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Midnight
Musings: original poetry by Tess Avelland
"Dream"
In
a dream
my
feet were bare in glittering dew
and
the night wind shone along my naked skin,
tangling
in the dark delirium of my hair.
The
wet grass was woven with endless stars,
the
meadow alight like a second sky.
I
knelt in the white silence of the great moon;
and
a mystery spoke in my shimmering body,
and
filled the waiting dark behind my eyes.
I
awoke, weeping and speechless,
priestess
of secrets too vast to remember.
(written
about 1987, age 16 or 17)
[untitled]
I
am the growing green earth and the dark soil beneath;
I
am moon and stars, I am hearth flames and the blood of life.
The
fields of golden grain burgeon forth my abundance,
my
silver fingers are streams and sparkling rivers,
and
I bloom fully in both flowers and fruits.
I
am the great yellow sun and the black thunderstorm;
I
am wind and cloud, I am dark forests and purple wine.
The
fangs of wild beasts flash forth my strength,
my
white bones are antlers and winter branches,
and
I burn fiercely in both fires and frosts.
(Spring
1990)
"Eve's
Message to Persephone"
Truly
I know, daughter of field and sky, how in that ravaged darkness
the
ruby heart of the broken fruit must have gleamingly beckoned you,
dripping
with a ripe and crimson life, so vivid in the rayless gloom --
how
the seeds must have tasted to your trembling lips and fingers.
Drifting
lonely through dim-shadowed days, then thrilled with terror
as
each night strode forward to embrace you, black and eager as the
grave --
what
did you whisper behind your falling hair, as you gave yourself
to
the secret scarlet darkness and the knowledge of the god?
Never
mourn the hunger or the yielding,
for
yours now is the Knowledge of the whole and holy truth:
seed,
flower, fruit, rot, and seed again, forever.
Exult
at Eleusis our escape from a changeless Eden.
Without
us, sister, there would be no Fall, no spring.
(Autumn
1990)
"Descent"
How
brave I was, when first the chasm opened at my feet!
Believing
I could face even the inner mysteries of that fearsome rite,
proud-hearted
I gave myself to the descent, so well prepared
that
when I felt the hard unyielding skull beneath his kiss of greeting
it
was without a trace of horror or surprise. Such a thing was merely
part
of the journey; it was to be expected; I myself had chosen it.
But
all at once -- oh unsought, too beautiful, hurtful and unwelcome --
I
found that his hair held the scent of every vanished summer;
and
before I knew it, I had leaned toward him closer than I meant.
It
was too late to turn away then; his arms were around me.
I
stood aghast, trembling in a snare of sudden hopelessness,
and
as the earth closed over us and sealed us together for a season
I
whispered with my lips against his shoulder, I
am lost.
(Winter
1995)
[untitled]
Body
still and solid on the fallen tree, his feet in worn brown leather moccasins
planted
against the earth as firm as roots in soil, feet as much a part of forest
floor
and leather-brown leaves as of his body, he is of the earth. He is drumming,
drumming,
one hand flashing, drawing forth rhythm from the drum, the other
holding
the drum and still, like a live branch the wrist immobile-flexuous,
bent angle
of
branch curving forth from branch, balanced, arm curving forth in
strength from the
trunk
of his body, his body still and solid on the mossy fallen tree. His
eyes closed,
his
long dark tail of hair leather thong bound loose behind his head,
face lifted rapt
into
late leaf-filtered sun, light sparkling on his mouth, lips closed
firmly, the muscles
at
his mouth's corners moving unaware, rhythm of his drumming working
his mouth
like
lovemaking. Slow unclosing his drowsy eyes, full of light,
forest-colored between
dark
shadowy lashes, limpid as clear brown water, woodland rainwater
pooled shining
in
last year's softened leaves, his open eyes serene unseeing; now
again slow closing
with
slow and downward sweep of lashes, slower than the drumming rhythm rocking
his
head, long lashes down on brown skin. Lips closed, mouth gentle
working his
rhythm,
body still on the fallen tree, feet planted, he is of the earth, he
is drumming.
(Autumn
1996)
"Sirens
Off the Coast of Sappho's Island"
This
is where she comes, our sea-mistress,
when
weary of their company. Our unhurried hands
take
down her hair, unbraid it, comb it smooth
with
the spines of seahorses, till it spreads glorious
on
the sunwarmed spray-scented rock, rippling like the touch
of
sun on water, and she sighs, and says she is home.
We
sing away her robes and the heavy jeweled belt,
and
wreathe her gently with wet loose-woven seaweed,
sparkling
with sea-diamonds, cool against her blooming skin.
Far
below in silence the skulls of men watch gape-jawed
as
we pour herbed oil over gold bread warm as sand,
feed
her with rosy fruits and fruit-stained fingers,
tip
her breasts in wine, suck the salt tang from her mouth.
Each
time before she goes, we braid her hair with cowrie shells,
a
thousand tiny smiles hidden in the clefted darkness.
(Summer
1997)
"To
the God of One Garden"
You
never banished me, you blustering tyrant;
I
escaped, and you hid your shame with lies. I'd only strayed
into
your realm at all because I'd taken a fancy to your son.
I
sampled your fruit and found it insipid; but not so
that
earth-rich boy, more delicious for his conquerable
reluctance;
so he and I fled together laughing, unthinking,
though
ever since he's led me both a merry dance and a sad.
But
sometimes I think his son's sons are learning,
having
known the dry drouth of me, and remembering
the
wild soft scent of blossom from their earliest childhood.
And
you yourself, whose name I'm not supposed to know:
you
still haunt that orderly orchard for me, the glossy fruit
waiting
ponderously for a plucking that never comes, monstrous
with
the scope of your misunderstanding, your false fertilization,
your
after-all-this hope amounting to hubris.
Even
now, poor fool, you expect me to return to you,
my
head covered modestly, mouth sealed, full of repentant seeds.
No
matter what you think you want from me, you never like to remember
that
before you ever were,
I was Queen of the isle of all apples.
(Summer
1997)
"Ariadne"
In
the hidden center of my life, I glimpsed a god with shadowed face,
waiting.
But my young girl's silly heart called him monstrous, distorted him
with
fear and turned away; and so I sought the slayer of all that was likewise
shadow-seen
in me. Tangled in my own thread, I lost my way; I only followed.
In
the circling islands I knew at last the mainland life was not my destiny,
but
unsure and on the ship already, I sailed a little way with the
mainland man,
a
little way. Then I sank from a sleeping life into a waking sleep on
the shore --
farewell
to princes and heroes, farewell my dimly-promised queenship.
Finding
my own thread again, in true dreams I walk that myriad old maze,
wandering
the wine-dark waves and wooded slopes, through green sunny groves
and
meadows night-lit with moon and flame; searching among the roots of vineyards,
treading
with the barefoot village revellers, red-lipped with the blood of
sweetest life.
In
true dreams I have drunk your essence, my fire-born mad young beauty;
what
is and what will be between us is fixed upon the jeweled northern sky.
Priestess-proud
I take for a queenly sceptre this rough wand pinecone-tipped,
for
a queen's bed these soft skins flung on pine boughs. For you, for you
I
will give away my golden crown, and weave one of starlight and ivy.
Come
to me with wine on your wonderful mouth, and kiss me awake.
(Autumn
1998)
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