Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Susan Hawthorne #320 Muses are grieving

all our dead are beside us
the humans dogs cats
and other familiars
those for whom I have no body
are memory holes
how to contain grief with words
with calmness with love
or something else
something not yet known

in grief the dead become undead
we tell stories though some names
are too raw to speak out loud
an eyeless seizure
taut as a violin string
howls splintering
the cold night air

history erases us 
Syria trembles with new wars
over old enmities ancient Isis
replaced by misnamed acronym
warmongers misogynists

there are no antediluvian
antipathies just common loss   
its ritual agonies of unbidden tears   
lamentations of the body   
regrets for time lost
a place in which dance is sacred

even the screeches of cockatoos
the bleaches of coral reefs   
poignant pain of artists
singers and poets
writing hermetic sigils in dust
these are mnemonics
for future generations
so that histories might be told  

the shock and loss and pain
that leaves you reeling
psyche with metamorphic ache
grief creates culture
when written words are absent
recall is preserved in stories

places visited memories as treasure   
stories become song
chant turns to dance   
images drawn on rocks
and sand represent
the loved ones  
we raise our stooping
shoulders and begin to dance


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