PART 2
terrie yaffe she/her/hers (Seattle)
Mayo 1 del 2020 (práctica CDP desde invitación de Andrea Fernandez) Quien soy hoy en los contornos de mi piel. Me observo de adentro hacia afuera y viceversa El viento es cuerpo. Presencia Los sonidos son la sustancia entre lo que veo y lo que siento La conciencia a la distancia me ayuda a contemplar Danza contemplativa Who I am today in the contours of my skin I look at myself from the inside out and vice versa. The wind is body .Presence. Sounds are the substance between what I see and what I feel Awareness at a distance helps me to contemplate Contemplative dance |
Trust Trust me, Trust me! I am learning to trust So you can trust me Trust me. I am practicing falling forward So you can fall back I am learning to trust me So you can trust me. Test me, tug me, tug on me, push me I am ready to be pushed around beat up and bruised inside and out So you can test me Test me, trust me I am ready to trust me So you can trust me. Outside, big gray clouds cover the pale blue sky Inside, someone is under a dozen pillows A crater near the street is filling up with tiny rocks, The lady who lingers on the corner is complaining of a UTI The wind takes hold of my meddling mind. The space I crave, believe is needed by me is across the street and up some stairs out on the deck in another person’s home Neighbors I don’t know yet reveal their battling protest signs from different sides of the street. Defund the SPD; Love the police Turning away, leaning slowly into the wooden post, I start falling forward I was afraid to fall Trust me I was afraid. July 24, Seattle blind contour drawings late spring 2020 |
K.J. Holmes
Lenape land (Brooklyn)
how does blue become purple
Stained cuffs
the mortal rhythm
Swaddled in hindsight
morphing into star light
Strange heights
and lowly prisoners
rapping on walls
tapping out calls
Shrieking purple passions from blue
How did blue become purple a sense of lost purpose Perhaps the precedent
for a view of an ocean
or a sound
or a city street, her bed a jungle, her
room holding heat
Swaddled in tomorrow eyes peak
and toss their manes
April 17, 2020
Stained cuffs
the mortal rhythm
Swaddled in hindsight
morphing into star light
Strange heights
and lowly prisoners
rapping on walls
tapping out calls
Shrieking purple passions from blue
How did blue become purple a sense of lost purpose Perhaps the precedent
for a view of an ocean
or a sound
or a city street, her bed a jungle, her
room holding heat
Swaddled in tomorrow eyes peak
and toss their manes
April 17, 2020
Kristen Tsiatsios Vashon Island
Friday, March 27
Day 10: mandatory quarantine on Beacon Hill after arrival from Spain
When desires filled like empty cups
spill over edges onto tables
as if, the start of shabbat
holy day of resting.
As if, it’s the time of bounty and blessings
dripping like melted ice cream
down the side of the cone,
your tongue heroically
catching its messiness
and taking it in.
To live as if
death were nowhere
off in the distance.
To take what we love inside*
and carry it,
precious gems of our lives,
catching light and attention equally.
Exhuberant ruby, sapphire, emerald, coral, magenta,
swirling as royalty
unabashedly proud and waltzing
galloping, prancing, parading, twirling,
even, tip toeing
ever eager for the perfect angles to capture your eye.
In this cup runneth over dance,
did you fulfill a desire
or melt into desire of someone else?
Merging while dissolving ego?
Celebrating interdependence from afar.
How distant your toe became when I reached for it.
How vacant my forehead felt when I tried to press against yours.
Did you feel me leaning into you for support?
Did you feel the big emotions
parading about this empty home
in search of someone to listen?
An eager ear open to hearing our sordid tale full of grace, epicness, and crystalline blue lightening skyness.
Not a single cloud except in this mind.
The gloomy treacherous storm clouds have passed, I assume they’ll return someday.
For now, clarity in the high c prayer,
clarity of intention,
clarity high mountain lake water,
clarity sings the bowl,
clarity. Now.
*Li-Young Lee paraphrasing
~~~~
April 3
It’s not Emily Dickinson.
It’s the clamoring cathedral bells of epiphany
inside the closet as played by four plastic hangers.
It’s the white doves flying around the gilded majestic dome and the long, old, white beard of the high priest.
It’s his incense swinging below a crotch cleansing the impurities
ringing out what is no longer necessary, ringing in the new.
Can you hear the bells?
The songbirds?
The cries of a lonely woman inside her apartment perfectly adorned with what she loves?
She made it this way to keep the loneliness at bay.
If I were an artist, I’d paint a portrait of her, sitting alone alongside her couch in her snow white vintage sweater. You’d see vertical lines strongly used to define the space. A full length window frame, a sofa length couch, her hair just so. You’d see light coming through the window and imagine her bony fingers flirting with it, the light, as if a curl on her head rather than vacant rays on a wall. You’d feel the space surrounding her, it’s emptiness, her emptiness perched in the foreground as if desperate to depart.
She wants to leave.
She wants nothing more than to leave.
Her hand on the depression glass door handle ready to twist at a moments notice.
Fear paralyzing her next move.
She stands by the door
desperate to leave
terrified to leave
unable to leave
In her mind, she’s gone, out the window onto the fire escape.
A songbird perched at the edge.
Most of her remains inside,
some of her flies away.
Dodging the floppy willow branches
riding the morning’s gusts as whispers
hands clenching a bottle full of pills, dice,
something, anything to pull her out of…
she hears
Sit tight on the porch a bit longer.
Enjoy the wind as it ruffles your feathers.
Let your tiny talons hang on for dear life so not to disappear in the impending storm.
