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uvavnuk’s great sea

01 Wednesday Nov 2017

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The great sea
frees me, moves me,
as a strong river carries a weed.
Earth and her strong winds
move me, take me away,
and my soul is swept up in joy.

— Uvavnuk

(translated by Jane Hirshfield)

Note: Uvavnuk was an Inuit woman born in the 19th century. She became a poet and an angakkuq (shamanic spiritual healer), when her songs came to her in dreams. They were collected by European explorers of Arctic Canada in the early 1920s.

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01 Wednesday Nov 2017

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may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back     may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

lucille clifton, “blessing the boats” (via rhiannonmcgavin)

bewitchingly

31 Tuesday Oct 2017

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I am naked all day to match my mood —
The French must have a word meaning, “almost

euphorically horny.” It’s why I’m nude
writing this to you now, little sad ghost

that no one wants. Come over, I want you.
We can preen, paint our nails, slurp tea, snuggle

or do that one thing that the living do
to feel better. That one obscene, shameful,

sublimely fun act that you have not done
in ages. We will be naked chums, bosom

pals, wild playmates. Little sad ghost, lover,
delight is contagious, and so is fun.

Life is too short for sorrow and boredom.
Come here. Get undressed. I miss your laughter.

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29 Sunday Oct 2017

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And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
  Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
  Borne like thy bubbles, onward:  from a boy
  I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me
  Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
  Made them a terror—’twas a pleasing fear,
  For I was as it were a child of thee,
  And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.

Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, CLXXXIV

bless the hips

26 Thursday Oct 2017

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Pleasure is full of invisible things
that you feel but just dimly know. Darkness —

split in half, shaman-child, by climax — brings
visions; hawk of Venus, fox of Eros.

To ripe. To rot. Cum’s bloom. We both follow
sparks that all these fingers, cocks and cunts give.

Sessing insights in that moment of glow.
Call it depraved but what god won’t forgive

naughty when it feels good? Don’t try to sess
all those who love the husks but not the fruits.

Those who stop praying when the spirit’s sky
fills them even for a second. We bless

the hip’s bliss; not old trees but their deep roots;
not the zealot’s cry but our cum-deep sigh.