Diving Deeper

Winter rainbows: poems after a return visit to England

 

Devon dreaming (Sara Firman Dec. 2011)

From my soul sister's feathered nest
under the church bell at the top of town
I took the charmed high street down
to where river and railway ran
right to the Steam Packet Inn:
a compulsion felt as soon
as the story was told
over cappuccino and a fur hat.

'Old Chinese' squawked in my eager ears
words of wisdom on the ocean winds
seagulls telling fishy fortunes.
Who'll dare to dive deeper
into the darkened waters?
Appropriately, wet clouds
gathered overhead and
I followed the Green Man.

Up the winding track towards his hills
running with rivulets of night rains
hummocky as a hobbit's haven.
The old drive to Sharpham
and the spiral stair where
once we stood together
with Innana and toned
our unschooled harmonies.

I couldn't have been happier there
when the steamer came chortling along
tracing the silver ribbon to the sea.
Nothing as lovely as West
Country winter clouds
lit by a soaked sun.
On the far hillside
cows glowed in the grass

Their hooves where the rainbow landed.
Absorbed in glistening pastoral peace
it took a while to fit curve and curve
together making a wedding arch
a perfect bow of bright rain
over the clustered town
so that at that point
I knew I was blessed.

 

Goatfish woman: guest poem by Judith Thurley

As the Sun transits into Capricorn (22 December), I'm inspired to share with you a poem by Judith Thurley that delighted me when I came across it in A Wilder Vein (Two Ravens Press).  It's a poem about a joyfully wild and sensuous experience, and the very human desire to share that with 'every child, woman and man'. 

Solemn Saturn (ruler of Capricorn) turns into Father Christmas at this time of year; or in this poem into Goatfish Woman.  For another feminine view of Capricorn, see last year's post Saturn's Gifts.  Meanwhile, here is an extract from 'The Road North' by Judith Thurley in A Wilder Vein (p. 134):

Anything less than truth or trees

 



 The post hole by Sara Firman

In drizzle blue as your coveralls

kneeling before a post hole

the holes in your shoes

defiant as you are

stretch and yawn

and deepen

the love

I feel

for the man in the cool hat

careless about anything

less than truth

or trees

 

(Celebrating the birthday of my special partner Joe 12.5.2011.)

 

Related posts:

 Sun, Moon and Stars

Celebrating my Centaur

Quetzalcoatl the bird shaman

The lost house (poem)

This poem uses the imagery of a burned out house to express the desperation and sadness of lost love countered by the hope of eventual healing through time and the regenerative insistence of nature. It was written several years ago after an isolated house occupied by people I did not know burned to the ground.

Ozark insects are exotic!

(Click on the image to see a larger version)

Recently I heard another Ozark immigrant say that the reason she moved here was for the insects!  Then she explained that it was not so much the terrors of ticks and chiggers (I call them 'chicks and tiggers' to lighten my perspective) but the sheer variety and exotic nature of the insects you can see here in general.  Especially if you live in a forest as I do.

Of course, the one shown here is not unfamiliar to most of you.  I watched it spend a whole day exploring this pumpkin.  I wanted to catch it perching on the top of the stem - which it did many times - but it always seemed to sense I was intent on that and moved quickly off.  The other thing you learn about insects here is that they are very much aware. 

As the season ends and insects - troubling and benign from a human's point of view - go into hibernation, I give thanks for the wonder they bring to my own life too.  I didn't come here for the insects but I can see why someone might.  For more insect images by me, see Sounds of cicadas: images and haiku

Ozark Fall Colors

 

a second spring, fall in the Ozarks

Mnemosyne's Pool of Reflection

 One symbol, perhaps above all others, holds a crucial significance for everyone in search of wholeness: the well.  From the terrestrial world it leads down into darkness, to the treasure of pure feminine consciousness - we are each blessed with our own well. 

From Sitting by the Well (recordings of Jungian analyst Marion Woodman)

 

After listening to the first disc in this wonderful collection, which offers a guided meditation to visit one's own well, I was reminded of a story I wrote long ago.  Below is an extract in which my own imagined well of remembrance is described.  It's part of a creative memoir inspired by my love of water.  More extracts to come.

*****

Found objects: natural art

Outside the cabin where I live chimes, windspinners and other hanging art catch the light and breeze of the day.  Inside, I like to create mobiles from found objects, like the two pictured here.  The feathers catch any air movement and turn them also.

Both mobiles have masks of death in them, the first a skull (as yet unidentified) and the second a turtle's shell. A metal coyote belt-buckle and hematite pendulum allude respectively to the calls of darkness and the wild blood in all of us.

Author of  Soulcraft Bill Plotkin says: 'The Underworld Journey awaits those who already hear mystery whispering in their day and night dreams, in unusual occurrences and encounters, in water or wind, and whose profound longing is to sense and navigate life by these deep currents'.  The mobiles remind me of those currents.

Tom Crockett's book The Artist Inside also talks of exploring the images of sleeping and waking dream states for creative expression (finding, arranging, altering and making).  These simple practices connect me with place and with deeper levels of meaning in my engagement with the land and its beings.

 Coyote's dreams: image copyright Sara Firman 2011

Homage to a tree: logres (poem)

 

 Logres by Sulis


After a despairing
moon
I circled
the clearing
clambering
over the fallen
trees
the fallen
nights
the once shining realm
fading

Decaying
white bells
a glimpse of
ladies tresses
an orchid orchestrating
the fall
in amongst the low
moss of memory

The kingdom
severed
from inspired contact

The purity and glory
of Logres driven away
by rejection
arrogance
loss of faith
a sudden pervasive
decay
withering the land
strange mists obscuring
vision

Impossible
to have missed this
this beacon of life
rooted and reaching
unscathed
ancient
rite
here.

Questing for Healing Waters: California to Oregon

Native americans often called hot springs by names that translated as some variant of 'medicine springs' - they recognized the healing value of these mysterious warm waters.  The pacific northwest is blessed with a profusion of springs and a recent visit there reminded me of a journey I took a decade ago at the start of my water quest.  Here it is, with updated links.