Purging

Sometimes in poetry and in life I feel the need to blurt out darker images on my way to the light.  The poem below is an example of that process.  This is probably a good time to remind readers that there is a difference between the poet and the persona... just so everyone reading won't wonder why "I" had dreams of killing, and so I can distance myself somewhat from this poem.

 The painting above is untitled and is based on the railroad crossing arm at the intersection near my studio.  I don't guess it really has anything to do with the poem.  Even though I could probably come up with something if I think about it long enough.  The dots are very textural, almost 3D, as can be seen in the detail enlargement at the top.  (I think you can click on the image to see it almost life size.  And you can see some images in the dots.) 

ORIGINS

As a girl I dreamt of killing, of leaving

whole armies of men gasping, shuddering with desire

as I slinked past their ranks on my way to nowhere.

Of course, age taught me to take what I wanted,

and how to chop the leftovers into common pieces

to be devoured daily by thousands of ravens.

Never mind that every feast threatened

to unleash a strange longing within me

for the time before beauty began,

when women knew the secrets of flying,

could see the future, and built shelters

with stones freshly fallen from heaven.

More each day, I ached to be natural,

like the bark of a pine, the cool curl of a wave,

or the heady fragrance of gardenia wine.  And I want

tenaciously not to cling like a decorative vine

whose only function is to trail behind beauty

like the train on some bright fairy queen's gown.

Some days I transcend.  Then I float far above

in my own layer of atmosphere, not afraid of reentry,

because it is self through which I burn.

Some day I will arrive at the point where I was born,

and on that day I will understand--

starting from the inside is the way to learn love.