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The Feather and the Weight

Someone asked me if I remembered the good times. Why I could remember the details of the bad times, but not recall the specifics of all the good ones. I answered.

Because the good times are so much more ephemeral. Evanescent. Even among the grandness of life, the good, the joyous, is found in the seemingly insignificant, made up of moments, small kindnesses, sincere unbidden smiles, the touch of the hand, a glance. Whispers. They possess an ineffability that affects us deeply but leaves its mark on our inner world. Like religious experience, they are hard to grasp, but exist no less. Over time, they add up to goodness. Each not so different than another, but with a feeling of being filled with goodness though one may cast about for specific examples.

And the bad times. They come like startling punches to the gut amid the good moments. So surprising, the shock embeds the details in memory.

Some days we get up, look outside at the gorgeousness of the day. And we feel filled with joy and delight. But what particular sunny day do you recall? How many? But the storms amid them? The horrific storms we remember, blow by blow.

The good becomes ubiquitous. The bad embeds in space and time.

The good does not diminish but persists even though we cannot point to it.

And the bad can fade, unless it is refreshed. Unless the storms come again, and again. Punched too often, one becomes sore and shy.

It doesn’t minimize the goodness at all. But our memory treats them differently. Joy and trauma do not process the same way. Pleasure and pain are not remembered alike.

 
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Posted by on March 2, 2013 in philosophy, psychology

 

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When I held You

The moment I held you,
nested with your body,
wed thigh to thigh,
belly to back,
breath to your neck.
The moment I held you
The sigh, the sleep
my hand rising and falling
with each of your breaths,
you, my inspiration.
The moment I held you
when your body let go,
when your soul, let loose,
held to mine, soul to soul,
and I could no longer tell
whose soul belonged to who.
The moment I held you
when the distance disappeared,
when separation ceased,
when all became you and me
became we and naught else existed
but us and still you are all with which
I am filled.

 
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Posted by on February 22, 2013 in philosophy, Poetry, Uncategorized

 

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Recognizing Kali in a Young Girl

This is the first poem of mine I had ever heard read aloud. I had wondered about my poetry, whether it was any good or not. Whether it was worthy of publication in any way.  I had been reading the works of my favorite poets, Piercy and Ciardi and Millay, wondering if I would ever like my own work as much. No, I was sure. No.

One late night, after a campfire and dinner with friends, driving from Jonesville back home to Gainesville, Florida, the radio on a local station, we listened to a show with a variety of music and poetry and prose. A poem came on, introduced not at all, without a title, and I listened, mind fixed solidly on the words and rhythm. This, this, I said to Lee, this is what I wish my work sounded like. I wish I could write like this.

A stanza or two in, I said this. Lee elbowed me, said, “but,” and I asked her to let me finish listening to it first. She elbowed me again and said, “That IS your poem.” I believe this was followed by an eye-roll.  And, yes, indeed, it was.

And it was as I wanted it to sound. Said what I wanted a poem to say. I had written something I would want to listen to.

And there went my excuses.

Recognizing Kali in a Young Girl

Sitting here by the side of a two-lane
watching no cars go by
and steam rise in plumes
from the gaping hood of my automobile,
my daughter and I on this lonely shoulder
sitting, waiting for help.
Waiting for assistance.

Standing to stare into the engine
in a testosterone ritual predating cars
and trucks and carriages,
carts and wheels,
I imagine an early progenitor of my gender
staring intently into the mouth of a horse
checking teeth, gums, breath,
looking at the legs and feeling he wanted to kick something
but having no tires available
grabbed the beast’s cannon bone with a sturdy hand,
checking for splints.

Bubbling and boiling,
maybe this car will never move again
and I’ll have no reason to sit within its space
confined with hope of forced conversation with the little girl
too old to want to talk with her father
and too innocent to know why.

Turning away from the beast
I look to the field:
wildflowers blooming
tall, short, colored like air and sun,
water and earth, dancing in the wind
with my daughter, swaying and swirling
with my daughter.

The old rabbis have said,
or so the Hassidic recount,
not a blade of grass grows,
not a leaf falls
that an angel does not make it so.
Classes of angels,
Cherubim, Seraphim,
cloud angels and insect angels,
grass angels and tree angels.
Angels, then, for sunlight and rain
and for home cooking and pizza joints.
Angels for taxes and funerals and sex.
Angels for car engines.
Angels for little girls.

And there she is,
crouching among the blooms,
picking iris and narcissus.
Harvesting angels.

(This poem, along with many others, can be found in various anthologies as well as my own book, The Phoenix and the Dragon: Poems from the Alchemical Transformation (Smithcraft Press), available, along with my other books, Tellstones: Runic Divination in the Welsh Tradition, and Bud the Spud, at your local bookstore, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and elsewhere, for you reading needs, whether you like to hold books in your hands or read them on tablets or phones of Kindles or Nooks or, goodness gracious – so many options.  You can find my author profile on Amazon and please find me as well at GoodReads.)

 
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Posted by on February 7, 2013 in Culture, Family, Poetry, Religion, Social

 

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A Rejection Letter

Hi, Mr. T____,

I have read through about half of the script for T_____ T_____ o_ M_____ a__ M_____.  I had thought, from your description, and from the first thirteen pages of your graphic novel, that it was tales. As in multiple. Perhaps it branches off into related tales. As a structure, that is something I could appreciate.

The second story, as a separate entity, is really a second chapter, seemingly, of the first (perhaps only) story. Not so much Tales of the Crypt meets Tarantino, as you had described it, but as as as… and there is where words fail me. Because I generally don’t watch horror films or films with dismemberment or films where there is stark, continuous, senseless brutality.

The second chapter, the elements of necrophilia, the cocaine use coupled with sex and violence toward women, left me, and you can call me sensitive if you like, really unable to read further. I stopped reading as the cop was contemplating having sex with the headless corpse, and had trouble even getting that far.

Controversial material, we can handle. Material of a sexual nature is no problem. But try as I might, I could not find any redeeming qualities to this. So, as far as promotion, I don’t know what on Earth we’d do because I could not suggest anyone read this. If I found this in my daughter’s room, I’d wonder what was wrong with her. If I found this in my son’s room, I’m ask him to seek help. If I published this, I think they’d ask me to seek counseling. In other words, I can’t stand behind the work as having value and, hence, they’d wonder what happened to my integrity. Or if I had a stroke.

I can suggest finding a specialty publisher. Perhaps there is one that specializes in snuff comics. Or Lulu.com, where you pay a fee to publish and it is at least out there for anyone who wishes to look for this sort of material. Then, you can find where those folks read, forums maybe, bus stations, or back alleys, and post about your book. Perhaps places that have posters of Anton LaVey. By the way, LaVey’s last words were, “What have I done, there is something very wrong”

I do want to point out that your dialogue is realistic. You seem to have a handle on how people talk to, and sometimes, at or parallel to each other. I can really hear it in the panels where the cop is snorting cocaine off the naked girl’s ass, slapping her in the head each time she tries to turn over. At least, I imagine that is what the dialogue would sound like. Since I have never imagined that before, I’ll have to take your word for it.

If you do any different material, I’d be more than happy to look at it.

Adam

Adam Byrn Tritt, MEd, LMT, CHt, MSU, Mensch-in-Chief for Smithcraft Press

 
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Posted by on November 30, 2012 in Books, psychology, Social, Writing

 

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(Im)perfection

There are no scars I can see,
but we know they are there.
The flesh is warm and
tender though beneath
it feels different
than I would have imagined,
I suppose.

Years before
at a youth conference
I was a mentor for the teens
and my partner in class
was a young
lady of forty,
I suppose.
Margot had a close crop of hair
and we talked about imperfections
as we sat on the floor,
she on one side
I on the other
in a circle of kids
all there because they didn’t belong
and so was I.
Margot’s turn came
and she reached into her shirt,
pulled out her left breast and
threw it to me.

Dear Margot,
this is not a normal introduction
is what I said
and the kids laughed
the shock away
as I squeezed lightly
the translucent bag,
jostled it between my fingers
making a mental comparison
which could be seen on my face,
I suppose,
and the kids laughed
as I passed the breast to the left.

Dear Margot,
may I compare
is what I asked
and she said yes, with a smile
I walked the few feet as
she pulled her bra out from her sleeve,
I squeezed lightly
and jostled it between my fingers
making a mental comparison
which could be seen on my face,
I suppose,
and the kids laughed
while passing the breast to the left.

I wouldn’t have imagined,
I suppose,
anything,
because being here
with you, in this way,
feels normal, fine and right,
but who could have seen it coming
as I squeeze lightly,
jostling them between my fingers,
making no mental comparison,
which you can see on my face,
I suppose,
until I kiss your warm flesh
and my face disappears.

 
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Posted by on October 15, 2012 in Culture, Poetry, Social

 

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I want You to fill Me

I want you to fill me.

It is not that I am empty,
but I want you to fill me
so that our essence
is of the same truth
and our eyes
of the same vision
and our hearts
feel of the same blood.

I want to have my eyes filled
with your soul
and my ears filled
by your music
and my hands filled
with all the stars have lent
to be your body
and my mouth filled
with your sweetness,
able to speak only
your name.

 
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Posted by on October 8, 2012 in Poetry, Writing

 

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I Drown

World-weary Angel
ill of this earth
(full) of l(i)o(f)ve
and l(i)oving
in the moment
as the need
taking every hit
this world has
and still open
Angel with your
(he)art and wiles
designed for
dreams and
intoxication and
how do you do it
Angel? Melt the
soul of one
who needs melting
heal the
spirit of one
who needs healing
whole (s)he
who is broken
throw the life preserver
even as you sink
and smile and know
for love
to drown is joy.

I drown in love
Angel and I
live.

 
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Posted by on August 27, 2012 in Poetry, Uncategorized

 

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