Distillation

 Self-portrait, Nevine Sultan

You dodge me, My Ghost.

You shy away

when my light flares

inside the silent spaces

you inhabit.

And, for this,

I have no words.

Though I would like to say,

Sit with me. Hear me.

I would like to say,

I cannot stop myself

from picking roses

and clipping their thorns.

But, to whom

does it matter?

Blood is drawn, spills,

and tomes are scribed

in the dungeons

of silence.

My Ghost, only you know my essence.

Sky, Sea, Sand... and Me

The following are entries from my journal while on vacation.

* * * * * * * * *

August 2, 2011

Here. I am Here. And I feel as though time has stopped still and I am trapped inside it. The sun slows down when it passes over me. The moon pauses and observes me. My heart skips no beats and misses no flashing moments of revelation. Everything is seen… perceived. Every instant is experienced in its nuanced profoundness. Here. I see things differently, obliquely. I see things as if from a hidden dimension. Here. I wait. I stay. I breathe.

Though. I realize. Here is not forever.

But… the sun is being abducted by orange and purple and silver faeries. And I want to watch while they pull her into the sea and lay her down to sleep…

August 3, 2011

We went outside to be with Life. With earth and trees and birds. Several couples crossed our path as we cycled over bumpy patches of sun and shade. Every time we crossed another couple, we smiled and chimed, “Hello!” and then continued on our way. To nowhere. To anywhere. It didn’t matter where we were going. We were going, the rhythm of our blood pumping our life in all of its violent beauty inside our veins. The moisture of our exertion keeping our backs damp… keeping them craving the touch of the clean air… and reveling in its arrival.

But… what divinity! An outing with no destination… no agenda. What could be more divine than that? What could be more simple, more raw, more pure? And how with Life we were!

August 4, 2011

This morning. The sea moved with a primitive insistence. A jagged and necessary lovemaking with the sky and the sand. The waves rose and fell… rose and fell… again… and again… with their own insistence… wanting to steal their moment of elation.

What was today? It went by as if in a reverie. Everything fluid. Water. Sky. Sand. People. Me. Us. And my vision of it all.

My eyes saw as if underwater. As if interrupted by waves. And the waves were the pendulums of the sea and the sky. Pendulums that did not swing, but undulated. And we undulated with them. Undulated to their rhythm. That primitive, jagged rhythm of insistent lovemaking… everywhere.

Can one be overwhelmed by the exquisiteness that is Life?

I am overwhelmed.

August 6, 2011

I looked stunning in my royal blue evening gown! Diamond studs in my ears. Black hair decorated with a simple white flower. Can I say I looked stunning? Oh, hell! Why not? Women are so busy acting coy about their physical beauty these days. As if being beautiful is a mortal sin. Well, I did look stunning! And I wasn’t the only woman who looked stunning. We all did! How we sparkled beneath the lights of the casino… so nice to see! There are few more off-putting sights than that of a woman (or a man) going out for the evening dressed inappropriately.

I remember when J. [a former colleague] came to a school function in a pair of black flipflops. Sure, they matched her little black dress, but it was hard for me to keep my mouth shut. I remember telling her, “I can’t believe you’re wearing those!” And her telling me, “What’s wrong with them? They’ve even got little rhinestone thingies on them!” Oh, my! I thought. Thank you for doing us the favor of making sure you had little rhinestone thingies on your flipflops. You really shouldn’t have troubled yourself! Yes, I’d fantasized saying these things, but had instead kept quiet, not wanting to spoil the evening with my part-sarcastic, part-judgmental attitude. Truth be told, though, she looked like a middle school student volunteering for a charity carwash.

I mean, it takes the same amount of time to slip on some stylish pumps as it takes to slip on some dead-skin-infested flipflops. So put on your heels and walk like drums are hiding in your legs… violin strings are threaded through your veins… waiting… so deliciously… to be plucked… and left to SING!

* * *

i hear you stir in bed.

you are disturbed,

not by the sound of

my scratching on paper,

but by the mysterious and

unshakeable feeling of loneliness

that shadows your sleep.

you have always been gentle.

you have always held me

as if you are afraid of breaking me,

but, i am not so fragile,

i want to say.

yet, the sound of my inner voice

in my ears

fills me with melancholy.

and, as if you know…

in sleep, your sun-brushed lips

hunt the air for mine,

and you mumble, i love you,

so joyfully, so givingly,

expecting nothing in return.

August 7, 2011

A late start to the day, this morning. But then, last night, a late night.

I wanted to do… nothing. Yes. I wanted to do nothing, while feeling an inner compulsion to do something. After all, one can’t just while away one’s time doing nothing. Especially that precious vacation time… here one day, the next… gone!

But, why not? I’m always doing something or the other. Why not relax and let things flow where they want to flow? And since, this morning, nothing was of pressing importance, I decided to chill.

But, for me, chilling is something I must focus on doing. And by virtue of focusing on chilling… chilling is not exactly chilling anymore, is it?

CHILL. What a lovely word!

And… what a lovely ocean!

August 9, 2011

there is a stillness in the air, tonight,

a silence borne on magical wings.

a solitary silence,

cut by the hollow sound of our breaths,

slow and meditated.

and we sit on the cool tile floor,

backs against the wall,

legs stretched out against the ripeness of the sky…

and the freshness of the sea

and the slant of eternity where they touch.

but

this place…

THIS one… right here…

as pure and as flickering and as quickening as it is

is not what matters.

it is not about the place

but about who is in the place…

and what is happening to them

at any given point in time…

and what is happening around them…

and what is happening

INSIDE them.

i catch myself nodding off,

though, certain nights,

my eyes can find no peace.

i see myself a child,

walking upon an emerald meadow,

twirling my long black locks between my fingers,

and running wild.

sunlight and clouds

twine through my hair like colorful ribbons.

invisible stars

swing between my shoulder blades.

and…

i am flying.

i am flying.

i am flying.

and nothing will bring me down.

August 10, 2011

We went parasailing, today!

Oh, buzz buzz buzz!!! The last time we went parasailing was… what?... when we were on our honeymoon? I can’t even find words to describe the elation and the liberation and the HIGH of it all! Flying through the blue sky, with the blue water below you… the deep blue deep blue deep deep shimmer of water! Everything in my eyes was blue… the most beautiful most shocking blue! I am still inside that universality.

August 11, 2011

dance with me?

you said,

and you smiled at me

that dimpled smile

i know so well.

and i said,

yes,

all nervously,

my heart strumming in my lips,

like i was a teenager all over again.

and we danced…

and we danced…

and we danced…

and others danced around us.

but only we were… together.

***

i have come to a point where i feel so… here.

so… present.

so… in the moment.

nothing else matters but now.

nothing that happened before.

nothing that will happen later.

all of those events are insignificant.

what matters is my discovery of myself… the different pieces of nevine… the OTHER pieces… seen as if glimpsed, by happenstance, inside a fragmented looking glass.

the day’s happenings fall around me with finesse and perfection.

the night’s events, too.

they fall… with grace.

and i dance inside their opacity.

and you dance with me.

we dance together… you and i… to scattered time.

we dance with no calculation, no precision.

we dance with such emancipation!

we are here… here.

ghosts. apparitions. we are.

dancing our way through the entrance to eden…

But.

Tomorrow. We depart. Tomorrow. We return to what we call Home. And, how I miss Home! Ridiculous, really, but… I miss my trees. Not my flowers. Not my plants. Not my herbs. But my big, independent trees. So mature and self-sufficient! I have always believed that trees have souls. My trees have souls and their souls are whispering to me, Come back! We miss you. Come back! As big and as independent as they are, they are craving my conversation… my stories. They are waiting for me to sit in their shade so we can talk. And we will! Just as soon as I get back to that lovely thing we call daily living. That lovely thing we accuse of being predictable and cumbersome and cliché, but when we take ourselves away from it, we are left craving it all over again!

I loved it here. I loved every moment I spent being alive and knowing it. I loved every particle of life that touched every iter of my being. But would I want to live here… forever and ever? I don’t think so… because… if I did… it would become daily living, too.

I’m coming home, Trees! Every sun- and sea-kissed fragment of me! Hurrah!!!

an angel returns

Veiled Glory by Dan Addington

This is a follow-up to my most recently posted prose poem, waiting for angels.

* * * * * * * * *

another night passes. another day breaks. seeking angels, we walk.

she walks with us. she has always been one of us. but she has always been a rebel.

at dusk, she leaves us, seeking her own angel. she walks alone. she rests beneath a tree.

she sees them as they circle the sky. they observe her from a distance with knowing eyes. they go.

but one returns in the secret folds of night.

to him, she says:

come now, beloved. we are alone. i am beautiful in my painted silk. i loosen the knot that hides me from you. i let down my lovely hair.

shed your wings. rest them beneath this tree. and show me your hidden arms. lie down, beloved. lie down, right here. your right leg raised at an angle. your head resting on your shoulder. your lips slightly parted. your fingers penetrating the earth.

do this for me, beloved: close your eyes and imagine a silver flurry of stardust falling from the heavens upon you, upon us.

i am your sky. i am your sea. i am what is reflected in the mirror of your eyes. i am the silhouette of trees against the blueness of this moon.

i let my hair

fall

into your face.

i am the unfurling of heat in your flesh. i am the taste of apples in your mouth.

your eyes are as black as the sea at night. you want this to be quick. i won’t let you move.

i listen to the silent clamor of your nakedness. upon my lips your breath is mist. against my breasts your lips move, speaking in secret tongues.

do not be afraid. i know how fast your heart is beating. touch this body with your pulsing fingers and beg them to remember this moment, when you craved the warmth of human touch, and received your wish.

this body is your garden, beloved. fill it with your seed.

against my sex, your sex is another angel. a dark angel who bends down with black wings, digs beneath the earth’s surface, then flutters back up.

how you humble yourself before me with tender pleas and ardent worships! together, how we chant, how we sing, how we scream!

i am the taste of apples in your mouth. i am the vessel of your seed.

and i am lust. and i am dust.

and i am your confusion.

and i am your fall.

waiting for angels

Art by Steven DaLuz

we walk in night. wrapped in darkness. we seek a place to sit. to stay. to wait.

we rest. hurling words at one another as if they were rocks. flinging them high. waiting to hear them hit. and bounce. and still.

in stillness. the sound of water. brackish. gushing beneath the roots of trees.

we hear it so clearly. the sound.

we hear them. we see them. rocks. their lifeless elegance. their earthy splendor.

we reach out our hands with struggle. with hunger. with greed.

the rocks cut our flesh. splinter our bones. our hands glimmer with blood. we raise them to our faces in terror. now, our faces are bloody, too.

we gasp at the horror of being exposed.

we take shelter in a tree with limbs praying to a bountiless sky, frozen in mid-incantation. we scale the sky with weary eyes.

we see him. an apparition? he stabs with his actuality.

he circles. he curves. he descends. he sheds his wings. lays them on the ground.

he glances at us. brief eyes and ethereal lashes.

he curls into himself beneath the tree. he catches the rain as it drips from the leaves.

we sit. we wait. expectantly.

in the morning. we will still be waiting.

he will uncurl himself. he will brush off the rain. he will mount his wings upon his back.

and he will rise. slowly.

and we will be left. waiting.

for him. or for another angel. to come. and shed his wings. and leave us waiting while he sleeps.