Thursday, March 11 at 4:00pm PST
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Pam Rowen
Pam Rowen practices Spiritual Midwifery in Northern California where she lives with her three teenage boys and many animal friends. She loves all things caves, serpents, poetry and anything that makes her mind go, "Hey, wait a minute! WTF?!"
www.guideforconscioushealing.com Wild Words: Ferociously Nourishing Poetry www.guideforconscioushealing.com/wild-words-poetry-blog Ecos de la Marea monthly cave ceremonies www.guideforconscioushealing.com/ecos-de-la-marea |
Resources
Wild Words Weekly Poetry Blog - Click HERE to SIGN UP
The magic of poetry happens when it is spoken, heard and felt as vibrations in your body. The Wild Words weekly poetry blog contains heartfelt, homemade recordings of amazingly luscious poems from some of my favorite poets. Come with me into the expansive gift of poetry to experience a disruption of habitual ways of thinking and perceiving. The medicine of poetry will endlessly surprise and delight you as a portal into your own wild multidimensionality! |
The Whole of Creation
If I began the story in the middle
you might be able to smell the nixtamal, the earthy lime of corn masa, and the tortillas rising on the comal, warm hands flipping them into being. You might be able to feel the spot where my long golden ribbon pierces the crust of the Earth, thrust down through oceans and tectonic plates even before they were dreamed into existence, looped and woven into the shape that holds it all into place. You might hear the rushing of feathers slicing air as thousands of angels fall through the gap in space that birthed it all into view, each one bringing a thread to the weaving of life, the matrix of this new world. You might smell the smoke of the tlecuil, the oven in which life is cooked into living, matter kneaded into feeling, formed and pressed with fingers, breathed upon, gazed upon, made to be something new, something transformed from nothing to this. And here we live now, in the whole of creation, remembering, forgetting, and remembering again, nestling into the weft of the fibers, yearning to be touched by her hands again. - Emily Grieves |
To order a print of Emily's painting,
with or without her poem contact Emily at sacredartjourneys@hotmail.com and visit her at www.EmilyKGrievesArt.com |
Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude for Teotihuacan
...thank you Zinnia, and Gooseberry, Rudbeckia
and Pawpaw, Ashmead’s Kernel, Cockscomb
and Scarlet Runner; thank you tubular organ pipe Organo Cactus,
gigantuous Maguey Cactus, agave and pulque;
thank you Apache Plume, Sweetgrass, Sunchoke and Bugambilia blossoms
whose petals stammered apart by bumblebees
good lord please give me a minute...
and thank you Sacred Datura, Coyote Melon and Cleveland Sage,
Painted Tongue and Ruda bush and Aloe Vera poultice;
thank you what in us rackets glad
what gladrackets us;
and thank you, too, this knuckleheaded heart, this pelican heart,
this gap-toothed heart flinging open its gaudy maw
to the sky, oh clumsy, oh bumblefucked,
oh giddy, oh dumbstruck,
oh rickshaw, oh goat twisting
its head at me from the pepper tree’s highest branch.
And thank you Alberto and Veronica, Emily and Victor, and Vickis, Mari, Chelo, Carlos, Araceli, and Fernando; thank you Karina, Martha, and Luis.
And Quetzalcoatl, QUETZALCOATL—Thank you! And Quetzalpetlatl,
Great Great Grandmother and Tlaloc, Mixcoatl and Chimalma,
and serpents and jaguars and eagles.
And Tonantzin, thank you. And you, Francis Rico, thank you.
And all of you—you!—for hanging tight, dear friends.
I know Quetzalpetlatl can be long-winded sometimes.
I want so badly to rub the sponge of gratitude
over every last thing, including you, which, yes, awkward,
the suds in your ear and armpit, the little sparkling gems
slipping into your eye. Soon it will be over,
which is precisely what the child in my dream said,
holding my hand, pointing at the pyramids and the sky
she said it’s much worse than we think,
and sooner; to whom I said
no duh child in my dreams, what do you think
this singing and shuddering is,
what this screaming and reaching and dancing
and crying is, other than loving
what every second goes away?
Goodbye, I mean to say.
And thank you. Every day.
- Ross Gay and Quetzalpetlatl
and Pawpaw, Ashmead’s Kernel, Cockscomb
and Scarlet Runner; thank you tubular organ pipe Organo Cactus,
gigantuous Maguey Cactus, agave and pulque;
thank you Apache Plume, Sweetgrass, Sunchoke and Bugambilia blossoms
whose petals stammered apart by bumblebees
good lord please give me a minute...
and thank you Sacred Datura, Coyote Melon and Cleveland Sage,
Painted Tongue and Ruda bush and Aloe Vera poultice;
thank you what in us rackets glad
what gladrackets us;
and thank you, too, this knuckleheaded heart, this pelican heart,
this gap-toothed heart flinging open its gaudy maw
to the sky, oh clumsy, oh bumblefucked,
oh giddy, oh dumbstruck,
oh rickshaw, oh goat twisting
its head at me from the pepper tree’s highest branch.
And thank you Alberto and Veronica, Emily and Victor, and Vickis, Mari, Chelo, Carlos, Araceli, and Fernando; thank you Karina, Martha, and Luis.
And Quetzalcoatl, QUETZALCOATL—Thank you! And Quetzalpetlatl,
Great Great Grandmother and Tlaloc, Mixcoatl and Chimalma,
and serpents and jaguars and eagles.
And Tonantzin, thank you. And you, Francis Rico, thank you.
And all of you—you!—for hanging tight, dear friends.
I know Quetzalpetlatl can be long-winded sometimes.
I want so badly to rub the sponge of gratitude
over every last thing, including you, which, yes, awkward,
the suds in your ear and armpit, the little sparkling gems
slipping into your eye. Soon it will be over,
which is precisely what the child in my dream said,
holding my hand, pointing at the pyramids and the sky
she said it’s much worse than we think,
and sooner; to whom I said
no duh child in my dreams, what do you think
this singing and shuddering is,
what this screaming and reaching and dancing
and crying is, other than loving
what every second goes away?
Goodbye, I mean to say.
And thank you. Every day.
- Ross Gay and Quetzalpetlatl