Our pens scratch
at simple words,
we share them
in everyday silence.
Yet here bread
is still broken,
wine ever spilt,
and poetry made.
From the outside it looks as if I’m cutting my life short
but from the inside it looks very different.
From the moment I was born I knew I was old enough to die,
for death seems to be my very purpose.
Living in order to die, I am amazed at how much
life and death seem to complete each other.
As my individuality grows so does the idea of suicide,
for until I choose death I cannot choose life.
It takes courage, I found out, to choose the ordeal of life,
to continue life knowing what a horror it is!
Some choose life because they are afraid of death,
some choose death because they are afraid of life.
Three moons shine deeply above the bed
where she lay alone, her eyes silent as ever.
While I, in my black robe, wait endlessly
until consciousness is brushed to one side.
My hands are untied by the dark Mother
who awakens to embrace me once more.
Each night I place myself upon her altar,
yielding to the Mother’s lustrous voice.
Although I cannot see her light, wet body
I lift mine higher as Witch and Soul merge.
Later, after she plants her seed inside of me,
I give her everything and more, and more.
Amongst the roses in flowery field
the ancient goddess Demeter roves,
holding close her golden pentacle.
Mother to all the Earth’s children,
every tree, creek, being and flower.
Sacred divinity with healing hands,
far from thought, devoted to body,
my earthy, pagan queen draws all.
More cultivated than fashionista,
she wears sophisticated clothes,
appreciating all finery and wealth.
A lover of luxury and lavish fare,
artistic with ample creative gifts
yet grounded in every moment.
She who looks before she leaps.
She who holds greatness of soul.
Look sharp most beloved seeker,
for the beautiful goddess Athena!
My queen who demands freedom
from looking only with the heart,
turning solely to intellect and fact.
Speaking to you most impeccably
of how compassion can blind you
to truth, set before your very eyes.
No beating around the bush here,
my queen is straight to the point,
penetrating and always accurate.
In eloquent possession of animus
she sits aloft the butterfly throne,
her thoughts pure consciousness.
She who holds clearness of mind.
She who relishes competiveness.
Behold the hot-blooded goddess
Aphrodite, she of rich femininity,
dazzling queen of the royal flame.
Fiery courtesan of her own heart
to whom many admirers gather,
drawn by her ample fruitfulness.
Offering love-shaped friendship
she avows pleasure for all hearts.
Flower of sun and magical wand
she holds life-force in her hands.
Enchantress of spiritual affection,
betrothed in heart to philosophy,
with deep knowledge and vision
this queen acts before she thinks.
She who guides the king’s castle.
She who actively inspires others.
As I turn over the outcome card
there she is, my beautiful goddess
Persephone, in her dual aspects,
maiden and queen of underworld.
Pouring her love into empty cups,
divining heavenly rich fountains,
for when her cup is placed to lips
eternity flows through to the heart.
With my shepherd’s simple flute
I play, while she writes her verse,
love surging with all her heart.
My beautiful true love, to whom
I cannot ever lie or ever fool,
for her instincts are impeccable.
She who defines her own space.
She who upholds her own soul.
Why I was first drawn to Clarissa I’ll never know …
I remember entering the shop and pushing back the curtain to find her sitting there, at her table in the back room, smiling. As I approached my thirtieth birthday, I was nervous yet desperate for insight into a life-changing decision I was making. Time backed up the moment she pulled out her Tarot cards, it was like magic being spread around the table. The consultation with Clarissa lasted two hours and I remember feeling amazed by her deeply intuitive, accurate reading of those mystical cards. It was revelatory! I saw her two more times over the next six years. Each time I felt held, in some way contained, by this archetypal witchy looking woman with her large gold earrings. Then, as often is the case, after the crisis had passed I forgot all about her.
I watch the giant egg crack,
I am holding my breath.
After twenty five years,
I cannot stop the tears,
I cannot stop the fear.
We have read each other’s words
on this our silver anniversary.
I wrote the word ‘We’
there has not been a ‘We’ for such a long time.
I came across a pile of clothes
heaped up on Market Square,
just outside the meat shop
where a butcher he did share,
“These once belonged to a Poet
and today they must be sold!”
Clothes although most beautiful
neither daring were they or bold.
They were…quite ordinary,
with no sequin lace or frill,
as I discovered sorting through
armfuls of jersey and chenille.
As the moon slipped off her silken robe,
casting silver, liquescent folds over the lake,
two night-dresses slept on rocks below.
Where deep beneath the spell of summer,
lips of witchcraft and enchanted love,
we swam unwrapped in the moonlight.
Under ancient warmth we embraced,
each goddess glowing, soft moon shining.
With shimmering hearts we dived deep,
welcoming Aphrodite’s ardent, aching want.
Poetry saw every kiss, as wet with love,
our bodies lay bare the Mother tongue.