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Wilderness Of The Mind
A Collection Of Poetry by
Rebecah J. Hall
On This Page:
Now I Become Myself
The Poet's Lament
Now I Become Myself
Now I become myself.
It's taken time, years and places.
I've been dissolved and shaken, worn other people's faces,
run madly as if time were there terribly old, crying a warning,
Hurry! You will be dead before . . .
(What? Before you reach morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or your love's safe in the walled city?)
Now, to stand still, to be here, feel my own weight and destiny!
The black shadow on the paper is my hand, the shadow of a word
as thought shapes the shaper, falls heavily on the page, is heard.
All fuses now, falls into place from wish to action, word to silence,
my work, my love, my time, my face gathered into one intense
gesture of growing . . . like a plant.
As slowly as the ripening fruit fertile, detached, and always spent,
falls but does not exhaust the root, so all the poem is, can give,
grows in me to become the song, made so and rooted so by love.
Now there is time and time is young.
Oh, in this single hour I live with all of myself and do not move away.
I, the pursued who would madly run,
stand still, stand still and stop the sun!
I have laid you to rest, now,
ashes to ashes
and wondered how I could have
come from you . . .
as beautiful in death
as in life.
I touched your brow,
brushed back your hair
and told you goodbye.
Gave you my forgiveness
and felt yours in return.
Enemies in life . . .
God, I miss you and
would wish you back
if I thought we could be friends
and make it right.
But what you wanted in me
and what I needed in you
was sorely lacking
even to the end.
But I loved and still love you.
And though I balked at
I gave in hoping somehow our
karma would end here
in this graveyard.
Life, a book of dreams woven upon
the tapestry of the
uplifting of the spirit
a blade of grass
trail of cloud.
Our tears compose the
blue of lakes
and hovering darkened
The Dream Master knows what he does
and that life will be remembered
not for what it was
but for what it wasn't.
The Poet's Lament
You'll know what I mean when I say
some poems arrive in clusters like
miniature migraines waiting
single words, bits of phrases
hurtle through my mind awakening me
at two o' clock in the
cold, stiff darkness
only a poet's soul can see through
the defenses of another poet and
caress the bruised and battered metaphor
struggling to exist in this world of scientists
poetic processes are
involuntary cramps and floods;
like that woman during her time
who wishes men had to suffer as much
metaphors are hardly recognized
and only through that understanding
can we come to know one another
other than as sweaty handshakes and locked eyes
spacing and punctuation are
a maturation of the squalling poem
struggling to stand on unsteady feet
and weak ankles
similes are merely fleeting smiles
and true paradox is the poet living in two
four dimensional worlds
when only one exists.
at home upon the shore,
lost its soul upon my shelf.
it lost all vitality
and became the requirement
of all we call
Some poems from ...Beyond Winter
A Poetry Collection by
Rebecah J. Hall
Faery Tales and Negotiations
the sentence fragments of everything,
ran ahead of harried leaves
(sharpened teeth filed to eat us)
and slammed heavy doors--
locking the wolf out
and the cold in.
Hot chocolate served in steamy kitchens
with our patron saints hanging on the wall
as our parents,
the end punctuation of all,
hustled us out of wet clothes,
into warm baths
and worried through our homework
and finally into sleep by eight o'clock.
Fathers read bedtime stories
and the stillness
hung over the room as Ridinghood
ran through the woods to grama's
and away from the wolf stalked by the woodcutter.
But a child of seven knows nothing of living pains--
and the semicolons of my life
lined themselves up
as I dreamed instead of a wolf wind
that would eat us all
if the woodcutter couldn't save us.
Now, don'tcha try to bullshit me--
cuz bullshit, no matter how ya try to purty it up,
is still jist bullshit.
He hunkered low by the fire
warming his knees and hands--
as his butt grew icicles.
See, this here's life, kid:
half of ya freezes
while the other half roasts
and less'n you surround yerself with fire
or do without altogether,
there jist ain't no in-between.
And the way I figger it,
since camfires like this un
are agin the law anyways,
it's best to let your butt freeze
and keep your heart and mind on fire
than t'other way around.
In this misty dream she.
through savage gardens--.
roses choking her.
and saber tooth grass.
slashing her feet, .
and the horror of her body.
turning to bark.
leaving her heart flesh.
This dream eating.
swallows the hope.
which embraces all she is or could be--.
she rushes to the lake's edge thinking.
Why, if I can't swim, .
I'll walk. .
Foofalls on water, .
tumbling through fog.
to sleep to the cadence.
of mist-muffled bells.... .
resting on water-wrinkled hands, .
she dreams a dream.
within my dream . . . .
Awakening to my dream-woven.
in the completeness.
that is mine. .
Quietly, so not to disturb the storm . . . .
I slide under the covers.
and draw the stars.
around me for warmth. .
Mischief visited last night.
and left art as a gift. .
hanging from eaves.
and mourning white upon the ground. .