scrapologie

Spoils of War: the nature of love

"When love beckons to you follow him, though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden. For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth." (Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet)

The thing about poetry is that it's a great balm for grief and heartache. Whether you are able to write your own poetry or read another's, the effect is the same: over time, the words slowly sink into your conscience and help to heal the places where the wounds are the deepest. It's an enormously therapeutic process. I wrote this poem when I was in just such a place of grief and anger. Not only did it help to begin the process of healing, but more importantly, it taught me something about the nature of love, about the capacity I have for love, and the realization that love itself is at once the cause of the deepest wound as well as the cure for the greatest sorrow. That by allowing feelings of anger and grief to continue to besiege me long after I have expressed them, I never heal my heart. But in acknowledging that I loved, and continue to love, my heart is made whole again.

"Love doesn't have anything to do with anyone else. Love is not a relationship. Love is a state of being; it's the condition of our own heart" (Judy Ford).

Realizing this, one can endure the greatest heartbreak, and yet rejoice in knowing that it affirms we are capable of great love.This poem is called Spoils of War, and has to do with acknowledging anger and suffering, grieving over the assault to the heart, and indulging in it, to a point. But there are those who choose to wear their battle scars with stubborn pride, not ever knowing that they are capable of great love, if only they would choose to see it.

Spoils of War

old wound emerges
bandaged under layers of gauze
carefully applied
by her steady hands
that toiled to conceal
that hoped upon hope to heal

but this wounded heart jealously guards
the scars of battle
thus, did i suffer for you, it says
thus, did flow the stream of sorrow
tinged red with the grief of our bloodshed
pulsing with loss under translucent skin
living testament to suffering
i wear with pride
this honor
this scar
the enemy has absconded
with the spoils of war.

image from My Modern Met

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I, Narcissus: finding your voice

At some point, I am sure I will return to my old artistic pursuits, but I've been enjoying the break. For now, I have been indulging in the written word, both as writer and reader. And for now, I am both Demeter and Persephone. Demeter, Greek goddess of the harvest, was grief stricken when her daughter Persephone (representing Demeter's muse of creativity) was abducted by Hades, lord of the underworld. The story goes that Hades tricked Persephone into partaking of pomegranate seeds, and that once she ate of fruit of the underworld, she could never again leave. Grief stricken and abandoning her work, Demeter neglected all living and growing things, which soon began to die. At Zeus' intercession, Hades consented to allow Persephone to return to earth for a part of the year, and thus each consecutive spring marks the return of Persephone, the return of the creative muse, when fruit and vegetation once again thrive and bloom, and mother and daughter rejoice at their reunion. The abduction of Persephone represents the loss of creativity, and her return its restoration. Demeter thus could not bring forth any creation while Persephone remained in the underworld. And so it is with creativity. When creativity is lost, we need to step away from it, grieve if we must, but allow ourselves time to reflect and wait patiently for its return. For return, it shall. In the meantime, I have been fully indulging my penchant for writing poetry, and while much of what I've penned ends up in the wastebasket, I have been able to pen a few poems that I actually like, and am grateful to be able to share them with you here.

When I was 13, my beloved grandfather presented me with a book called Who's Who in Greek and Roman Mythology, by David Kravitz. I still have the book, with the inscription on the first page in his bold red hand, "To Chikkoo (his pet name for me) From Suryanarayanan. December 14, 1981." I spent many long hours delighting in that book, reading of the antics, conquests, loves and follies of the pantheon of Greek and Roman gods. I delighted in knowing that the gods for all their godliness, were as human as we were. They raged with jealousy, fought and argued amongst themselves, and had many human-like character flaws: pride, vanity, avarice, selfishness, infidelity, to name a few.

One particular story that always fascinated me was the story of Echo and Narcissus. Echo was the nymph that was in love with Narcissus, and Narcissus, the youth who loved only himself. As punishment for his vanity, he was made to fall in love with his own reflection, and died wasting away gazing at himself. He was turned into a flower by the gods after his death, hence the legend behind the beautiful Narcissus flower. Narcissus was appealing enough, but I was more fascinated with Echo. Why couldn't she speak to him and tell him how she felt? In fact she was able only to echo his speech, to tell him what he wanted to hear, the sound of his own voice. How sad it is when we as women become the Echo of a man. How freeing and affirming it is when we speak our truths and claim our voices. That is what this poem is all about. It's called I, Narcissus. And though it's written in Narcissus' words, it's reminder enough of why Echo deserved her own voice.

I, Narcissus

mirror'd image
reflects all I see.
this rare beauty
granted me.

crystal reflection,
thou pool of perfection
bound am I to thee,
admiring and admired for eternity.

neither nymph nor goddess
I entrust with this heart,
be she fair of face
or immortalized in art.

in this mirror'd likeness
lies all I esteem
O vainglory!
I submit to thy dream

no Echo to sway me
from all that I cherish
I heed not her plea,
though here I perish

I gaze at myself
passing life's finest hour
and leave in my wake
one perfect flower.

Below: Echo and Narcissus by John William Waterhouse, 1903

winter and the snow queen

Do you remember Hans Christian Andersen's tale of The Snow Queen? Like many of Andersen's tales, the story epitomizes the struggle between good and evil. The main character is a little boy named Kay. Kay becomes infected with a piece of glass from a shattered mirror of evil. This distorts his sight, preventing him from exercising the good that is his true character. He is abducted by The Snow Queen, who promises to free him if he can spell the word "eternity" with pieces of ice in her palace. Kay's little friend Gerda is heartbroken at his change in character and she sets off to find him and rescue him from the palace of the Snow Queen.

Like Gerda, as women we hold out hope that by our devotion and faith, we can work miracles of love. This isn't always the case. Real life, of course, is hardly ever the stuff of fairy tales. But strength can be found in fairy tales - they can teach us to persist in the wake of difficulties, to keep fighting when all else is lost. The story of The Snow Queen was my inspiration for this poem, which I wrote some time ago. It doesn't have a happy ending, but I am learning that life doesn't always imitate art in every way, that sometimes, the higher message of the fairy tale is not its happy ending destination, but the journey that occurred along the way, and how one becomes more enriched because of it. This poem is called Winter.

Winter

when winter arrives
with fingers of ice
that creep across
the window pane

i recall him in
my solitude
is he warm now
in another's embrace?

too easy do I recollect
every facet of his face
the jaw i traced
with trembling hands
eyes of emerald
flecked with gold
arms encircled
'round my waist

mouth that plundered
kisses bold
fingers fine
that intertwined
my own hands
and passion wild
velvet tongue
his saving grace

poet's words enamoured hearts
noble brow for kisses chaste
soul that claimed mine
as its own
smile like sunburst
warmed his face

laugh that charmed
a bashful child
mind all beauty
to behold

but winter dwells within his heart
there alone, it's ever cold

 

Strength of a Woman

Nothing is so strong as gentleness, nothing is so gentle as real strength. (St. Francis de Sales)

A poem for Friday - about women and strength. I wrote this because every one of us is fighting a battle within. Something I have learned recently is that as women, what it takes to be strong is just that which the world views as our weakness. It is only through our ability to express our emotional selves that fearlessness emerges, i.e., we do not become strong by denying our right to our emotions. In fact, it is that aspect of our gender which makes us strong and beautiful, that we can feel. And that the presence of emotion does not equate to the absence of reason or intellect. Through expression of emotion, we learn to love powerfully, we learn to be fearless, and we learn that emotion is what sets us apart from the automated response of a machine. You can teach a machine to think. You cannot teach a machine to feel. The impact of that is huge, it's immensely powerful. And it takes a strong and secure man to not only recognize this, but to value it.  

Strength of A Woman

the strength of a woman
cannot be found
in the steel of her gaze
in the hardness of her heart
in the stoutness of her speech
in the fierceness of her fire
in the weight of her words
in the anger of her actions
in the measure of her might
nor the tartness of her tongue

the world would make a man of her
and thieve her of her tears
it thrusts upon her armor
to battle all its fears.

yet warrior dwells within her soul
guardian of strength untold
woman's strength is molded then
from stuff much more substantial:

the essence of emotion
the truth of her tears
the sensuousness of her Self
the fragility of fear
the tenderness within her heart
the ease of her embrace
the softness of her sorrow
the wisdom of her ways

her armor is her gentleness
compassion is her sword
warrior dwells within her soul
where light and love are stored

image credit: Pinterest

Flawed

I've been writing quite a bit of dark poetry - reflecting the place where my mind has been for many days. Banjara which I posted yesterday was sort of an emergence from that dark place and finding value and love within that which is most precious - your own soul. But for quite a few weeks now I'd been writing from a place of darkness... and this was one of those pieces. Flawed is about the fragility of relationships, and the depths to which we will go to protect that fragility; holding onto deceptive memory in an effort to protect ourselves, instead of breaking open the rawness and truth of a memory that hurts. And finding that only by doing so do you release your soul from bondage. Memory which is flawed then creates a flaw within the self - and only by speaking its truth can you eradicate that flaw.

Flawed


this memory
its strangeness
flawed remembrance
of you
holds fragments to my skin

dead leaves wet with rain
that scatter when dry
autumn's demise upon
this frigid wind
but still it succeeds
at leaving its mark
in the hollow of my neck
where you laid a thousand kisses
on the sweetness of my mouth
where your lips brushed mine
and whispered secrets of
a promised spring
to a guileless heart
all convincing
it weaves its deception
until nearly complete
and strangles hope
to lay at your feet.
 

                                                               image found on Pinterest

 

 

Banjara

Hello friends, sorry I have been absent for a long time... have been undergoing some life changes. But one thing that remains constant is the desire to create, even if it takes new forms. I've been writing poetry a lot lately. This poem is called Banjara. The Banjara are a colorful group of nomadic people found in India in the states of Rajasthan, Gujarat, and Madhya Pradesh and in Sindh Province in Pakistan. They are often called the gypsies of India. (source Wikipedia). Banjara women are often beautifully dressed. The photo found below on Pinterest inspired this poem, although these are not Banjara women. They did remind me however of the beautiful Banjara of Rajasthan, and inspired me to write this poem. I'll be back soon with more poems. Hope life has been treating you well, wherever you are.

Banjara

ghagras twirling
veils swirling                                                                                                                                              anklets tinkling
silver at her neck
how she adorns herself!
regal as a queen
but cannot conceal
her banjara soul

gypsy blood flows in her veins
a thousand stars alight upon her veil
fuchsia and orange set fire to the dusk
twilight is thick with her magic
she sways with the grace of a peacock
bends like a willow to the breeze
dances in celebration of her soul
her smile a universal knowing

none can slow her pace
beauty this wild leaves only a trace
slips airily past eyes
drunk with desire
to beguile the moon in his heaven

she answers the call of the wanderer within
casts only laughter on the restless wind
this desert rose
this woman child
this gypsy queen
this banjara

 

(image credit: Pinterest)