Penelope Connor — ink girl poet
On days when my heart
feels like just shutting down
–I sit with the stillness,
make almost no sound.
On days when my heart
feels like locking its doors
–I wear your old t-shirts
and sit on my floors.
On days when my heart
feels like going to ground
–I breathe in the earth and
I feel it’s heart pound.
On days when my heart
feels like it’s fighting wars
–I let my tears carry
me back to your shores.
—–
AUDIO FILE:
The pear tree overhead
drips honey gold
as the retreating sun
caresses its leaves.
The day fades to
the sound of your voice,
and shadows chase light
from the sky.
Our conversation
drips honey gold
as Cheshire cat moon
parts the clouds.
Her light fills the night
while you whisper
goodnight wishes
in my ear.
Across the way,
two little girls
are giggling
at the magic of
fireflies in the gray.
Isn’t everyone
chasing light,
after all?
—–
AUDIO FILE:
We are ourselves,
in necessary time
–the virtuoso quiet
of an internal pulse,
underestimated–
until we grow ready,
for the names
that have caught us.
We have been too easily
seen and too easily named.
We live in a time of
imaginings and longings–
too much, too often
— squeezed into
our sense of self,
our sense of others.
What is real is almost
always precious,
does not care to be known
with no place to hide.
A creeping necessity,
creative and subversive,
leaves life to itself
–to become solace.
—–
SOURCE TEXT:
HIDING is a way of staying alive. Hiding is a way of holding ourselves until we are ready to come into the light. Even hiding the truth from ourselves can be a way to come to what we need in our own necessary time. Hiding is one of the brilliant and virtuoso practices of almost every part of the natural world: the protective quiet of an icy northern landscape, the held bud of a future summer rose, the snow bound internal pulse of the hibernating bear. Hiding is underestimated. We are hidden by life in our mother’s womb until we grow and ready ourselves for our first appearance in the lighted world; to appear too early in that world is to find ourselves with the immediate necessity for outside intensive care. Hiding done properly is the internal faithful promise for a proper future emergence, as embryos, as children or even as emerging adults in retreat from the names that have caught us and imprisoned us, often in ways where we have been too easily seen and too easily named. We live in a time of the dissected soul, the immediate disclosure; our thoughts, imaginings and longings exposed to the light too much, too early and too often, our best qualities squeezed too soon into a world already awash with too easily articulated ideas that oppress our sense of self and our sense of others. What is real is almost always to begin with, hidden, and does not want to be understood by the part of our mind that mistakenly thinks it knows what is happening. What is precious inside us does not care to be known by the mind in ways that diminish its presence. Hiding is an act of freedom from the misunderstanding of others, especially in the enclosing world of oppressive secret government and private entities, attempting to name us, to anticipate us, to leave us with no place to hide and grow in ways unmanaged by a creeping necessity for absolute naming, absolute tracking and absolute control. Hiding is a bid for independence, from others, from mistaken ideas we have about our selves, from an oppressive and mistaken wish to keep us completely safe, completely ministered to, and therefore completely managed. Hiding is creative, necessary and beautifully subversive of outside interference and control. Hiding leaves life to itself, to become more of itself. Hiding is the radical independence necessary for our emergence into the light of a proper human future.
… Excerpted from ‘HIDING’ From CONSOLATIONS: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words. 2015 © David Whyte – Now Available – http://davidwhyte.stores.yahoo.net/newbook.html
AUDIO FILE:
You smile at me –beguile– you see.
You make my pulse begin to rush.
Your dazzling brilliance makes me blush.
I can’t resist your laugh, so free.
So when my yielding flesh would be
your prey, with which my blood does flush
— remember what it is you see.
Forgive my dancing pulse its rush.
Though sorely frightened I may be,
I ache to know your tender brush,
which turns into a greedy crush
— I long to feel you biting me!
Your smile beguiles my flesh, you see.
—–
POETIC FORM INFO:
The poetic form focus for my PAD 2016 Challenge is the Rondeau — 13 lines in 3 stanzas; rhyme scheme: ABba/abAB/abbaA (uppercase letters are refrains) Usually 8 syllables per line. For info: http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/personal-updates/help-me-rondeau-help-help-me-rondeau-another-french-poetic-form
AUDIO FILE:
—–
Found Poetry Review (FPR) Challenge – IMPROMPTU #1 – Guest Poet Patrick Williams created and offered a Random Prompt Generator. Check Out the Post here:
http://www.foundpoetryreview.com/blog/impromptu-1-patrick-williams/
I want to touch you —
everywhere —
to explore until
my fingers are inked
by both your darkness
and your light,
until every
creative thing
I set my hands to
is stained and textured
by the combination
of your hues and
the distinctive whorls
of my fingerprints.
—–
AUDIO FILE:
There’s something fierce, inside my head.
It keeps me restless in my bed.
My mind is dangling by a thread —
a monster clamors to be fed.
My skin is crawling, flushed and red.
a hunger cries, inside my head —
it sears my thoughts, like white hot lead.
It calls all night, like books unread.
I need to be consumed and bled,
to slake my thirst — don’t be misled!
It’s fierce — this urge, inside my head.
I’ve trembled, and my needs I’ve pled–
I’ve longed for you, here in my bed.
I wake and ache, alone instead.
Come find me here, as I have said —
and meet this beast, inside my head.
—–
POETIC FORM: QUATERN
16 lines broken up into 4 quatrains (or 4-line stanzas). Each line is comprised of 8 syllables. 1st line is the refrain (R). In the 2nd stanza, the refrain appears in the 2nd line; in the 3rd stanza, the 3rd line; in the 4th stanza, the 4th (and final) line. There are no rules for rhyming or iambics.
AUDIO FILE:
The woods were calling.
I sat at at the feet of my Wolf, with tears in my eyes, at having received unexpected news of loss. My heart was spilling over with sorrow, and I could only think of running to the trees. So she took me by the hand, and wiped tears from my eyes. She drove to our favorite set of trails, and let me lead the way. We hiked along, through wet grass and slippery mud as we made our way deeper into the wooded area and turned the corner to a favorite path — one that’s been under water for months.
Accompanied by the frenzied calls of geese and ducks from the nearby marsh, we stepped from the planked walkway into ankle deep water feeling the mud suck and grasp at our boots. Sticking to the center of the path, or the edges, depending on the depth, she splashed along beside me, softly speaking words of love and encouragement, with a smile in her voice.
We waded.
And we talked, about the sorrow of losing a man who has loved me since the day I was born — he was one of the few people in this life I can say that about — and the sudden absence of his presence in this world was a reality I was struggling to absorb. But the woods and the water were soothing. Placing my hands against tree trunks was comforting, and the sound of her voice made it easier to breathe.
The sky overhead was dark, overcast by clouds that promised rain, but held off for reasons unknown. The sun would set in an hour, and the sounds of ducks and geese in preparation for this nightly event filled my ears. Finally, I found the place I’d been longing for since that morning — a stone bench surrounded by trees, deep enough in the woods that I knew I’d see wildlife, if only we were still for a little while.
I sat, and she stood — leaning against a nearby trunk, listening while I shared with her what was on my heart. As I wound down, and fell into thought, they came. First, it was two young deer, who stopped in the nearby copse of trees and stared at me, ears twitching, and bodies perfectly still. The near one and I gazed into each other’s eyes for several long moments, in silent conversation. Then the birds began to call from the tops of the trees, a woodpecker worked steadily in the distance, and briefly, a very large and beautiful brown owl graced us with a silent, overhead flight.
I breathed in these gifts of presence, and pointed out each of them to her, as she watched me. At one point she asked me to do her a favor, and it was really a gift she was giving to me. At her request, I chose a song (the one that had been in my heart all morning, since I’d heard the news) and queued it on my phone. She stepped away, wet, rippling, water sounds following her, as she retreated to some not-too-distant place behind my back, and left me alone in my sanctuary.
I pressed my boots into the sludge and water at my feet, imagining the mud between my toes as I grounded myself. I took a deep breath, before slipping my ear buds into my ears, and starting the song. I sobbed, breathed deeply, and let the words wash over me… just as the sun broke through the clouds over my left shoulder, and cast its reflection into the water at my feet like a blanket.
I cried until I felt I could breathe again – thankful for this quiet, sacred space, and for a Wolf who would watch over me as I got lost in it. The song was set to repeat, and when it began again, I took another, deeper breath, and sang it aloud — to the trees, to the distant deer and the birds overhead, to the wet earth, the water and the sunlight pooling at my feet. I sang aloud, not caring who might hear, or how it might sound. It was my declaration and my prayer. The well of emotion in me surged, and I rode the wave, singing triumphantly, in gratitude.
As the last notes faded, the beautiful sun pulled her blanket of cloud cover back over her shoulders and ducked toward the horizon. I watched for a moment, then stood slowly to my feet. I put away my phone, and gathered myself, turning to find my Wolf sitting not ten steps away, smiling softly at me. She took me by the hand and together we walked through the water, through the trees, and the fading sunlight — finding our way back to dry land.
—–
will you look into my eyes
— plunge the depths,
without looking away?
Can you see me?
Will you hurt me,
if I ask you to?
Can you find your teeth
and tear my flesh,
make me bleed–
silence the voices
in my head,
quiet the jangling
of my heart?
Will you draw from me
cries of pain,
tears of relief —
as though my body
were a well?
Can you scare me–
loose your growl,
rake your claws
into my skin?
Will you watch me
while I tremble,
watch me cringe,
as my mouth opens wide,
spills out screams
of agony?
Can you paint–
my flesh your canvas–
with strips of leather,
with sharpened steel,
with fingers dipped
into my blood?
Will you feed your hunger
with these things,
and find your way
in the darkness
–with me?
—–
AUDIO FILE:
Pen's Ink 