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ANAM CARA
poetry by
Blake Steele

(File opened Jan. 1998)

 

 

                              A...

                              AFTER A CONVERSATION WITH

                                 AN ANAM CARA WHO IS MARRIED

                                 TO A GOOD AND VULNERABLE MAN

                              ANAM CARA

 

                              D…

                              DOLLY

 

                              I...

                              I WANT TO BREAK TABOOS

 

                              P...

                              POEMS ARE MEANINGFUL AND MEMORABLE WORDS

 

                                              S…

     SALLY'S WORDS      

 

                              T...

                              THE HUNGRY MAN REPENTS

                              THE ROSE IN MY BELLY

                              THE TREES ARE ELECTRIFIED

 

                              W...

                              WHEN I GO FORTH HUNGRY AND LOOKING FOR LOVE

                              WHY DO I COMPLAIN OF LOVE'S PLAY?

 

 

                              LAST POEM IN FILE: SALLY'S WORDS

 

 

                              

 

                              ANAM CARA

 

                              The loving soul

                              shines around its body

                              like a luminous cloud.

                              The open-eyed are cloud drinkers:

                              the trusting, the celebrative,

                              the golden children

                              that live in a conscious mist.

                              It's a soul-friend

                              that beholds your light

                              and loves your beauty.

                              Soul, friend...

                              I use the words with reverence:

                              not lightly, as we use the word love,

                              or sex, or earth, or God

                              in our unknowing knowing,

                              in our bind slumber.

                              A soul-friend desires

                              to drink you in,

                              and in savoring you

                              wakes up those rivers

                              that move through your belly

                              and open skies in silent places

                              of your mind

                              until the mystery of you

                              moves and unfolds,

                              interblending

                              with hawk calls

                              and angel cries

                              in an ancient mystery

                              the awake call

                              home.

 

 

 

 

                              DOLLY

 

                              She drove me into a corner

                              and hugged me with all the passion

                              of a wild-hearted child.

                              If I could, I would take her to

                              the print store

                              and make a copy of her

                              for me.

 

 

 

 

 

                              AFTER A CONVERSATION WITH

                              AN ANAM CARA WHO IS MARRIED

                              TO A GOOD AND VULNERABLE MAN

 

                              We talked about everything I love:

                              the wild God: untrammeled, creative,

                              popsicle fresh and free;

                              and poetry, that language which dribbles

                              in word drops

                              out of the wine press

                              of imagination

                              where the dancing feet of emotion

                              crush intellect's grapes;

                              and song, that fusion,

                              that ooze of emotional light

                              in the dark of soul;

                              and creation: bursting,

                              flowing, shifting shapes

                              in the miraculous, unfathomable

                              instant that is before time was;

                              and love: its soft beams

                              beautifying the illuminated face;

                              the harmonious mergence of minds

                              to interblend

                              in an infinite tapestry

                              of self sharing—

                              and the urge to penetrate, to swallow

     to eat, to free, to enter.

                              I cannot speak of this dispassionately

                              anymore than one can make words

                              without syllables.

                              Such love, such fresh fluidity

                              to mingle,

                              such energies, such sparkle

                              to fuse and coalesce--

                              such forbiddances again to restrain!

                              It shook me, it crumpled my hands,

                              it made me sweat,

                              and whispered in my conscience,

                              "You must let it all go..."

                              And I know love also looses...

                              So I kiss these memories goodbye

                              with this poem

                              as it ends.

                             

 

 

 

 

                             

 

                              THE TREES ARE ELECTRIFIED

                             

                              The trees are like electrified

                              cauliflower buds

                              with all the white blown away;

                              they are dark lightning blasts

                              even in their quiet

                              and solemn slumber.

                              We should bless the trees

                              everyday, lay our hands on them

                              in all seasons.

                              I think they hunger

                              for the touch of our souls,

                              our imaginative wonder,

                              the songs of our praise

                              mingling with the motions

                              of their adoration.

                              I think this marriage

                              would bring peace to the birds.

                              You know, perhaps Blake's

                              angel-filled tree is poignantly real;

                              perhaps, the Trees of Life in Paradise

                              have been forever here.

                             

 

 

 

                             

                              POEMS ARE MEANINGFUL AND MEMORABLE WORDS

 

                              Poems are

                              meaningful and memorable words

                              which flow out of that

                              wild and silky part of our heart

                              like an unpredictable wind

                              moving through a disciplined mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                              THE HUNGRY MAN REPENTS

 

                              I want an imperfect woman:

                              dark ground in which to scratch;

                              a disheveled nest in which to lay;

                              a bird with frayed feathers

                              hopping through mindless patterns

                              in a cage;

                              a receptacle of golden seed

                              falling from the dirty hands

                              of a broken man.

                              Let her turn her imperfect body

                              to my imperfect body;

                              her disjointed face

                              to my disjointed face;

                              her dark, lean soul

                              to my dark, hungry soul

                              to touch, in our imperfect love,

                              some free thing,

                              some perfect power,

                              some divine beckoning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                              I WANT TO BREAK TABOOS

 

                              All my thoughts congeal

                              in my thirst for her

                              and something green and soft,

                              something radiant

                              slips through a soul fissure

                              and falls amongst the terrors

                              of the lonely

                                              who wanders.

                              I want to break all taboos

                              and fall into a dense dark

                              to discover her:

                              and there, to sing her body

                              with both hands,

                              with my feet,

                              with curls,

                              my thighs!

                              with a naked navel.

                                         Just let me realize

                                         my unfinished grief

                                         in her flesh.

                              And when I touch her silent nipples

                              with a stroke of light

                              and she smiles,

                              I want to rise above the earth

                              as a man!

                              with his arms

                              wide open!

                              free of flesh

                              and drunk

                              on the fumes

                              of my smoldering soul's

                              vision.

 

 

 

 

 

                              WHY DO I COMPLAIN OF LOVE'S PLAY?

 

                              Why do I complain of love's play?

                              though love takes me, naked and alone,

                              in desolate ways

                              until I learn that love

                              is empty of grasping need?

                              But what is it that holds me?

                              Only love's beauty which entrances

                              while the absolute of a needless need

                              casts me forth crazy and alone

                              in this wilderness

                              to walk amongst

                              sheets of yellow light--blind!

                              and through the green forest's

                              mumbling music--deaf!

                              and through flowers and honey pots—

                              bereft of smell and taste—

                              looking for the end of looking,

                              needing the end of needing,

                              all the while withering

                              for grief of the great life

                              I haven't lived.

 

 

                             

 

 

                              WHEN I GO FORTH HUNGRY AND LOOKING FOR LOVE

 

                              In going forth to find

                              that which is so richly within.

                              I have played the fool,

                              the jerk, the stupid game.

                              I've annoyed people...

                              No one thinks they are

                              the obnoxious party.

                              It's brilliant to wake up;

                              to hold the mirror a little higher

                              in careening light;

                              to look hard at the crumpled

                              child hiding

                              in the shadow-bottom of the glass.

                              That's me: the touch-starved clown,

                              the adolescent buffoon!

                              A good laugh at myself

                              will  fix me--

                              and some apologies.

                             

 

 

 

 

                              THE ROSE IN MY BELLY

                             

                              The rose in my belly

                              is opening again,

                              slowly, in the light--

                              and amidst shadows,

                              loosening its grip,

                              falling open like silk slips

                              from shoulders,

                              like a lady's hair falls

                              when the pin is pulled.

                              The rose opens in my belly:

                              I turn in the clasp of God.

                                           

 

                                           

 

 

                    SALLY'S WORDS

 

                    I'm almost home now,

                    almost at the end of this weary road,

                    almost within small, welcome fences,

                    almost circled by curling vines and flowers

                    where I may lay down safely in someone's arms

                    who knows my wounded, torn ways

                    and loves me, placing their hands tenderly on me

                    to sooth... until I allow the simple luxury

                                       of slipping into old rhythms.

                    I'm listening to birds singing ancient songs:

                    homing songs, songs of wild flight.

                    I'm listening to the lullabies

                    of my own breathing,

                    and the whispered syllables of wind--

                    the wordless longing of silent love within.

                    For a moment, I'm a child again,

                                                   crying myself to sleep;

                    until someone wraps me warm in light

                    streaming through their gentle eyes

                    and I cautiously let fingers play with mine,

                    and touch my hair,

                    seizing my soul in a suspense of silence,

                    breathless and unknowing--

                    until words begin. Your words are light:

    like small fireflies in dark woods

                    where frightening creatures move;

                                       like feathers of light

                    they drift carelessly and somber

                    amidst the fearful shift of shadows.

                    Now I'm nesting down in two worlds, still afraid,

                    yet running towards small lights,

                    small miracles in the dark,

                                       your words amongst them...

 

 

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