poem: It Was Home

what was there to say? except that

     a plot of land in my heart

    recognized you first

 as the rightful holder of the deed.

 

there were no transaction costs

    no surveyors drew lines

        on so many maps-

 we simply closed our eyes

     and walked there

 

barefoot- already knowing

    the path, like the one through

   our forests, warm underfoot

 strewn just with pine needles

          and dappled green,

 where the soft light itself becomes

 

a caress of your hand

  stroking my skin    

in early afternoon;

  cypress and oak are one,

   transforming into the essence of we.

 

things money men never understand.

    our language being

 something alien to their tongue-

 

when an Indian lays claim to land

    it is not as its master,

   but as its servant, its protection.

 

 and my stubborn heart?

 

it serves your wilderness,

as faithfully as it has ever served

   anything, it follows

 behind your footfalls,

   examines the spaces you pass by.

 

  where you are is home, and since

 I cannot be home, with you-

      I wander in unfamiliar

   territory, deserts and suburbs

        and savannahs maybe...

 

 endlessly searching,

   looking admittedly for what

      reminds me of your laugh,

your heart, your vision,

  the echo chamber

     curved in ribs

like your heart's own land-

 

for one little plot of ground

  anywhere, vast enough:

   that can accept the foundations

  of a mountain servant's

      quiet dreams, as wide as the sky

    in Chiapas; as deep

   as the seafloor trenches

     that once made us this place.

 

even before it was inhabited,

      it was our home.

Author's Note

picture from the Ranchos Quetzal Forest Preserve in Baja Verapaz, Guatemala, July, 2013

translated into Spanish at:
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/zorra_encantada/1229622/

Reviews

[Frieda P]

This is quite lovely poetry Marie, the visual and the mere feel of it are stunning, and warm, I can see your heart in every word you've written here....

endlessly searching,
looking admittedly for what
reminds me of your laugh,
your heart, your vision,
the echo chamber
curved in ribs
like your heart's own land

Striking stanza~loved the entire work, kudos, it's stunning.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you for the review, Frieda. I apologize for the late response. I have been away mending some things that broke in me. Still not there yet, but slightly better. It makes me glad that you enjoyed my words, and that the visuals spoke to you in this one. Thank you again.

[Tree]

We keep reaching into the depth of your work, Marie. I loved the tone, the message. Yet so hard to reconcile in the jealous hearts of both men, and women. That whether it is a stretch of arable land or a vast heart that can accommodate more than one. It becomes not so much an issue of ownership, but of destiny.
Right or wrong everyone desires a little plot of land (heart), that they may then call their very own.




nice pic, too. M.

DP

[Marie Anzalone]

Your words are more insightful than you may know on this one, my friend. Your review cuts right to the heart of the piece. We are so good at complicating love, aren't we? Perhaps the only thing in the world that gives only for the purpose of reveling in its own nature, of multiplying upon everything it touches. At we stupid humans... we confuse it with ownership, with pride, with so many things it touches but is not.

I have given my whole heart more than once; each time, the recipient did not or could not take it. So I left each one maybe with a small plot of heart space, tucked carefully behind words I would fear expressing. Each time I write to one of those individuals, it feels like a seawall holding a hurricane's tidal force in restraint. I keep thinking, "eventually, one will have to notice me here," and it simply does not happen. I have only reached out to the ones I was sure of.

Incompatible terrain is the most common destroyer of relationships, and it is a terrifyingly heartbreaking process to go through. How mouch more painful, then, to see every day in front of you the plot of land you know is aligned perfectly with yours... and also know there is not a hope on Heaven or Earth of being there in this lifetime? We poets have many way sto drive oursleves mad, but none so divinely hellish as this, I think.

[gombeggar]

very hip and heartful as always, girl ;)

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks, gombeggar. much appreciate the visit.

[kmartell]

"echo chamber curved in ribs" is awesome. accept the foundations of a mountain we simply closed our eyes and walked...there

you have a strong poets hand...

about the land and its people, but mostly I get into yr use of the language... thanks kmartell

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks, k. I tell folks; I was an artist first, then a poet. I write what I see, and it does tend towards the 5 senses. Your own work impresses me to no end, and thus, your compliments mean a LOT to me on my wiriting. I appreciate the words immensely.

[Nix]

What a beautiful poem... Expertly written. Paints a picture of emotion and physical beauty. Amazing job.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, N.B., for the lovely review. Hope you have a wonderful new year.

[Ken Simm.]

One of my personal yardsticks for quality is could I film this? Could I do this justice in visual terms. When I read quality and when I listen I see pictures. These pictures were pristine and clear. The storybook of his experience was intense.
It is obviously not merely about land and love of land. And yet the equating is done with the sensitivity of the person who has experienced this. The protagonist here is obviously you and yet it does not descend into the maudlin and self pitying state so many of these soul searching pleas do. It stands almost proud in its richness.

[Marie Anzalone]

Wonderful to see more words from you, Ken. I have been away a while, figuring some important stuff out. If we learn to listen, our hearts know what we want and need. When they cannot be there, they strike off in unexpected and unknown directions, looking to make up with a fragment, or with the opposite of the thing they need. But authenticity calls us back, doesn't it? We are both people of the mountain wilderness, and we know that a suburban desert would never suit us.

[Ken Simm.]

That is what I call a sense of perception and I think it is one of the most important things we can learn. Glad to see you back Marie.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

home is where the heart is...it's not about a building, not about how big or how much money it's worth..it is the beauty of sharing a space...

parts of this allude to the native americans who lived here way before we did...they could make any piece of land a home...and they knew how to live with the land and nature...if only we could have learned from them...

but now everything is so built up...

this is a refreshing poem...taking us back to the simple and beautiful, the real home.

jacob

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, jacob, for the review. Good catch on the reference; this was actually written for a Native American, and the reference was very deliberate on my part. What happens when we consider ourselves the guardians and stewards of things we love, instead of their owners? When home becomes the place/ person/ thing/ all of the above, that you are called to serve? Do our lives and outlooks change?

[Poetic Beauty]

This is a beautiful piece. Home is where you are not a location. That is so very true. We can change locations over and over again but it means nothing without the ones you love with you. I love the details of the forest and walking hand in hand. The part about the rib cage is very creative and filled with emotion.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks, Beauty, for the review and words. "Home is Where the Heart Is" is so often used it is cliche, but there is also a favorite song of the same name by a British folk band that explores the concept more fully- about that one person in your life who could get you drop everything to be with them, were they to call. "and a voice of my own/ said I'll be home/ when i get these wheels to start/ and it;s not my promise that I'll break this time/ but someone else's heart."

THAT is what this poem is ultimately about. About the person who quietly owns the deed to a little piece of land inside your own soul.

[Poetic Beauty]

There are those that do own a little piece of our soul or rather I like to think of it as two peoples souls connected. It doesn't have to be passionate love but we all know that our kids own a piece of our souls as well.

[Corset]

who would have known a year ago that the word home would come to mean such much more than a word given as descriptive outburst, but it does mean so much more than the land beneath someone feet, and homes are not owned they are shared and this poem ...is more than a perfect way to say home is wherever your heart is. Such an exquisite write Marie

[Marie Anzalone]

Home... a concept I have struggled with as long as I can remember. I think it was Robert Frost who said that home is the place where they have to take you in. I've never found that place. I do know I can tell you some things that the rational part of my brain cannot quite reconcile, about following a voice and face that appeared in dreams for over a decade, and finding they were a real person leading me home, except well maybe not quite. But that would be stretching credibility too far, so I call that series "dream sequences" and let them be just that.

"Whoever wants music instead of noise, joy instead of pleasure, soul instead of gold, creative work instead of business, passion instead of foolery, finds no home in this trivial world of ours."
— Hermann Hesse

[Corset]

-and Hermann has indeed spelled out my life in black and white letters of incapable proportions'

[LJW]

Is this about a man? :-)

Every write of yours is a Technicolor cinematic experience.

I am humbled by your intelligence and humanity.

[Marie Anzalone]

It is about both a man and the land and culture he inhabits- the three are intertwined in my mind, impossible to separate. For his blood is his love for the land. It is, I think, maybe hard for us Westerners to understand? 11 years working here, and the concept sits at the periphery of my mind, waiting to be born. Like the novel that I am trying to deny.. it keeps surfacing, demanding precious time form me that I do not have. :-/ But this person, even though circumstances prevent us form having more than a close friendship... has become the standard against which I realize I fairly or unfairly am holding all others to. I guess it is something else I need to figure out, in the grand scheme of things. I have written to and of him before, trying to quietly cover up his existence. Yeah... maybe not working out as well I was convinced it would.

Always, always a treat to hear from you, to read your words, in whatever form. I need to straighten out head/ heart/ life a little more, and I will back in the circle soon, I promise. Best to you for a lovely night.