Like Kerosene by Olena Kalytiak Davis

“The OA” on Netflix is my newest obsession.  I love Brit Marling like kerosene.  She’s a writer/actor who can create something beautiful & new, that never before existed.  The dance...my God, the dance of healing in this show just fucking blows me away...Imagine this:  original thoughts out of Hollywood! I highly recommend this show.  It’s for those who know how to imagine and think.  I’ve watched the series 3 times & still don’t know what the fuck is truly happening...I love it!!!! xo

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Like Kerosene
By Olena Kalytiak Davis


Yes, it’s daily
that we move into each other—but this morning
I was separate even from myself—
my hands were shovels, I had mosquito netting for hair,
and the insect beating against the night
was my heart. My name was hallow
and the sky was made of shale when


I walked into a part of morning
I’ve never seen: the sky still heavy, still
smoldering with the nightmares of others,
the drunkenness and sorrow rising like dew, like fog,
like smoke back into the clouds. Suddenly,
my face was wet with it. I wanted to lie down
with it. To rest against the almost exhausted night.


Uncertain of what to do there
I started dividing the layers, the sediment,
thinking: Usually I sleep through his sadness.


And the morning asking: Why do you keep track
of the middle of the day when you should be
waxing the moon? How can these young fragile branches
be left out in the darkness, and who set that darkness
wandering inside your heart? Who can your love ignite,
like this, like kerosene?


And then the sky lit the morning.
And then I went in to set my own house on fire.
And then I lay down next to you:
a body filling with feathers or with snow
asking: and who are you that my love can light
like this, like kerosene.


University of Wisconsin Press (November 1997)

In Blackwater Woods...More Mary Oliver

Yellow godlight from a neighborhood tree... This is for you... ;-)

In Blackwater Woods By Mary Oliver, from "American Primitive" Look, the trees

are turning

their own bodies

into pillars

of light,

are giving off the rich

fragrance of cinnamon

and fulfillment,

the long tapers

of cattails

are bursting and floating away over

the blue shoulders

of the ponds,

and every pond,

no matter what its

name is, is

nameless now.

Every year

everything

I have ever learned

in my lifetime

leads back to this: the fires

and the black river of loss

whose other side

is salvation,

whose meaning

none of us will ever know.

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it

go,

to let it go. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

RIP, Sweet Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver died January 17, 2019.  Rest In Peace, beautiful poet.

Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End? 
By Mary Oliver

There are things you can’t reach. But
you can reach out to them, and all day long.

The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God.

And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.

The snake slides away; the fish jumps, like a little lily,
out of the water and back in; the goldfinches sing
from the unreachable top of the tree.

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.

Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around
as though with your arms open.

And thinking: maybe something will come, some
shining coil of wind,
or a few leaves from any old tree–
they are all in this too.

And now I will tell you the truth.
Everything in the world
comes.

At least, closer.

And, cordially.

Like the nibbling, tinsel-eyed fish; the unlooping snake.
Like goldfinches, little dolls of goldfluttering around the corner of the sky

of God, the blue air.

 

Southern Winter by Marion

My Louisiana Pines & Moon

Southern Winter

Rain, rain, rain.

Humidity & teasingly

warm Southern air.

Ah, zone 9 winters,

so like life:  unpredictable.

Cold.

Sadness sandwiched between

the rain-plastered leaves on

the Goji Berry bush.

Low, dark, menacing (tornado?)

clouds:

The not-knowing,

the storm-fear---

season of death teasing life...

an annual event...

keeps you on your toes:

WAKE UP!

Winter:

always pregnant with Spring

here in the South---

bulbs push skyward

before Christmas.

Tiny new leaves

sprouting at the

base of the Goji bush---

roots exposed from

brutal rains...

Note to self:  add soil,

and mulch...again.

LifeDeathLifeDeath,

tied eternally together

from the moment

of conception.

Ouroboros alchemy,

cycles of samsara.

Born to die or

born to live?

Your choice.

Namaste.

1/25/17