Look How She Sees You
Look how She sees you with the eyes
of Her heart, the dark stars of Her knowing, forgiving
the dross you so carefully guard like gold
Look how gently She holds Her devotion in
the same rough hands that weave your fate
from the uneven threads you drop in your hurry
Look how She longs to slake your thirst
with tears that will someday become your own
sprung from the fresh and soaking spring of Her lap
Look how, even when you forsake Her, She offers
burnt things in your name and buries the remains
at mystifying roots of remembering trees
Look how She waits for you now, there between
the shadowy pillar of what cannot be exhumed, and
the pillar of brightness you cannot bear to become
Look how She will wait forever in that place
where you promised to bring the best of your harvest
the single fruit She expects to receive
the only gift She will bend to accept
Image: China Hamilton
Hmmmmm. I’m always hesitant to comment on poetry because I really don’t know much about it, or how to frame it, or even really how to approach it, but I did love this part:
“Look how She waits for you now, there between
the shadowy pillar of what cannot be exhumed, and
the pillar of brightness you cannot bear to become”
It’s gorgeously evocative. I really loved reading this!
Hugs
rg
RG,
As far as commenting on poetry goes, I don’t know much about it either. All I know is I wrote and you commented and that’s all that matters to me!
Thanks, as always, for being here.
Dross. You could not have chosen a better word for the distractions we employ to keep us from our calling. Why do we need distractions? Because we are afraid to be in Her presence: The function of poetry is religious invocation of the Muse; its use is the experience of mixed exaltation and horror that her presence excites*. Afraid, but miserable when we are not with Her.
In my appointment book, aka Holder of the To Do Lists, I keep a page copied in my own hand. On it are the words of a poet who spent a lifetime in Her service, words that I now share with you.
Thank you, Elizavetta.
*from The White Goddess: A Historical Grammar of Poetic Myth, by Robert Graves
Oh, Kochanie.
Everytime I read your comments, I am reminded of important things, essential things I have learned or realized long ago, but either forgot or left languishing on some shelf in my mind.
Today, your words have reminded me that there is no such thing as part-time service… not for the poet, but also not for She whom the poet serves.