return to light
eyes blinded after darkness
impenetrable
it’s just too much all at once
greedy pupils expand/contract
will the images fade
like photographs
overexposed?
return to light
return to water after starvation/
thirst
troglodyte climbing
climbing from the bowels of the earth
the eyes have not gone useless
yet
electric blue gaze of heaven
paralyzing
teach me again
to behold the universe
It was time. Little Bird shouldered his pack and set off after his father on the long walk that would begin his new life. They did not speak and their feet touched the ground silently; early morning birdsong was the only sound. The climb began almost immediately, once they left the heavily forested river valley and entered the Trace. Sun was just beginning to fire the treetops and the trail of sunrise sparkled on the water. Little Bird gave thanks for this Time and this Place; the People had been driven from so much of their land. They traveled single-file, as the trail demanded, using all breath and energy to scale the steep hillside.
There was much time to think, to remember. He was named Little Bird for his habit of looking at people with first one eye and then the other, reminding his mother, Grass Singing, of a baby bird with one eye on each side of its head. She had laughed at him and ruffled his hair. But he had passed twelve summers and was tired of women’s ways. His brothers were grown and had been on the Autumn Hunt. He’d seen them dance their stories in the firelight and noticed the shy eyes of the girls, glowing like stars in the night sky.
His childhood hunts had been in this green wilderness, air sweet and heavy with the odors of vegetation. He had stalked foxes and small game here, but never climbed so high, or gone so deep into the Big Turtle passage. He would camp in the open; his father would help to construct the ring of stones and he would sit within that circle for three days and nights, without food or water, without leaving the place outlined by the stones. When his father returned for him, he would be a Man and have a new name.
The path became steeper and narrower, opening suddenly onto a rocky outcrop overlooking the Cut, where the water fell from the sky to beneath the earth, roaring, sometimes overflowing the banks and heaving giant trees aside, like sticks. In late summer, the falls still filled the air with thunder, but everything was green to the water’s edge, now darkening and rusting with the kiss of promised autumn.
The ledge was wide, at least ten long strides. He and his father foraged for stones of the proper size and shape and placed them in a circle twice his length across, using branches to rake the inside of the circle. They worked well together and, when all was complete, they ate the dried venison Grass Singing had packed and drank sweet water from earthen containers.
Then his father stood and lit the chanumpa, the ceremonial pipe, making offerings to the four directions, invoking the Dreamtime. “This one would be a new
Little Bird was alone within the ring of stones, with only his medicine pouch. He opened the pouch, placing his sacred objects in front of him on the ground. Enfolded in red cloth was an Eagle feather fan, fringed and beaded by his mother. He opened the wrapping and stroked the feathers. He had prepared for this ceremony for over a year, and now it was real.
The first night, Little Bird slept soundly. He had no blanket and no fire, but the night was warm and he had traveled far and worked long. He awoke to the sun climbing over the eastern ridge, gilding the hillsides and making rainbows in the mists rising above the falls. He was thirsty. The sun rose higher and he knew that this would be a hot day. He spent the hottest part of the afternoon in the patch of shade cast by the large stones they had placed in the south.
The second night, clouds moved across the sky and the darkness was unbroken. The scream of a rabbit, fallen prey to some night prowler, woke him. Several times, he thought he saw eyes peering out of the underbrush, awaiting his inattention. Staring into the darkness, he said the most sincere prayers of his life.
It wasn’t hunger. He hadn’t thought of meat or corn or beans once. But he had visions of melons and berries and, most of all, water. He had never been unable to drink, and as the sun rose high in the sky, the shade disappearing once again, he curled himself around one of the stones, seeking any coolness that might remain. As the third night approached, Little Bird made prayers and brushed himself with the Eagle feather fan, creating an aura of protection.
There was no moon, but the sky was alight with countless stars. This night, he had waking dreams. He saw lines of people, traveling west. They looked sick and weak. Some fell in their tracks and could not get up. And he saw the predators and the scavengers closing in on the People. He saw that they could not survive. Then, a huge young Eagle soared above them. His wingspan cast a shadow that blotted the sun from the sky. The Eagle spiraled lower. Talons outstretched, he landed on the back of a mountain lion, poised to leap on a woman who had fallen and was too exhausted to rise. The big cat screamed; the Eagle dug in his talons harder, allowing the woman’s escape.
The next afternoon, his father found him seated in the center of the circle of stones, the Eagle feather fan in his hands. The new Man stood, stepped outside the circle and held out his hand to his father. “I am Kwetamolc, Eagle Spiraling Downward. The little bird has flown.”
utopians and madmen
try to recreate the world
to create a world
the most unbearable features of which
are replaced by others
that give expression
to their own desires
they construct a wish and introduce it to reality
they become mad
to create light from the darkness
of the soul of the world
at the edge of the void
on the margins of sanity
utopians and madmen
give birth to civilization
Dancing in a Hurricane
Whirling in the driving rain
Water streaming from my hair
Dancing accompaniment
To the Storm
Skywalkers split the night
Stabbing stabbing
Dancing on my skin
I am electric
Lighting the sky from within
Cosmic glow Life Fire
The Image of Godhead burned
On my retinas
Swaying twisting
Silhouettes of branches whipping
Casting crazy shadows
On the ground beneath bare feet
This night the moon is hidden
No stars to pierce the firmament
All Light flows through the Dancer
Expression of the universal prayer
Again the sky is riven
The wind screams a Secret Name
Struck to the heart
I fold and fall
Who would Give
must learn to Receive with Deepest Joy
to be alive
on this
most beautiful of all days
is joy to me
my skin shines
like the rosy cheeks of clouds
and, glowing,
the sun pours down
like liquid honey
mead bronze
thick and sweet
and hot
on the fiery heads of trees…
bitter perfume of burning leaves
spices the night-sharp air
and, last,
a glance away –
the sun is gone
the embers fading, night shrouded
earth-sweet
indian summer day
i have lived all my life
to taste you…
a child of thunder and
lightning
i am drawn to them for
sustenance
gathering strength from
their ancient presence
my father’s booming voice
now grumbles comfortingly
now crashes explosively from above,
a measure of his harsh protective love
my lightning mother
stabs me to the heart with her beauty
and lights my path in
darkest night
“always strike for the heart” she said
“for good or ill, heart’s-blood is healing
only an open heart can welcome god”
father’s growly muttering
wakes the wind
who laughing wildly,
rushing, swirling
sings cantatas among the
leaves
chuckles in the water
lapping at the pier
and whispers secrets
that
only me and the fireflies can hear
my mother cleaves the
night with her stark glamour
she fills me to the core
with pulsing light
she sends the rain to
bathe me
clothes me in warm soft
summer wetness
and electrifies my dreams
with sacred fire
her glow fades behind the
clouds
as she follows her gruff
husband
sharing the power of
their passage
with all their children
all those who look upwards
all who are ready to be broken open,
spilled and filled again, emptied and filled,
emptied and filled …
The buttery September sunlight glinted from Alabeth’s russet hair, illuminating the golds, burnished coppers and true reds. I think I fell in love with her at that moment. From across the park, I was drawn to her; I had to know her. As I approached, she turned her amber eyes toward me and I was lost in the Bermuda Triangle of her gaze. Even the air quivered between us, taut, like the string of a drawn bow.
Back in our woodland cabin, the work continued to go well. This year, as winter melted into spring, the sound of the waters rushing down the mountainside began to call to her. She roamed the woods, bringing back nettles, fiddleheads, wild onions and thyme, composing beautiful salads for our supper, starred with edible flowers in periwinkle, orange and white, a delight for the eye as well as the palate.
“Where have you been?” I shouted. “Do you know how worried I’ve been? I’ve been envisioning horrible things! What were you thinking?”
She turned those golden eyes in my direction, piercing my soul. “I’m free, you know, André. It has pleased me to please you. And I have loved and will always love you, but I can’t stay here any longer. I’d shrivel and die in one place; I’m a wanderer at heart.”
“NO! I can’t let you go!”
…Somehow I am outside, in the lowering darkness. The cabin is no more; only blackened ruins remain, shards of ebony thrusting into the even blacker sky. The acrid stench of death and fire surrounds me. Here and there, a smoldering timber bursts into occasional flame, then gutters out.
© 2009 Pamela Twining
