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Come with me into the expansive gift of poetry to experience a disruption of habitual ways of thinking and perceiving. The magic of poetry happens when it is spoken, heard and felt as vibrations in your body.

In this blog I offer you heartfelt, homemade recordings of some of my favorite poems. I invite you also to spend time with their pulsing vibrations and pregnant pauses, to savor the luscious sensual syllables on your tongue, and to feel the subtle changes in your being as you play with the poems.

Listen, read and then slowly speak them out loud. The medicine of poetry will endlessly surprise and delight you as a portal into your own wild multidimensionality!

Sign up to receive poems weekly

Book of Hours, II 1

1/24/2021

 
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Photograph by Dave Hoefler.


You are not surprised at the force of the storm--
you have seen it growing.
The trees flee. Their flight
sets the boulevards streaming. And you know:
he whom they flee is the one
you move toward. All your senses
sing him, as you stand at the window.

The weeks stood still in summer.
The trees' blood rose. Now you feel
it wants to sink back
into the source of everything. You thought
you could trust that power
when you plucked the fruit:
now it becomes a riddle again
and you again a stranger.

Summer was like your house: you know
where each thing stood.
Now you must go out into your heart
as onto a vast plain. Now
the immense loneliness begins.

The days go numb, the wind
sucks the world from your senses like withered leaves.

Through the empty branches the sky remains.
It is what you have.
Be earth now, and evensong.
Be the ground lying under that sky.
Be modest now, like a thing
ripened until it is real,
so that he who began it all
can feel you when he reaches for you.

-Rainer Maria Rilke, translation by Joanna Macy

The World Began with Yes

1/3/2021

 
Picture
Trinity Seay, "First Breath"
​
One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born
.
- Clarice Lispector

It was always yes, si, da, ja
the sibilant sound of assent,
the slippery tongue in the mouth 
of the lover, the da dawning,
the ya yelling,
the si, si, si, sugary & sweet
between jagged teeth.

It was always yes,
come in, welcome, eat me,
merge with me, love,
let’s join to make another 
little bubble of us 
who will seem like us combined 
but turn out to be another.

It was always lust 
not to be lonely,
lust for the apple, the pomegranate,
fruit of desire,
dense on the tongue,
making another you,
another me.

Oh love, eat me, I am yours,
fill my emptiness with joy,
with yes, da, si, si, si
let us begin that way
to make a new universe,
soulful, sad, silly,
& full of seas,
seas that are salty 
& full of the stuff of life,
me, you, every wriggling creature
we can & can’t name
with alphabets as of yet unknown,
with letters that twist & turn 
& try to escape the page, the scroll, the rock,
life beginning again
with only a word 
of affirmation--yes!
Let it begin 
& Be.

    -Erica Jong

The Dream in the Garden

12/6/2020

 
Huge thanks to Wild Words' first
guest poet, reader and artist!
Francesca Preston
​www.francescapreston.com
Picture
clothespins in elderberry ink
print by Francesca Preston


if music is the sound of fingertips 
hitting a jug 
in which someone once 
carried water

mother 
what purpose 
in my growing beyond
your dream of my birth?

many times i’ve watched you 
have it, the dream in the garden 
where i emerge:

an old wooden clothespin 
with cornsilk hair

you clip me to your breast then, 
as if to jumpstart it

and after    throw me away 
for a reason i have not yet figured out

mother i was born with a body 
thickly settled, dense 
as a pomegranate

not a fruit steeped in the syrup 
it will taste of

i was already hard 
with the things 
i had selected for myself

inside you i was 
choosing and discarding
without lifting
a finger, i was 

like the girl
in the department 
store, deciding what 
to steal
​

    - Francesca Preston

​perhaps you'd like to join Francesca for a new year of making & feeling under unusual circumstances...January Jam! every third day of the month of January, containing poetic reflection, invitations to stretch the deep-seeing mind, & the opportunity to receive while winter hibernating. a fee of $25 includes an optional mini-consult on a 2021 project of your choosing. for more information contact Francesca via her website at www.francescapreston.com

Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude (excerpt)

11/22/2020

 
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Flinging open my heart’s gaudy maw,
Bodega Headlands, California


...thank you zinnia, and gooseberry, rudbeckia
and pawpaw, Ashmead’s kernel, cockscomb
and scarlet runner, feverfew and lemonbalm;
thank you knitbone and sweetgrass and sunchoke
and false indigo whose petals stammered apart
by bumblebees good lord please give me a minute...
and moonglow and catkin and crookneck
and painted tongue and seedpod and johnny jump-up;
thank you what in us rackets glad
what gladrackets us;

and thank you, too, this knuckleheaded heart, this pelican heart,
this gap-toothed heart flinging open its gaudy maw
to the sky, oh clumsy, oh bumblefucked,
oh giddy, oh dumbstruck,
oh rickshaw, oh goat twisting
its head at me from my peach tree’s highest branch,
balanced impossibly gobbling the last fruit,
its tongue working like an engine,
a lone sweet drop tumbling by some miracle
into my mouth like the smell of someone I’ve loved;

....and thank you the way my father one time came back in a dream
by plucking the two cables beneath my chin
like a bass fiddle’s strings
and played me until I woke singing,
no kidding, singing, smiling,
thank you, thank you,

...and you, again you, for hanging tight, dear friend.
I know I can be long-winded sometimes.
I want so badly to rub the sponge of gratitude
over every last thing, including you, which, yes, awkward,
the suds in your ear and armpit, the little sparkling gems
slipping into your eye. Soon it will be over,

which is precisely what the child in my dream said,
holding my hand, pointing at the roiling sea and the sky
hurtling our way like so many buffalo,
who said it’s much worse than we think,
and sooner; to whom I said
no duh child in my dreams, what do you think
this singing and shuddering is,
what this screaming and reaching and dancing
and crying is, other than loving
what every second goes away?
Goodbye, I mean to say.
And thank you. Every day.

    - Ross Gay

From Blossoms

8/16/2020

 
Picture
www.komar.org

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

    - Li-Young Lee

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  • Home
  • Wild Words Poetry Blog
  • Ecos de la Marea
  • About
    • About Pam
    • Spiritual Midwifery
    • Client Experiences
  • Services
    • The Emotion Code & The Body Code
    • Biodynamic Craniosacral Therapy
    • Quantum Touch
    • Reconnective Healing
    • Death Midwifery & Home Funeral Guide
    • Animal Healing
  • Events
    • Trips & Retreats
    • Workshops
    • Ceremonies
    • Four Petal Gathering
  • Hours & Fees
  • Contact