Go into a state of brumation
In the winter.
They bury themselves
Beneath the ground,
Beneath the muck and mire and mud —
Still as slow
Blood flow on near pause.
The rains come,
And the frogs begin to re-awaken
And leave their hibernaculum
To resume their living
And their breathing.
Some of us
Are the mud frogs,
While some of us
Are just the mud.
But there are others
Who are neither;
They are the rain.
The world can be so
Dry as dead bone
Void of moisture
Void of sustenance
Void of the voidless.
But every once in a while,
In the right season,
At the right latitude and longitude,
The rain comes in torrents and sheets,
And the little frogs
Climb and pull their way
Out of their state of
From deep deeper deepest mud.
Without the rain to signal them,
They might brumate indefinitely…
But they have to wake up
*** Inspired by “Stargirl” by Jerry Spinelli… such a sweet and touching story. ***
*** Also… “brumation” is my new favourite word. ***
*** Also… my mud frog research might be faulty. Do allow for creative license but correct me if I am wrong. ***
Last year, I reread William Blake’s The Tyger from his Songs of Experience collection. I don’t believe I could hold a candle to this man, who was by far my favourite Romantic (right up there with Mary Shelley), but his words inspired some of my own. I have edited a bit as it has been over a year since I first wrote it.
You can read the original Blake poem HERE.
This is my version:
Do my stripes make me burn like Blake’s tyger?
All fearful asymmetry and sun-scorched eyes,
And borne of the wingéd aspirations of some ineffable architect.
Sinews of heart muscle twist and tunnel,
As a new heartbeat pummels to the surface to be heard.
Though it will take more than the hammer and chain to mould
My dread mind with your clawed grasp;
Only terrors await thee.
My eyes were speared from the stars,
And my tears laced with heaven above
And hell below.
There is no doubt that the One who made
The lamb and the tiger,
And all of the angels and demons
*** I know mine is absolute shit but it was a lot of fun to write. ***
This woman is so talented. I have been reading her all week.
She knows how to get naked. And I like her naked.
I love that she is a best-selling poet. I fucking love that someone has the power to bring poetry to the mainstream. More people need to read poetry. It is like mainlining divinity.
***From ‘The Sun and Her Flowers’ (Rupi Kaur, 2017)***
words and verbs and metaphor and simile and onomatopoeia and phrase and turns of breath and leaves and grass and raven and night and dark night and darkest night and world-ending kisses and poems that eat people and eating raw petals and lips you can taste for years and warm unholy and you you you youyouyouyoooooou and grave-adorning daisies and amorous tadpole people and moan and breathing like the tides and waves of roses that blanket memory and a soul in peril and having to debanshee and singing bodies electric and antic swallowing beds and gloomy masks and doomy edges and night-trailing garments and measuring all the grief you meet and ashen sober skies and being untranslatable and yawping with a voice like a string of coloured beads and tears and tears and tears and tears.
Absorption complete until next cycle.
***Most of the cleverest lines are either stolen or adapted from one of the poets in the photo. I take no credit other than the arrangement and shameless bastardization of their words. Not gonna lie… this one was fun to write. Felt like a warm blizzard. ***