I started a writing course with the awesome Angie Wiseman this morning. Wild Writing for Women. I forgot about it until my alarm reminded me 10 minutes before 9am. That’s, unfortunately, how I do things. I rushed to grab some coffee (luckily there was some iced in the fridge!) and rubbed the mascara off from under my eyes with coconut oil before we started (this is a video course, right? I wondered). I put on a bra too. Just in case. Grabbed my computer and joined and hit my edges quickly. “We’ll be writing for 12-15 minutes” she said. “Then we’ll each go around and read what we wrote.” I wanted to close my computer in that moment but knew that I wouldn’t. I knew I wanted to and needed to be here. Needed to stay. This is one of the writings that came out, unedited. Thank you.
Where I Come From
I’m from the fire of the women, the long lineage of strong women.
I’m from the tales told in hushed voices.
I’m from the songs, sung over scotch and sherry.
I’m from the secrets too giant to whisper.
I’m from the sad moments that stay inside the heart, alone.
I’m from the cool breezes beneath a full moon.
I’m from the howls of wolves and the cries of babies.
I’m from regret and sadness.
I’m from big joy that bursts like flames.
I’m from mountain lakes untouched by men and rivers with clear ice cold water.
I’m from activists and survivors.
I’m from soft, warm, nurturing hands.
I’m from the edges and the shadows.
I’m from the womb of nothingness and everything.
I’m from the headlights in the driveway that usher the news.
I’m from heavy weights and light words.
I’m from honey that drips ever so slowly and sweetly.
I’m from the light.
I’m from her voice that always said yes.
I’m from his wandering soul.
I’m from lies and truths shrouded in love.
I’m from desire.
I’m from soft earth.
I’m from the water.
I’m from the freedom of the sky.
I’m from the thighs of the mothers who came before me with longing and power.
I’m from their voices whisper “now.”
I’m from the darkness.
I”m from the fields.
I’m from stardust.
I’m from legends and myths.
I’m from goddesses.
I’m from them.
I’m from small memories.
I’m from old, warm quilts wrapped around them.
I’m from ecstasy.
I’m from pain they didn’t, couldn’t mention.
I’m from fear of losing.
I’m from fear of being; really being.
I’m from fingers folding crisp sheets that smell of grass.
I’m from hot chocolate sauce and dollar bills.
I’m from so many places and spaces.
I’m from the time before they considered each other.
I’m from the earth.
I’m from the fire.
the scent of her lingers::
sandalwood and resin with a smokey finish
temples overflowing with ginger and incense
warm forests of pine and earth
sea salt of baltic seas spilling amber out of her warm hands
soft patchouli necks and wrists
old oak casks of dry red wine
cloves and cinnamon with hints of vanilla
coconut and lavender and rosemary intermingling
::the scent of her lingers
“there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and even during the
the greatest times
we will know it
we will know it
there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
we will wait
in that space.”
― Charles Bukowski
Just re-watched a small portion of the movie Sylvia as I worked on a website. I wonder, why did this movie not get better reviews? Your thoughts? I thought Gwyneth Paltrow was brilliant (though maybe I’m biased). I found the movie beautiful and sad and poetic. Exactly what a movie about Sylvia Plath should be.
Did you see the movie? What were your thoughts? I know, it’s several years since the movie came out, but I stumbled into it again today.
The Moon and the Yew Tree
by Sylvia Plath
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky –
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.
The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can’t reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
into the windy heaven, out of the oak,
in the ponds broken off from the sky
my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.
Rainer Maria Rilke
A gene targets the thirst.
Like an itch scratched only once, then forgotten.
She wimpers without weeping;
and her cries echo through the matrix.