Transplanting

For my mother, for your mother, for the mother in me, for the mother in you, and for the Great Mother.

 

The tender leaves of the brandy-wine have grown cut and distinct

from those of the beefsteak.

They are ready to begin the process of becoming hardened-off

for the world outside.

Moving tomato starts from house to garden,

from perpetual day under ultraviolet light

to cycles of day and night;

exposing them to sun and moon shine,

to rain and wind–

acts of faith.

I blow them kisses,

I pray for their survival.

I remember the careful sowing of seeds–

the tending, the watering, the watching.

In three days, I will gently tease their dense roots.

I will place them in prepared soil.

I will intuit the pleasure of moving

from the boundaries of a small pot into earth expansive.

*I wrote this poem as a young mother in a rare and quiet moment with a writer-friend at a local cafe. It first appeared, in an earlier version, in the first edition of Voice Catcher, an Anthology of New Writing by Portland-Area Women, 2006.

 

 

 

A September When…

They are twenty-two,

white American women overseas,

drawn to Morocco,

a land of cities adorned

in tile and brick, clay and stone, metal and wood.

A land of cities painted,

doors of forest green

walls of sun-faded red

window shutters of royal azure blue.

The air thick with aroma…

fallen, rotting figs,

burning sandalwood,

dried cinnamon, saffron, coriander, cumin and ginger,

baking nan and frying fish.

Language forms a discordant song.

Children sell chick peas by the gram,

calling out in French, then Spanish, sometimes English.

Men fill cafes, their dialogue in Arabic spilling out into the streets.

Waves of drums and voices lift, resonate,

hands clap and castanets clack.

They feel the thrill of anonymity

coupled with the terror of estrangement.

They are willful others, foreign tourists,

naive to their privilege,

hearts and minds tender and budding.

Two among hundreds of thousands navigating crowded streets.

They are wanderers seeking the unknown.

A man brushes against her shoulder,

He leans in close, utters words meant for her, for them,

“…catastrophe à La Maison-Blanche!”

Suddenly she feels caught by eyes searching.

She bows her head, clenches stiff white cotton.

They move swift and bewildered,

through a labyrinth of doorways, side streets and tunnels,

passing women who silently carry baskets of goods,

men who gut tilapia in fish markets,

Emerging into the medina,

relieved to return to this new familiar center.

They enter a small cafe, tiled in red and pink.

The owner, Raashid, sits beside them,

pointing to the television in the corner

where an image replays–

airplanes crashing into tall towers,

smoke and ash billowing…

time escapes them.

They have been crying.

Raashid offers his compassionate gaze, his smile warm.

They talk of fear, of shock, of shame, of death and loss.

They contemplate the future–how it could be shaped by tyrants.

They hold hands, praying in silence.

They part at nightfall.

He hails them a taxi to the train station,

to their next destination–south and westward,

as westerners never stop moving.

Essaouira via Marrakesh.

Young beckoning men of the Sahara sell jewelry,

silver, lapis, amber, jade, moonstone.

Aziz, the rider of waves,

Mohammed, the philosopher,

Mustafa, the flamboyant.

Shots of rum are offered behind closed doors.

They talk of life and love,

of politics and marriage,

of the beauty of the desert and the mountains.

They share stories, jokes, and the tonic of laughter.

They extend an invitation for dinner.

At home, they are greeted by mothers, sisters, cousin, aunt and uncle.

They say she has the eyes of a Berber.

They ask, what are they doing, two women, far from home, traveling alone?

They express heartfelt condolences for American lives lost.

They ask, do they support the president?

They ask, what will the U.S. do now?

They sit in a circle, eating quietly,

tajine and couscous, Coca-Cola and nan.

They watch a broadcast of Gnaoua musicians on a glowing screen.

Aziz and Mohammed walk them to the hotel,

the cobbled streets quiet,

the earth beneath compact and cool.

They linger in shadow, whispering of simplicity,

exchanging kisses and caresses,

outlining the shapes of their bodies.

They invite them to forget what they know–

to miss the next bus, the next train and ferry,

to spend winter in the desert.

To inhabit another life…

rising at dawn with birdsong,

walking two miles to fetch water,

being shaped and sifted by wind,

cooking meals with family extended,

gazing outward into the galaxy and beyond,

unleashing from western notions of time,

experiencing the opening of eternity…

maybe then, they would know peace,

maybe then, they would feel whole.

 

 

 

 

 

A Rough Draft

Lovers of other times

are dropping into my mind,

for cups of coffee, day-dreaming,

recalling:

our dances of magnetism,

late-night philosophizing,

lessons in foreign tongues,

games of chess in the park,

melting flavors of pleasure,

sudden departures,

enduring friendships,

heart aches and heart hooks,

photographs and missing negatives,

love letters and tearful goodbyes–

many seas traversed and worlds gone by.

I wonder, is this the flooding review

that comes before a dying?

If I surrender to the dissolution,

can I carry parts of you, and me, forward?

If I have a choice, I will carry memories of feeling,

of our rare, naked moments when we let each other in.

And to you, you who are on your way,

I have heard you through the distance.

I have felt you in the space between,

flirting on the periphery of time.

you orbit, coming in close, then departing.

Are you a mirage? a soul projection? a mate? a kindred?

When we meet, sunlight breaks through,

casting rainbow arcs and amber warmth.

When we part, clouds gather,

bearing water and blue-grey cooling.

I savor the sensation of the brush of your cheek against mine,

I breathe in, capturing the earthy scent of you.

I long for our embrace,

the heat of our tender friction imprinting us,

the alchemy of our souls forming a new language for the world to come.

 

Untitled

When nobody whispers the words you long to hear

as you tuck in at night,

you recite them to yourself instead.

You call your fragments home.

You weave them back together,

feeling the emotion held in each one,

settling them with caresses.

The light of the sun follows you

as you descend into the expansive dark within.

The language of your origins rises from the margins.

It tugs at the folds of your mind,

reaches into sealed off heart-channels.

Unshed tears, long-caught in your throat, release.

You awaken to the task of now,

the task of learning to trust your wisdom.

 

Aliveness, herself

Rattlesnake plantain roots and blooms here.

Small, smooth, silver-veined leaves of snakeskin,

nestled into rich humus beneath the shade of red cedar.

Her branches, the warm embrace of mother, of forest-kin.

This mother tree welcomes all of me.

Kingfisher dives dramatically,

rises dripping,

arrows across glacier-fed lake to perch above,

calling in an enchanting rattle–

a warning or a greeting?

A familiar question.

The music of it calls me out of thought-depths,

out of doubt, of fear, out of lostness.

I am called into the senses of body–

this animal of pleasure and pain reclaimed–

known only by these hands,

by this mouth, this nose, these ears,

by this skin, this soul, this spirit, in this time.

Dreams of phantom lovers and mystery-seekers tame loneliness and loss.

Tears of praise fall onto the earth, rising to join gathering clouds.

Prayers whispered to the seedlings, to the fungi, to the ancestors.

Prayers sung from rocky mountain ledges

into the unknown

future taking shape, circling, disappearing from view,

returning transformed on eagle wings.

I vow to cease the mad pursuit of happiness.

I vow to receive and release, freely, all emotion.

I vow to strive, not to be any one thing for too long–

to be instead, all things, in turn.

To be vivid, vibrant, brightness, darkness,

to be aliveness herself.

 

Love through chaos

Our eyes steal glances of beloved, grazing on form and flesh,
translating energy into fantasy.
As the wind belongs to this forest of fir, hemlock and cedar,
your hands belong to the soft slopes of my body,
caressing my cells to whisper, hum, and to moan.
We have known each other
by other names
in other times:
wild shadow-dancer
lakeside star-gazer
moon-tracking tent-dweller
roaring river-rider
hearth-keeper
soul-healer
terrestrial trail-bound lover.
We satiate bodily desires with huckleberries and afternoon swimming–
momentary pleasure quenching.
Great longing spans the distance between our lives.
Longing follows us home.
It fuels our dreams, awakens our senses.
Longing asks us to remember how to love through chaos.