DOTR Lesson 3: Awen and Creative Work

The Killing Blow

Call me the name of peace
as though it were a curse,
and I will bless you, saying,
Yes, and I will lift up
the white flower of cowardice
and trembling, I will lift up that blossom
the color of snow and ocean foam
and moonlight, cloud and empty wind
and bone. I will lift it up with these hands
worn and worried with bickering,
limp with the luxury of blood,
the hands I inherited from my ancestors
whose bones, too, are white beneath the mud.
The goddess of war climbs the mountain's peak,
the hard, pale sunlight like the whites of her eyes.
Wonder, too, is a kind of power.
What curse she lays on the wearied earth, saying,
Yes, and Peace, and other fearful things.
The hills grow soft, will not be rushed
as last year's dead lift up
the small, white blossoms of the spring.

DOTR Lesson 3: Awen and Creative Work

Feeding Seagulls

I don't know how they came all that way, following the Susquehanna
into the foothills of the Appalachian mountains of central Pennsylvania,
to the empty field at the end of my street where I took my father
out beneath the high, gray winds of autumn
to show him how I called the birds to me.
It wasn't hard, I told him when he asked
about the teacher's phone call, the wasted lunches, and why
I spent each recess in the field feeding gulls instead of playing with the other
kids. But I knew he couldn't understand unless I showed him.

Again, I plucked a grape and held its slick, dark shape
between two pudgy fingers — arced my arm in one smooth and mighty toss,
shoulder loose and elbow locked, the last flick of wrist sending the fruit soaring
until it disappeared against the blurry sky.
Again and again, I swung with all the longing I could send
out of my awkward, grade school body — the silent call to come, to feast,
to circle in. For a week this had gone on, me alone in the field
throwing grapes and torn bits of white bread smeared with jelly
into the air, as one, then several, then whole flocks of seagulls
gathered wheeling and quarreling around me, each silhouette two sharp
parentheses hinged around a tight, tiny body that moved like a boat
cutting through invisible waters, lazy with its breathless speed.

My father waited. Wedged between empty field and empty sky,
the mute sting of loss was creeping in. It was too late,
or too cold, or too dim in the autumn evening. I begged for him to wait
a little longer, as I tossed higher and higher, wished to god I had brought bread
instead, and dreamed with every second how the wings had sounded
against the air, the tense emptiness of those wild pilgrims
dancing and screaming around the promised offerings as they came.
I don't know how they made it all that way, so far from the shores
where my people, too, had spilled in ragged, starving flocks
against the land and staggered towards the mountains in the west.
My father turned to walk back home. Behind us, one or two gulls,
secreted away behind the clouds, dropped down on the abandoned food.

The ocean was only a story they blamed on one another,
crying over and over how they had lost it.