poem: The Light as Seen Through a Screen of Ferns

I.

 

My friend I beheld the limitlessness

        of possibility

   in your hands that day.

It had the trappings of nostalgia.

 

I saw the peach colored skies

    and extended twilights of long drawn-out 

 July days

   of my youth.

I was again counting wingbeats

   of tiny kinglets

      in the fir trees;

the clean taste of sweet birch bark

     and teaberry graced my tongue,

   and I tracked foxes through unspoiled miles

        of snow

to far-off interior destinations.

     Crystal castles of hoarfrost

        crept inspired into my tales.

 

Your embrace just makes me remember

   something about a time

         before life's betrayal-

      the surety

of convictions.

         You are the part of me that recalls

   dancing barefoot

       in alpine meadows;

the lost little girl in me

   that hid in giant Pennsylvania ferns

   when life got too real... and stayed there.

 

II.

 

And she shyly comes forward,

   taps the woman I have turned into

       on the shoulder-

            she says that

you are to me the stillness of winter's hushed brooks

      flowing under layers of trapped ice;

           you are the orgy of spring's passion,

      the productivity of summer;

           the bounty and wistfulness

of fall harvest and migration.

 

      She wants me to lay you down

              under ferns

and gaze naked, with you

    at the world

tinged green by a screen of ancient chlorophyll,

     patterned by fronds

        dappled in sunlight and dew with cool moss

supporting our supine forms.

 

I imagine your mouth

   tastes like the joy of clear water

     sprung from granite ridges

with ravens doing barrel rolls overhead.

 

III.

 

   I know-

nothing in reality of daytime

      will ever compare to those secret

night rides, in my mind, of my own dark heart-

     on a black horse,

unsaddled, my inner thighs

 soaked and clenching

    as you and I barreled over moors

       those times under the watchful gaze

        of the Seven Sisters

each one a sin more deadly than the last

      and I awoke thinking the dawn was actually twilit,

on fire;

      for a moment I thought of

      nothing more than green dampness in your hair

   and my own unclothed wetness.

 

I thought I might accept that ride for real

     if and only if

night were not going to be interrupted

   by the searing glare of the next dawn's reality.

 

Surrender still beckons just beyond

       the limits of my own awareness.

 

I close my hand around a puff of oysterflower

   trying to protect it

  but it disperses a little at a time

each time the wind shifts

     to a new direction.

 

IV.

 

Red shale has turned to pumice and obsidian;

   and your eyes are lined now

     but I remember you clearly-

you walked me through a limestone maze

    12 years ago

        and showed me a cold blue star;

you told me its light was in me,

   and that the passing of songbirds, kinglets,

           that fly south in darkness

can only be heard by those whose ears

      are attuned to the whispers of fern dreams.

  Did I follow their halting journey to your trees, then?

 

If you were to hone to a surgeon's edge

    a blade of volcanic glass,

slice your palm and the space above my heart,

   and let our red cells mingle-

    maybe we would commit

          to dreams from childhood.

 

     Do friends still make blood oaths?

 

V.

 

I cannot promise you:

    the wind, the stars, the rain

      nor an unbroken line of snow tracks.

Our spheres simply do not coincide.

    And I still wander lost

in yesterday's fieldstone maze.

 

But maybe, some tomorrow-

   I could gift you one single perfect today.

      I don't know what on earth

you would do with it-

    perhaps work it into a gemstone, for me;

        as fine and pure and fragile

    as a single dewdrop

capturing morning sunfire.

 

    You could suspend it on spider silk

and we could gaze on it

     as a recalled vision of naked childhood

          innocence.

If the horses are not afraid one day

     of morning light;

we could heal the scars on our hands and hearts

        and relive the beauty of starlight

     before waking from a dream

beneath ferns.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

another in a dream sequence, still searching for its inspiration

My suggestion for readers is to try reading each section as a complete piece, in and of itself

This work was also translated into Spanish:
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/zorra_encantada/1071605/

Reviews

[Clockwork]

I can certainly see how each piece can stand alone, and I agree that all of them can. However, I think all of them are woven together by threads of time and tremendous progressions of organic images. Some of my favorite lines are "You are the part of me that recalls/ dancing barefoot/ in alpine meadows;"

There are so many lines that hold the light of the inner child aligned with a
kindred spirit. This peace is very alive and energetic, yet grounded in the earth. It was a pleasure to read.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you very much, Christian, for taking the time to read and review this one. I think most people are afraid of it, as we discussed off-line. It may look intimidating, but it is really just a letter. You nailed its meaning. I think we all search out kindred spirits who make us remember the happiness of childhood, before life [supposedly] gets too complicated. I actually wrote this about 2 people I think (it was inspired by a series of dream sequences, and that is the sense I got), one of whom I walked with in the forest the other day. I tell you it gave me a weird sense of deja-vu. He is a photographer, and during the walk, he told me about a picture he took last year looking up through a giant fern, from beneath it. While on the walk, we encountered a small flower dangling in mid-air, suspended by a spiderweb, and he photographed that too. Sometimes, there really are no explanations for the things we dream about.

[Corset]

exqusite, each stanza is an offering of beauty, self awareness, suffering, joy and like the sunlight through ferns, every bit as magical, not just applause, but an ovation.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks, corset... this one I recall writing as clear as day. I was driving back from campus, and pulled the car over to a dead stop and wrote the stanzas on a napkin. I was lost and found and looking for redemption from an impossible situation... and these words found me. I did not write them. I knew who it was for, I knew why. I knew he would read them and know... adn they would remain a mystery to everyone else. They would see images, flashes... but would not feel the intent. Because, of course, that is exactly how soul twin relationships work. I think his guides wrote this for me to give to him, to help him when he was lost. And I think that anyone who has ever delved will see some of themsleves in this, too.

[Corset]

you write the way I would when wanting to say such things, surely it will reach the soul of the one who needs to hear it.

[lee von cleef]

Back after a little nap, Relationship thoughts, How quick do the ,does the subconscious ?Fabric ? Framework ?Genetic predispositions ? Soul bind itself to another ? Does that time period map the future ? Blaze a trail ?Can the life of present be enough or does the baggage, commitments,complications , of the past, have to be a foundation for a future ? Ah your provocative little no answer is wrong sure sent my head spinning.

[Marie Anzalone]

All good questions, lee, tough questions. I did not believe such things as soul bindings until life started getting weird. Open to them, we can and do bind each other. The baggage becomes part of the scars that make us beautiful in the present. We only ever have the present to give, but we can meet a fellow time traveler to help us feel less ungrounded on the journey. I have come to know, if it does not come in an instant, it does not come at all. Friendships are built over time; bonding is something that happens the moment you reach out to each other. Both are necessary for there to be a foundation. This is how you know the difference: you cannot.

and then we look like fools each time but we risk our vanity each time because after all we do not want to spend the rest of our lives cold, in the dark, listening to the wolves howl.

[lee von cleef]

The beauty of trust, The beauty of compassion, The beauty of the unconditional,
Soft the look, soft the finger traces light down the bridge of your nose, Soft the cotton
Given the time, Given the inclination, Given the light.
The growth of Souls ride tandem their horses eyes covered through the night.

Ah I miss Diego....

[Marie Anzalone]

I miss our friend too, lee, each day I am on here. I wrote for him recently. I know he stops in from time to time; I see him watching from the sidelines. Maybe he sees the words more than one of us have written.

As for your review, all is fair game when the light stops in overhead space. All is frozen warm in space, and we are the ones who move instead of time. What do you do with the inexplicable in your life? When you turn the page of a photo album in one world, and see the face that has ridden with you in another for a decade? When those eyes meet yours across an untenable chasm, force you reach out to other places, other worlds, just to avoid what was inevitable to begin with? What do you do when that blends in light shading and you awaken not knowing which you were even traveling with in the night, they blend so much in mind and heart that thinking of one evokes the other and you feel such a keening loss for what will never be found in this life? When the part of you that died when you were young is brought back to life into the stark loneliness of the arm's length of adult living? Isis wise to escape back into the dream, and hold that space open? or do we flee in terror?

[lee von cleef]

Just stay tied on and enjoy the ride.

[Marie Anzalone]

I would say to you, then, to saddle up a ride yourself.

[lee von cleef]

everyday...... whether I like to or not

[OBWhiteHawk]

Really amazing, beautiful poem, and you are right they could be considered separate poems by themselves but it flows really well together.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, OB, I am glad you saw their stand-aloneness as well as their cohesive union-ness. I am also glad you found beauty in my words when you read them.

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlande..]

yes this did resonate with me, somewhere within conception and inception..it's hot in places, like the palm, I guess..i'm sleepy and must re-read..glad to be sober and great work..I'll edit this review asap after more comprehension

[Marie Anzalone]

I thought it might, base don our conversation of dream sequences and whatnot. Lok ofrward to hearing further thoughts, and appreciate you stopping by.

[Marie Anzalone]

based on****

[Marie Anzalone]

I am using someone else's computer, and it does not like me

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlander]

I like "base don"...reminds me of my dad..yeah I'll def share more thoughts in a bit

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlander]

it probly likes you, but it likes messing with you as well
some computers are like that

[Marie Anzalone]

I find they are highly jealous of their masters

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlander]

I always seem to be the surrogate computer master no matter which one I'm on...they can be insolent at times, though, depending on the circumstances and computer..I've only had issues when the owners of the computers were incessantly neurotic

[Marie Anzalone]

they are all female. they require the right buttons to be pressed, in the right order, and the patience to learn their response times and quirks. if you can master any one you touch, it bodes well for other areas of life, too.

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlander]

you're talking to guy with his ex-gf's hello kitty kb (it's quirky)..I take apart computers and re-install programs and operating systems..I only avoid computers where the owners won't let me fix the quirks, because it's a reflection of them fixing something they don't want to face in their own psyches

[Marie Anzalone]

I think computers become our homes perhaps even more than our real homes do. our homes reflect what we want others to see. Computers know our secrets.

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlander]

well our subconscious minds are like computers, after all..it should be no surprise that we feed the database with that sort of information

[Marie Anzalone]

God I miss you, my friend. I really do. I hope you moved on somewhere better inclined to accept all of you.

[quinfinn]

this is excellent poetry! one gets lost in the fine tracery of images and the clever wordplay ignites passion and reverence for the natural world. outstanding!

[Marie Anzalone]

this was my favorite write of last year, so your liking it makes me feel very good indeed. It is a dream sequence of sorts- weaving together dreams and images from over the years, with their real life expalnation, and some of the futility and designs that go along with knowing and not being able to do a thing about it.

[quinfinn]

love it! sincerely....

[Sarai Lee]

This piece was stunning. In all its complexity, the images flowed together beautifully and I felt fulfilled at the end. As if I'd taken a peek into a persons memory and was given an incredible glimpse at a story I could not possibly begin to fully see. In short, I loved it. Each section built and built on itself, in perfect rhythm. You have a very remarkable gift!

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you very much, Sarai, for taking the time to read and review this one. This is a difficult piece for many, and it makes me glad that you see that there is actually a progressive story here. It is one of my personal favorites of my own writes. I looked at some of your work, and was impressed by what I saw there, too. Hope to "see" you again soon.

[Larry Dyson]

"But maybe, some tomorrow-

I could gift you one single perfect today.

I don't know what on earth

you would do with it-

perhaps work it into a gemstone, for me;

as fine and pure and fragile

as a single dewdrop

capturing morning sunfire.



You could suspend it on spider silk

and we could gaze on it

as a recalled vision of naked childhood

innocence.

If the horses are not afraid one day

of morning light;

we could heal the scars on our hands and hearts

and relive the beauty of starlight

before waking from a dream

beneath ferns."

a chapter all by its self ..in and of a lifetime..Laury

[Ken Simm.]

Remarkable blending of descriptive passages and thought lines. The two seamlessly belong to each other. Multi, multi layered and plural. A true tour de force

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, Ken, for taking the time to read and review today. I have seen you around and I always appreciate the insights you have, and your outlook. Your flattering review on this difficult piece made my day. Will be by to return the favor when life slows down a little for me.