Poetry Café

Out! (a response to Things To Do In the Belly)

2008-12-21T03:11:00.000-08:00

by Iole Damaskinos

Large open longing
Wide
Like the mouth of the whale
Who swallowed me
No matter how Miraculous
It still feels like a cage
“No man could survive being stuck in a whale
anymore than they could survive being held underwater”
Except, this Woman can.
The necessary destruction of cutting open
Are they demons or angels, the spirits wielding knives?
The rearranging of organic matters
That once worked to constitute
A life
“No man could survive being stuck in a whale
anymore than they could survive being held underwater”
So yes,
The rearranging must
As I hold my breath
Curled in a ball
Praying for the demonic angels
To complete their work
Of birthing me
A second crashing
Out of matter into Light
Tipping the scales
Weightily
Because at night
Choosing
Is all there is.

Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale

2008-12-21T03:09:00.000-08:00

by Dan Albergotti

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life's ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.

By Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1925)

2007-10-11T08:27:00.000-07:00

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth–
it's she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration

where the one guest is you.
In the softness of evening
it's you she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.

Instructions For A Young Warrior-Priestess (draft)

2007-10-10T09:17:00.000-07:00

Summon with fists unto yourself
Hope
Steadiness
Fierce kindness
And clear sight
STAND!
Back towards the fear
Not facing off
Though it may prickle on your neck
And do not turn around!
Waste not with open palm
Your own inheritance
Keep portions of your harvest
For yourself
To open-give
At every turn
Is just another carelessness
Honor your own respose
With time
Like yeast that
Makes dough rise
Like starter bread
Keep some for your self
Learn to keep some
For your self

Traveling Beyond

2007-09-07T05:53:00.000-07:00

Somewhere beyond composure
Gladly without
Your eyes glow-beckon
Like sunlight on a still sea

Somewhere beyond composure
At the black edges of light
I wait
For She told me
I should find you
At the meeting point

Somewhere beyond composure
My whale song will sound
Drawing you to me
To the deep.

Creating Sacred Space: Birthing

2007-09-04T07:26:00.000-07:00

When I was about to birth my daughter, I asked my son for one of the many rocks he collects and hoards. I wanted something to hold onto during the labour. I told my son, simply, that his rock would help Mama to bring Anastasia. And he, simply, accepted it.

Months later, my son found the rock again, sitting now on the window ledge beside the Mary altar. “Mama, is this the rock that helped you to bring Anastasia?” he asked. Puzzled, I found that I was not sure I recognized it. He handed it to me, and I examined it closely, taking in its details as though I were seeing it for the first time. “I think so…” I replied, hesitatingly, a little taken aback at my own uncertainty. Surely, a rock I had clung to with all my soul while birthing my daughter, should be more familiar to me?!

Later, I understood this lack of recognition as normal. In truth, the “rock” I had clung to, to bring about my daughter was so many things–it was so vast–I couldn’t possibly take in all its details during one event. What I had really clung to, throughout the whole process, from the moment of her conception to her birth, was Goddess. The rock was merely a symbol, a material representation, of all that I unknowingly reached for and held onto with all my might: faith, hope, and love, in alternating doses.

A Judaeo Christian metaphor comes to mind, of God as a fortress or a rock to stand on. These words conjure up for me an image of a person standing defiantly, chest puffed out in a somewhat Napoleonic posture, on a jutting, inhospitable looking rock. I offer here a different image of the divine rock, perhaps a more feminine image. When Goddess comes, bringing destruction in her wake, breaking down our worlds in order to make space in us for something new, there is no standing around, there is no defiance, there is no sense of imminent victory or rescue. When Goddess comes, we feel as though we are in freefall, though we are actually whirling around in Her womb waters. We are safe but we do not feel safe, at times. All we experience is being in the clutches of a tremendous power, like a mouse being carried up high into the sky by a giant bird of prey. And all we can grasp onto is the rock–the relatively tiny rock– of our own faith, hope, and love. At times like this we feel keenly the smallness of our rocks, because we are experiencing them juxtaposed with Goddess’ great all encompassing compassion, passion, and divinity: “The fear of… Goddess…is the beginning…”

Afterwards, slightly dazed and set gently on firm ground once more, not a hair on our heads harmed, we realize we somehow survived an amazing ride, and were enlarged, though we don’t know ourselves exactly how. We realize we really don’t know the landscape of our own, our very own, our most intimate small rocks, of faith, hope, and love.

Perhaps this, at times, is our only and consecrated calling: to travel beyond composure bearing witness to the interior landscape, of our own faith, hope, and love.

Creating Sacred Space: The Mary Altar

2007-05-16T06:27:00.000-07:00

Excerpt from One Sure Thing: Creating Sacred Space–DRAFT DRAFT DRAFT

After my divorce, I moved into a tiny attic apartment which I loved. It was surrounded by tall trees and had tons of windows and skylights. When I first moved in the apartment appealed to me because of its light and airy quality and the green hue the leaves on the summer trees cast around.

Gradually the apartment began to work a deeper magic on me. I began to notice the season and the time of the day. In the morning I would wake up to a symphony of birds, rather than the radio station blaring bad news. I began to sit in a sunny corner of the living room and just take in the day, getting up early so I could sit and sip my tea undisturbed. And I would pray. Despite the peace of the morning in these early days my prayers tended most often to be what I would later come to think of as “begging" prayers. I would prostrate myself to the Divine and beg, “Please help me make it though the day” or I would petition piteously for various things to happen, for myself, my family, or my friends, urgently, as though the Divine may or may not be listening. It is not to say that these prayers were wrong; they were heartfelt and necessary at the time. But as time went on I realized that despite being directed towards the Divine, they were arising from a place of disentitlement. They came from a place of feeling small, unprotected, and unloved, in a giant indifferent universe. They came from a place of alienation, from a lack of recognition of my birthrights, as a human, as a woman, and as a child and friend of God/ess.



Soon after I moved in I found the perfect spot for a small gaudy powder blue and gold statue of Mary that I had bought on a whim while on holiday in Argentina. I placed the statue in the middle of a small window alcove. On either side of it I carefully and symmetrically positioned two tea lights. I began to light them meditatively every evening to the sounds of Krishna Das, blowing them out and meticulously wiping the soot off the glass holders before I went to bed.

As time went on my little altar to Mary began to take on an unexpected and transformative role. It started with my son bringing in various objects he would gather on his two-year old expeditions around the neighborhood: a piece of gravel, a pinecone, a squashed bottle cap, a lost button. I would find these objects lying around the house, and not knowing what to do with them, I started placing them beside my statue of Mary, thinking to myself with an amused smile that they were “like” offerings.

As I would add daily to a steadily growing pile, I began to appreciate that these random objects around my gaudy statue, had an aesthetic appeal all their own. And then one day it struck me: these weren’t “like” offerings, they were in actual fact offerings! Over time they had somehow become so. This miniscule debris or flotsam, was a summary of my little son’s daily activity–as though he were a fisherman, they represented his catch for the day, his daily treasures. And no matter how insignificant or commonplace they looked to me or anyone else, I knew Mary appreciated them. That’s when I began to add my own offerings to the Mary statue; perhaps a bill waiting for a stamp, or a realtor’s card on one day, a rose petal on another day. I stopped trying to wait for something suitably “pretty” to come along, and just offered up anything I had that day; whatever that day had given me, whatever I had been able to harvest. This ritual act somehow enabled me to find moments of peace within myself, a peace that came from bridging the sacred and the mundane.

Each time I offered up a bill to Mary, I would be nudged –just a little– to believe that the bill would get paid on time, that the finances would be fine. As I offered up a realtor’s card, I would feel soothed at the fact that that might be the only thing that particular day had produced; I stopped judging myself for it because I sensed Mary Herself was not judging me. I may not have written a profound poem that day, or gotten around to making crème caramel; I may have handled a power struggle with my child poorly–all the day had aparantly yielded was this measly realtor’s card…but that was really truly OK. The Mother graciously accepted it and kept smiling; She loved me anyway, and tomorrow promised the blessing of a new day, with new opportunities to go harvesting.

What I was cultivating was a deeper faith that every little act of the day is meaningful, though I may not have the eyes to see it. What I was cultivating was a connection with the Holy Mother without and within me–the one who is able to do what women have naturally done for centuries: create sacred spaces out of the seemingly prosaic. And more than that: I was cultivating the recognition that I myself, that my very body, my daily life and struggles are a scared space, though seemingly prosaic. I was developing the “eyes to see and the ears to hear.” I was moving from “begging” prayers to “showing up” prayers; prayers that went simply: “Holy Mother, here I am. I am listening.”

For Tre

2007-05-04T05:23:00.000-07:00

I think of you in the mornings
Sister-friend
Because I know you're out there
Wandering the empty hallways like I am
Running your finger
Over the dusty ledge
Counting cherry blossom petals
Offering your naked heartbeat
To the world

What I Need: From Big To Large, In The Sacred NOW

2007-05-04T05:17:00.000-07:00

Peace
And to feel Loved
Fruit
A steady amount of work
But not too much
My son to be potty-trained
A cradle
And a safe place
To nurse my baby

Untitled

2007-05-04T05:15:00.000-07:00

I want to sit
Like a pebble by the sea
And watch the light of god
Play on you
Watch you take on
An undiluted sheen
And somber darkness
All that lies in between
And all that lies beneath
That I will never fathom

falling gracefully

2007-02-28T05:57:00.000-08:00

it’s not about the fall itself
it’s about falling with dignity
allowing fear but a momentary handshake
it’s not about wrestling
scoring brittle victory
it’s about weakness unfolding
a slow offering up of limbs
petals opening to light
cupping translucent vulnerability
like a mother

Iole Damaskinos © 2007

Holy Grail

2006-09-18T07:11:00.000-07:00

Eternally empty and
Eternally full
A destination
Final only
In the sweet delusional light
Of sunset
On this here earth
Because
In truth
The finding of the Grail
Is the Beginning
The beginning of
Outpouring
The beginning
Quenching
In this repeated emptying
And filling
Find your drum-beat:
Permission
To unravel
To bleed your colours
Into the sacred stream.

Wavecresting

2006-07-25T11:29:00.000-07:00

On this untitled shore I stand
Feet rooting down into the brink
Sensing imminence
On this unguarded moment
Almost touching
The impossible blue
Glimpsed through
A chink in the air
No bigger than the radius
Of my hope
On this next inhale
Breath and life will flow
Composure will be different
Than imagined
Through you I come
Breathing self closer
To the core
As you arrive
Wavecresting
Viewing through womb–waters
The world as newly born
Eyes open wide
Despite the salt tear
Spray

Divided

2006-06-12T06:38:00.000-07:00

You will always be divided he said
simply
like ash being flicked
off one of a million
cigarettes
casually
bestowing upon me
as though it were an honour
the World’s Most Terrible Curse
and I all the while
an ant in a water puddle
trying to fathom God’s finger
relentlessly pointing
to the formula
for my salvation
trying to comprehend
with miniscule brain
that life does not
measure up or down
to expectations
that nothing is truly owned
that the very ant-blood coursing
through my veins
is but mine on short term loan
then God’s voice
booming like a B rate movie:
The choice is simple:
Love or Notlove
and I
viewing God’s finger
like some gigantic carrot
I want to eat but don't know how
hear myself respond
in helium voice
Deal! But one condition:
I WILL NOT be divided–
that much I refuse!
That is going too far, God!
a tiny ingratiating joke
for who am I
to start negotiations
when up above
immense
live thunderbolts
unfurl?

Untitled draft

2006-06-09T03:49:00.000-07:00

In dreams last night I visited
The sewage system of my soul
And discovered with astonishment
A pathway running through it
A subterranean railroad
Full of thriving teaming life
Like some futuristic vision
And I begged of myself
Please no, let this not be my future
The trains, however, were not running on time
Which gave me some solace
The candy shop was staffed by two
Buxom ladies made up thickly
Moles and all
Oh they were jovial enough but
Did not sell the candy of my first choice
That disappointment afforded me another
Glimpse of hope
Moreover, they were completely out of
Dimes so I was unable
To purchase or consume a thing
In the process of fruitlessly negotiating
Change
I missed my train, a rickety old
Squealing tanker
Something left over from
One or other epic war
Now long forgotten
Recycled against all odds
And better judgment
I sighed with relief as the train took off
And started my long journey out of there
Through wet corridors I stumbled and ran
Trying not to notice dank
Low ceilings overgrown with some form
Of hanging algae in places thick
As bead curtains
Feeling the cold slime on the back of my right hand
Passing through into bright spotlit areas
Where workers labored night and day
To improve this place
Make it presentable
To respectable passengers
Such as myself

Greed

2006-05-22T19:23:00.000-07:00

My son witnessed his first rainbow the other day
And ever since has been demanding
To be shown one on cue
Which got me to thinking
About greed
Greed used to be an ugly word
Conjuring up images of brutality
A butterfly pinned
Under glass
A songbird in a cage
But here is my son
Greedy for life
Not knowing it is considered impolite
To constantly expect new miracles
Not knowing that to openly crave
Abundance is a faux pas
And suddenly I understand
Brutish greed is born of deprivation
The prodigal son surely stuffed
Butterflies by the handfuls
By the fistfuls
Into his fraying pockets
Trapped birds by the dozen
Tying them to the grimy bundle
On his back
Forever haunted by the fear
Of having to do without
But once he returned
His mother sat him down
Upon the softest pillows
Prepared delicacy after delicacy
For him to eat
Led him through the rainforest
Shimmering with
Butterflies and multicolored birds
During his long absence
He had all but forgotten this garden
Was his birthright
For never has the Goddess been tight-fisted
Nature is superfluity
And so I’ve come to think
It is not greed
But a kind of composure
To accept
That which is gifted freely
And playfully insist
On more

The Doctor Is In

2006-03-03T05:12:00.000-08:00

Please fill out
the questionnaire:

What is the difference
between building
a fortress
and gathering wood
for
kindling?

At what precise
moment
does the ambushed traveler
join
the guerilla war?

How many
splinters, exactly,
constitute
an ascetic feat?

When should one stop
walking alone
and start
following
one's angels?

The shrink looks at her askew.
Ah-ha!
Just as I thought!
You are
a minefield
My Dear.

Alone

2006-02-22T12:04:00.000-08:00

Alone is a place
With sunshine streaming
Through the blinds
Music on low
Just for me
I want
I need
I owe
All gone

Alone is
Where I sit
Cocooned
Within my soul
The tugging stilled
A child
Absorbed in play
The sandbox
Is my world.

Untitled Draft

2006-02-05T11:10:00.000-08:00

Round and round
swirling for collapse
a possessed petulant child
crying for water
begging to float
screaming to be carried
exposed
gazing up
at the impossible blue
to be held
in your silence
to be rocked
back to her self
I want
I want
I want
the haven of you
my Other
who is not
afraid.

Friday Night At The Burren

2006-01-27T10:40:00.000-08:00

Three beers and two cigarettes later
“I just want to be happy” she said
Scraping her lips with bright
Red-orange lipstick
Surveying the scene
Like an accountant
Taking stock
While I ensconced in my cocoon
Watching from miles away
From another dimension
Could see nothing but
A circus gone awry
Hollow men
Eager with acrid fear
Women fidgeting
Wielding bodies
Like traps
Faces like weapons
Peering through
The translucent fibers
Of my soul
Wanting to but
Unable to dismiss
The horror
Of daggers
Gleaming against the softness
Of inner thighs
Hearts clawed
And studded
Unable to block out
The bloodcurdling screams
Of souls bound and gagged
Reaching a frenzied pitch
Beneath
The relentless banter:
Notice ME!
Notice ME!
Notice ME!
Notice ME!

2005-12-12T09:50:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning
and somehow I knew
that room bolted shut for years
had been broken into
and I knew I had to investigate
wearily, hopefully
thinking I would find dust
outdated magazines
grown brittle with age
dry, withered plants
Instead
I found
an ocean
Making careful note
of the smashed–in lock
I placed a trembling hand
on the broad ancient door
inhaling as I did
that old familiar
scent
breath traveling
down, down, down
to a deep part
of my belly
and I was shocked
because this ordinary breath
began to burn
like a stiff shot
of rum
imbibed upon returning from
the winter’s cold
I should have known right then
to stop
pretend I never knew
about the break in
But how could I?
And then
pushing the door ajar
and peeking in
I saw that glint of ocean
placid, beguiling,
idyllic even
and I though
perhaps.
Perhaps I’ll
wade a little
looking for keepsakes
on the shore
perhaps if I bring in
the largest, gaudiest
plastic beach ball
I can find
it may be possible
to use this room again
But all the while
a still persistent voice
kept asking
But where
are all the withered plants?
The magazines?
The dust?
What will you do
if wading in one day
searching for shells
you feel compelled
to swim
or
when the soft breeze
changes
to a squall?
How can you keep
an ocean
in your heart
and not be
terrified?

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005

Soul Holes

2005-12-12T07:33:00.000-08:00

“There are various techniques for pushing the stuffing material into the empty spaces of the body and limbs. If the pattern is simple, the stuffing can be done all at once. Usually the opening is at the back or bottom of the body and the head will be stuffed first. Push the stuffing firmly up into the head area. The more stretch in the fabric, the more shaping can be accomplished. Usually the head and neck will be stuffed quite firmly. Some patterns will call for a support in the neck area such as a dowel or cardboard tube. If the stuffing is done firmly enough the support may not be needed. The material used for stuffing will almost always shift and compact over time, so that firmer initial stuffing will keep the shape longer and better.”

Soul Holes

That night you showed me
The hole in your soul
I wanted to say: “Here, take this!
Fill it up for goodness’ sake!”
Imagining the quivering outstretched palm
Wide open
Cupping soul–stuffing
Instead my hand flew
In a ridiculous Napoleonic gesture
To my chest
Under the satin lining of my coat
My fingers moved fastidiously
Shoving stuffing into tiny moth holes
To prevent them
From getting large
Like yours
It’s a funny substance, soul–stuffing
It does not transplant well
One has to spin one’s own
And so we sat
You with the wind howling through
You
And I
Wishing I knew where to begin
Wishing I could at least lend you
A thread.

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005

Untitled

2005-12-11T07:25:00.000-08:00

A Tale of Two Cultures
Inspired by being a slightly crazed, sleep deprived, baby & diaper bag-toting mom who frequents hip student haunts.

I know a thing or two my friend
So don’t talk to me about narrowly averting disaster.
I know a thing or two: about crusty crumpets–and the like,
Things you may not know overmuch about.
I see you staring at me, thinking that I must have lost my squirrel
But I see through you– you with your orange coat
and purple alligator briefcase
Don’t you know your style is passé?
The zeitgeist has moved on since then.
You didn’t think I knew about the zeitgeist, did you.
Well, let me tell you something: I know a thing or two.
And moreover, I have been around.
You can glare at me all you want,
But you know I am too seasoned to be considered arrogant.
Only twenty-somethings can be obnoxious, and I am thirty-three.
Don’t hate me for my casual hip.
Don’t hate me for wearing this red-walled-crumbling-ceiling-fan-café
Like an old slipper shoe.
Don’t hate me for being naturally unimpressed–
The kind of unimpressed you cultivate before your mirror daily.
Here, let me tell you something.
I’ll let you into a secret: I once tried hard to be uncommon too.
But ever since my squirrel ran away, I’ve given up.
I fight my battles elsewhere.
And this here, this perfectly frayed hole you see
Puncturing my droopy saffron-colored sweater–
It came from accidentally setting my kitchen towel on fire
While preparing goat stew for my husband
And listening through the baby monitor
To my baby
Breathing through his afternoon nap.

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005

LittleDarkPoem

2005-11-15T17:05:00.000-08:00

Hurtling through the universe in freefall
For the past two years
She kept on screaming
Throw me a GODDAMN BONE!!
When the bone finally arrived
She realized it could not
Stop her from falling
And she wondered
What would happen to her as she
Splatted to the ground

That was two years ago
She’s still waiting to find out
Hurtling through the universe
Silently now
Wide-eyed
Enjoying the ride
Some times
Clutching onto the occasional wishbone
Colliding with large femurs
Thinking she should have asked
For something else.

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005

Capricornus

2005-11-14T12:47:00.000-08:00

The door is closing again.
Once before I knew how difficult
It is
To keep one's eyelids open staring
Into light.

The minutiae of the world
Bear me down.
I cannot keep that blue
Circle of sky
In sight.
I lower my head
Snort
Kick at a patch
Of dirt around my hoof
Soon
I become entrenched
Examining every speck
Delighting in the grubs.

Grubs!

All the while my fish tail
Itching writhing drying forgotten
And confined.

When we have managed to escape
We have reached water
We have felt home
Surrounded by wide open beckoning,
Miraculous

"You can always come back here" I heard
Whispered once in the space between
Wakefulness and sleep
The two worlds seemed reconcilable:

Brutal-chaotic-struggling-noisy-fake-false-unloving-infinitely
Rich-wide-open-beckoning-miraculous-real-but-
I am HERE!

Washed up onto this shore
Half goat
Half fish
Not knowing where and how to rest my head.
Perhaps
The answer lies
In learning how to love my horns and hairy chin?
My yellow stupid eyes?

My goat-self eats the world
Without discrimination
My fish-self wants only to
Belong be enveloped by
A greater source
Torn, ripping flesh between two worlds
How can I keep this doorway open?

If we cannot live here then
I must return each day
To knock
And force the guardians to remember me
The sound
Of my voice
Underwater
The goat-self must remember
We can swim
My hooves must knock
My horns must batter

Till we see.

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005

Death of a Poem

2005-11-02T05:54:00.000-08:00

Under the mattress
for the past ten years
unbeknownst to its
soon-to-be adopted mother
it lay incubating
while denizens
of the world above
tossed and turned
flopped, giggled,
stumbled drunkenly
swore and made love
it lay furiously
crafting its cocoon
with miniature
calligraphic strokes
grafting
stem to serif
until one day
tilting up the corner
she found it
a lone ovoid
upon closer inspection
pregnant with searing longing
reaching out to cradle
fingertips throbbing
she began to type
breath by trembling breath
until the frittering began
crunching giving way at last to
one elegant black leg
a finely tuned antenna
now two
the grand finale
a quartet of wings
uncreased with magnificent
deliberation
and so he found her
standing
cupping it
a look of rapture on her face
turning a diamantine compound eye
in his direction
it flew at him
bopping blithely in its course
towards the screen door
of his mind
she flinched at the inevitable collision
hands flying to her face
and all was still

there was no turning back

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005

Writers' Workshop

2005-10-26T17:33:00.000-07:00

What brings us together
On this coldest of all nights
To perch like crows
On uncomfortable metal chairs
Clutching lukewarm
Decaffeinated coffees
Shuffling our papers
Like cats tossing in the litter box
Adjusting our sentences
With tick like movements
Of the wrist?

Is it a hope for Freedom, fame, and fortune?
Have we come looking
For our literary Vegas,
Our jackpot in print:
NATIONAL BESTSELLER LIST
Flashing like a neon marker
Drawing us to the inevitable collision
Like flames unto a moth?

Or is something subtler than this?
Perhaps a hope for momentary
Recognition
Perhaps an acorn for the soul
Stashed away so that one day
While folding the laundry
We may find something forgotten
In a pocket
And smile

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005

A Poem for My One Year Old Son Who Keeps Being Mistaken for a Girl

2005-10-24T17:13:00.000-07:00

My little son
How can I begin
To talk about you
You–who burst forth
From me one year ago
A ball of pink
Delicately folded urgency
Screaming to devour
Foodsleeplove
Like a furiously animated
Rose bud
In a time-lapse film

My little son
You are on loan to me
For perhaps three
Half- a-dozen years
Before I must generously
Give you up
And already I am you:
A child
Forced to share a treasure
I am greedy to keep
So much more
Than ships
And sails
And puppy dog tails
Though undeniably
You are all these since
White porcelain ships
Adorn your attic haven
And dogs make you shriek
In primal delight

My little son
You are molding my soul
Into a cup
From which you can drink in life
And when time comes
To share you
You will not leave me
Unchanged

My little son
You are all cheeks
Hair like a caress
Eyelashes opening
To the most magnificent show
In town
Your glee
Shatters our winter home
With tropical abandon

My little son
I do not know
How karma works
Or whether the earth
Is destined for betterment
In this life or the next
My little son
I am not rich
I cannot promise you
The world
Or even part of it
But I can promise to
Be awed
Be grateful
In the ordinary
Hallowed now
With you

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005

Early

2005-10-20T11:04:00.001-07:00

you say
if you wake up early enough
you can catch a worm
and that the bird in your hand
is worth more
than the one hiding
in the honeysuckle bush

i ask
where is the sport
in waking up early
to chase
and disembowel
a wretched worm?

i say
if you wake up early
you’re better off standing
beside the still pond
bearing witness to the quiet
and if you’re really lucky
you might catch
a glimpse
of your guardian angel’s heel
as she tiptoes away
moreover
i say
that bird in your hand
will not sing

you laugh
and there it is
the difference
between you
and me.

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005

American Desiderata (after Desiderata by Max Ehrmann–see Links)

2005-10-20T08:08:00.000-07:00

Go rollerblading amid the noise and haste,
and remember what gains there may be in suing.
As far as possible without surrender
be politically correct.
Speak your truth loudly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant:
they too have their talk shows.

Avoid privacy and thoughtful persons,
they are too intense.
If you compare yourself with others,
you will diet harder and get breast implants:
For never may there be “less-er” or “great-er” persons than yourself.
Enjoy the hotdog as well as the game.

Keep interested in your own career
however many eighty-hour weeks you work;
it is a real possession when you no longer have a life.
Exercise caution in your private affairs;
for the world is full of Tripp-ery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive to get Saddam
and everywhere the world is full of McDonalds.

Be yourself, dude.
Especially proclaim yourself on bumper stickers and T-shirts.
Neither be cynical about L.A.;
for in the midst of all the smog and gang warfare,
Hollywood is as perennial as the grass.

Kick and scream against the counsel of the years,
get as many facelifts as it takes: old people suck.
Nurture a good relationship with your therapist
to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are borne out of knowing too much about Geography.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be a flake.

You are a child of the Universe,
no less than junk mail
and those little plastic fast-food antenna caps;
You have the Right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt business is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with Elvis,
whatever you conceive him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations
in the noisy confusion of life
make it to your spinning class on time.

With all its sham, deception, and broken dreams
America is still the greatest democracy on earth
Be cheerful.
Strive to be a teenager.

Copyright Iole Damaskinos 2005