My chest has been hurting for about 2 months. It's old pain, emotions, I could tell that. I tried to let it be, ie not suppress it, but didn't really go towards it. No, it's not a heart attack. On Monday I had to drive somewhere, leading another car. My daughter was with me and she is perfectly content to have the car be quiet. I decided to really open up to the old pain and the first poem I posted today started forming. I didn't drive badly, but I was so focused on it that I got us lost not once, but twice. And the friend took over for the last bit and led the way. So then I wrote the second poem, fool. I get so distracted working on some poem or thought direction that I really do trip over things, the same things over and over. When I get emotionally tired in clinic I start tripping over my own feet.
Child is also written for one of my clinic patients who told me about his childhood.
Beloved is from Rumi.
I was just loaned a copy of Joseph Campbell's "the masks of god: Creative Mythology". I'd read the first page before I wrote Child. Three pages later is TS Eliot's The Waste Land. "Here is no water but only rock." My thought was that women know rock isn't eternal and there must be something under it, bedrock or no. It's only called bedrock, right? We know there is a molten core.
Love,
Red Paw
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment