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Oceantics

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Oceantics

Monthly Archives: April 2013

Palimpsest

27 Saturday Apr 2013

Posted by elainestirling in Form Poetry

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

atonement, creativity, dance songs, dreaming awake, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, forme fixe, harmony, letting be, Medieval French verse, mindfulness, musical chansons, nagual, palimpsest, rondeau, the creative impulse

tibetan-singing-bowl3

A Rondeau

There’s a poem like a koan
that refuses to be known
at the edges of my dreaming
like a palimpsest revealing
shades of doubt erased and shown

between the traces finely combed
a certainty poetic that is home
& hearth to all I’m feeling, there’s a poem

in moments when I think that I’m alone
it overturns illusions I’ve outgrown
and pulls from them a reckoning
deliberately sublime, and chiming
harmony atoned, there’s a poem.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

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St. George & the Dragon, Redux

23 Tuesday Apr 2013

Posted by elainestirling in Narrative poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

acrostic poem, arcana, Barcelona, dualities reversed, Elaine Stirling, La Dia de Sant Jordi, mythology, narrative poetry, perspective, self-transformation, St. George's Day, telling a new story, the oriflamme

st george and dragon

An Acrostic Poem

Today in our city of roses and books
Here in Las Ramblas you may overlook, while
Eyeing through battered editions of Cid

Slaying Saracens a slender young man
Assisting the hungry and weary and
Ill, not with food or with bandages
Not even a bench but with tales of hope
Told with string and balloons. I can tell you,

I’ve seen him, he dresses in scarlet and black
Silk with a flaming gold cross tattooed on his back.

Drawing from Gothic romances, he stretches the
Rubber balloons and he blows and he twists them
Around to make dragons, the symbol of rapacious
Greed, but our George does not slay them
Or brag knightly exploits; his story is bolder
Now, while he traces the threads of the alchemists’

Gold as the colour of goodness that flows through
Everyman’s heart—stretch, blow, twist—rose, unfolding
Of fear, once were scales, now they’re petals
Releasing the natural flames of desire that
Guide without error through darkness and loss.
Eye him well for the man who assembles the true
Dragon tales disappears for a year at the end of the day.

Happy St. George’s Day, April 23, 2013!

~~~

Note: In Barcelona, La Dia de Sant Jordi, is celebrated on April 23 by giving one’s beloved books and roses.

Note #2: An acrostic is a poem with a “hidden” code that can be read vertically, usually the first letter in each line.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
–painting of St. George and the Dragon
by Paolo Uccello (1397-1475)

Stages

22 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by elainestirling in Poetry

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

all the world's a stage, appearances, comedy and tragedy, Elaine Stirling, Law of Attraction, letting be, poetry, Shakespeare, the power of relief, vibrational reality

proscenium

Have no fear of exponentiality!
The mores and mores of what
we want if want be true surround
the faithfulest of promises, they
are the light, the uneclipsed
of you, who is, who are the
variable factors acting
on the very able.

Shadow’s great, a topic
rife with metaphor, its power
to delineate beliefs inherited,
adopted, and on verge of
catapult, collapse, catastrophe
is unsurpassed—but shadow
is the past. Make no mistake—
you can’t—there is no need
to err nor air what irritates
with anything but gratitude
for all who’ve come and
gone and those who wait,
stage left, with smiles
broad beaming or deep
hid ‘neath tears.

We’ll see, each one
of us, that Will was right,
this is a play, its comedy
of unity assured, so go
ahead on days you can
and bore the cynics stiff.
Variety abounds, tragedians,
forsooth, write well your
scenes, bring down the
house of less and more
if that be your preferréd
plot. Myself, I say, inverse
the curse, repair a leg,
but this you know,
which may be why
tomatoes grow where
once we tried to act
and could not
make a go…

Let it be so.

And now I shall slip
soundless through
proscenia to stages
well directed where
a cast awaits projected
and the factors exponential
of the you and me
and us already flow.

~~~
© Elaine Stirling, 2013
–image, proscenium stage of
Princess of Wales Theatre,
Toronto

I Am Not Your Torquemada

21 Sunday Apr 2013

Posted by elainestirling in Poetry

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

adultery, cultural cliches, Elaine Stirling, fidelity, humor, poetry, self-expression, Spanish Inquisition, stereotypes, suppression, the "negative" emotions

sargent-dancer_preview

The following poem contains stark
anatomical content; reader discretion
is advised. For the record, I’d also
like to iterate that what you’re about
to read (or ignore) sourced from a
joyful conversation across time
zones. For our 21st century ability
to engage and inspire one another
virtually, I am most grateful.

~~~

I am not your Torquemada
dipsy dancer on black velvet
who, with lips like swollen
vulva, swaying hips by laws
of church and God, or by their
breakage grind you into dust
and keep you on the straight
and narrow, flagellating with
my tongue and other flailing
parts when you are not. So
what care I if faithful or obedient
to Nature’s laws and hunger’s
craw are you? We are not
wed. We are not dead. And if
your curiosity of what I say
and do is limited to grand
inquisitor, absent of heart,
then torturous I’m sure you’ll
find my innocence inspiring
my thrust of head and pound
of cleated heels clichéed, my
words they’ll sound to you
like castanets rat-tatting,
short on talent, maybe so
but lively with ferocity,
ecstatic with velocity
and nothing much in how
you might retaliate will stop
what we came here to activate,
so might as well just take
your dreary instruments,
your whips of lead and
sorrowing and find some
other maiden head whose
iron grip on feeling bad
more closely matches
yours. Olé!

~~~

Tomás de Torquemada was a 15th century Dominican friar and considered to be Spain’s first Grand Inquisitor.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
–“El Jaleo”, painting by John Singer Sargent (1856-1925)

The Paradigm of Disinterest

20 Saturday Apr 2013

Posted by elainestirling in Poetry

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

George Bernard Shaw, imagine new models, Law of Attraction, London School of Economics, manifestation, new paradigms, paradigm is just a model, vibrational reality

Bernard_Shaw's_Birthplace_Dublin

Turn One

I know a man who claims
at every turn to feel a shift
of paradigm at which he shouts,
“Hurrah!” and posts with diligence
the micro-steps that lead him
to assert, we are all ___, oh,
yes, in truth, we are all ___!

I know a woman who survived
a great brutality and learned
to smile in a way that turns
the heads of lonely men; to keep
this rapt attention she displays
pictorial a sequence of herself
as ever prettier and nuder.

Turn Two

I do not know the boy who
watches while his father works
until he bleeds, and reads of
great oppression overcome by
monumental force; and when
the first recruiter calls his name
he comes, and thus becomes.

I do not know the girl who
learns at six to thrust her hip
in such a way that marketers
rejoice and post the units sold
that please the pension plan
investors who can no longer
sleep for fear of loss.

Turn One Again

I will not know the states
that bring about neglectful
compromise, increasing cut
and slash until the homeless
far outnumber corporate
bonus, and the rigor of
the mortis has its way.

I have forgotten like a
sieve what-all I’ve learned
of mock democracy and turn
the other cheek from god—
or is it gold—no, goldman,
that we trust! The sacks,
I’m glad to say, are empty.

Turn True

I stand as far as thought
can reach with memory
behind, deconstituting
paradigms that hold no
interest and investing in
their stead a place that
clearer comes with every
turn of phrase indicative
of plenitude that grows
from virtues of eternal
and expanding grace.

~~~

Note: The phrase “as far as thought can reach” comes from the 1921 play by George Bernard Shaw called Back to Methuselah. In addition to being a successful playwright, philosopher, and satirist, Shaw was a founding father of the London School of Economics.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
–photo of G. B. Shaw’s Dublin
birthplace from Wikipedia

Conciliis Ultro*

19 Friday Apr 2013

Posted by elainestirling in Poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

alignment, Elaine Stirling, Law of Attraction, poetry, power of thought, the Universe conspires, trajectory, vibrational reality

Geese-Take-Flight

Don’t let disappointment be your
teacher, nor landing overcome
your joy of flight. If wingless is
your choice then walk with spring
not fall, your trip it is not over till
the clock has struck eleventeen.

Impossible, you say. Indeed!
So where’s the dread unless you can
with certainty proclaim the dead
are happy-less. Too many base
their choices on fatigue with rest
the goal, but what of all the rest?

Leap frog, dodge ball, skip to my Lou
any sweet thing to chase boo-hoo
a corny rhyme, a flirty blush
that leads in time to who knows what
you have to say it matters by
degrees you can’t imagine yet.

And when you know it matters well
the Universe she perks her ears,
Look, boys, we got a live one here!
Conspire, breathe with her, exercise
her wings, she’s still a little clums—
oops, no she isn’t.  Volare!

*conciliis ultro: Latin, meaning “advice, above and beyond”
~~~
© Elaine Stirling, 2013
–photo of flying Canada geese
from democratandchronicle.com

What Isn’t (also is)

17 Wednesday Apr 2013

Posted by elainestirling in Poetry

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Elaine Stirling, expansion, Law of Attraction, passive aggression, poetry, self-reflection, self-worth, vibrational reality, what we can learn from drama queens

dunce11

There is a kind of friendship
that isn’t really friendship that
involves the placid holding of the
coat of one’s who cool and
playing pool.

There is a kind of romance
that isn’t really romance that
requires passive listening while
the player of the cool recounts
the lovers and the stalkers that
she’s fooled, they are ridiculous,
and all you have to do—in fact,
that’s all you’d better do—
is nod your head.

There is a kind of breakdown
of relationship that isn’t where
the player who pretends that he
fears nothing packs his toys and
slams the doors with huffy noise
and calls the holders of the coats
and all the stalkers that he bitched
about, deciding after all that
they’re his friends.

There is a kind of nothing
more to say and do that frees
the mind to glance behind and
learn that no one is a coat rack
and there’s no such thing as
cooler than, and any time
we think we’re here to teach
another lessons, we’ve a
dunce in our own classroom
made for one.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

Incantation for Large Projects

17 Wednesday Apr 2013

Posted by elainestirling in Arcana

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Elaine Stirling, Finno-Ugric, incantation, Kalevala, Law of Attraction, Louhi, manifestation, poetry, rhyme, rune singing, The Corporate Storyteller, trochaic meter, Väinämöinen, vibrational reality

rainbowthunder

The place of space the rhyme
of time and lure of pure they’re
coaxed divine from habiting
the daily fix of nothing wrong
and all is right in actions
that are fractioned whole
in one the swing relies on eyes’
horizon for the sun to rise
in time with every little
thing that flies in face
of parent and apparent and
a child who will lead us through
the turbulence and sing
us into opulence if that
be our desire and if not it
doesn’t matter for the babe
knows how to shatter every
obstacle that clatters in the
pestilence and virulence of
subjugating innocent momentum
is the starting gate of effervescent
practicums that go and come
and go and come with escalating
thunder drums and rainbows
with the promise of…

done oh yes oh done oh yes oh done oh
yes oh done oh yes oh done oh yes oh done
oh yes oh done oh yes oh done oh yes oh done

oh YES!

~~~

NOTE: The Kalevala meter of this incantation was practiced by shamans, both male and female, of the ancient Finno-Ugric nations, of whom Louhi and Väinämöinen may be the most famous practitioners.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

–Image from Amazing World
on Facebook

Whitman Reading Me on a Wet Deck After the Rain

16 Tuesday Apr 2013

Posted by elainestirling in Narrative poetry

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

#The MexicanSaga, a separate reality, Carlos Castaneda, Elaine Stirling, free verse, fundamentalism, narrative poetry, redemption, self-forgiveness, The Corporate Storyteller, Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

A fantasy in free verse, inspired and directed by “Ontario’s Blue Shore”

I

After the rain,
I sat outside with Leaves of Grass on my knees,
I’d intended to take it into the woods with me to a gnarly old maple,
With a split trunk contour’d just right for lying back,
And straddling, but I’ve been stress’d ,
And the mosquitoes would’ve chew’d—

Bloody hell! An explosion caught my ear, a split’d second after,
The lightning ball that flared near the clematis and raspberry tangle,
Nearly six feet tall and fathoms broad with a recitating voice that boom’d,
Give up the apostrophes and the end line commas, would you?
We have bigger work to do.

I leaped to my feet and in my sudden apoplex threw Leaves of Grass at him.
The book flew through the ectoplas that metamorphed while my eyes boggled
Into Whit, the man, himself. He handed the book back.

Yours, I believe?

II

Making your acquaintance has been a trial were his next words. How long have
I slept, deprived of affection, upon your shelf? How many months, ignored,
Beside your pillow? That might work with Fried and Rainer, but I—he punched
His barrel chest—am of sterner blood.

The floorboards of cedar and I trembled.

Spectral or no, he made a fine specimen, hair and beard a silver nimbus, eyes a
Crackling blue-gray (Confederate and Union came to mind), the winds and
Currents of reconciled tensions in their interior as great as the lakes that bound
His land to mine.

The air smelled of blackberries and basil, and the corkscrew willow
Showered droplets across the shoulders of his blue cambric shirt
That was mostly unbuttoned.

What work—my voice squeaked like a pubescent country boy’s.
I tried again. He knew, of course, had to, that I’d been trying to pull
Whitman in through my veins, to create online what he wrote in lines
Of verse that gave voice to a continent, and iconized a name—
Sensuality as prayer and nation.

What work are you and I to do?

He helped himself to the glider chair beside mine.
His feet were bare and high-arched, the toes broad, well-formed.
He lifted one foot onto the knee of his dark dungarees.

I have not come on my own behalf, he said, nor for the poets with whom you
Keep broad and lively discourse. I come for a greater welfare.
The sinisterium of the nether realms grows crowded,
Seams bulge and stretch, and we have need of one who would liberate
Her thought and mind and body that the passages might be freed again.

III

Before I could jest or question this hallucination,
He thrust a pointing finger toward the woods into which
A trail had been tamped by suburban dogs and Nikes.
Here he comes now.

I craned my neck to watch what appeared to be a thin ginger reed stoppered
At both ends hopping toward me, and thought of Castaneda and his
Inorganic beings.

Nope, he’s organic and his organs, one in particular, are practic’d and perfect,
Though he could be an ally if you played your cards right.

(Where is the practic’d and perfect organ? where is the develop’d soul? Lines
From Whitman’s “Vocalism” came to my rescue, though I couldn’t be sure he
Was speaking, in this instance, of a voice box.)

The reed grew closer, sprouted wavy hair, limbs and a chiseled jaw.
A cloud surrounded it that reeked of Brut and apple pie.
Charisma, I thought, held past its prime.
As the jaw became sterner and the face recognizable,
Three thoughts pitchforked my tissue-thin civility:
What the hell is he doing here?
He must have been pissed to reach heaven and find the lusty poet-bard reciting,
Firm-footed and erect, through the multi-roomed mansions,
And what the frig was a sinisterium?

(I tugged the neckline of my scanty yellow top upward.)

Walt swung open the gate of my deck and invited
The energetic-being-turned-man in with large, liberal gestures.
Good to see you, pal! They guy-hugged with slaps and laughs
From the belly.

The new arrival turned to me. Hi, I’m Billy.
I understand you’re having trouble with erotica.

My body electric went into shock.

IV

Even if you never knew him, you’d know him.
He’d been pastor to presidents, his surname the same as a certain sweet cracker.
His fear of cheesecake (female temptors) was so notorious that he never sat in a
Room with a woman not his wife unless the door was propped open.
Over the years he became even crustier!

Blame it on my saturnine nature to jump to the lowest possible solid ground.
Look, Mister, Doctor, Reverend, I don’t know why or how Walt Whitman
Conjured you, but if you’ve come to judge or convert—

No, no, I know where you’re going, and nothing can change that.
I know what you think too, but I love what God created,
Women as helpmeets, sweet fragrant companions to men.

I glared at Walt. Get him the hell outta here!
The old horndog was slapping his thigh and laughing like a foghorn,
Giving off sparks like the Fourth of July. Billy kept talking.

It was those snooty pictures. They never stopped coming.

I was losing, had already lost poetic control of this piece.
I’d wanted to intone, Whitman-esque, of soybeans and corporate slaves.
I’d want’d … er, wanted to fill up my chest and sing to spheres and distances,
principalities and peace—what do you mean, snooty pictures?

I have them here. From the back pocket of his neatly pressed gray pants,
The preacher pulled a stack of photos and fanned them like a deck of cards.

These women are naked! I intoned, knowing with a poet’s surety that
Naked in a sentence will always shout loudest.

That’s what I said, nudie pictures. Women snuck them into Bibles and lemon
Pies, handing them to me sometimes while their husbands were right there!

Why?

Because they wanted to—they wanted me to—
(and here he blushed copper to the roots)
To f-f-f-, to fuh-fuh—

Fuck them? Fornicate. We spoke our respective F’s in the same moment,
Then shuddered at very much the same velocity. Whitman doubled over,
Weeping with laughter.

A ladybug, bless her, landed on my bare calf, and I leaned forward to take her
On my finger. Straightening, I heard a rumble, a quiet steady thrumming,
The sound, it struck me, of masculine power surrounding and abounding me.

I crossed my legs. Leaves of Grass fell to the wet deck
And the ladybug, her job done, flew away.
I picked up the book, wiped off the wet,
And invited the preacher to sit.

Why do you still have the photos? Aren’t you—

Dead? Yes. But you’ve heard of people taking secrets to the grave.
These are my secrets. I never told a soul, not a single living soul
What I did in rooms where the doors weren’t propped. I couldn’t.
My flock of millions, lifetime after lifetime, saw me as perfect.
I couldn’t let them down.

Part of me was listening.
Part of me was wondering how one snuck photos into lemon pie.
I recalled then that his wife had passed on, not so long ago.
Doesn’t she know?

She knows, she knew, women always know.
But it’s not about the knowing, it’s the holding in.
I never confided, never loved my fellow man and woman
As much as I loved . . .

God? I said.

No. The voices in my head.

V

The smoke of my own breath circles us. Audacity and sublime turbulence,
Walt’s oh so perfect Leaves remind me that there are millions of suns left
And this moment, in the presence of a sinister dilemma, requiring that I
Minister to a minister I’ve deplored all my life must nonetheless be deployed.

“O take my hand, Walt Whitman!”

He does.

VI

To the man of God, I said, you have now told a living soul. Is that enough?

Replied he to Walt and me, a moment’s patience is all I ask.
Though you warned us, poet, I shirked many parts of myself.
Of every urge and demi-urge I made false gods and true demons,
Doomed to eternal conflict overseen by that which I deemed not-me.
The largest disowned fragment, silence, I called God.

Time has not run out for me but space.
The turnings of the soul I thought limitless have spun their final revolutions,
And the sweet blue Earth I disdained in the name of good and evil will not open
Her thighs to me again.

He looked at me and I felt a rush, salty with an acid rub,
Of the most profound regret.

Walt, he said, you sing of multitudes, your multi-selves contained
And living peacably, lion, lamb, in eternal contradiction.
In my worship of the One, I exiled the Many and created in their place a
Swelling congregation, the fruit of aching loins turned lion devouring lamb.
I have mislaid, and I mourn my multitudes.

Understanding, like a rose in the perfect august month, opened.
You’ve sent them to the sinisterium, I said. They await you now
At the left, the abandoned side, where the heart,
The perfect spacious organ, resides.

Surprise and colour came to his face, and he glanced astonished at his friend
Who was eyeing, I noted, the neckline that had fallen on my flimsy yellow top.

Multitudes of the ministerial single form smiled upon the multitudes
Of this single form. I held out my free hand, he took it, and we merged.

VII

I don’t look upon those days and nights of the poet with wonder
Though he did to my delight congress with me awhile.
Perhaps you find it baffling that I picked him out by secret and divine signs,
Though, having read your verse, I think not.

We are all lovers and perfect equals.
Whitman and the bards of every age meant that you should
Discover me—and I you—by faint indirections,
And that in this perfect time, I would find myself
Here in your embrace again,
By blue Ontario’s shore.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling 2011

If you enjoyed this narrative free verse, you might also like The Mexican Saga: A Poetic Journey of the 20-Count that recounts the exploits and imploits of a reluctant shamaness in the Castaneda tradition. The e-book is available here for your Kindle or Kobo reader.

the-mexican-saga-final-v2-flat

Warplay, Wordplay, where to hang the Swordplay?

15 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by elainestirling in Narrative poetry

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

battle of the sexes, creativity, Elaine Stirling, humor, narrative poetry, parody, taking oneself less seriously, The Corporate Storyteller, vibrational reality

swordplay

READER ALERT: The following poem contains adult content and urological references, and is only marginally intended for the easily offended.

Some poems are bridges
some poems are bombs, not
as in duds but incendiary
gauntlets thrown down
in melee, and often picked
up by well-meaning neophytes
who love to deplore that they’re
walking through valleys where
angels keep score.

High dudgeon, low dudgeon,
piques in between, the wars
of the poets have been waging
since Adam showed Eve
what he wears on his sleeve—
this was after the snake—but
she couldn’t see through
the veil of tears till she’d
cried herself out, and now
it is Adam who weeps and
she who is trying to peel off
the heart and tuck it back
in where it won’t get so
railed, so bludgeoned
and peed on.

The wars of the poets are
God’s mini-screen, a virtual
means during rounds of good
care to view the perplexities,
confounding vexities, soupçons
of friendship and rhymes
that put sex at ease.

Lord help the butcher,
the baker or thief who
wanders unknown into
realms of the poet
because all that he
thinks that he didn’t
believe will magnify,
tighten and give no
reprieve until he
accepts that every
arousal of anger
and spleen that he
felt so obliged to
avenge in extremis
has a physical
counterpart down
near the—

gals, if you think
you’re above all
that horseplay, that
poets exist for the
one, two, three, four
play, I’m sure you
will have an enjoyable
ride, but the poet
he writes for the
moon and the sky,
so prepare to be
trampled, or else
learn the craft; in
addition to joy, it will
make things much
easier when you think
you are seeing yourself
in the poems he wrote
all those times he
was pissed, and
now all he wants
is a satellite dish.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
–image of crossed swords
from Roblox

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