Passager alfa ∞ omega

En enda gång tuggade min taxhona, Scylla, på en bok. Hon var en sparsmakad gourmet när det gällde text.
Här återger jag en calzone version av Lampadaridou-Pothous poesis verkande text. I denna vikta calzone möter den första passagen den sista.
Däremellan finns 12 välsmakande passager att avnjutna.

Ingångscitat:

"Men detta är liktydigt med erinringen av det vår själ

en gång skådade, då den färdades med gudomen."

Platon, Faidros XXIX,C

FÖRSTA PASSAGEN
Materiens ångest

Vinter ska finna mig naken

I ett rum i ruiner

Där tiden väller fram ut golvspringorna
Vintern skall finna mig i askan av
                                      mina dikter
En handfull ord som vit eller blod

Som vandra eller ed - som
"Själarna luktar" *
Jag bränner dem för att värma mig.

                              *

Vintern ska finna mig barfota vandrande
Upp och ner i avgrunden den enda **
Jag sjunker ner i den i den mjuka jorden
Uråldriga stjärnors gyttja
Jag ska ta mig igenom, säger jag
Med kvistar av azur i mina händer
Och trädet i mässa inför ödemarkens silver
Lukt från det oändliga tomrummet
Den plågade materia jag bebodde.

Jag lyfter mina dikter upp mot
"Manteln doppad i blod" ***
Och bränner den för att värma mig.

                                *

Regn faller utan uppehåll i mitt sargade rum
det "i utbyte mot elden" svävande ****
Det regnar fullmåne och åldrat blod
Kristaller laddade av mina sekler.

Jag böjer mig och ser mig själv i djupet
I den djupaste källan av krossad kristall
Villrådigt vemod mitt ansikte
Och ödsligt silver regnar, regnar över

                                                     helgonbilden
Min kropp en doft av nattens skälvning
Och ärkeängeln på post i fönstret
Gestaltar en erotisk båge från Gud och Universum.

Jag sveper mig i gränslöst himmelsblått
För att passera.

                                   *

Vintern ska finna mig drömmande
En ros planterad i stormen
Med paradiset skiftande som hallucinationen
Och tiden profetisk ännu
Befria stjärnorna från min kropp.

Vintern skall finna mig i öknen
Skrida fram som en uppenbarelse
Och Seklet Förstöraren nedsmälta
Som ett väldoftande vaxljus.

Med de sju lågorna upptända på min kropp
Säten för skummande vithet *****
Med doften av brända pinjebarr för

                                                   invigningen

En övergiven ros i bön
Vid stormens yttersta gräns

Jag vandrar inte längre
Jag nedsjunker som en profetisk dröm.

* Herakleitos fragment 72
** Herakleitos fragment 33
*** Uppenbarelseboken 19:15
**** Herakleitos fragment 54
***** Jmf Platon Faidros

FJORTONDE PASSAGEN
Den yttersta tiden

Min kropp fylld av sprickor
Där avgrunden väller fram
Ingenstans finner jag fotfäste
Att vitna som en blomma ur djupet och sedan
Upphöjas naken som den högsta lågan
Och bli visionen av en bön
För att befria stjärnan som sover
I mitt sår.

                                       *

Min kropp profetisk
Inväntar den absoluta Natten
Det yttersta sönderslitandet av min jordiska klädedräkt
Vid den mystiska gränsen
Min sista dikt
Utan ord
Bara musik jag lyssnat till under andra tider.

                                        *

Min kropp en trädgård som vattnats
Som sjunker
Förvandlad
Boning för en oprövad tid

Och min själ tunn och upprätt
Jag ristar ljuset i den som silver
För att den skall lysa upp min passage
Jag ristar mitt ansikte i den
För att inte förvilla mig.

                         *

Oupphörligen sönderslits jag för att nå det Ena
Och dess dimension
För att inrymma
Mina såriga lemmar som faller isär
Fyllda av erotiska nätter och junidagar
Parfym från middagstidens pinjekottar

Mitt liv faller som en bränd kropp
Utvidgande ljuset
För att jag skall passera

Our Lady of Solitude by Leonard Cohen

All summer long she touched me.
She gathered in my soul
from many a thorn, from many thickets,

Her fingers, lika a weaver's -
quick and cool.

Det finns passager och det finns Passager...
Det finns iscensättningar och det finns Iscensättningar...
Runt 1960 var jag som 4-åring sjuk i mässlingen. Jag låg isolerad i det minsta rummet i den minsta lägenheten på Bruksgatan i Helsingborg. Där låg jag i en Evighet i ett alldeles mörklagt rum. Första vårdagen som jag fick gå ut igen, gick jag längre än jag egentligen fick. Alldeles ensam gick jag till den Stora stadsparken och där ur den svarta jorden blommade ett ensamt körsbärsträd och prickade det svarta med skära tungor - och jag genomslickades, passerades till ett expanderande Nu... på den vägen är det.

Dance to the crone-logically new moon

 Poetry In Motion

Stitchling with threads from the area around the Trogyllium strait between the greek island of Samos and Turkey, where Sibyls used to draw songlines along the shorelines and the Nymphs were busy.

Song relining crossover:

La Mariposa, Butterfly Woman 
Clarissa Pinkola Estes (excerpt from Women Who Run With The Wolves)

"For years tourists have come to Puyé, a big dusty mesa in the middle of 'nowhere', New Mexico. Here the Anasazi, the ancient ones, once called to each other across the mesas. A prehistoric sea, it is said, carved the thousand of grinning, leering, and moaning mouths and eyes into the rock walls there.

…To the visitors, a butterfly is a delicate thing. “O fragile beauty,” they dream. So they are necessarily shaken when out hops Maria Lujan. And she is big, really big, like the Venus of Willendorf, like the Mother of Days, like Diego Rivera’s heroic-size woman who built Mexico City with a single curl of her wrist.

And Maria Lujan, oh, she is old, very, very old, like a woman come back from dust, old like old river, old like old pines at timberline. One of her shoulders is bare. Her red-and-black manta, blanket dress, hops up and down with her inside it. Her heavy body and her very skinny legs made her look like a hopping spider wrapped in a tamale. She hops on one foot and then on the other. She waves her feather fan to and fro. She is The Butterfly arrived to strengthen the weak.

She is that which most think of as not strong: age, the butterfly, the feminine. Butterfly Maiden’s hair reaches to the ground. It is thick as ten maize sheaves and it is stone gray. And she wears butterfly wings-the kind you see on little children who are being angels in school plays. Her hips are like two bouncing bushel baskets and the fleshy shelf at the top of her buttocks is wide enough to ride two children. She hops, hops, hops, not like a rabbit, but in footsteps that leave echoes.

'I am here, here, here…
I am here, here, here…
Awaken you, you, you!'

She sways her feather fan up and down, spreading the earth and the people of the earth with the pollinating spirit of the butterfly. Her shell bracelets rattle like snakes, her bell garters tinkle like rain. Her shadow with its big belly and little legs dances from one side of the dance circle to the other. Her feet leave little puffs of dust behind.

The tribes are reverent, involved. But some visitors look at each other and murmur “This is it? This is the Butterfly Maiden?” They are puzzled, some even disillusioned. They no longer seem to remember that the spirit world is a place where wolves are women, bears are husbands, and old women of lavish dimensions are butterflies.

Yes, it is fitting that Wild Woman/Butterfly Woman is old and substantial, for she carries the thunder world in one breast, the underworld in the other. Her back is the curve of the planet Earth with all its crops and foods and animals. The back of her neck carries the sunrise and the sunset. Her left thigh holds all the lodge poles, her right thigh all the she-wolves of the world. Her belly holds all the babies that will ever be born.

Butterfly Maiden is the female fertilizing force. Carrying the pollen from one place to another, she cross-fertilizes, just as the soul fertilizes mind with night dreams, just as archetypes fertilize the mundane world. She is the centre. She brings the opposites together by taking a little from here and putting it there. Transformation is no more complicated that that. This is what she teaches. This is how the butterfly does it. This is how the soul does it.

Butterfly Woman mends the erroneous idea that transformation is only for the tortured, the saintly, or only for the fabulously strong. The Self need not carry mountains to transform. A little is enough. A little goes a long way. A little changes much. The fertilizing force replaces the moving of mountains. Butterfly Maiden pollinates the souls of the earth: It is easier that you think, she says.

She is shaking her feather fan, and she’s hopping, for she is spilling spiritual pollen all over the people who are there, Native Americans, little children, visitors, everyone. She is using her entire body as a blessing, her old, frail, big, short-legged, short-necked, spotted body. This is woman connected to her wild nature, the translator of the instinctual, the fertilizing force, the mender, the rememberer of old ideas. She is La voz mitológica. She is wild woman personified.

The butterfly dancer must be old because she represents the soul that is old. She is wide of thigh and broad of rump because she carries much. Her grey hair certifies that she need no longer observe taboos about touching others. She is allowed to touch everyone: boys, babies, men, women, girl children, the old, the ill, and the dead. The Butterfly Woman can touch everyone. It is her privilege to touch all, at last. This is her power. Hers is the body of La Mariposa, the butterfly.

Song relining crossover:
Out in New Mexico, Heather Nova

I picture a road out in New Mexico
Red earth and mountains and sky
I picture my soul out in New Mexico
With all that space rolling by
...
Sometimes I long for the rose to bleed
For the spark to light in the depths of me
...
With all that earth rolling by
With all these dreams rolling by

Dark moon gift giving

  
 

            
                                                                            
To Bring You My Love

THE Stitchling
Artemis, Queen Bee of Ephesus

 

Brings her love

I was borne in the desert

I been down for years
Jesus, come closer
I think my time is near

And I've traveled over
Dry earth and floods
hell and high water
To bring you my love

Climbed over mountains
Travelled the sea
Cast down off heaven
Cast down on my knees
I've laid with the devil
Cursed god above
Forsaken heaven
To bring you my love

To bring you my love

Keep confluencing mercy

            dancing
            confluencing                            

            the gestalt
            THE beloved

            facet eyed
            through

When you're kneeling through the hours,
And you're doubting your given powers,
And when you're ready for her mercy,
And you're worthy,
It will come
...
Well, there's sugar on the old spoon,
Let's do that two-step around your front room,
And when you're ready for her mercy,
And you're worthy,
It will come
...
Mercy, mercy, coming to you
Feel her beauty flowing through you -
She will unbind you, set the word free.
Mercy, Mercy

Glen Hansrad, Her Mercy

Kali, be with us.
Violence, destruction, receive our homage.
Help us to bring darkness into the light,
To lift out the pain, the anger,
Where it can be seen for what it is;
The balance-wheel for our vulnerable, aching love
Put the wild hunger where it belongs,
Within the act of creation,
Crude power that forges a balance
Between hate and love

Help us to be the always hopeful,
Garderners ...

Bear the roots in mind,
You, the dark one, Kali
Awesome power.

May Sarton, from The Invocation to Kali
 The poem

Keep blending into, out of earth

sister earth

ma soeur, ma semblable,
these words I read beneath this picture of a scull found by the Tower of Jericho, which is a stone  structure built around 8000 BCE in Israel.

my Fore-Sister, my Fore-Crone

In the late 1980s I went there.
Much later in 2019  I stiched this into being

This Earth: What She Is to Me
by Susan Griffin

As I go into her, she pierces my heart. As I penetrate 

further, she unveils me. When I have reached her center,

I am weeping openly. I have known her all my life, yet

she reveals stories to me, and these stories are revelations

and I am transformed. Each time I go to her I am born

like this. Her renewal washes over me endlessly, her

wounds caress me; I become aware of all that has come

between us, of the noice between us. Now my body reaches

out to her. They speak effortlessly, and I learn at no

instant does she fail me in her presence. She is as delicate

as I am, I know her sentience; I feel her pain and my own

pain comes into me, and my own pain grows large and I

grasp this pain with my hands, and I open my mouth to

this pain, I taste, I know, and I know why she goes on,

under great weight, with this great thirst, in drought, in

starvation, with intelligence in every act does she survive

disaster. This earth is my sister; I love her daily grace,

her silent daring, and how loved I am how we admire this

strength in each other, all that we have lost, all that we have suffered,

all that we know, we are stunned by this beauty, and I do not

forget what she is to me, what I am to her.

You are my sister with Antony and the Johnsons

You are my sister

And I love you

May all of your dreams come true

...

I see it come

Keep bleeding into the mystic

When all the colors bleed into one 

Love, the deadly wound from which my life slowly bleeds, there I am preserved
Birgitta Trotzig

Just beneath the thin layer of romanticizing love
a bigger You
a bigger Love
bleeding together into One

Closed off from love I didn't need the pain

Once or twice was enough and it was all in vain
Time starts to pass, before you know it, you're frozen,
But something happened for the very first time with you
My heart melts into the ground, found something true
And everyone's looking 'round thinking I'm going crazy

But I don't care what they say
I'm in love with you
They try to pull me away, but they don't know the truth
My heart's crippled by the vein I keep on closing
You cut me open and I

Keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding love

into the mystic
into the now

into

each

other

wise

dressmaking

 

fitting out the dress for the woman downstairs...
or all around
or flowing through

InVirgination
invagination
individuation

"I cermonially undress
For she who in my dreams reveals how she longs and she cares
I take off all my clothes
For the woman downstairs
...
In my dream I lay her on a blanket
Wild berries stain the fragile dress she wears
She can have my soul and keep it
The woman downstairs

I give her my ears and my eyes
I give her my future and my past
They're both full of questions and lies
..."

And rewatching The Dressmaker who knows how to use her spelling glamor...