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ancient Meso-America, Carlos Castaneda, collective mind, double sestina, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, giant stone heads, higher ground, manifestation, Matthew Stirling, Mexico, nagual, non-linear cognitive systems, Olmec culture, reconciliation, relationships, sacred geometry, six syllable lines, the actions of creation, there is no separation
You and I built a town
of boxes and circles
you will find on no map
and yet everyone knows
of the place, they still talk
though the streets are long gone
and we knocked out the lights,
fled our separate ways…
so why are they here, all
these hopefuls and dreamers?
What do they think they will
gain, remembering us?
Two random dots
We began, not as us,
no idea a town
would boom, spread and shine all
around. Uncertain will
doesn’t share what it knows,
so at first sight of lights
we ran in scared circles
clawing for hatches, ways
to escape; thus, the map
had begun while dreamers
crept in, by dawn were gone
leaving whispers of talk.
Pick-up lines
You were the first to talk
stirring echoes of us
from an era long gone.
To deny what one knows
when it’s true the delights
we once knew in a town
we can’t see, encircles
and reduces the map
to 3 or 2-D. Dreamers
try to give us their all,
but your will and mine will
resist in their own ways.
Pressure
There are so many ways
we could sing, think or talk
to bring heat to the lights
that create, never gone;
but push hates what shove knows
and there’s still no real us.
As stalkers and dreamers
we chase in mad circles,
asking, who lost the map?
learn intent, pray for will,
while around us the town
of the mind bends to all.
My, you’re square
My circle, your square, all
angling to find new ways
we can join what is gone
to what comes. As dreamers
we sketch in bliss our town
of infinite circles,
string theories, dangle lights.
All we’ve forgotten knows
to unroll the great map;
we see that we need us,
everything grows big, talk
and plans and schemes and will.
Sphere of no fear
Dear friend, say what you will,
for a time I heard all
you touched and felt, doggone,
that was fine! The dreamers
were pleased. At last, she knows
him; he knows her, circles
spinning into spheres, lights
across the budding town
spelled out your name. Our us
had the look of always.
We did not fear the talk
of stalkers with their map.
The swelling head
But routes don’t lie. Our map
of shortage and weak will
beneath the twinkling lights
was bleeding through. The ways
that would undermine us
flashed their naked parts. Town
criers laughed in circles
round us—hey, big dreamers,
how ‘bout you throw some talk
our way? Then you were gone,
siphoned off, drained by all
the superhero knows.
Cracks in the system
The best surveyor knows
the details of his map,
while speculators, all
we see is here and gone.
I chase the thrill; your talk
grows dull. I want dreamers!
They’re lusting into town
intrigued by the red lights
and tales we’ve strung. The us
we were has cracked and will
grow worse and die in ways
that spin us through circles.
Quick, do something!
Chasing you in circles,
partial attention knows
nothing, plucks at cheap talk.
We have both quit the town
we built and burnt the map
certain that our old ways
are buried deep, delights
we knew, cut off. Dreamers
claim they can see it all;
stalkers, their iron will
marches hell straight through us,
and all our strength is gone.
The gods are pissed.
With joyful wisdom gone
paranoia circles
sacrifice demands all
that we hold dear. The map
is rubbish; all the ways
that led to our sweet town
are blocked. You’ll find no lights
at night, the smarmy talk
of darkness feeds dreamers
with dread. Nobody knows
what happened to their will.
Angry gods, the new us!
Now look what you’ve done.
Cracked in two, them and us,
you with them—me, I’m gone.
I cannot count the ways
I do not love you knows
the truth, the deeper map.
Disregard the non-talk.
Still movement settles all
we dance among dreamers
plotting out new circles
designing a pre-town
beyond the ruined will.
Can you believe these lights?
Remains of the party
They dig through our smashed lights
carving theories of us
who appear to be gone
making sense of the map
its silent glyphs tell all,
but who listens? Who will
leap beyond easy talk,
feel on their skin our ways?
The we of us still knows.
We ride spiral circles
take tea with the dreamers
offer tours of our town.
Upon a time once, happily
Joy starts with us, the sensuous dreamers
adapting to ways of inclusion, the all
takes care of the lights and knows
our maps are never truly gone.
New love circles the borders of our town,
gentle will uplifting hopeful talk.
~~~
This is a work of imagination, based in part on early life experiences in the Olmec heartland of Mexico. Poetically, I’ve employed the form of a double sestina with six syllable lines (except for the envoi, final stanza). For me, this approximates the experience of creating a passage, then crawling through it. The selected end words won’t let you veer off, and if you’re lucky, they’ll shine different facets of themselves, like quartz crystal winking from a bed of granite.
© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image: Matthew Stirling and friends
in Tabasco, Mexico, 1940s, near an excavated
Olmec head (We don’t actually know what
the Olmecs called themselves, though
they must have been an amazing people.)
Oceantics 