WHAT SCARES IS SACRED

Missive #57 - Transcribed Poetic Dictation

[The golden leaves have arrived. I have just returned from a trip to visit a couple of beloved friends in Vinalhaven. Tonight’s missive arrived on the car ride up, and had to wait until I was back at home. Before then I was fall camping at Baxter State Park (the very best unkept secret of Maine) where I was completely inundated with the changing colors. Gold everywhere. Orange and red firejewels. This time of year in this piece of the earth is unparalleled when it comes to beauty. You are transported to the land of the elves, to an immortal place, curled around time. Sweetly, crisply. I was also able to successfully submit my ODES FOR A GOLDEN AGE manuscript to a contest, which ended a 7 year block on submitting my work in a wider context. Every time I tried to press the Submit button before, I would be physically unable. I tried every trick, every tip; went to countless guides, aides, mentors, elders, professionals — nothing worked! Until the 28th of September, when I put together all my materials and clicked submit almost without thinking of it. The only difference I can discern is timing and calm confidence. I am excited curious intrigued where this next phase will lead me, which has so far included sending individual poems to magazines, as well as querying more contests and presses on behalf of my ODES. It couldn’t be easier! What an ecstasy. I wish for you all deliverance as I have received it. May we all be blessed in this season of transitions~] Received 10/4/24 | 12:02-12:34 pm
(Note: I included so many images below that Substack told me the emails may be truncated, requiring clicking a “Read full message” or something like it. I do hope you enjoy the full story and imaginal experience of Baxter 🍁)

Listen to the Recitation:

WHAT SCARES IS SACRED
Become devious, deviant ~ Devi defying all odds
Do not empower fear, be informed and ask
Where it points; go to there
Go to meet the petrification, frozen combustion
Is a battery, is a refueling station
Filling is fulling is feeling over spilling
Overwhelm at the helm, at the head
Of the tide, run of the mill, no amount of Goddess
Will ever fill your hole; She is the emptiness
Round and void, filling and fulling and feeling
Over and above what is expected,
Fear always behaves in the expected,
The expectation, mental maneuverer
Devourer of distillation, consternation
Ceramicizes capsizes heavensent sEntries
Delivering favor of the deep; deliver me!
She screams, delivery! Vajrayoginī delivers
The ecstatic separation of film from veil,
Slicing through walls as obstacles as Oneiros
Purrs prayer through a three-quarter closed
Lid cover of an eye, twitching and still
In frozen combustion, a night terror seized
In the ballows of the heart, dusted domes
Cavernous Caledonian, racing in the still
Of the night, eerie dim dawn, the doom
Of a downed demagogue, singing sweet
Nonsense to the damaged ears of the displaced
Dirge, derelict in its slumbrous silence, murmuring
Foul contempt, loving swill, a sonnet to humble
The bard, buried in sod and sanctimony.
None of this is good; it isn't supposed to be
Nor does it feel good. Thank goodness
And cling to the sweet berry brambles, thorns
Protecting the ripe red fruit, plucked
By birds and bears and burdenbearers, bruised
Hands blacked eyes cut soles jammed knees
Crab apple blossoms become fat, round, hard
Tart treasures, falling and rotting, softening
Collected en masse to boil in a pot, for jelly
Glistening jiggling gemmy spread
Out before us, sweetening the year incomprehensive
And unconscionable. There is no room for sweetness
Here, there is only dust, rubble, death, despair;
But the forge is hot, the metal shining black
Glowing hot berry red, translucent pearls
Cracked and folded, pounded again and again
Sweat stricken brows, boars hunted by men
Eager to prove their mettle, to cement their
Status in the stars of human imaginary
The bay hides beneath high tide a wealth
Of petroglyphs, thousand-horned deer-like
Creatures, two-legged spirits with round hollow
Heads beaming magnifying lenses, sparkling gatherings
Of ochred sprites, pyramidal crowns below
Starry skies, gathering sparkling somniferum
Waking again into the dream, sung down tens
Of generations' collaborated efforts, a long lorn
Labor of wishes fulfilled again and again, spites
Passed on from grandparent to grandchild,
Children bristling with hope, buckling grins
And laughter, sharp and slithering, between
Cracks in walls, slicing through molten obstacle
Like liquid, like jelly, water rising and falling in the cenotes
Revealing carved bones, moulded skulls, long claws
The evidence of a fire burned some 10,000 years ago
The sooty dreams splayed upon the cavern's roof
Hardened ash, remnants which reside within our
Bones, carved by their dreams, by their sin-gular
Specialties, spurious and furious, flaming
The red hot blood in our veins, demanding
Something yet unseen, unknown, and terrifying—
So terrifying it captures all our imaginations, our
Myths whisper of an unbeatable beast, ashy white
Ghastly ghoulish spectral haunting
But only to prepare us to meet it, to face it,
To look our fear dear in the eyes, and see
Staring back at us, our destination.

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Two frogs, reflected (all images my own from last week’s stay at South Branch Pond in Baxter State Park)

Golden immersion: into the elven wood