Inspired by Daniel Burke's recent poems and Maurice Ravel's Boléro, blog member Estela Bourque offers her poem, "Bolero."

BOLERO

The dancer whirls

In staccato rhythm

To the sounds on wood

Skirt swirling round

A union of sound movement

Against the chaotic confusion

Of broken shards

Reflected in a mirror

Of sparkling debris

Round and round

A symphony of souls

Herald the birth

Of something new

From different points of light

The forming of seeds

Responding to the call

The dancer twirls

In a previous post I referred to poems as "sparks." I also think of some poems as "looping corkscrews." The imagery in such poems throws one completely off guard. On purpose. The only defense against such poems is to avert one's eyes, stop reading, turn away. But if you let the looping corkscrew imagery in, it will twist and turn, this way and that and you will be reward, being touched by something you newver thought or felt before.

I think blog member Daniel Burke's poems Paracolobopsis and Crominox  are good examples of "looping corkscrews."

Paracolobopsis

Crominox 

fire at the altar

top! supper served 

tabula rasa.

the hues of

the body

are refined.

to stain with colour

is to touch

the body. 

now made eminent,

hailing from 

the bursting hills;

shortest, 

trifling,

Min the Blond

attends adorned in gold and white,

to the once castrated;

Ox the Besprinkler.

Here is a new poem from blog member Chris Bourque.

Bones From Heaven

She lay on the sand.
A warm July day in Southeast Alaska.
Little wind, endless daylight.

It felt good to rest,
to feel the warmth of the sun.
Her eyes closed, her mind drifted.
Listening to the distant tide and
the voices of her children slowly ebbing
further and further away.
She felt at peace.

Suddenly, something hard fell on her thighs.
Startled, she bolted upright to see who had
disturbed her peace and
thrown what she quickly saw was a small branch.
Ready to admonish her children,
she could quickly see they were much too far away.
Getting fully to her feet, she looked around
and found no one else within sight,
No trees close by.
No way to explain this branch
that had fallen upon her.

Looking closer she saw it wasn’t wood
that had fallen upon her thigh, but bone.
She was sure of it.
She scanned the distant trees one more,
looking for that tell tale splash of white
amidst the green
letting her know an eagle was around,
but – nothing.

It was a little late for nesting material,
but an eagle could have dropped part
of its’ find on its way along the shore.
But, she hadn’t heard the eagles piercing call,
nor did she see any in flight as she scanned the sky.
She laid back down and mused
that this was a bone fallen from heaven,
dropped to remind her of the preciousness of life.
Perhaps done as a mischievous act
by her friend who had passed away
a year ago to the day.
But where would a bone come from in heaven?
Did they have lavish feasts with ribs?
Could the bone be from a different dimension,
contact from one of her many other selves
living in nearby parallel lives.

As she shared her story,
all of her family and friends
insisted it had to be a clumsy
eagle that lost part of its’
nest repair load.
But as time went by,
she preferred her thought
that this was a bone from heaven.
Contact made by a lost loved one,
telling her to “Wake up!
There’s more to life than you know.
Don’t let it slip through your fingers.”

So, she held that bone from heaven in her mind
as she loved her family, her friends, her life
more and more every day.

This is a must listen!

The Absence of Love
from Dreams, Bones, & the Future: Queries & Speculations by Russell Lockhart and Paco Mitchell

PM: Earlier you referred to the “pathology of orthodoxy,” which sounds like one of those statements that could have gotten you burned at the stake as a heretic alongside Jung, or at least put under house arrest with Galileo. The forces of orthodoxy do not take criticism kindly, having for centuries presumed to define what is good and acceptable for all. But now you are saying that the spread of orthodoxy into every corner of our lives and every form of society, amounts to an epidemic disease, and that narcissism is one of its primary qualities. Can you elaborate on that viewpoint?

RL: At bottom, narcissism rejects love and if love is rejected, it’s always power and “power over” that fills the void. Orthodoxy is afraid of love. So, in demanding conformity, whether bluntly or subtly, the principle of exclusion becomes dominant. One of the chief mechanisms of conformity is fear, and orthodoxy is always operating both out of fear and using fear. Love cannot thrive in an atmosphere of fear, but power relishes it. Eros always goes deepest on the personal level and goes to precincts power cannot know, because power always adheres Velcro-like to “principles” over people. So, I see narcissism’s rejection of love and Eros as the fundamental psychology of orthodoxy. And this is where the tipping point from orthodoxy to tyranny, from fundamentalism to fascism, becomes inevitable. It is the absence and rejection of love that lies at the root of so much of our modern character as a culture.

A new poem from blog member Mike Daniel

A Hidden Life

In every land
In every person
There is a still place
Of quiet knowing
Where our machines
Have not yet come
Imagine-a valley, a dale
Alive
Plants, animals, insects
Are
Humbly living together
In harmony
Sunset, death day
Dust motes float
Lazily spinning
Flashing light, now dark
Waiting in still air
Dusk's veil spreads
Slowly, silently
Can you see it?
Feel it?
Ahead of the dark tide
Subtle light flickers
Moving from leaf to leaf
Tree to tree
Light dances, plays
In her wave
Gliding, enlivening, beauty
Caressing delicate
Life
Wind out for an
Evening ramble
Weaves with light
Desiring together
Crossing dark mirror loche
All woven
Sparkling, faceted interconnection
Wind whispers to light
Enough?
Surprising wind
Light dives down
Deep, timeless waiting
Otherness arises
Bubbles
Oh, delightful
Wind sighs

Some poems are "frictional," and give off sparks. These sparks can ignite something in you. Let them in. Always remember to speak the poem aloud so your ears can participate. The words enter the ear's vestibule and yes you see Vesta in the naming, none other than the hearth goddess. She keeps the fire going, the fire that must never go out, ignis inextinctus. Sparks, indeed!

A new member of the blog, Daniel Blake, offers these sparks.

Under the mound of my belly, the occidental is ended

God awful Sun-days

Going all sideways,

Gone asunder suddenly;

Gasping after salaries.

Gary asked somebody

Going around sounding,

Garbling about summertime

"Got any spare 

gillyform-aero-space-suits

going?" And so

Gary and Saz,

Giggling about stardust,

Got away swiftly

Gaia's almost shifted

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!

Bear only yesterday scattered

Beady Owl's yarrow stalks...

Bundling, orating, yelling skyward,

Bear overwatches your secret

Beehive. Ominous, you say?

But only your splitside 

Boxed off your shine.

Bring out your seafaring,

Bellybusting overalls, young soldiers.

Look up, nighttime arrives.

In response to my "poetry invited post, blog member Estela Bourque has offered up a poem expressing what many are feeling, what many are questioning. There are no sure-footed answers yet, but immersing oneself in these questions and others swirling about, is something worth doing.

A State of Disbelief

These days I live in a

State of disbelief

As thousands of people succumb

To an invisible force and

 Structures crumble in submission.

There is no sense to be made

Of this foe that has arrived

On the doorstep of humans

Unwelcome in its vengeance.

Where has this enemy come from?

Some speculate that it escaped from a lab

Others say it is conspiracy borne

Still others say it is Nature’s revenge

Against the exploitation of life by humans.

It has arrived during a dark time on Earth

When humans no longer live in harmony

With Nature or the Cosmos

But instead have gouged and destroyed

The land and habitat of animals

In pursuit of wealth and power.

Now the search is on for an antidote

A vaccine that will eradicate the virus

And once again restore the power of

Humans over Nature without

A deeper lesson being learned.

What is the lesson?

That humans cannot control life

And continue to exploit it

For their benefit alone

Instead they need to cherish the

Gifts bestowed upon us all

With love, care and gratitude.

These days I wonder . . .

Where is the wisdom that will

Lead us back to the Holy Grail.

Poetry in times of duress has the capacity to express more directly than what is possible in prose. This is because, in extremity, the veil between the conscious and unconscious mind becomes porous making the flow of deeper images more available than is typical when the rational functions are dominant. Giving oneself over to this flow of images informs poetic expression more readily because, as Joan Baez said of Leonard Cohen's songs, "they do not have to make sense."

We are in a time of extremity and duress at most every level. This is a good time, then, to try and catch that strange and often haunting influx of images coming from deeper waters and put those images into form, into poetry. This is not about good poem/bad poem. This is about hearing the images. This is why I encourage reading the poem aloud, so it gets into your ears and not just your eyes. Hearing excites the older brain more than seeing does. And it is re-connecting with our older brain functions that will be most helpful in the current time, those ways of being where our ancient ancestors spent most of their time.

So, I encourage you to send in your poems. Here is a recent offering from blog member Mike Daniel.

Little Bitty Pretty One (read while playing Thurston Harris song)

Outside known space

Separate

Did our eyes say

Something very old

Dead to us

Alive too

It just doesn't jive

Floating in 

Dynamic stillness

Only natural

Flow

like this,

Like This

LIKE THIS

Bats, chickens, pangolins, cats, dogs

Any bloody thing

Caged, crammed in

Murdered on demand

for

meat

Meat

MEAT

By animals living

Ecosystems of death

Free now

Flowing to new space

Creating relationship

Someday coming to

Stillness- death and change

Plucky little one

May you teach us

In royal style