Posts Tagged ‘hiding’

           after Gustav Klimt’s “Tragedie
even now beneath
the stony gray mask of control
I feel it growing
a shimmering flower of purest gold
the naked truth

To sign up for the class that inspired this poem (and yesterday’s, too)–it’s not too late!–see below. Though the three-week class began last Friday, you could watch the recording of the first class and join us for the next two sessions. 

Love, Sex, Death and Everything: A Creativity Playshop with Gustav Klimt
Nov. 3, 10, 17, 11a.m. -1 p.m. MST
Three weeks of exploring what lurks in the depths of humanity. Each class consists of a deep Jungian-oriented dive into music and myths behind Klimt’s images led by Kayleen Asbo, interwoven with Rosemerry leading an exploration of mortality, passion, terror and beauty in your own creative writing practice. For more information and to register, visit here.

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There was a time I believed
we need to tell each other who we are
so you can know me, so I can know you.
Now, I see how words, too,
can be like little masks, little disguises
we can use to hide.
I don’t want to hide anymore.
I want to find the most naked words—
words with no ribbons, no sparkle,
no paint—and speak in the barest
of tongues. I want to speak with you
blood to blood, breath to breath,
grief to grief, fear to fear.
I want to know you and be known
by whatever it is that resonates
inside the words—
a raw and vibrant IS, IS, IS
that pulses between us
like a common heartbeat—
the way two living heart cells
from two different people,
when placed together in a petri dish,
will find a shared rhythm
and sustain it. This is how
I want to meet you—
two silences becoming one silence,
two beings, one life.

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Hiding Comes Out

The hiding doesn’t want to hide anymore.
It’s done with shadows and corners and masks.
All it wants is to show up. To step out.
To be seen. There was a time
when everything frightened it, when hiding
was desperate for a veil, a shroud, a disguise.
Hiding doesn’t remember what changed.
It only knows that one day it was no longer content
with holing up. Couldn’t. It no longer fit in its hole.
It wants big sky and meadows and space.
It wants to skip down main street.
Naked. It wants to know itself and be known,
to be as out there as exposé, as confession,
as a kiss on the sidewalk at noon. It wants
headlines. Declarations. Independence.
It knows things might get messy.
That’s why it brought a broom,
but damned if it will wear gloves.
It wants to get all that dirt in its fingernails.
It wants the callouses that come with revelation.

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Ars Poetica




learning to hide

in the open meadow—

it’s not hard

just ask

any blade of grass

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For most life on the planet, being hidden is the default condition.
—Michael Dickinson, biologist

The little girl is not like the hermit crab,
though both live by hiding, finding small
spaces where they can retreat and occasionally
poke out a well-armored claw for transit
or feeding. It’s natural to all living things,
this impulse to survive through concealment,
only this girl, who has tucked herself under the bed,
her soft body curled into itself,
this girl, though she pinches
at anything that draws close,
she desperately, urgently
wants to be found.

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Love Bent the Bars

hiding in this cage
felt so safe until
I began to notice
what else
was hiding in this cage

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She pulled the covers
over her head and hid.

She didn’t really want to hide.
She wanted to be found,

but the only way to be found
is first to be lost.

I find her.

Her body heaves. A little lump, she is.
A little lump that whimpers and longs

to be held, even as it kicks
at whatever warmth comes close.

Oh this terrible loneliness.
It becomes a habit. It is so easy

to see the lie of it
as it ravages someone else.

But this morning
when loneliness rose up in myself

I only pretended I wasn’t hiding.
I’ve learned to wear my covers

on the inside. No one notices. Either that,
or perhaps they’ve learned to pretend

to not see that I am a lump,
a little lump just hoping (or is it dreading)

to be found.

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The truth doesn’t care if I try to hide.
It knows exactly where I am and what
I am doing. It is perhaps like the game

I play while walking downtown
with my daughter. She runs ahead
on the sidewalk, then tucks her body

into a breezeway between buildings.
I pretend I do not see. Vivian? I call.
Vivian? Yooo hoooo. I walk past her,

while looking the other way.
I know that she knows that I know
that she knows that I know where she is.

Here, truth, here I am, I could say. As if I could be
anywhere else. As if I am longing for it to call
out my name so I might run toward it,

my arms open, laughing at the very joy
of being found at last, the joy of knowing
I was never really lost at all.

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with one hand
I wave for you
to see me
with the other
I retie my mask

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