Lessons from foreign gods: Melia

Melia sits, sister
priestess in her
wooden box.

Confess,
her branches rasp,
and with a scratch
she bleeds me ashen,
taking my sins.

Forgiveness
comes as the honey
she drips back to me.

Lessons from foreign gods: Pooka

What took us –
a black horse,
overgrown rabbit,
goat or dog –
is a part of its hocus.

The pooka’s
all of these.

He’ll lead us
astray and afield,
back home and alone
to our own
many selves,
given we give him
his, our harvest’s share.

Entomophagy

An ent to me
isn’t Tolkien’s walking tree.

It’s the lead-in to studying
insects (the ancient
Greek, entomon).

Have I told you,
what wonderful creatures
ants are?

They are.

They herd
aphids for honeyed dew;

they tend
their devil’s gardens,

and when
a fight comes (which it will)
they soldier on
better
than Achilles’ Myrmidons,
better
than Treebeard
after his Entmoot.

Remind me to tell you
about the clever disguises
worn by walking sticks
and the peculiar crunch
they make
when caught.

Lessons from foreign gods, No. 4 (Iktomi)

Iktomi inches to me.
His trip has eight furry legs.
His trap is eight black-ringed eyes.
He’ll walk me too willingly
into his world-weaving web.
Words I spin, strengthen its strands.
The pull teaches me, new tricks.

---

This is a re-posting of this poem, because the Blogger gods decided to embark on a massive Fail and eat the first try from yesterday.

Iktomi is not actually a "foreign" god, but indeed very native to this land the Europeans so skillfully swiped (and re-swiped as many times as it took). When I encounter him, I try to escort him outside where he can play his tricks on the squirrels and the possums.

Lessons from foreign gods, No. 2

I've followed the Wyrd thread
where it led me,
and it leads me again
to this loose end.

Three gently giant crones
dip their watering pale
hands in a waterless well.
They tell me:

"The becoming's
happened. It was one picked.
There were many
hung by our ought-to-be."

---

This is the second in my planned series of short poems related to gods and myths from around the world. I'm currently reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods, which is providing me with ample hints toward other mythologies to research. His reference to the Norns from Norse mythology got me exploring, and this is the result.

The glass you gave me is emptiful

Watch me closely, God,
though you’ve seen it all before.

I’ve got the universe up my sleeve
and it’s itching for a sleight,
if you’re willing to be conned.

The stardust filling Aquarius
has poured for countless millennia
and it won’t brim the bottomless cup
of your oceanic blues.

That’s the warm-up for Lepus
who, lean and polar-white, leaps
out from my flipped-over cap
and is chased by the steel-plied
Orion’s hankering for roast hare.

Hunger-driven this heaven hunter
has a saggy belt; his sword’s tip drags,
slicing Gemini in two,
but twins can’t be parted long
and divinely grasping Pollux clasps
Castor’s pause anew.

Conjoined, they bow together
under showers of milky petals
kissing no-longer
furrowed brows till black
velvet curtains fall
and are followed by your eons of
endearing applause.

---

This poem was written for Poet's United's Thursday Think Tank Prompt: Magic

Two Souls, Hunched Up

This is part eight of my mythic poem-cycle Two Souls, Twin Lives. You can check out the other seven parts by clicking here (note that they're listed in reverse order, most recent first).

VIII. Hunched
By Francis Scudellari

Willful drawn, down to clay
ruts choked with grass,
edged by berried brambles
whose thorny twists
bend to a lowering sky
as its grumble
stabs open wounds, gushing
muddy instants
to puddle, pool, swell, swallow
the black-humped plains,
and force he-she up, hunched
to scour trappings
of craggy, gouged rock skins

Two Souls, Hollowed out

Here's the seventh part of my poem cycle Two Souls, Twin Lives (the previous six can all be found on my eponymous Website).

VII. Hollow
By Francis Scudellari

Fed by over-ripe knowing
the cloying tastes
of acid hued morsels
shrivel and blanch
squeezed by hasty, restless
new appetites
and she-he's clasping hands
let seconds slip
tumbling to hollow thump
moss covered mounds
whose stretched backs pull the nose
with aromas
of more savory blood

Two Souls, Focused

After a long interlude, here's the next installment of my poem cycle Two Souls, Twin Lives (although I may change that name). You can read the previous five poems on my eponymous Website.

VI. Near sight
By Francis Scudellari

He-she shed circling lives
as they build bulk
and with nimbler digits
clutch airy roosts
where they're kept ill company
by sly creatures
who slip between branches
to spit and spell
old tales of mimicked fruit
and poisoned tongues
that transfix keen focus
on the too near
while long ago lessens

Two Souls: Flabby mimics

After the last long-winded and prosaic post about the movie FRESH, a return to sparser verse and the next installment of my poem Two Souls. I may yet however revisit the idea of "monocultures" within a different context.

Two Souls, Twin Lives
By Francis Scudellari

V. Flabby mimics

She-he, un-mated flames
half to fading,
slip on fatted layers,
flabby mimics
of trees' up-craning trunks,
pained limbs that twist
when ten bony barbs burst
through soft pink nubs,
new claws they file against
rough-surfaced stones
to climb the greening heights,
feast on sweet-meats,
and sugary speed the cycles

Two Souls: New Hair

Continuing on where my poem Two Souls takes me, this is the fourth installment. I've decided to subtitle each part. In case you haven't been following along, the first three parts are I. Exile, II. Slow Drift, and III. Fleshy.

Two Souls, Twin Lives
By Francis Scudellari

IV. New Hair

On nests spread far between
parallel paths
These two of never's name,
a restless lie,
let time's shortened shadow
fall across bald,
scaled shoulders, its darkness
seeding new hair
and cunning to endure
seasons become
changeling, drawn to leafy coves
where they gobble
shoots that taste of lost light

Two Souls, Fleshy Promises

This is the third installment of my latest poem, which I think may grow past my initial imaginings. The developing story is gaining complexity in my mind.

Two Souls, Twin Lives
By Francis Scudellari

III.

Then removed, with miles lapsed,
separate sames
each stubby-leg crawl up
on greening clumps
of floated rock and root
that warm harbor
creatures also exiled,
bumping along
blindly to seek their like,
prodded past sleep
by hints of shapeless eterns
traded for fleets
of fleshy promises

Two Souls, Exhausted

This is the second part of my latest in-progress poem. I finished composing it while sleep-deprived, so it may not make much sense.

Two Souls, Twin Lives
By Francis Scudellari

II.

Their arced escape route etched
with quick silver
on velvet, ends tap'ring
to finger tips
that will trace a path back
one day, but now's
distance exhausted, they
splash in blue soup,
swirled till cooled in a cup
of moth'ring clay,
and, nourished on forgetting,
grow buoyant limbs
to slowly drift apart

Two souls, at first birthing

This is the first part of a poem that I'm currently working on. I'm not yet sure how large it will become, but I'm expecting at least three more parts. 

Two souls, twin lives
By Francis Scudellari

I.

Two souls, twin lives conceived
and long dwelling
within the mingling storm
of light and dust
that delicate danced 'round
goddess sisters'
gaseous split-crown heads
until cast out,
paired molten tears spit-shed
in the blinking
of ageless eyes, not angry
but grown weary
with the weight of shared lids

Argus & Io: Birthing a conclusion

This is the conclusion to my poem Argus & Io. It's a bit more open-ended than the original myth, but I always prefer ambiguity over certainty. Visual art next, so stick around.

Argus & Io
By Francis Scudellari

IV.

She,
twisted
metal dragged
in clanked tangle
behind, unguarded
ahead, halting first steps
toward un-purposed
paths that spoke out
a blurred wheel
beyond
her
sentry's
fallen-trunk
malodorous
conjuring descent
of cloud effacing pests
tasked by sky-seated
mistress to goad
Io on
knowing
words
non-sensed
by veined beats
a buzzed babble
of wing-confused flight
that leads still too-cowed thoughts
in mad-apparent
earthbound wander
to find love
birthing
time

Argus & Io: The watcher foiled

Continuing on, this is the penultimate part of my latest poem. I hope to have it completed within the next few days.

Argus & Io
By Francis Scudellari

III.

He
a-fog
spies early
morning ride in
rosy on curled backs
of a low-rising mist
pushed by one errand-
spelling breeze's
deceitful
lyrics
blow-
whispered
to drowse with
threaded tunes spun
by humming needle-
sharp leaves, olive clatter
drummed as owning twigs
knock, lulling shut
his hundred
eyes, close-
kept
charge loosed
in whiting
flash, thunder's clap
and Argus quick-caught
by writ-mischief's lean hands
foiling-wrapped within
tight, re-coiled tales
his never
slipping
free

Argus & Io, halfway home

This is the second part of my poem Argus & Io. It focuses on the female half of that mythical dyad. I don't know if familiarity with that story's details improves or lessens the impact of the my words...

Argus & Io
By Francis Scudellari

II.

She
ill-changed
by light, blind
rage-punishment
unearned for baring
another's intentions,
his wont of too much
never sought for
or seeking
her was-
nymph's
once so
sleek, well-drawn
lines pulled wide, smudged
till broken, transformed
to a dark spotted bulk
she awkward carries
on four legs, mind
always led
circling
back
tethered
to a gnarled
soil-clutching tree
with taut-stretched chain's forged
gray, heavy iron links
slow dragged, in-cutting
circumscribed arcs
through bitter,
narrow
blades

Argus & Io, Part One

This is the first part of my new poem inspired by another classical myth. To read a little background on the story that informed it, check out the Wikipedia article on Argus Panoptes (all-seeing Argus).

Argus and Io
By Francis Scudellari

I.

He
put on
cocky watch
towering stands,
long-reaching throws off
shadows of square-cut limbs
loose-draped in rough skin
to guard against
dawn's thick air
creeping,
chilled
his own
flagging strength
braced by sipped fire
sharpening fifty
paired eyes that monstrous ring
his still, uncrowned head
each visited
by just one
moment's
sleep
well-timed
in rolling
blinked-lid cascade
to stop-frame project
scenes from dewy-green fields
keeping a beast for
the jealousy
of too quick-
fading
robes

Mythical transformations

Here is my latest poem, which again takes inspiration from a classic myth — the story of Daphne as told by the Roman poet Ovid. I struggled a bit with the ending, and I'm still not quite satisfied with it. I've also been trying to pay more attention to spoken rhythms. I may yet re-write parts of it. 

Metamorphosis
By Francis Scudellari

With mythic suddenness, as if
set upon by a god's whimsy--
for deep lust or petty anger--
a reposed Daphne she transforms.
Her crowning, walnut strands thicken,
vine outward, a loosed-leaf wrap round
trellised bed, budding ends a-twirl
to bind her to this dreamed waking.

A too-soft heart become bark-clad
thrusts fibrous roots downward, thirsty
gray coils that seek wormy passage
through black soil, to moist tiers below.
Four fleshy limbs harden, turn to
knotty stalks; skyward-bent, pale shoots
freckled with bulging pods that flare
in pollen rich scarlet bursting.

Broad petals splay wide to attract
noon-day sun's lurid stare, its heat;
Liquid thoughts made misty, to sigh
up-swept words, and gathered clouds seed.
Her essence in droplets returns
to mother long forgot, and feeds
a self-less spring cycling; her growth's
exquisite pain subsides to peace.

In Between Days: Thoughts turning with the calendar

Back in 1582, Pope Gregory XIII proclaimed a new calendar that corrected a flaw in the Julian method of date-keeping that previously held sway. The older misaccounting of years caused a lag that resulted in the loss of a day almost every century. The Gregorian made solar amends by dropping leap days for centuries not divisible by 400 (for example, in 2000 there was an extra day, but in 2100 there won't be).

Adding to the bitterness of the corrective pill to be swallowed, Gregory struck the dates Oct. 5 through 14 of 1582 from the historical record. Many contemporary folks felt cheated of 10 days of their lives, and balked at the idea. It took the stubborn Brits, along with their colonies, until 1752 to fall into step with the rest of Europe. The Russians required a revolution before joining in the fun in 1918.

I've always been fascinated by the history of the Western reckoning of time; trying to synch our increasingly irregular quotidian cycles to the natural rhythms of the world and universe. We often fool ourselves that we're masters of temporal passages. We sprinkle our leap years with extra days to compensate for imprecise measure of the sun's annual sojourn. We push clock hands forward and back pretending to control the sun's rise and fall.

There are times when skipping ahead into the future might seem a blessing. In the midst of difficult seas, we all want to fast forward to a smoother patch of water. It's usually those in between days that offer us the best opportunity for growth, however, and the hardships of the journey enable us to savor the safe harbor of a destination reached.

In many ways we reside in an in between time now; a threshold moment where technological advances are making possible great social shifts. We stand paused in the doorway between two worlds afraid to step into the seeming darkness that lies ahead. There's a great temptation to turn and go back, but that door is closed and locked behind us. We can best light our way forward with a creative vision fueled by hope rather than fear, using the torch of our imaginations to discern the new possibilities.

The Mayans had their own calendar, and it tracked our world's turning until December 21, 2012. On that date, which they defined as 13.0.0.0.0, we're supposed to enter a new world age. There's some debate about the exact significance of this end date (see The How and Why of the Mayan End Date in 2012 A.D.), but I choose to look at the prophesied rebirth as more metaphorical than physical. Dramatic changes are in store for human kind. Whether the transformation proves positive or negative will depend on our choices in these in between days.

In Between Days
by The Cure

Yesterday I got so old
I felt like I could die
Yesterday I got so old
It made me want to cry

Go on, go on, just walk away
Go on, go on, your choice is made
Go on, go on, and disappear
Go on, go on, away from here

And I know I was wrong
When I said it was true
That it couldn't be me and be her
In between without you, without you

Yesterday I got so scared
I shivered like a child
Yesterday away from you
It froze me deep inside

Come back, come back, don't walk away
Come back, come back, come back today
Come back, come back, why can't you see?
Come back, come back, come back to me

And I know I was wrong
When I said it was true
That it couldn't be me and be her
In between without you, without you ...