‘I can’t now because I am busy writing poetry.’
I wish I could say this sentence with confidence.
It feels like I overheard it in a recording of a workshop by CAConrad or maybe I dreamed it.
In the wound is the healing.
The tissue rebuilds itself after the cut.
Four cuts on my body.
Four sites of the world are named.
Four sites that divide our universe.
north south west east
I was, I remain where the borders between those symbols merge.
I was once where south is officially named – you know the city, with whom I was, doesn’t matter, what does matter is that I felt alone in an overcrowded square in a square of such historical dynamics that time and space ceased to impress upon me.
Human trafficking of feelings.
Thresholds.
Bodies in, bodies out. Slavery.
Not much fits in my day as my body is limited by pain.
In four points, three stitched and one no.
I lay down trying to read my own guts, as if I was a Peruvian guinea pig which was once over my body, reflecting my internal organs.
What would the soil I am made of say if it was asked to testify?
Do I even dare to ask? Do I even dare to imagine?
water earth flame wind
Enraptured four.
I move with the stories of the women whom I meet along the way.
Men and women are creatures of the beings we meet.
Most of Epinephelus marginatus, bony fish, change to male after they have lived for some time.
Welcome the darkness because the unexpected can bring healing.
To allow us to believe that the wars will cease, to allow tenderness of clouded ideas, of imagination to imagine imaginations.
To allow the unlikely,
and the unimaginable, to be felt
and to exist, quite regularly.
In my sundry dreams I tremble like a rare creature in sandy seabeds, metamorphosing and retreating ever deeper beneath the layers.
I get sick with all the news, the pain, the four cuts in my body that turn my flesh to moss indicating hope.
Unable to move, I lay down and let myself emerge in the soil, gazing at still tree branches, empty of wind and leaves, I merge my body with the soil I come from.
Distinct are the sea and the oceans, but still they merge.
Gateway is the spring, and to think I sit down and write, poetry or words, blue are the four points which are named, as blue as my four cuts.
Ραμμα (stitches), seeds, vessels, roots, beehives, meeting, flowers, pollen,
Each a talisman for your ecosystem, echoing each other.
Nesting in the memories of the future, to come I anticipate to relieve the pain in four stitches. To lose the image of the sea, the cloth, I often find myself looking at a small petal, placing my hand in a wood, I placed my tears in the seeds. I read the water, and the tea leaves. I collect the dried purple petals of a Ranunculus asiaticus (Persian buttercup).
I place my hand in your place, I often hold and feel loved, I am held.
We were afraid to talk about love. Even bell was accused of becoming soft when she chose to speak of love. I am afraid to suggest love.
But how else can we rise from the wound, the seed, the pain of blood we all come from? ‘we need to return to love and proclaim its transformative power.’ (1)
In gratitude I met with him in my morning notes, the one who became the universe I am of,
I am writing in the future of a welcome
I imagine a space of coming to becoming
I exist to enter the Oceonia possedonia, endemic to be in our body, endemic to communion.
Cut, cut, cut, cut
I exist to enter,
I melted the candles, melted on the sight, beeswax.
The warmth touches my skin.
Four points of voices enter me.
Sink in water
Sink in river
Sink in flame, in dry white salt by the rocks.
Blessings of the seen and unseen of all seeds, oceans, seas, airs, animals, fungus, human, females, elements, crystals, algae, mineral and microplankton of knowledge and combination.
Of dreams, of sleep, of livers. Of time. In the absence of you of time of bodies in skins.
In spirals. In nights.
*****
(1) bell hooks, Communion: the female search for love, Harper Perennial, p. 15.
