Steadfastness

I am uncertain of this new writing system I feel a little uneasy as I don’t like contemplative states—at least not for art or writing. But they're all big meditators. I have issues with most conceptual nouns. Image/comparisons: That’s my wicket. But the steadfastness of writing puts me on an even keel. That’s something I can do. My meditative world. But I can’t help but enter the visual world too. 

There’s a name for the roots of kelp, standfast. Stand/stead share the same etymological root. Or call it a holdfast. I am visualizing afternoon light in a kelp forest. Filtered green, suspended plankton and debris, small glistening bubbles escaping from below. And that snapping sound in the ears. I think it’s krill snapping their claws, or the waves retreating. 

I don’t care to name it, but, to experience it. I love that buoyancy as we hover, suspended between worlds: air and water—male and female. Once in the Galápagos, I was snorkeling in the cold water off Bartolomé Island and an equatorial penguin buzzed me, zipping up from under me, swimming upside down, so he could see me better. We stared at each other for a split second but in a flash, he flipped over and took off so fast, I could’ve imagined it all, except that I got so excited I screamed and my snorkel filled with sea water and I nearly drowned. Silvery bubbles like shooting stars trailing from her body.

OK that three-minute pause definitely intruded and interrupted my train of thought. the train has left the station. no one aboard. So now I can’t pick up the penguin line, or rather the feeling of awe. I was reliving the moment. Perhaps that’s the key to good writing is to relive the moment. 

Last Sunday as I read my poems with pianist Kirk Whipple and Marilyn Morales I read a piece I had never read before in public to the woman for whom the Nocturnes were written. Ilá, dressed in white, danced a fluid tai chi movement as I read my poem. 

The audience were strangers to poetry—which requires another kind of steadfastness, an anchor, in order to hear it. And so I filled the auditorium with my intention and my voice, wrapping it around the backs of chairs, and sending it to every corner. But I was chained to the microphone and I couldn’t pace. I was anchored to the floor as surely as the kelp and all I could do was to sway with the words. Believe in them again, truly a re:vision as I find tuned an updated version of the words to fit this millennium. I was the sea. the sea, thalatta, thalatta. The sea.

52/2/06 Writers' Group

MAYDAY: HOLDING VIGIL FOR SINEAD

The sun is shining,
and the sky is that incredible cerulean
I stare straight up at infinite blueness,
and forget everything for a moment
only to have an egret enroute to the lake
cross my trajectory and I remember
we're in the city after all:
that distant pounding of surf:
really cars on the freeway
I hold vigil for my cousin in NICU,
a victim of that same stretch of road.
Hit and run. who could do that to another?
With shaking hands, I paint three silk scarves,
the gutta, forgiving. I painted beauty:
Roses, egrets, orchids,
and the sky emerges from void.
We wait for a pattern to emerge from the catscan.
Any sign of recognition will do.

5/2005






Where the sun is shining, and the sky is that incredible cerulean when you stare straight up at its infinite blueness, and you forget everything only to have an egret enroute to the lake cross your trajectory and you remember it's in the city after all: the distant pounding of surf, the cars on the freeway while I hold vigil for my cousin in hospital, a victim of that same stretch of road. With shaking hands, I made three silk scarves, the gutta forgiving. Roses, egrets, orchids, sky emerge from the void.