Breath.
Breath love into the palms of your hands
and place your flaming palms over your heart.
Let this warmth melt your fears like wax before a fire
and watch the delicious softening reveal the wildflower of your heart.
We must live with Hearts Wide Open.
Hearts Wildly Open.- Kali Heydel
Is it weird that one of my favorite poems was written by someone in the throws of an opium experience? Maybe I am just a fan of very bizarre imagery…
Kubla Khan
Vision in a Dream. A Fragment
(by Samuel Taylor Coleridge)In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And ‘mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ‘twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
I looked up several of my favorite stories and poems this evening and was somewhat amused to find that many of them were written by opium addicts. I am not sure what that says about my subconscious, but I am sure Mr Lacy, my English teacher from high school, would be pleased that I find enjoyment in some of the classics.
Do you have any favorite poems?
While talking about postpartum bodies the other day another mother said:
“This belly button is 3 generations in the making: my mama gave it to me and my babies decorated it.”
That was enough to make me look at my postpartum body in a completely different light. I am not ugly, I don’t need to hide away until “ideal beauty” is reached again (as if that were even possible, or desirable.) Michael has been telling me daily that I am beautiful, inside and out. He is right, I am beautiful.
Carrying Damian has changed me forever, I am learning to love this change, after all I wouldn’t have him if not for it.
The Shape of a Mother
My belly may or make not shrink. I am at peace with that.
36-inches around and I have never felt more beautiful.
A number cannot define me, I will not give it that power.
Body, mind and soul I am balanced and I am healthy,
– waist size notwithstandingl
This body brought forth life.
What greater beauty is there then that?I am the vessel from which life poured.
I am a mother.These stretch marks will always be with me.
Commericals may tell me to laser them off,
– but I love them all.
My son has changed my soul forever, for the better.
My body too is changed forever, for the better.
These marks are my tattoo of motherhood.I have crossed a threshold.
I am a mother.My hips are bigger, my old jeans don’t fit.
These hips birthed my son, they are beautiful.My breasts are bigger, they soak my shirts.
These breasts nourish my son, they are beautiful.My heart and my soul are bigger, my emotions overflow.
This heart and this soul love my son, they are beautiful.I am a mother.
I am strong.
I am beautiful.I am a mother.
~ by Jaspenelle Stewart
I may submit this to The Shape of a Mother, not sure yet. Eitherway, check out the website and all the beautiful mamas who have contributed. I think we can all agree that the mainstream view of beauty has to change, we can begin this change within ourselves and the minds of our children.
Damian wrote this to me from within the womb (with Jaspenelle’s help of course)
Dear Daddy,
I feel your touch through Mommy’s belly and I know that,
you are her strength when she feels weak,
you are her smile when she wants to cry,
you are her calm when her mind is the storm.I can feel your love warm her heart.
It warms my heart too.I can’t wait to meet you,
I can’t wait for you to hold me.
I know that,
you will be my strength when I am weak,
you will be my smile when I want to cry,
you will be my calm when I am in the storm.I love you Daddy, I love you so much.
I will be your strength and your smile and your calm too,
Whenever you need me, I will be here for you.Your son,
Damian
This poem is based on a dream I had a few nights ago.
(Image from Space.com.)
Mother, I feel your light.
I am a moth, drawn towards it’s glow.
Burned to ash, I am swept away,
so that my spirit may return.
Mother, I embrace you.
I lay resting in your crypt, your womb.
This body I give back for you to reuse,
so that my spirit may return.
Mother, I drink from you.
In the chalice of eternity, I drown.
Deep within your waters a rhythm begins,
so that my spirit may return.
Mother, I breathe you in.
The ecstasy of life fills my lungs.
Holy wings beat strong, bearing me forth,
so that my spirit may return.
Mother, I am your light.
By Fire, Earth, Water and Wind, I live.
I am a sacred drop in the forces of All,
my spirit has returned.
(There was a Delicate Cycnia Moth present in my dream.)
Come, come, with me on this dark dark night…
Crimson velvet, lush satin, creamy lace divine!
Move… Move with us, the shadows, across the star filled sky.
Those stars… lanterns of the coming days…
Here, to guide thy way.
Dance, dance, the night away… with me.
Masquerade! Welcome, and dance…
Flow with us, the Samhain ghosts;
Raise your long stemmed glasses in a toast.
Sweet libations to near and distant times.
Shed the layers, yet wear the masks.
Souls entranced. Come! Dance, dance…
The ocean tides, they call.
Waves, winds, howls, roars… Rising. They come.
Twirling around the standing stones. So wild, so old, so free!
From Tara we come, spiraling ever closer… We reach.
Dance, dance… Come with me, take a chance.
Winter pulls back Her silken veil and gazes.
A kiss, the quiet chill.
Elle danse avec toi… Danse avec moi.
Come one and all. Heed our call.
Dance, dance, the night away…
In this masquerade.
This pen. This hand.
This paper. This mind.
These words that I scratch
an attempt at a rhyme
and the life they define.This world. These people.
Through living. Through dying.
The trouble that comes
through crying, through hurting,
through holding, through helping,
through smiling, through laughing.This giving and taking.
This way that we’re walking.
This babel we’re talking.
The lies that we’re telling.
The emotions we’re quelling.
Another line that we’re selling.
This endless dwelling,
Excelling?Rebelling.
(written by Jaspenelle and Michael Stewart)
Beating rain come down on me,
Wash away my tears.Glowing rainbow come out for me
Bring a smile to my face.Cool breeze pass through me,
Return my good cheer.Mother Earth rise up into me,
Bless me with your embrace.Inner spirit connect all to me,
Guide me through these fears.
- by Jaspenelle Stewart
Did I ever post this? It is a poem I wrote quite awhile ago. Not art for sale or anything, just something I made while I was messing about on the computer. Poetry is the medicine of the soul
If you can’t tell, I really like that photograph.
