My cloak is woven starlight, bending
time and light and memory–
a recollection of origins, place, kith and kin
that were and are, but are no more.
Mnemosyne, mother of the Muses
cradles me and whispers in my ear.
Get up! It is time to move on.
Amy C
Who am I and why should you care? I hope that you can relate to my words, perhaps that is more important than telling you all the "whats" and "wheres" that are on my cv. I am human, I am a mother, an author, a physician, a person of faith. I have published a few poems, but I am not a professional poet, whatever that means. My favorite poet is Rolf Jacobsen. I like ancient poetry, such as Tong dynasty four character quatrains. I have a cat.
Lucernarium
The great light, incandescent, fires the evening sky
Coruscant gold and burnished red, at the lighting of the lamps.
A greater light, deathless, translucent as crystal
Pure love, a shining sea of glass mingled with flame—ascends
Supplanting the heat of stars with brilliant eternity
Consuming the light of day with the Light of Life.
And there will be no night there.
The Eleventh Hour
You can go no further; stop.
Blue granite, steep cliff, face, sharp chin.
Faded blaze hammered to tree trunk,
gravel scattered, the carving of water in earth.
Footfalls on griege and rough stone, unstable.
A wide pathway crumbles upon descent.
Turn back as night falls.
An hour of work in the vinyard yet remains.
Flowers in the Spirit House are Borrowed
Flowers in the spirit house are borrowed,
the life that has been given us is lent;
we haven’t got a promise of tomorrow,
so gather blossoms ‘ere your time is spent.
The life that has been given us is lended,
like butterflies that live at once to die;
so gather blossoms ‘ere your time is ended,
their colors fall like rain across the sky.
Like butterflies that live for but a fortnight,
our spirits leave the earth uncommon fast;
their colors fall like rainbows shining so bright,
rejoice and gather flowers while they last.
Our spirits leave the earth returning homeward,
flowers in the spirit house are light;
rejoice and gather flowers leaning sunward–
we haven’t got a promise of tonight.
None
My heart has turned to wax;
It has melted within me.
The midday heat loves me too much—cire-perdue
A sprue hole hollow, a core of lost wax.
At the ninth hour there is no more separation;
Blast furnace heat melts, exposes and refines.
But burnished bronze—or gold—gathers chill.
Do not be far from me,
for trouble is near
and there is no one to help.
Abandoned by even myself, alone-ness is euphemism.
The earth splits, the curtain falls, exit stage left.
Lama Sabachthani?
Return my heart to me.
Saudade
Small corners contain hidden remnants, a fragment rolled tightly, inscribed with words beyond kenning. This was spoken across the dimensions, time, and space. I am that I am. A child’s toy, a box filled with plastic animals, a stain on the ceiling. Breathing in the dark, spreading flame mirrored on the wall. In the air is a wheel, a circle, hands holding hands. Not one of them is missing.
Time inverts itself
The person that I once was
Lives beyond the Vale
Camera Obscura
As observed by Mozi, we are an image turned upside-down
Aristotle’s sun was broken by wickerwork, by the leaves of a tree
We are illumined, according to Theon, by unbent rays.
Alhazen has given to us a dark room, an aperture for reversal,
And DaVinci saw our darkened eyes filled with light.
Shen Kuo writes of an object, pearl bright, hovering above the city of Yangzuo,
Casting shadows in the night for miles; brilliant, intense, and strange.
Sext
Sheltered by the relative immensity of the summer porch, a web
and spider go unnoticed by important people about their business
while the firefly struggles–filaments ensnare and extinguish light.
Such things can only be seen through childish eyes, and longing
for the light that was will transfigure the mind to hope for light again.
Sheltered by the relative immensity of business and important people,
a soul goes unnoticed in a web of must and of now and of silence.
while the true self struggles–filaments ensnare and extinguish light.
Kneeling, armed with a bent reed, a smoldering wick, we begin the work.
It is no small thing to care for the firefly, to clean its wings, to set it free.
Deus, in adiutórium meum inténde.
Dómine, ad adiuvándum me festína
Before Darkness
A cirrus robe softly obscures
the feet of Queen Cassiopeia with filaments
of ice refracting pale
the whitest glow of Selene’s winged steed.
Hephaestus strikes his anvil
Cumulonimbus, having fallen only once–
As if to hide the searing path
Of fragments that fall
Broken, again and again to the earth.
Opacity and Distance
August again, brightening albicant haze
Delphic mirrors bending light towards the horizon
And sky
My eyes burn
I blink and the vision is gone.