Descended from dragons

 

Cuenco

I 

Cuenco pleno cuenco vacío 

cuenco en círculo

cuenco circulando 

cuenco dando vueltas y rodando

cuencos redondos rodando

impulsados de la fuente misma

impulsados por las ondulaciones

del río de la vida que juega ondulando 

en hondas ululaciones silenciosas 

del mar profundo

visto desde la piel de la existencia

el mar visto desde los destellos 

que chispean 

en el velo de sus aguas ancestrales

el mar que nos da vida

el mar del gran útero 

matriz que da 

de generación en generación 

generosamente generativa 

generando nuevas danzas

que surgen desde el fondo

en una cascada eterna

que aparece y desaparece

como todas la formas 

las constelaciones de la materia—

roca mariposa árbol—

siempre cambiante




II

Siempre cambiante

en tiempos paralelos

las rocas las mariposas

las nubes los mares

vuelven a nacer

perdiéndose a quienes a eran.




                      —Lorena Wolfman

Descended from dragons

Bird in the window greeting me. Fluttering of wings again and again alighting on the blade of a yucca tree, fluttering close to the prism in the window.  The chillón, a small gorrión, or sparrow, comes into the field of the effect of my struggle to free my wings, newly hatched from the dragon's egg.  This amniotic, this liquid, so turgid, so sticky, so adherently strong, would keep my wings down, sealed to my body, my side, but instinctively I follow the pull through the pain and rigor to free my wings—I have come a long way already from crouching and cringing and turning away in deep contraction, not knowing who I was, only shame. I have turned away,  to allow the contraction, and the deep growl errupting from my throat, to growl, to growl, to growl allowed the first taste of exquisite delicate freedom to arise with the heat expanding through my chest, arms, into my hands... this chillón gorrión sparrow recognized my plight, she too is a descendent of dragons, and has come to show me the next step—flight, as she flits, flits, flits back and forth, lighter than air, at the window, coming up ot the glass,  again and again, as I begin to raise my wings, and discover my spine.

Bird in the window

Bird in the window greeting me. Fluttering of wings again and again alighting on the blade of a yucca tree, fluttering close to the prism in the window.  The chillón, a small gorrión, or sparrow, comes into the field of the effect of my struggle to free my wings, newly hatched from the dragon's egg.  This amniotic, this liquid, so turgid, so sticky, so adherently strong, would keep my wings down, sealed to my body, my side, but instinctively I follow the pull through the pain and rigor to free my wings—I have come a long way already from crouching and cringing and turning away in deep contraction, not knowing who I was, only shame. I have turned away,  to allow the contraction, and the deep growl errupting from my throat, to growl, to growl, to growl allowed the first taste of exquisite delicate freedom to arise with the heat expanding through my chest, arms, into my hands... this chillón gorrión sparrow recognized my plight, she too is a descendent of dragons, and has come to show me the next step—flight, as she flits, flits, flits back and forth, lighter than air, at the window, coming up ot the glass,  again and again, as I begin to raise my wings, and discover my spine.

Exiles and migrations

                                  — For Barbara 

Exiles and migrations, 

among us all the cover story, 

what could not be said,

what was said instead, 

while what was true was sent to basement, 

we have been shamed for our origin 

as dragons, eagles, swans, 

oxen, wolves and horses, 

speaking in tongues of the heart... 

from the depths 

emerging from our thoats 

I hear a deep, deep growl, 

from where we do remember...

—Lorena

 

Voicing I

 

Butterfly out of the mists of time

Dividing once and again and again...

Two gametes in time 

and out of time

beyond the reach

of who we thought we were

Two gametes meeting

in a zygote playing 

here within us,

as us

having become one

only to divide again and again and again...

from beyond the mists of time

memory made flesh

inhabiting us

as the swing of our hips

the glint in our eyes

our own palette of love, laughter and tragedy colored

with a timeless symphony paint....

It's as though the dance

of life from womb to womb

keeps birthing out of itself

with barely a notion 

of home ownership...

"Mi casa es su casa... y la suya y la suya y la suya"

"My home is your home... and yours and yours and yours"

Just as your home is my home...

Como su casa es mi casa...

Y la brisa que se despega de mis brazos cuando bailo 

es al brisa de mil mariposas...

—Lorena Wolfman

Morning walk

I receive this blessing

softly before the sun rises

an orange yellow pink glow

on the eastern horizon

sillouetting a sacred mesa'd mountain

nested between jagged peaks

I receive this softening this opening 

this joy this blessing

as the earth begins 

its tilt towards the sun

this short november day like a jewel

as I walk backwards to face east

the earth tilting steadily towards day

drawn in its magnetic gyre to the light

I continue walking westward

the sun warming my back

my shadow cast on the earth

a darkened rocky limestone figure 

mirrors my every step

it is Inanna's shadow

she is walking with me

"I am walking on the earth again

I have returned"

she rejoices as two birds

side by side in unison

fly in across her shadow.

My hands rise of their own volition

drawn upward into the centrifugal vortex of early light

the fiery star ball 

fills the air with radiance

my upraised palms cupped to receive

the blessing of this day.




—Lorena 11/11/2020

Cuaderno 2020 #4

Winged Iguana

 

Blessing the spacious pregnant pause

Blessing the grief and the wet tears

that stream liquid rivers of returning

that stream liquid rivers of returning

Returning to the water’s edges

pressing my winged green iguana front limbs

deeply into the sand

wings spreading as my front legs press down into the earth

my form held safe in the contact

strong     firm     flesh

and raising my reptilian nostrils to the morning air

raising 

my reptilian

nostrils

to the morning air

My reptilian faceted skull moving 

a whole map of continents

a whole universe of faceted bone

Encountering

Encountering

each tectonic plate encountering the morning

continents brushing against other continents

submerged forms emerging

My skull illuminated by the sun

the crescent moon skull moon

illuminated on the right

and the the left hemisphere resting

silently in darkness

waiting

dreaming of a summer night

crickets humming

gently in unison

—Lorena Wolfman 8/11/2020

Hear the sound of creation

            —for grace

My right ear stumbles to hear,

to hear the world,

it hears another song,

of the sea foam

bursting

of crickets on a moonless night

of a lost signal on the dark ocean

of invisble errant light

of mystery in its own key

descending through my vocal chords

to nest in my heart

waiting for the morning star

to arise from the depths

of the sacrum

Hear the heart of creation!

Its belly plays deep chords

deep chords deep chords…

in my own heart,

hearth of love

Hear. Hear. Hear the sound of creation!

ecoutez plus encore

et de nouveau

et de nouveau

la chanson du mystère

la chanson du mystère

                    —Lorena