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Posts Tagged ‘space’

Inner Mars


 
 
I want to travel the desolate lands of the heart,
enter red places where nothing else grows,
where there is nowhere for either of us to hide,
some vast, unmapped space where we cannot
know what we will do next. There are canyons there
forged by currents of tears so old we no longer
remember their source. We could walk
to the canyon’s edges, stand at the cliffs,
drop our names and stories into the abyss.
What would be left of us to watch the sun setting
beyond the horizon, the sky changing from red
to blue before the irregular moons begin to rise,
one quick and bright, the other ghostly and slow?
In the midst of such barrenness, would we finally
trust just how lush, how exotic, how feral and fecund
this chance we’ve been given to be alive, to love?
   

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There is this hour when my mother
and daughter and I are side by side
shaping soft red dough into tiny balls 
to add to the green spritz wreaths;
the kitchen smells of almond
and butter, and there are carols
on the stereo and it’s going to snow.
Yes, I know there are thousands 
of imperfect moments, 
but there is also this moment 
when I find myself smiling
in a small kitchen in a narrow river valley
in a vast mountain range on a large continent
on a smallish planet in one galaxy among 
the hundreds of billions that somehow 
all belong to a universe that’s expanding faster 
than we think it should—
and as I hum along to a medieval hymn 
about how a rose is blooming,
my heart scoured, my heart full,
how is it I, too, am a chord unfolding from minor
to major amid the cold of winter?
How is it I am a rose blooming bright, 
faster than I think I should, 
this dark season strangely blessed?
 

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One Potential

as the self expands
through deep space, deep space expands
to fit in the self

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Grand Scale




Today I am grateful to remember I’m small—
a woman who lives in a deep river canyon
surrounded by fourteen-thousand foot peaks
in state the size of New Zealand
in the fourth largest country on Earth
on the fifth largest planet in our solar system
which has a radius of three billion miles
in a galaxy one hundred thousand light years in diameter
in an observable universe of ninety-three billion light years.
I sit at the end of the deep river canyon
and look at my two cupped hands.
What I can carry is so small.
What carries me is so great.
I offer it my grief.
For a moment, I am weightless.

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Strange Teaching

Sometimes when I forget to think
I feel in me eternity, feel big bang
and black hole and spiraling galaxy.
Feel myself as arc of swallow,
bend of river, canyon depth,
feel myself as wind, as branch,
as scent of evergreen,
as slowly spinning earth.
In those moments,
I feel the everything I am
and the everything I’m not—
a self so whole it is lost.
No me, no you, no other,
no here, no there, no when,
no need to name, no need
to understand, no need
to state things just so.
The quietest of teachings:
the erasing of the one
who wants to know.

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The Inconceivable

Nothing can separate us from love.
There is no way to know this
without paying a cost so great
some part of us longs to bargain
with the universe and trade back
the priceless truth. But part of us—
the part that cannot be named,
the part that wakes at dawn,
the part that sings in the darkness,
the part that wades in the infinite—
it’s not so much that this part says yes,
more that it simply expands with the truth,
much as the universe itself expands
due to a dark, mysterious energy.
Any scientist will tell you,
empty space is not nothing.
We who grieve learn
to hold that empty space
and know it as love.
I know, it’s inconceivable.
We feel how it holds us, too.


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for “the lucky buyer” who “went home with a certificate of authenticity” for an “immaterial sculpture” by Salvatore Garau


What could be more valuable
than nothing? The nothing that
frames “The Thinker,” the nothing
that holds every bowl,
every vase, every bust, every thought.
Let others buy the clay, the steel,
the papier-mâché. I will be satisfied
with nothing more than nothing.
Nothing pleases me. Nothing
enchants me. Nothing,
as Heisenberg says,
has a weight. Just think
of the space here beside me
where you are not.
If someone asks me why
I have a five-by-five-foot
empty space taped off in my home
with a plaque that says I Am,
it is because I am so in love
with nothing. Imagine it—
nothing, the color of happiness,
nothing, the size of love,
nothing, the shape of god.

This poem was published in Rattle’s Poet’s Respond on June 13, 2021

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In Orbit


 
 
Count the one beautiful blue and green planet.
Count it again.
Say “home,” then marvel at the taste of tears.
Notice how no borders matter from here.
Remember how important they feel
when standing on a border. Once
you dreamt of being alone. Of being
far away from parking lots and grocery store lines
and men with guns and violent conviction.
Now you dream of touching someone else,
of breathing in the scent of garden dirt,
of hearing a voice without static, of lying down
in a bed, held by your own sweet gravity.
What you would do to taste a tree-ripened peach.
Give up on counting stars. Draw lines between them,
creating your own constellations:
The open hand. The river gorge. The crooked evergreen.
A semi-automatic rifle, which you re-constellate
into a small bouquet of lilies. Consider forgiveness.
Wonder how long it will take before it feels authentic.
Circling has taught you how things come around.
Remember? There was a time you didn’t think
you knew how to pray.
 

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asked to rate my satisfaction

from one to five stars—

trying to submit the milky way

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It smacks me, sometimes,

how connected we are—

though we draw boundaries,

build walls, fight wars,

call names, and kill. All it takes

is a photo of earth from space

and I’m stunned again,

how much we are in this together.

And though we’d rather not know it,

every choice we make

affects everyone, everything else.

Perhaps this is why I weep

when the woman I’ve barely met

embroiders me a sweater

with a word she knows I’ll love

and then brings it to my home.  

Because it’s proof of kindness,

a confirmation that beauty

not only exists, it will lead us to each other.

How easily two strangers

might become friends.

It can happen anywhere

on this small blue and green planet—

anywhere two people co-exist,

the invitation to be generous,

thoughtful, to think of new ways

to be good to each other.

Each kindness a bridge that spans

the world’s flaws. Each moment,

another chance to build another bridge.

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Not that I want to be someone else,

just that I want to be less myself,

 

which is to say less the woman

who thinks she knows anything

 

about anything—gardening or writing

or skiing or parenting or loving—

 

I want to be less who I am and

more what a tree is, what a star is,

 

protons fused with other protons,

and the strong force that holds

 

particles together in the center of atoms,

and the weak force that breaks the atoms down,

 

and the electromagnetic force that binds

all molecules. Yes, this is how I want to meet you,

 

without a name, unencumbered by a me,

a collection of atoms and forces that rhyme

 

with you, linked as we are from the very beginning.

How easy it is then to say hello, to fall in love

 

with each other, the world.

 

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You are not a passive observer in the cosmos. The entire universe is expressing itself through you at this very minute.

—Deepak Chopra

 

 

Even as she made the cauliflower soup,

she was a deep space explorer.

No one else in the room seemed to notice

 

she was floating. No one noticed

how gravity had no hold on her.

No, they only saw she was chopping onions,

 

noticed how the act made her cry. How was it

did they not hear her laughter, astonished

as she was by her own weightlessness,

 

by the way she could move in any direction?

Perhaps the novelty explains why

she forgot to turn off the stove,

 

untethered as she was to anything.

It’s a miracle she sat at the dinner table at all,

what, with the awareness that she was surrounded

 

by planets, spiral galaxies, black holes, moons. Yes,

miracle, she thought as she tasted the soup,

and noticed deep space not just around,

 

but inside her: supernovae, constellations,

interstellar dust,

the glorious, immeasurable dark.

 

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Perhaps one day they will find the way

to take all the empty space out of our atoms—

condense us to our essence. Then

the whole of the human race would fit

inside a sugar cube. It would serve us right,

expansive buggers that we are, we who stamp

our atoms all over the earth, we who now

leave our footprints in space.

Like our electrons, we exist too many

places at once. Or, perhaps one day,

we’ll learn to embrace all that space within us,

and instead of plundering, conquering, developing out,

we’ll go in, travel in, enter grace.

 

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Hi friends,

 

the poem from a few days ago about the Voyager 2 leaving our heliosphere, “By the Numbers,” was accepted last night by Rattle.com for their series Poets Respond, poems about the news. Here is a link to the text and audio!

 

By the Numbers, Rattle

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By the Numbers

 

 

 

Two hundred ninety million.

That’s how many dollars Monsanto

was ordered to pay the dying man

 

when the company failed to warn him

about how the poison they made

to kill weeds would also kill him.

 

Two hundred ninety million.

That’s how many miles

the Voyager 2 moves away

 

from the earth every year. And though

it was made to do so—to travel

past our sun’s magnetic field—who

 

could blame it for moving away

from this dying planet at

thirty-four thousand one hundred ninety-one

 

miles per hour. If that number were dollars

today, it would be equivalent to eight thousand dollars

in 1977 when the Voyager 2 was launched.

 

And eight thousand, that’s how many sacred

elephants there were on the banks

of the Six Tusker Lake in the Himalaya,

 

elephants who flew in the air, and sages say

the Buddha himself was once born as son

to the chief of these eight thousand elephants.

 

Yes, sacred and magical things happen here

on the earth, despite the greed,

despite the poison. I was seven

 

when the Voyager 2 left, and since then

it’s travelled eighteen and a half billion miles.

If those miles were pounds,

 

that would equal more than a million

large African elephants, though in all of Africa,

there are only four hundred fifteen thousand

 

elephants left, down from five million

just a hundred years ago. What I am saying

is that as the Voyager 2 enters interstellar space

 

things are strange here on Earth, and we seem

hellbent on our own destruction, but I

am so grateful to be here, still. Even as

 

the Voyager 2 hurtles beyond the heliosphere,

I find myself still falling in love

with the twenty-seven thousand three hundred seventy-five

 

days I have to live,

and the earth’s twelve thousand

species of grass, and the five thousand stars

 

visible to the naked eye and the two hundred six

bones in the body, all of them working to help

us run toward beauty, yes, grateful

 

for two hands to hold one beloved face

and, amidst all this enormity, the absolute absence

of sufficient words to say how holy, how incalculable is love,

 

and how marvelous, really, to stare up

into the familiar night sky and imagine

all boundaries we’re just beginning to cross.

 

 

 

check it out:

https://www.npr.org/2018/12/10/675324587/voyager-2-bids-adieu-to-the-heliosphere-entering-interstellar-space

 

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Permanent

 

 

 

In the corner of the closet

in permanent marker

I wrote in small letters

“this room belongs

to Rosemerry Wahtola

forever and ever, no matter

who else lives here.”

 

The room had been built

for me in the basement

by my father, and I loved

its orange carpet, its

subterranean dark,

the way I could close

the door and be entirely alone.

 

The room was not mine,

no more than the mountains

are mine, these mountains

I love for their openness,

their long trails, their cliffs,

their secret glades.

 

No, it is always we

who belong to the spaces

that hold us, though

they change, they mark us

invisibly, they write

on our inner walls,

as if to say you are mine,

child, forever.

 

 

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When I Drop the Stubbornness

All day I practice
noticing the space

between us, feeling
the subtle tugs, the

repulsions, the charge,
the release. Sometimes

I forget to let it happen,
try to force a nearness or

a solitude. That is when
I can feel it, how real

the space is, almost as if
you are one and I am another

and the space between us
is a third. I have noticed

that when you and I,
at the same time, allow

ourselves to lean—
is that the right word?—

perhaps it is more that we
open to that space,

then I notice how easy it is
to be for each other

as the water is for the moon,
holding entirely without

holding at all, not changing
and utterly transformed.

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While Not Sleeping

All night the river
touched my body,
not with its long dark
tongues of chill but with
its thousand thousand
thousand audible waves
all lapping without stopping
rearranging me. Perhaps it
is always this way. Perhaps
we are always being
changed, only we are too busy
to notice it. In the morning mirror
I looked the same, but I knew
different. Perhaps you
have felt it, too, this
absence moving through,
the space it leaves
in its wake.

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She says, How are you?

And there is no right way

to answer this. Tell her, Fine,

and she can smile and you

 

can smile and move on

to the business at hand.

Or tell her, Oh, you know,

and shrug, and then ask

 

about her day. There are

waterfalls inside you,

steep icy roads, sirens,

tall golden grass as far

 

as the eye can see,

and for every moment

that you might mention

to her—when he did this or they

 

said that, or you knew

whatever it was that you knew—

there is all the space

between those moments,

 

that space perhaps even

more important than

anything that happened.

How you felt the world

 

dissolve before it returned.

How everything spills,

ravels, pours out. It’s truer

than anything else you know.

 

But how do you say this?

So you say, Fine. Or you don’t.

You say, well, there’s no way

to say what you will say.

 

So you open your mouth,

wondering if a black bird

or a beetle or a little lie

or your heart might fly out.

 

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balanced on a twig—
two blue dragonflies and
all that space between them

*

the story, calloused
and gnarled, inside it
red leaping blood

*

picking up the moon
like a telephone to dial
your number, of course

*

contemplating
dessert for
the Armageddon

*

opening a can
of worms to find
rose petals

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