Song
I have been the wind
in the rain
The continuance of the
breath of Taliesin
The cloud over mountain
The joy in dew
I have been tears in
the soil of Avalon
The ashes in the
death of the Phoenix
I have tasted the bile
of evil unmitigated
I have been the breath
of the hounds of hell
The song of the
angels before the throne
Before there was life
there was the Law
In me is every corner of the
Universe
I am the dust under your shoes
the purity in your heart
Though you do not see my
infinitessimal smile
I overpower you with
radiance
I am the Word of God
and the Voice of Separation
He played for me and
I became
a note in the voice
of the Bard
A drop in the awen
I loved him and now
I am the memory
(February 28,2002)
White dakhini
White Dakhini
calling to my soul
with voice of
crystal chimes
sounding out the pride
and iniquity of
my ego
I want to follow
in your cold footsteps
to the heart of
the mystery of my soul
Let me unravel the
cords of karma and
lay them softly
at your feet
Hold open my eyes
to the dance of death
that all feet pattern
on the green face
of the world
Cover me with your
cool snows that I
will not heed the
inferences of my
errant passions
Shine before me
like the stars of night
imprinting destiny
on to the stretched black
canvas of my
shrouded mortality
Allow me to follow
in your transparent footsteps
past bodies of
living death
Show me the spiral
of your icy grasp
that will fling me
into the nothingness
that is the truth
of all hearts
May 10, 2004
Black dakhini
Clothed in gold
wrapped around the
black of recognition
She wields the power to
destroy the worlds
and enslave what minds
are left
But instead
what does she do?
Dance
move with the intricate rhythms
of time
weaving a tapestry
of action
and reaction
Through her destruction
does she cleanse
does she heal
does she surrender
Nothing without reason
will she strip from the
flesh from your back
No blood shed that
has not been called for
by another
all accounting done
all things made equal
Listen to the tale
told in her eyes
and let your body
feel the jarring sensuality
of her being, not flesh
not other
follow as she leads
for you will move past it
She will take you beyond
the boundaries of your
scarred existence
Touch and destroy
raise up, build, create
all is her legacy
is distraction from the
centre and if you
follow the way of
the Dakini
she will lead you from
your madness to
the empty peace of
your core
(April 28, 2004)
untitled 2
the broken man cries in the rain
the sun does not warm his arms
he cannot feel the love inside
he cannot touch his beating heart
he is a statue, filled with pain
a victim of his endless harms
he opens up himself so wide
but the sum is much less than the parts
rain cannot wash away the grief
cannot take away the tears
moon does not bring any relief
and cannot soothe away his fears
i see him there a wasted form
a face with pain in every pore
i want to hold him in my hands
and dry the tears that never stop
others pass, it is the norm
another beggar, what a bore
no one remembers he is a man
they see a beast just fed on slop
but god, if god there really is
you must hear my aching prayer
cleanse him of sins that are his
tell him you are waiting there
he and i are of the same
we are flesh and blood and bone
i shield him gently from the rain
while the light leads him home
Shine like it does
It’s times like this in the quiet of the night that I get to thinking about why it is that I’m compelled to write. What animal stalks the jungles of my insides? What hollow place am I endlessly trying to fill or express? And to that, I never find the answer.
I want to say that I’m one of those people who have a story to tell and feel compelled to tell it. But that’s a lie. I have no story. Oh, bits of story, certainly. But no living, brewing, bubbling plot full characters. I’m one of those bizarre creatures that can only fully express itself in half-expressions. In poetry. But … why?
What is it about poetry that shapes the soul? What is it about poetry that lends itself to music, to art, to lovers’ sighs as the moon slips behind the clouds? We cannot give voice to the transparent, ethereal stuff of thought. Not truly. Every time I have tried to do so, every time I have been given a poem most beautiful, seen the vision of it, when I try to write it, it’s hollow and empty. Each time that happens I know I’m a failure. I know I’ll never capture that essence. But still the Muse, the clever wench, steals in and fills me with compulsion.
In these hours I get to thinking about the writers that have touched me and influenced me. Tonight I’m thinking of the late Michael Hutchence, that most charismatic and wondrous lead singer for INXS before his death in 1997. Why am I thinking of Michael? I don’t know. He’s just there – a force in my soul. A voice forever echoing with words that have touched me and even saved me from myself. That’s the kind of shaping of the soul I’m talking about. Poetry does it – elegantly, softly, starkly.
In November of 1997, I had no TV or radio in my little apartment. I was living with my newborn son on $32 disposable income and eating crackers, tea and Mr. Noodle soup-in-a-cup. No one’s fault but my own. I made the decisions. But I didn’t reckon in post partum psychosis – a deadly and sickly phantom that steals your reason and your joy. Anyway, I was in a bad way. These words … these words saved my mind, my heart and my life:
The nature of your tragedy
Is chained around your neck
Do you lead or are you lead
Are you sure that you don’t care
There are reasons here to give your life
And follow in your way
The passion lives to keep your faith
Though all are different, all are great
Climbing as we fall
We dare to hold on to our fate
And steal away our destiny
To catch ourselves
With quiet grace
INXS fans will recognize those words from the song, The Stairs. They were my lifeline – who can explain why. And that last verse … Look you, how softly it holds its head up. How gently it takes you by the hand and wipes away your tears. Well, Michael gave us those words – gave them to me. His talent and his voice delivered them to my heart, although maybe his own heart had forgotten them by November of 1997.
I love many songs and many poems but only few actually belong in my core, down past the marrow of my bones where matter turns to light. Few touch me from the writer’s soul to my own. But when that happens, it never lets go. And maybe that’s why I write. Because if my silly, little words actually reach that place in another human soul, we will touch in ways the body cannot imagine.
Or maybe I just have excessive verbiage. Which is to say, excessive excess of words. LOL.
Anyway here are two INXS songs that I love. Even if you don’t know the melody, I hope you enjoy the beautiful phrasing - from my heart of light to yours.
“The Stairs”
In a room above a busy street
The echoes of a life
The fragments and the accidents
Separated by incidents
Listen to by the walls
We share the same spaces
Repeated in the corridors
Performing the same movements
Storey to storey
Building to building
Street to street
We pass each other on the stairs
Storey to storey
Building to building
Street to street
We pass each other on the stairs
Listen to by the walls
We share the same spaces
Repeated in the corridors
Performing the same movements
The nature of your tragedy
Is chained around your neck
Do you lead or are you lead
Are you sure that you don’t care
There are reasons here to give your life
And follow in your way
The passion lives to keep your faith
Though all are different, all are great
Climbing as we fall
We dare to hold on to our fate
And steal away our destiny
To catch ourselves
With quiet grace
Storey to storey
Building to building
Street to street
We pass each other on the stairs
Listen to by the walls
We share the same spaces
Repeated in the corridors
Performing the same movements
Storey to storey
Building to building
Street to street
We pass each other on the stairs
“Mystify”
All veils and misty
Streets of blue
Almond looks
That chill divine
Some silken moment
Goes on forever
And we’re leaving broken hearts behind
Mystify
Mystify me
Mystify
Mystify me
I need perfection
Some twisted selection
That tangles me
To keep me alive
In all that exists
None have your beauty
I see your face
I will survive
Eternally wild with the power
To make every moment come alive
All those stars that shine upon you
Will kiss you every night
All veils and misty
Streets of blue
Almond looks
That chill divine
Some silken moment
Goes on forever
And we’re leaving
Yeah we’re leaving broken hearts behind
You’re eternally wild with the power
To make every moment come alive
All those stars that shine upon you
And they’ll kiss you every night
“I need perfection / Some twisted selection / That tangles me / To keep me alive
In all that exists / None have your beauty / I see your face / I will survive”
… wow, I doubt I’ll be able to tell you where this takes me, but it’s certainly down deep …
Whoa
There we were giggling long after bedtime. I was taking Richard through the delights of exponents and like mathematical warthogs, we were joyfully square-rooting things. We moved on to times tables (hey, it’s always a good time for random times-tabling) and then he flipped it around and starting quizzing me on French. We got quiet for a while (French will do that to a person) and he gave me a big hug and said, “I’m so glad that you are my mom. You’re so smart, mom.”
Dude. Whoa.
It’s times like this when I come closest to crying. Really simple things will set me off. I’m so glad it’s summer holidays and there is no pressure to get to sleep on time. It gives us time to talk and get to know each other. I listen to his stories, I tell him stories, sometimes we make up stories together. We giggle and laugh. Small moments. Precious moments. Moments where I see the inner workings of his incredible mind. Moments to be proud of.
I always knew that being a mom was awesome. I just never realized what awesome really means.
He brings joy to his mother’s heart
My son is the King of Flatulence. He has identified no less than 10 kinds of farts:
- the Loud fart;
- the Soft, Squishy fart;
- the Musical fart;
- the Explosive fart;
- the Smooth fart;
- the Whistling fart;
- the Silent, Stinky fart;
- the Bubbly fart;
- the Fart that Doesn’t Sound like it comes from Your Bum; and tonight’s addition
- the Bum Juice Fart (trust me, you don’t want to know).
This research is a work in progress. The child is a connoisseur.
Tell me a story about love and pain
I’ve been reading V for Vendetta (Alan Moore and David Lloyd) and The Crow (James O’Barr). These two books gave me some depth where graphic novels are concerned. I’ve not generally been a follower of graphic novels or comics but I like the Sandman stuff and A League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. However, I would never have even looked at any of it without these first two titles.
The Crow is one of the darkest and most beautiful pieces of writing I’ve ever read. There is no softness in it, no escape from the pain and anger of it. Love and pain existing hand in hand, as they ever do. Here are some of my favourite bits:
In the city, where angels fear to hover and devils come to croon, the sex of the night lets down her black narcotic hair under a yellow opium moon. Here a shadow of a shadow, and earthbound ghost shivers, not from October chill, but in erotic pain. He say to his dead lover, “We should never have come here, with flesh so soft and hearts so unwise, but like tigers in tall, tall grass, like Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, we sucked in our fear and we came here.” Now all the atrocities are replayed like a late, late show. “We came here but we never should have stayed. Though we had inertia and radius and depth, we took the last train with velocity and passed our own deaths.”
So the crow spirals down through a collapsed dream and the only sound he makes is …
… like a concave scream.
AND
IRONY
THE TIDES OF SIN DRAW TIGHTER AND BRIGHTER,
THE HOURS BECOME HEAVIER AND WEIGHTED
AND THE SHADOWS SMILE, DARK AND WILD.
THIS IS WHEN HOPE AND DESIRE COLLAPSE,
THE ARC OF THE DREAM DESCENDS INTO DESPAIR,
WHEN INNOCENT LOVERS DANCE
LIKE ANGELS ON FIRE.
THIS IS WHEN THE NIGHT COMES DOWN,
A HAMMER ON AN ANVIL,
AND THE ONLY ABSOLUTION ACCEPTED
IS A LEGACY OF BRUTALITY,
A SINGLE NOTE RINGS ON AND ON AND ON.
AND
some lines from DESPAIR
…
EYES LIKE CANDY, IT HAS EYES LIKE CANDY
HARD AND BLUE, BUT SOFT AS KITTENS FEET
…
ITS SPINE IS A VERTICAL SCREAM
SLOW AS CONCRETE, BLURRED AS A DREAM
IT SPINS ROUND AND DOWN ON AN AXIS OF ATROCITY
FUELED BY INERTIA, DEPTH, RADIUS, AND VELOCITY,
ITS SOUL – A TWISTED WRECKAGE OF DESPAIR AND PAIN
AND THE SPIDERS INSIDE ARE JUST PRAYING FOR RAIN
You cannot read this and be unchanged, unhinged, unmade. I wondered where the darkness for Broken came from. This is part of the place. How do I know it? Why do I feel it coiling within?
James O’Barr was fueled by the death of someone he loved and his inability to exact some kind of revenge. Mercifully, I’ve not had that. I pray I never do. Because I was born with a ravening soul, a screaming, twisting side that is not easily put away. Oh, I’ve learned to dull its edge. I’ve learned part of where it comes from. I’ve learned to believe in the memory of lives long past. My lives. I’ve learned to meditate and turn the beast to other thoughts. I’ve learned not to destroy myself. But it was hard.
I first read The Crow in a bookstore. It must have been a few years ago. I wanted to stop reading and run away from the pain but I couldn’t. I read the entire thing and I sobbed. There in the Graphic Novel section, my pain spilled out past the causeway of my control and I was opened. I didn’t buy it then, I was too raw, too afraid. I went home and held my son and prayed to the Gifting God to keep him safe for always. For as long as I’m alive.
It took me some years to work up the courage to buy it. Why should a book undo me in this way? Well, this is the power of story. To touch us and find the cords that bind us tight. Some stories are a salve that encourage us to keep going, some are rich and deep and bring us beauty; this one is a razor. And only those who can understand the crow, who have heard his whispery voice, feel the razor cutting into them.
I know there is a lot of violence in it. I know it’s a bloody story. But if you have ever felt broken and suffocated and such hurt that your heart tears with every breath, read it.
It’s one of the most beautiful stories I’ve ever read. Love and pain, dancing their mad dance across the universe. With beauty trailing in their wake. Read it. There is a message in it, delicate and precious, guarded by the violence. It’s not a book that has significantly changed my life but it is one that I hold as close as my own heart.
T ‘n’ T massive, flash up uno lightah
Which translates to “if you’re from Trinidad & Tobago, hold up your lighters” for my non-Caribbean friends. 
Now strictly speaking, that phrase isn’t colloquial Trini, it’s Jamaican, but it’s one of those cross-over phrases that fits into any Caribbean jigsaw. Something more along Trini lines would be “all yuh, hol’ up yuh lightahs” probably followed by instructions to jump … because everything seems to be followed by jumping. LOL.
Yes, it’s Caribana time in the city again. And what a time it is. I was saying to some of you a couple of days ago how weird it is that I don’t miss the frenzy of activity that used to engulf me at this time of year. For so many years, Caribana was IT. It was bigger than Christmas, New Year’s (Ol’ Year’s for us Trinis), my birthday, graduation, everything. It was The Weekend. There were weeks of clubs, shows, picnics, etc before Caribana and the long, grand fiesta that it has become.
And I don’t miss any of it.
I’m upset that I don’t miss it. I worry that it might mean I’m falling away from my roots, my heritage. I love that part of myself. I love being from one of the most amazing cultures in the world. I love Trinidad and Trinidadians. But, help me Jah, I do not miss the hustle and flow that is this weekend. It’s just too … much. I must be one old fogey now, a fuddy duddy, an old gringo. I’ve been rebuking myself for years about this but it doesn’t make me say “yes” when friends call about going to parties. I would actually rather be home with Ricardo, listening to the soca on the radio than experiencing it live. Weird. I swore I’d never, never, never (never) get this way. I’d always be at a party. Hell, I’d die at a party. My funeral would be a huge party and I’d only enter the Pearly Gates if they were throwing a massive block-o. What happened?
Can’t answer that and won’t attempt to here, tonight. I took Richard down to Caribana today. (Well, I dunno if it’s Caribana or not now. I thought it was the Great Festival of Caribbeanness in Canada or something equally stupid but everyone is still calling it Caribana. Yay for the power of a good name!)
It’s such a wonderful event. A great time with fantastic, lively music, gorgeous costumes, yummy food and fun stuff to buy. The weather was absolutely perfect – a blue sky, just hot enough without humidity, a lively breeze blowing in off the lake. Perfect. The music trucks pounded out the bass rhythms of our lifeblood all over the street, once again rejuvenating this city. I really do feel Toronto would be a diminished place without Caribana. It’s the second best Caribbean Carnival in the world, after Trinidad. It attracts about 2 million people to the city each year – it’s a big deal.
But I digress. The other night I wrote about coolness seeping into me like love to a starved heart. What Caribana makes me realize every year is that my heart is actually starved for it. I might not need the parties but I need the pounding soca, the glinting colours of ethereal costumes, the hearty laughs and smiles of my own lovely people. We may not be the most organized of cultures or the safest culture around (these days my family, these days) but we have so much fun. We just know how to let it all go and allow the music to reach into our hearts, into our souls and bring out something primeval. Our joy.
When I heard the music of the steel drum bands, I felt that wondrous familiar welling up of movement, rhythm. I just love to dance (hence the constant partying when I was younger) but I never do the steps to anything. The music moves me, it flows in and becomes part of me and it calls me to move and I do anything it tells me to do. I always lose myself dancing, especially to reggae, calypso and soca music. It’s the only bit of home I have, the only corner of Trinidad that I can touch no matter where I am. And I love it.
We aren’t just a culture of party animals or happy, funny people. We have scientists, doctors, lawyers, writers, artists, musicians. Trinidad has contributed much to the world and I hope we can continue to do this. I hope I can raise my child to be proud of this ancestry, to embrace it and revel in it, all the while, taking its accomplishments up a notch. Guess to expect that, I’d better get to doing some it myself.
I wasn’t able to forget the road of dead children that lie in the empty spaces between the notes of our music. Nor the people in my family and just about every family that have been bullied, beaten, abused and abased by the corrupt government currently in power. We need to do something about this. Things are really not copasetic. So how can we dance while P.o.S. burns? I think that we don’t party to escape or hide from it; we sing and dance to spite it, to show the evil that Trinidad will never die. Corruption can rot our land but not our souls. Soon, we will figure out how to fight back. Very soon.
So, breds, we can’ backslide. What I saw today is too good to lose. Our children too beautiful to be fed to the dogs in the Red House. Our pride too strong to submit. Happy Caribana to you all. Enjoy it to the max. Power to the people and peace, love and unity to you all.
God is in the rain
This line comes from V for Vendetta. I loved it as it was used in the movie and I felt it the night before last when that wild storm swept the heat out of Toronto.
First the clouds and wind advanced in a solid line. The sky was evening blue, you know, that colour as turquoise deepens and blackens to navy; it lies somewhere in the middle looking both crisp and deep and full of dreams, the perfect backdrop for the first glittering star of the evening. As the clouds moved overhead I went outside.
They were lit underneath with the fluorescent orange glow of the city, a colour both artificial and unsettling. And the edge of the storm was not marked with cloud-shaped borders, it was an eerie smooth, curved edge. It made me think of Sauron’s advancing gloom over Middle-earth. The trees whipped up, hissing and thrashing as the wind stomped through their branches. It was still stifling and hot but you could feel the undercurrent of coolness coming down from the north.
Then, the lightning began, heat lightning at first, like Zeus riding his chariot through the black clouds, and then grand strikes, jagged and blinding. We watched, waiting.
Two drops of water landed on my face, two drops on Richard. And suddenly, the sky opened up. Water fell in large, juicy drops, so fast, and driven by the wind that we were soaked before we could get inside. Lightning seared, the wind danced in a frenzy and thunder cracked open the back of that heat.
I stood there feeling it. The electricity of it, the sensual danger of it. I felt it. God is in the rain. I was refreshed, awakened from days of sweat-drenched stupour. I was alive. Without realizing it, I had my hands raised to the sky, welcoming the live-giving rain, hearing the sigh of the parched earth, the wilted plants, the heavy hearts. I needed this rain, this reprieve from sleepless madness. I needed the song of its drops and the violence of its energy. The cool air blew in from all around, like love to a starved heart. God is in the rain.
