The season reminds me to look deep into the past, for advice and confidence. This is a poem that can remain unedited (for now) from 2008:
“Why Poetry and Philosophy Clash and Kiss”
Your mouth has to pour out blood before
your song can create beauty”,
says the old Native-American-African-French-
American proverb, which is not
a proverb at all, but the disquieted heart
a lover receives from herself when she
has loved too hard.
The blood is blood, the beauty theory.
One stings and builds, one cries and dreams
a palette in feeding poverty, rejecting
dishonest sex, painting new constellations.
She eats her supper quietly and alone, saving love for eternity—
wisdom crumbles in a red moonlight,
beautiful philosophies turn in their
beautiful graves, and yet rosy
suffering gives crutch to the tattered heart—
and while she peruses such intellect, diamonds
tumble from her eyes and proverbs can only
call them rubies.
She opens her apron to collect both,
fluctuating elegant and psychotic,
twirling and shaking the silver and red
light, almost like a shawl dance
During sweep of arms, lift of legs,
the outpouring of shimmering garnets of truth and escapism,
she spins to the dew-kissed grass
and allows the apron and peasant skirt
to form a web of silk,
watching the sky transcend diamonds.