Becoming Light (15 page)

For all those who died—

stripped naked, shaved, shorn.

For all those who screamed

in vain to the Great Goddess

only to have their tongues

ripped out at the root.

For all those who were pricked, racked, broken on the wheel

for the sins of their Inquisitors.

For all those whose beauty

stirred their torturers to fury;

& for all those whose ugliness did the same.

For all those who were neither ugly nor beautiful,

but only women who would not submit.

For all those quick fingers

broken in the vise.

For all those soft arms

pulled from their sockets.

For all those budding breasts

ripped with hot pincers.

For all those midwives killed merely for the sin

of delivering man

to an imperfect world.

For all those witch-women, my sisters,

who breathed freer

as the flames took them,

knowing as they shed

their female bodies,

the seared flesh falling like fruit

in the flames,

that death alone would cleanse them

of the sin for which they died

the sin of being born a woman,

who is more than the sum

of her parts.

O
Mandragora

herbal puppet,

little man dancing

with your great tap root,

small song-&-dance man

cloven-hoofed as the Devil—

no wonder you make such noise!

O Mandrake

putting out fine root hairs…

for centuries

Pythagoras & Theophrastus

sang your praises—

blessed you as aphrodisiac

& soporific,

blasted your resemblance

to man.

Like man you are tricky, devious,

double-natured.

Like man you curse & bless.

Like man you are a poisoner

& a love-bringer.

Like man you take

what you can.

O Mandrake,

bringer of fruitfulness & potency,

lamp in the darkness,

killer of starving dogs,

shrieker, gallowsman, dragon-doll—

in Biblical times,

you were thought beneficent

but gradually the Devil won.

You grew at the foot

of the gallows,

lapping up dead men’s sperm,

giving birth only

to death.

& yet we all give birth to death,

& your other attributes—

O bringer of treasure, sensuality, love,

success in battle—

also lead to death.

So dance, little Mandrake,

in your doubleness.

Rejoice at the gallows’ foot.

You are indeed a dress rehearsal for man,

& we shall join you

soon enough

underground.

Herba Apollinaris,

Circe’s herb,

the Delphic Priestesses’

wine—

is it you

with your jagged leaves

& sickly flowers

who turn men

to swine?

Is it you

who pluck the prophecies

from smoke,

above the great Omphalos

in the gorge?

Common as the lowly potato,

but with the power

to bring oblivion or death,

Ulysses lost

his sailors

to your spell,

while that mild witch, Circe,

wove harmonies

upon her magic loom

where the fabric

flickered

like firelight.

Sleepy beasts

beneath her shuttlecock,

the wolves & lions loll

like aging dogs…

the witch tickles

their bellies.

Half girl, half goddess,

all enchantress,

Circe dreams of Odysseus,

luring him

with bright draughts,

bright threads,

& honeyed wine.

Was it you, Henbane,

turning beastly men

to loving beasts?

Is that why Circe

loved you so?

Until Ulysses

stormed in

with his broadsword,

the master mariner,

the son of gods

of old,

& used to taming women

to his will.

He took the witch

to bed—

not out of lust

for Hermes himself had ordered it—

(& Odysseus always

had a god at hand).

Was it Henbane

they smoked

before they went to bed?

Was it Henbane

that let their loving slip

from one slim night

into a whole fat year?

She sent him home

the long way

from her famous

bed of love,

through Death’s cold vastnesses,

& pale Persephone’s glacial halls.

Was it you

Henbane

who made the journey slow—

or was it Circe,

half girl, half goddess,

harmonizing on her lovely loom

while men lolled at her feet

like sleepy beasts…

O Circe,

you knew

a thing or two!

Datura stramonium

of the poisonous flowers—

even your smallest buds

are said to cause

madness, sleep & death,

but your spiny “apples,”

prickly & stiff as porcupines,

are the real villains,

& were much beloved

by Kali’s worshipers,

the Thugs.

(O kill, kill, kill

but kill

in a goddess’s name!)

Deadly poison

for arrow tips

& sacrificial victims’ hearts—

you were also used

in love philters!

The cynic laughs,

knowing that love

is the first poison—

the poison

that takes the soul,

the mind,

& all the organs

down below.

(O kill, kill, kill

but kill

in a goddess’s name!)

Venus, Kali, the Great Mother,

the God of the Witches—

what does it matter?

Love potion or poison,

it is the same drink

that brings oblivion

in the end.

Love-will, Sorcerer’s herb,

Jimson weed,

you were used by brothel keepers

to seduce the innocent,

& witches brewed you

for their flying ointments.

The soldiers of Jamestown

made merry with your juice.

It was a new country

but the herbs were old.

The poisons link us

to antiquity—

the poisons & the love philters.

Down through the Ages

we are joined by vines;

we wear garlands

of poisonous berries

like jewels.

Green as innocence,

green as love of death,

we bud, we flower, we fall—

& ancient herbs

grow

out of our blind

eyes.

When the deadly nightshade flowers,

dreamy-eyed girls

open their lids

for their lovers.

Maenads fall upon men

dripping with dreams.

& children die

from the sweetest

of inky fruits.

Belladonna,

wine of the bacchanals,

you are indeed the witch’s berry,

I look into your open eye & see

Dionysian orgies,

women in love with death,

dying with the widest

& brightest of eyes.

Have you no shame at all

Atropa belladonna
?

The other herbs pretend to be angelic,

but you freely play

the Devil’s part.

Dwaleberry, Sorcerer’s cherry,

Murderer’s berry—

your sweetness bursts

on the tongue,

the lungs relax,

& death comes

merely

from refusing

air.

Most beautiful of poisons,

border-plant,

wearing your small green cowl,

little friar, little murderer,

aconitine flows

from your roots

to your deep purple flowers,

small deceiver,

centerpiece

for a poisonous

feast.

A few leaves

in the salad,

a few seeds

in the soup,

a thick root

to flavor

the stock—

& it is all over.

Let the lover beware

who buys you

for love philters.

The dose is deceptive.

One pinch leads to passion

but two will surely lead

to death.

Yet you twinkle

little blue bell

at the edge

of the garden,

wearing no warning

about your slim green neck.

Wolfsbane, Friar’s cap,

Chariot of Venus—

how many may claim

to be poisonous

head to toe?

That honor—

Friar Death—

belongs to you.

At the edge of the body

there is said to be

a flaming halo—

yellow, red, blue

or pure white,

taking its color

from the state

of the soul.

Cynics scoff.

Scientists make graphs

to refute it.

Editorial writers,

journalists, & even

certain poets,

claim it is only mirage,

trumped-up finery,

illusory feathers,

spiritual shenanigans,

humbug.

But in dreams

we see it,

& sometimes even waking.

If the spirit is a bride

about to be married to God,

this is her veil.

Do
I
believe it?

Do I squint

& regard the perimeter

of my lover’s body,

searching for some sign

that his soul

is about to ignite

the sky?

Without squinting,

I
almost
see it.

An angry red aura

changing to white,

the color of peace.

I gaze at the place

where he turns into air

& the flames of his skin

combine

with the flames of the sky,

proving

the existence

of both.

Old bag of bones

upside down,

what are you searching for

in poetry,

in meditation?

The mother you never had?

The child in you

that you did not conceive?

Death?

Ease from the fear of death?

Revelation?

Dwelling in the house of clouds

where you imagine

you once lived?

“Born alone,

we depart alone.”

Someone said that

during meditation

& I nearly wept.

Oh melancholy lady

behind your clown face,

behind your wisecracks—

how heady it is

to let the ideas rush to your brain!

But even upside down,

you are sad.

Even upside down,

you think of your death.

Even upside down,

you curse the emptiness.

Meditating

on the immobile lotus,

your mind takes flight

like a butterfly

& dabbles in bloodred poppies

& purple heather.

Defying gravity,

defying death,

what makes you think

the body’s riddle

is better solved

upside down?

Blood rushes to your head

like images that come too fast

to write.

After a life held in the double grips

of gravity & time,

after a headfirst birth

out of your mother’s bowels

& into the earth,

you practice for the next.

You make your body light

so that in time,

feet first,

you will be born

into the sky.

“Death is our eternal companion,” Don Juan said with a most serious air. “It is always to our left, at an arm’s length….It has always been watching you. It always will until the day it taps you.”

—Carlos Castaneda

My death

looks exactly like me.

She lives to my left,

at exactly an arm’s length.

She has my face, hair, hands;

she ages

as I grow older.

Sometimes, at night,

my death awakens me

or else appears in dreams

I did not write.

Sometimes a sudden wind

blows from nowhere,

& I look left

& see my death.

Alive, I write

with my right hand only.

When I am dead,

I shall write with my left.

But later I will have to write

through others.

I may appear

to future poets

as their deaths.

Letting the mind go,

letting the pen, the breath,

the movement of images in & out

of the mouth

go calm, go rhythmic

as the rise & fall of waves,

as one sits in the lotus position

over the world,

holding the pen so lightly

that it scarcely stains the page,

holding the breath

in the glowing cage of the ribs,

until the heart

is only a living lantern

fueled by breath,

& the pen writes

what the heart wills

& the whole world goes out,

goes black,

but for the hard, clear stars

below.

The cosmos has played

on the xylophone

of my spine,

hitting each vertebra

with a single clear-pitched tone,

making my backbone