Wild Woman collage by Ella of Ella's Edge
This poem is a wild woman,
knocking down invisible inner walls,
the better to observe the sky of mind.
This poem is agitated,
the inner wild a climate of unrest
when too far away from the untamed places.
Attuned to the call of the Raven,
the howl of the wolf,
this town full of monster trucks and logging rigs
assaults her senses, she feeling
as alien as a cougar
inexplicably materializing
on a sidewalk in the middle
of this grey little industry town.
Where is her soul’s home?
Deep, deep, in the wild places
where only the creatures live.
Sorceress of the midnight moon,
follower of the shaman’s path,
she drums a primal beat
that speaks “Home! Home!”
with a stick carved from her breastbone,
chants incantations to earth, air, water, fire,
prays her spirit guides will lead her well,
back to the ocean’s roar and the forest’s
sacred, hidden trails.
While waiting, Wild Woman
makes her escape in a poem:
sings to the trees, communes
with restless spirits, ululates with owls,
flies up and away over the mountain pass
every morning, every eventide,
to where the wild things are,
always and forever, forever and always,
a lover of rainforest and ocean-song,
she knows where she belongs.
Confined, her spirit finds no rest
away from her soul’s home.
Wild Woman restlessly circles and turns,
within the inner landscape,
like a too-large dog circling a too-small bed,
trying to make what does not fit, fit,
too tight the wrappings that keep her
from flying free,
for she has always been a seeker,
now hoping to find, one last time,
what has for so long been sought.
This poem was written in 2016, following an exercise by the late poet Elizabeth Crawford, of Soul's Music, who recently passed. At that time, I was living inland, longing for the sea. Sharing with earthweal's open link.
I am so glad you made it to the sea. I can identify with the longings of Wild Woman!
ReplyDeleteStill can't process Elizabeth's passing. Though I love what you say about making one's escape in a poem... beautiful thought.
ReplyDeleteThe figuration of "this poem is a ..." which you employ frequently is the shamanic door, the poet as all the things and wonders of the world. Taleissin sang that way as did Whitman. As we all can, voyaging into the heart of the world. Amen.
ReplyDeleteThis poem feels so familiar to me, Sherry. Not just that I have likely read it before, but that it encapsulates a feeling I share with you, that displacement when out of Nature that is almost a fear..that sends us running for the real home, "with a stick carved from her breastbone.." indeed. Glad the Wild Woman has made it to the shore again.
ReplyDeleteFirst, I love the photo I can clearly see you the wild woman. I love the last few lines. Yes, you have always been a seeker.
ReplyDelete