Worlds Away

what the nomad brought home

The Traveler

The eyes may be the window to the soul
But the voice is the ticket for its journey,
Drawing, only if we’re lucky, the most intrepid of travelers
Like an irresistible siren song
To explore those depths within us,
Devouring the landscape with their eyes,
Illuminating the ancient corridors of spirit with golden fingerprints,
And tearing through the wildest jungles with flashes of insight,
But never trying to tame, no, relishing
The primal beast they find so submlimely seated
Somewhere in the being–
Enthroned on instinct,
Enrobed in the sumptuous trappings of human feeling,
Crowned with the dazzling jewels of articulation,
And wielding the precious sceptre of literacy.

So, traveler, perhaps our eyes have not yet met–
This time, at least,
But let me take you on this accidental journey
To the depths of my soul
Where we both might be surprised to find
That the lines of self begin to blur
In the blinding brilliance of my naked sincerity
And the earthy essence of your raw crusade for truth
Where you go seeking something palpable
On the timeless, winding river of words.

It’s hard to define what inspired this poem about the art of expression; I was watching “Laura non c’e” (Nek’s duet with Cerena).  Maybe it was the timelessness of the setting in the video, Nek and his absent muse, the tortured artists running frantically through some underground labyrinth, the beautiful illumination of the dark corridors they explore, I’m not sure….This poem is about even more than I am sure how to express in prose, so check out the video if you’re curious; maybe the imagery will convey what I cannot.

  

January 21, 2008 Posted by | muse, Poetry, Reincarnation, Wanderlust, Writing | , , , , | 2 Comments

Ahuac taita

Ahuac taitaTapestry
Hunched over your craft
Those calloused, twisted hands
So deftly scratching back and forth
Through the yet invisible landscape of your creation;
A thousand knives at your curving back
Strength, sight sacrificed for the power to
Build mountains
Forge rivers
And freeze flowers in paradise
With the simple tug of a thread.
Ahuac taita
Your wrinkled eyes, your grieving face,
Your fingers speak through the somber, silent figures that you build–
Those unmoving musicians,
Those vagrant porters
Those lonely peasants
And those wayward beasts of burden
Are far more powerful than the
Imposing cordilleras and the
Dazzling hillside pastures
That embrace your woolen outcasts.
Ahuac taita
Tell me more,
One humble fiber at a time;
I have nothing but to wait here in this place,
And I promise I will listen
To the colors, to the textures of your story.
I see the shapes emerge of
Four campesinas staring dejectedly into the distance as
The sun setting over the other side of their barren mountain
Illuminates someone else.
Ahuac taita, that someone else is me!
Where they fall to their knees in golden fields of failure,
Their heavy shawls ablaze with the jewel hues of yesterday’s abundance,
Their earthen jars….I know–
Their earthen jars are empty.
Ahuac taita
I will buy your tapestry,
This message in a bottle
That so few will ever dare to open,
This weaving, this world that you sell
For ten dollars.
But, oh, that I could give you so much more!….
To see your brightest visions come to life.

January 21, 2008 Posted by | Poetry, Travel, Writing | , , , , , | Leave a comment