I originally started this blog to promote my novel, Post Rock Limestone Caryatids. Now I write essays and poetry about everything, including the Flint Hills, healing, parenting, etc. WARNING: emotional content, sometimes intense. Read at own risk of feeling.
Missed a couple days and went off-theme, that’s the way art is, you can’t control it.
Face Time
The ceiling fan is like a dangerous halo behind him and the sounds echo and shift phase between the living room and the dining room as he bangs on the piano and sings about looking for the eldest, who finally answers from Budapest which is the most beautiful city they’ve ever seen. City of caves and hot springs and ancient edifices unlike any in Texas. He moves to the car with the younger, we lose connection but the eldest calls back. I say, don’t go to any private parties. He says he has a particular set of skills, but none that could save a young person in Europe. He could preach a sermon to the kidnappers, the younger pipes in, her bottle-blonde hair blowing in the sunroof and we laugh and they’re gone and I’m alone with the roses and poetry, the laptop and books and phone, and my thoughts.
I’m still keeping up with National/Global Poetry Writing Month, though I haven’t taken the time to post a poem every day. Here’s today’s installment of my series on the fantasy world of par-King Laat.
In the lore of the herders, this story is told:
In another world, much like par-King Laat, but known as Heob, there was a herder who was strong and worked hard. It was the time before the Law of Eight Beasts. Herders were free to lead as many beasts as they wished. And this herder, whose name has been lost to history, pulled many beasts all at once. They stretched the lead to its full length, and pulled it behind their back, to get more length through the arm. Sometimes they even used the forbidden double lead, to pull two lines of beasts at once. And this was how herders worked, and there was no conflict for many years. But one day, while pulling a long line, maybe twenty, maybe fifty beasts at once, the Unknown Herder lost control of the beasts, and they broke free from the lead, scattering in all directions. Several of the panicked beasts ran right into a veehgal, causing grave injuries. It had unsightly bruises, deep scratches, broken teeth . . . How badly can a beast hurt a veehgal? Well, it was of the Tasliah breed, which we all know are among the most proud and annoying, so it wouldn’t take much to infuriate the veehgal, and in turn alarm all the High Mages. And after that, the High Mages and the Lords of Ensrance, who rule even the High Mages of every land, all decided that there would never again be a line of beasts longer than eight. And that is how we work, to this day.
Between pulling lines of beasts, the herders would gather at a central location, under a certain tree in the realm of Mid. It was a wide old tree, with high branches that gifted cool shade to the dusty herders. No one wondered why this was the only tree under which they gathered; and they called it simply The Tree. They would place trinkets in the thick, cracked bark of The Tree, little things they found in their travels. A piece of ribbon or a clip to tie up a child’s hair. A doll styled as an old woman. Pieces of parts of unknown machines that had been broken and discarded. A rectangular red object of unidentified material, comprised of smaller interlocking rectangles, whose purpose could only be guessed. Tablets inscribed with the names of former herders who had moved on: Krolan, Meelan, Raadni, D’rek, and others. The herders would place these things in The Tree, and as they did so the objects became talismans against demons. The ribbons would bind demons so that they could not afflict people. The figure of the old woman became an icon of a grandmother, and every herder had a secret name for her, usually their own grandmother’s name. Because demons too had grandmothers, they must obey her admonishments not to bother others. The red piece became a trap that would lead a demon in endless mental traversing of its angles, never to find a way out. And so on. Perhaps it was from the magic of The Tree, or from the various objects, or in the act of placing them, no one knew, but they loved The Tree and their impromptu altar. This continued until the Elder Nhojthedik came and removed all the talismans. He did this because the demons told him to, and he always did exactly what demons told him to do.
Today’s installment in the ongoing lore of the fantastical land of par-King Laat. And a free cat pic.
Veehgals
People who came from other lands to par-King Laat were always shocked at the size and numbers of veehgals. They had heard about a place where there were so many veehgals that life must be organized around them, but seeing such a place with their own eyes had a profound affect. Why did the people put up with wild beasts running through their streets? Such danger! And the smells, and the noise, the pollution of the water. Such a brute could run down a small child without noticing, then take great offense at a superficial scratch to their hard shell. But to the people of par-King Laat, it was simply how things were. They learned early to watch for the signs of a veehgal about to charge, and never to trust that one wouldn’t suddenly back up. If they were daring, they might even be so bold as to stare one down and cross its path. Some might say that veehgals gave them a purpose in life, to protect and guide the smaller beasts that they herded. There was, after all, an abiding, mysterious relationship between the veehgals and the beasts. It was commonly held that the beasts had evolved from the veehgals. If anyone said it was in fact the other way around, then everyone knew they were mad.
Today’s poem actually approaches the prompt, which is for a surreal prose poem. This one isn’t prose at present, but might be better that way. I’ll play with it at some point, but here how it is today, continuing the series about the imaginary land of par-King Laat.
Demons
The land of par-King Laat was beset by demons. Everyone was affected, though each thought himself to be the only one, so they were not frequently spoken of, rarely acknowledged to be the demons that they were. And if anyone had noticed how common demon affliction was, would they even have wondered how it came to be so? Probably not. Sometimes speaking of demons would send them into hiding. It might appear that they had evaporated like a puddle on pavement in the sun, but they never really left. RayChel had a way of noticing things without saying them. In this way, she was able to observe the presence of demons, when others could not see them. Demons had no form of their own, but they could be viewed like an eclipse, in the shapes of the shadows under a tree. Demons did not reflect light; however they bent it. Thus one sign of demon affliction was that a person could not see their true self in a mirror. Another was that their thoughts could not flow directly from one to the next, but broke into many branches that meandered like a stagnant stream in low country, breeding ground for mosquitos too muddy to reflect the piercing light of the sun or to allow one to see the treacherous rocks beneath the surface. Or was it the other way around? Perhaps demons caused a person to think too much in unnaturally straight lines, as if everything were not intertwined interwoven with everything else. Or maybe both were true, somehow, at different times? How would anyone know the difference? Once demons got in, any thought a person had might be demonic.
Today is day 2 of NaPoWriMo, or National (Global) Poetry Writing Month. (Don’t worry, it is not in any way affiliated with the cancelled NaNoWriMo organization, as far as I can tell.) Yesterday I completely forgot it was that time again, though I did happen to be thinking about writing much of the day, as I was hauling shopping carts around the parking lot of an upscale grocery store where I draw a paycheck. One of the nice things about that job is that it requires a pretty minimal degree of mental work, which leaves plenty of brain space for me to think about poetry. And so my theme for this year is going to be stories about that job, but adapted into a fantasy world.
par-King Laat
In the land of par-King Laat there are seven realms. Most populous is Mid, with wide, shady avenues and close proximity to trade routes to every other realm. Birdsong is heard day and night. The aromas of many foods waft on the air, sometimes savory, sometimes sweet. The sounds of music and celebration are carried on the breeze from the region of Dek. Attendants of the realm linger under a thick-trunked tree, enjoying clement weather. The dense population does create challenges: while there are many receptacles for waste, yet they are often full to overflowing. To the north of Mid is the realm of Bak par-King Laat. It can be reached by a path that follows alongside the cliffs of Waxx. Bak par-King Laat is less frequented than Mid, and travelers are warned not to tarry there after dark. East of Mid is the realm known as Portch. Smaller than Mid, it is a hub through which all trade goods pass. Thus there is much hustle and bustle, as well as benches where weary travelers can rest in the light of the evening sun. To the south, the realm of Faar is a desert wasteland. Travelers there are warned to know the signs of heat exhaustion, and to use protection from the scorching sun. Common wisdom holds that a traveler to Faar might be lost there for eternity. On the eastern border of Faar is Faar Portch, a narrow strip that borders a line of cities from Erbyn Matris to Warby Parker. South beyond Faar, there is another realm known as Faarkipelago. The rare explorers there report that it is overall a fair country, but with a maze of green islands, some with treacherous pits in the center. Beyond Faarkipelago is a realm known as Hahrt. Legend tells that Hahrt has a land much like par-King Laat, but with many levels stacked one above another. But this is only an unconfirmed rumor. No one goes there. Thus the seven realms of par-King Laat are Mid, Bak par-King Laat, Portch, Faar Portch, Faar, Faarkipelago, and Hahrt.
I’m surprised how much I’m looking forward to this month’s challenge. Who knows if I have 30 days worth of material for this project, or what chance I have of actually writing even half of the days this month. We will find out.
But what about cedar sage? I frittered away so much of the day that I didn’t want to take the time to post a poem. (Have you ever tried to format a poem in WordPress? You have to <gasp> use html code!) I have a child waiting for dinner. I still haven’t done my taxes. So I was going to, instead, make a quick post of this flower that volunteered on my patio. I had thought it was some kind agonizingly slow-growing mallow, but this third spring I’ve been here, it made these striking red blooms, announcing itself to be nothing like mallow, but rather Salvia roemeriana, ie, cedar sage. But then I got so excited about the poem that I posted it anyway.
My pastor/spouse was telling me about how the elders of his church are developing their faith statements. They tend to fall into two categories. One is people who have grown up in that church, and they find the rituals, liturgies, and seasonal rhythms and traditions to be a grounding container for their faith. In the other category are people who have had transcendent, epiphanic experiences that inspired them to join and/or to continue in their faith community.
I immediately got up and went to my desk for the Angels and Ancestors Oracle deck. I had to show him the High Priestess card.
Art by Lily Moses
(I confess I didn’t ask permission to use the image, but it is a lovely and inspiring deck, so if you’re interested in it, I encourage you to purchase it from Hay House.)
This is an archetype adapted from Tarot by Kyle Gray and Lily Moses. The keywords are “Harness Mystic Power,” and, in order to do that, there is a great deal of work and preparation to be undertaken. Someone has spent countless hours creating the elaborate headdress and ceremonial rattle; even the tattoos the Priestess wears were probably given by hand with a needle over many hours. It takes a lot of education, dedication, and time to become the High Priestess.
I’m reminded of the word “yoga,” which is said to mean, literally, “yoke.” In yoga, the practices yoke Spirit (or will) and matter; mind and body. The High Priestess yokes daily practice, ritual, and tradition to wild, fierce creative energy, and it is in the yoking that the magic is both ignited and contained. It takes both to access the higher power and wisdom that the High Priestess represents.
My kind, cat-loving spouse was not pleased to see an earring in the ear of the cat. Fortunately, it is a metaphoric cat, and Gray says that it represents the Egyptian goddess Bast, who was earlier a fierce lion, but was later domesticated into a cat. In this image I see fierce, wild energy contained, harnessed, yoked. No actual cats were harmed in the making of this archetype.
I also see that the person must sacrifice a degree of her individuality to take on the role of the High Priestess, just as the cat gives up some of her cat-ness to embody the archetype of the Goddess. Maybe I’ll talk about that in depth another time.
For now, I’m interested in this tension between ritual and transcendence. How does ritual open us to the Divine? And how do we bring that spirit down, and imbue it into the rituals of daily life?
Everyone has an opinion these days about mowing. Allow me to say that I have been an advocate of wildflowers, habitat, and energy conservation since before many of you naysayers were born. But it’s tricky when you rent your home, and also when you want to actually use the space you’re paying for.
So today I broke down and did some mowing, but with intention. I mowed the space around the gate, the garage door, the grill, and the patio. Then I mowed a path through the tall grass. I made a little clearing in the shady corner where a teen likes to hang out sometimes to study or read. I made a path to the other end of the yard where we will place a compost container at some point, but for now there’s just a pile.
I took out as many tree seedlings as I could get to easily, but not enough of them. I took out much but not all of the sow thistle. I left most of the chicory, aka Texas dandelion, a good patch of broadleaf wood sorrel, some spiderwort, some sunflowers (probably seeded by a bird feeder), and a bit of Queen Anne’s lace. The patch of tall grass where I saw some fireflies rise up at dusk the other day is undisturbed.
I used an electric mower. Before we got this weapon of mass habitat destruction, I would have scoffed at the idea. But it turns out that I much prefer it over the old gas mower. It has no smell, it’s much lighter and quieter, and starts with a button. The cord isn’t nearly as bothersome as I would have imagined.
Grackles love mowing. They don’t always wait until I’m done before they swoop in to feast on all the newly-exposed insects.
I have this dream of finding ways to live that create at least as much benefit as harm. I’m nowhere near there, but I hope I’m moving in the right direction.
I missed two days because I was busy and tired, and when I sat down to write, I found my sixth chakra shut tight as a sphincter. (That means I didn’t have any creative . . . flow . . . ) So today I was committed to doing whatever it took to . . . squeeze out a poem. I decided to ask one of those trendy chatbots how to write a poem, and it gave me a detailed and very analytical list of steps. “1. Choose a topic or theme. . . . 2. Choose a poetic form . . . 3. Brainstorm ideas . . . 4. Organize your thoughts . . .” Hm. Really? This is not how I work.
So I went to the NaPoWriMo blog and looked at the prompt for today, which turned out to be, essentially, write about a childhood fear. Let’s see. I remember being afraid of volcanoes. Okay. Here goes.
Irrational Fear
In the middle of Kansas, I was afraid of volcanoes. (If it were rational, it wouldn’t be an irrational fear—) Wouldn’t haunt me as I lay in the dark calling silently for the respite of sleep. The orange glow, the melting concrete, riding my bike away at top speed but the flow is always behind, always coming closer. I didn’t yet know that fear is a fractal, the closer you look at it, the more details appear. It feeds on your attention, grows, takes, comes for more and keeps coming, like lava oozing endlessly from below.
So this poem is nothing to be proud of, it’s actually so bad that I don’t honestly know why I’m posting it. It would take a lot of work to make it good, and I even did a little when I was entering it for this post. So in my disgust I decided to try something a reader did last week, which was to direct a chatbot to write a poem in the style of a particular writer. This poem is so bad, a bot could probably write something better. I boldly decided to use my own poems as the seed. “Write a poem about volcanoes in the style of Rachel Creager Ireland.”
Let’s note right here that when I set up my chatbot account, it managed to dig up a profile pic of me that appears in my Gravatar profile, which is directly linked to my blogs. So I know if our friend Chatty actually wanted to read any of my poetry, they could have. But do you think this poem displays any knowledge of the style of Rachel Creager Ireland?
Volcanoes’ power in poetry
From deep within the earth’s hot core, Volcanoes rise, their fury to pour. Their molten lava and fiery ash, Devouring all, in a fiery flash.
Their power immense, their might so strong, Volcanoes erupt, with a deafening song. Their rumbling growls, a warning to heed, As they unleash their explosive need.
In the midst of destruction, new life is born, As ash and lava, transform and adorn. The earth is renewed, by the volcano’s blast, A cycle of destruction, that will always last.
Oh, volcanoes, majestic and grand, A force of nature, that we can’t understand. But in your presence, we stand in awe, As you remind us, of nature’s raw power.
This is so much worse than any poem I’ve written since middle school. I’m not going to waste my time explaining why I think so, you can draw your own conclusions. Suffice to say I’m not worried about being replaced by a bot any time soon, as a massage therapist or, even, as a mediocre poet.
Here’s a cat pic to make up for showing you the awful poetry.
This is pretty rough but I’m off to work and I wanted to throw this one up, for once, on the day the prompt was issued. So here it is, about . . . an imaginary person . . . who is powerful and purported to be admirable. Any resemblance to any real person is purely coincidental.
[untitled] Perhaps his greatest skill is full utilization of the resources available, such as the wealth accrued by mining gems from the earth, he mines dollars by boring, harvests children from a series of remarkable women. Takes pride in his power to acquire that which he formerly could not control, takes pleasure in expressing his abundant ego through social media he wields like a katana. Extracts solutions to problems by buying and bullying brainy people, demonstrates the massive power of denial by hiding evidence of nothing, nobody died, stop asking questions this is one of the most important men of our time, and will be long remembered by those who will colonize ahem extend the borders of humanity beyond the earth, like a superhuman paterfamilias whose fertile plasma sprays across galaxies, time, and space.
Veronica's Garden 