Wednesday, December 31, 2014

When My Voice Was Born

The stars were still waking the hour my voice was born.
The archer stretched her bowstring to the shadows
the hour my voice was born.
The trees were shaking off their leaves
and gifting all their colors to my voice.
The caverns of the sea filled with haunts of my voice.
The waters of Jerusalem & the Sea of Tranquility;
the dark flowing river of mother's hair;
father's nicotine fingers on the guitar line:
weaving the journey of my voice
the day my voice was born.
O my voice is early twilight;
O my voice knows the backstreets;
O my voice knows the blue highways;
O my voice knows the way to your house.
My voice soared with windmills along the sacred hills,
The echoing hills the resounding plains,
The day my voice was born.
My voice aims true whether it soars above the clouds
or dives behind the secret waves.
My voice aims true, gathers the fire of the spirit,
aims true, gathers the heavens.
My voice gathers the seven winds;
gathers the twilight hours;
gathers the seventy joyful sorrows;
gathers the elders & their childhood dreams.
My voice aims for your heart.
My voice longs to speak soul to soul
My voice longs to strike sparks in your hair.
My voice lingers at your ear
gentle & bold in equal measure.
That is why my voice was born.
My voice embraces the 64 colors and
the infinite tones of the aurora borealis.
My voice rejoices every minute
for the hour it was born.

Thursday, December 25, 2014

The Seven Voices of Your Name

It is your Name I would use in the ceremony. Before I am a vacancy. It is your Name I will teach to be a modern novel bout the wearisome uselessness of men and the casual fragility of women. Your Name, which you hide in your hand, shall become the Word. And the Word engenders a long list of words. These words will lead me back to your unspoken Name. The Name which I will be unable to speak until I am a vacancy.

Perhaps we met in a Garden, or a forest clearing. It was possibly Spring. Perhaps it was a dream. But I am convinced that we met, and you whispered your Name to a pond. But you would not tell me your Name. Because you knew I would use it in a ritual to invoke your Love.

Your Name will be an instrument of my peace. An instrument, like the pen with which I write. An instrument whose chords I cannot finger. The melody it plays is of the Word. I could teach your name to shame the Angels.

Your Name will force me into exile.

Because your Name has chosen not to love me. Because it would leave me as a vacancy. I know I am a stranger in the House of your Name. If I could find that House, I would humble myself before your Name.

The ritual was abandoned by the dreamers, but I proceed in a sense of futile nostalgia. This ritual teaches us to call upon the seven voices of your Name. This is why I must know your Name. This is why you must never tell me your Name: it should come to me of its own bidding. Then it will tell me its secret, and lead me to the sanctuary. There, I will be a priest in service to the mystery of your Name.

My face has grown old in the shadow of your Name. My face has grown too old to love. I should hide my face and cover my head in the House of your Name. I was a fool to think I could learn your Name. Because it is hidden.

I will continue this chant until it has conjured the mystery of your Name. I have faith in your Name. I have studied the rhythmic barks of trees for miracles. I have dissected the alphabet for your Name. I have called forth all the demons of Heaven to reveal your Name.

Your Name will punish me at last with its secret. In the end, your Name will teach me to be content as a vacancy. And once I am a vacancy, I shall know your Name.

19–21.Oct.1979 Revised

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Idée d’jour

Where it is a duty to worship the sun, it is pretty sure to be a crime to examine the laws of heat.
— John Morley

Monday, December 22, 2014

Idée d’jour

It may sound trite, but using the weapons of the enemy, no matter how good one’s intentions, makes one the enemy.
— Charles de Lint