; I built them for the sake of their destruction.

This was a mode of expression, an enactment of my inner state—reactive play rather than constructive natural play. So, I meditated on this and then wrote my 20th hybridanelle.

Confounded

The stones that should have formed a stable base
  were shifted out beneath your primal needs;
    the wood that should have framed your living place
        splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate
            and left you wailing naked in the wind,
                  ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

Tremors filled your soul with rolling dreads,
  so that your own creations, wrought with care,
    were shifted out beneath your primal needs,
        reduced to disarray in manifest dismay
            as wooden joists and girders in your mind
                  splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate.

And as you grew, you found yourself unsure;
  you stacked your Lincoln logs and building blocks
    so that your own creations, wrought with care,
        were never meant to last and fell to every blast
            that leveled self respect and left you stunned,
                  ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

You strove to transfer fundamental shocks
  throughout your play; depicting fell effects,
    you stacked your Lincoln logs and building blocks
        and with profound expression smashed at your discretion,
            every symbol housing hope destroyed,
                  splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate.

Those first potentials of your intellect
  were swept away by rage and disregard;
    throughout your play, depicting fell effects,
        your structures each collapsed as inspiration lapsed
            until you grieved the wreckage of your hand,
                  ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

And now you limp through life disabled, scarred;
  the stones that should have formed a stable base
    were swept away by rage and disregard;
      the wood that should have framed your living place
          rotted from neglect and left you derelict,
              dwelling in the ruins left behind—
                  splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate—
                        ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

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mausoleum

Yesterday I had an extremely vivid dream, which involved sleep paralysis, that has really stayed with me.

    mausoleum

        i felt you calling
through the wide dark space
            and i crossed the cavern
    to your resting place

        where you were wrapped in
folds of cold gray stone
            which smelled of long
    decay and rotting bones

        the air was dripping
echoes through the dark
            lit only by the
    sense’s psychic spark

        mosaic patterns
stretched across your grave
            dreamtime symbols
    etched in beveled grooves

        i brushed them lightly
with my fingertips
            and lay across
    the stony cover strip

        and here i rested
waiting for your touch
            in meditation
    then i felt your clutch

        as one would clutch
who drowns in waters deep
            to any flotsam
    drifting near the reach

        you grasped my psyche
held with panicked might
            and locked my body
    in the realms of night

        and now i felt your
onyx grip of fear
            send through my senses
    manifold despair

        i let you thrust up
through my chest to speak
            an urgent message
    stressed fatigued and weak

        “he-elp… me…”
came your feeble plea
            through lips half frozen
    petrified by sleep

        and as you heard my
voice relay your words
            you strove the more to
    make your anguish heard

        and with the strength of
added empathy
            i let you ring your
    cavern walls with pleas

        until the motions
stirred me from the dream
            and i awoke to
    echoes of your screams

Upon waking up, it really felt as if I had connected with some spirit or entity that tried with all its might to communicate something to or through me. Or maybe it was some long buried part of my own mind.

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Endure

Life can take some unexpected turns, and the path to which we have dedicated ourselves may lead through every kind loss and tragedy. But in the end we must simply endure, for life isn’t always easy or fair, and the potential for discovering new meaning and value lies always just ahead.

      Endure

      The path may wind up slopes of ankle twisting shale,
            and over ridges overwhelmed with loss;
yet each step carries on through triumph and dismay.

            The path may weave through swamps and belching bogs,
through alpine heights where acid springs bleed lethal streams and ponds,
            and over ridges overwhelmed with loss,

      only to drop through valleys baked barren by the sun,
            until it rises up again to lead
through alpine heights where acid springs bleed lethal streams and ponds.

            The path may shrink and seem to disappear
through thickets barbed with venom thorns or leech-filled undergrowth
      until it rises up again to lead

      through places not unlike the sorrows known before
            and on through every emptiness and pain—
through thickets barbed with venom thorns or leech-filled undergrowth.

            Through crackled desolation, blasts of rain,
      the path may wind up slopes of ankle twisting shale
            and on through every emptiness and pain;
yet each step carries on through triumph and dismay.

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A Lullaby

Thought I’d write my inner child a lullaby. This is my 20th villanelle.

A Lullaby

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This poem fell out pretty quickly. I came into work about a week and a half ago to discover my schedule had been shifted dramatically. There is a part of me, a fairly large part, that always feels that I’ve just done something wrong and I’m about to be punished miserably for it. I’m pretty sure this is connected to the same part of me that, throughout my childhood, lived in sheer terror of dozens of unlikely events. Events like tidal waves (though living well inland), floods (though not living near a river or flood plain), super storms (though living in a mild climate), and really out there stuff like black holes sucking earth into oblivion. Oh, and death.

These were debilitating fears. When thoughts of this or that potential disaster passed through my mind, my body would go cold with terror. Not just an anxiety that causes fretting and unease, but the sort of fear that whitewashes the mind like hi-beams on a dirty windshield and sends waves of frozen fear throughout the body like liquid nitrogen.

For some reason, the most trivial things can trigger this liquid nitrogen whitewash effect. The night I started this poem, I was told by my supervisor as I walked into the on-duty administration office to clock in that he needed to talk to me. As it turns out, he needed to talk to everyone—about the restructuring of everyone’s schedules. But, in that moment, I was frozen in the headlights, and it took me a couple of days to recover from it. This is one of the long-term effects of thoroughly messing up a child’s mind.