Imposter

It’s not your voice, I told him
that censures you, that censures me,
that seeks to keep us hemmed in
on a narrow path between our fears
with needs that go unclaimed, unmet
through weary, empty years
separated from each other
so we never feel
the grand connection that could comfort us
and flawlessly reveal
the glorious fireworks of our being
all the color, all the light
continuous igniting 
of the flame that pulses bright
to mark the vastness of the universe
in which we freely roam
which is defined by us
and is our rightful home
Your voice, I told him,
won’t consign our souls to hell
It knows what’s true about you
and it knows it well.


©Wendy Mulhern
January 29, 2012



Emptiness



Only things that can receive
can be empty.
Consider this, O hearts, O arms —
The grand capacity of your design
How expertly you have been made
To hold, to take in
shelter and contain
To heal, embrace,
and then release again
To empty, fill, and so engage
in life, the grand enacting of creation
Exultant in its endless generation.


©Wendy Mulhern
January 27, 2012

(Picture: Jennifer McCurdy, “Gilded Vortex Vessel”; photo by Gary Mirando; background music: Max Richter, “From the Rue Villin”)

Sand Castle

Look how it falls
Ponderous
Turning and sinking
Its shapes tipping at wild angles
Before dissolving
Its fall as inevitable
As its standing seemed to be
No loftiness of spires
Escapes the sliding from beneath
As sand surrenders to the slip of water
No damp cohesion remains
Each grain in its communion
With the overwhelming sea
Suspended, so released
From past alliances
So little shift of tide it takes
To wash away the structure
And its memory
And leave a shining mirror
On the shore.


©Wendy Mulhern
January 24, 2012



Snow day, choices

My hands, this morning, 
(following your lead)
Spoke of living in the sphere
or being on the wheel:

The sphere of possibilities,
The endless opportunities
that bloom out from the present openness,
acceptance of the moment,
its engaged embrace;

The wheel that grinds you
on its path of sameness —
The future—mere projection 
of a broken yesterday
that runs and runs with no hope for escape.

We watched my hands 
and heard the words interpret
while sitting at a cozy cafe window
and outside, icy pellets pretended to be snow
(as well they could, with us safe from their sting)

My boots had little purchase in the slush
They fared much better where the snow was fresh
and squeaked and creaked beneath our feet —
We walked three extra blocks to choose it.

My hands outlined the choices that are given
Our feet walked on the snowy paths we chose
So hands and feet and hearts can walk together
Our sphere unfolds before us as we go.


©Wendy Mulhern
January 19, 2012

Today marks the first anniversary of my poetry blog.  Two hundred eighty posts, a few more poems than that, since I sometimes put two in a post.  3991 page views, mostly from the US, but a steady amount from Russia, and a fair number of other countries represented.  Modest stats for viewership.  Rather prodigious stats for poetry writing, I must allow.

It was in the summer of 2010 that I first started considering that I might think of myself as a poet, that I might become one.  I found myself haunted by the sounds of words and the taste of images, as they spun themselves to me on bike rides.  The usual internal critics were also present, the ones who said only experts could rightly tell me if my poetry was any good, if it even counted as poetry.  And the ones who mentioned that a lot of the poetry that literary magazines seemed to favor was stuff that didn’t interest me at all, so what did the “experts” know?  And the ones who pointed out that you can’t make a living writing poetry, so what right did I have to spend my time developing the craft . . .

Nonetheless, the sweet confluence of sounds and images gave me too much joy to leave alone.  So I started to consider taking on the discipline of writing poetry often enough to sustain a poetry blog.  And a year ago, with a modest buffer of pre-written poems, I launched Earth Whispering.  Over time, as consistent writing improved my craft, I came to consider myself a poet.

The writing of a daily poem quickly became part of my life practice — a discipline that served to focus me on what was honest, what was salient, what about the day needed a poem.  It became part of a three-part practice that launched me on a year of amazing personal growth (the other two parts are prayer and dance).  I look forward to where it will take me this year.

Looking to the next year of my blog, I’d love to increase my readership.  I was awake at 2 this morning thinking about this — how I could maybe encourage my current readers to share it with others, and how uncomfortable I feel about asking them this.  One voice opines, shrilly, that if they had wanted to share it they would have already.  That, when I asked for feedback from an earlier blog, I got no response, and why should I expect this to be different?  

But I am forging forward anyway.  There might be a few of you who are willing to help, and that will make this solicitation worthwhile.  If you are in support of my gaining recognition as a poet, here are some ways you can help:
1) Follow my blog.  On the right hand side, under “About this blog,” there is a button that says “join this site.”  If you press it, you can use an identity you’ve already established, or you can make one up.  Then either a little picture of you appears, or an unidentifiable face, depending on what’s in your identity.  I’m not sure what all it does for you to be a follower if you don’t also have a blog, but I think it makes it easy for you to comment on my posts, which I would love.
2) Share my posts.  At the bottom of each post is a series of buttons which allow you to share my post to email, blogger, twitter, facebook, or google.  If you ever like one of my poems and think of someone else who might also like it, it would be very sweet of you to pass it on.
3) Tell me what else I might do.  If you have any savvy about these things and know what I could do to increase my readership, please let me know.

Thanks to everyone who read this note, and thanks in advance for any feedback you might have.



Understanding



Turn the tumblers, one and then another
For you to enter, all must be aligned
It opens to the easy spinning 
of your secret
Or to the deep discernment
of a listening mind.

Don’t settle for the superficial level
The one that opens up without a key
Where all may stroll 
but none may know the meaning
For to be true, the entrance must be deep

Beneath the layer of rationalization
Beneath the tallies of the service due
Beneath self-image and self-fabrication
A more fulfilling essence waits for you

Go deep, for underneath 
the thoughts that you can voice as words
You’ll feel the breath and pause
whose choice is to be heard
in silence, and in limpid images
that let you understand what really is.


©Wendy Mulhern
January 10, 2012


(music in background of recording: Isaac Shepard, “Dimming the Lights”)

Baubles

In the game are many pretty baubles
They look to be the prizes we can win
The things to strive for, yearn for, long for
Tantalizing traps to keep us in

The baubles glint just out of reach —
We chase them
We fling desire at what we may attain
Success, romance, acclaim —
Then happenings erase them
And leave us sad and empty once again

Their light, however, has a different source
(No light is generated in the game)
The tempting glow each thing emits
Hides brilliance that the game could never claim

Beyond the game, Love’s truth shines ever bright
Always enough to quench our thirst for light.


©Wendy Mulhern
January 4, 2011


Free

Here’s a possibility —
A space a box creates
by enclosing it
(corners like elbows 
pushing out to make room)
Here’s a possibility:
We could be free.

Free is something 
I have maybe never been
Though we are told we are
We’re also told there’s no free lunch
So there you go.
We are not free if we are bought
We are not free if we must buy our right to be
with work on tasks we wouldn’t choose
on projects that don’t serve us.

Here is a thought:
If I’m enslaved,
It’s my own mind that chains me
That tells me things must be this way
That I don’t have a choice
That I should never deign to think
that I deserve to choose my work,
To own my gift.

Here’s a possibility:
A whisper in a little box —
The box could grow until
it can contain us all
and we can learn
our freedom.


©Wendy Mulhern
November 29, 2011



Reasoning

Look,
I said, earnest and concerned,
You can’t have a bad good
Or a good bad
For if you did, how could you then 
know anything?
(a conversation I was having in my mind)
The ancient text entreats:
“My son, eat thou honey,
for it is good,”
And elsewhere,
“Butter and honey shall he eat
That he may know to refuse the evil
and choose the good.”
See? I said (in my mind)
You have to trust that
you can tell what good is
That you can know it by its fruits
You have to trust that if it’s love
you’ll love to do it
It will feed you, will sustain you
It will feel right.
Your constant vigilance will be for naught
if you imagine arcane texts
and tenuous interpretations
have more weight than your internal compass —
The weight of your joy
The overwhelming vastness
of your need
The unspeakable depth
your love can plumb
(and does so every day)
to meet it.


©Wendy Mulhern
November 28, 2011



Untying Time

We find ourselves as characters
Unfinished, emerging 
as on time’s great loom
we’re woven,
The colors of our purpose and desires
Slow-forming on its tapestry of story
With wefts that wrap and then dip down
unseen
And poke up further on between the warps
The things we know, then don’t,
Then know again
The breathless trailing edges
of our hopes . . .

But then
We may view time as our dimension
Something we’ve stretched out
upon a frame
Coordinates established by our mind force
to help us understand our vital being
And maybe time, and time’s whole tapestry
We’ll take up one day, like a mighty cloak
to wrap ourselves
But then to fling away
So we may stride in freedom
since we know
That we endure, outside of time, eternal
And the day
No longer bound 
May then be redefined
And time be understood again
As rhythm
A beat to dance, a riff to sing
A harmony
An endless field and we the masters
Untied from time 
Aloft on Spirit’s wing.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 24, 2011

(Background music: Isaac Shepard, “Thoughtful”)

The Daily Swim

(I refer, here, to the Hindu concept of maya as something like illusion.  I am not Hindu, and I might not understand the concept correctly.  But it serves to express something that seems true to me.)

Maya’s myths, like milfoil
Catch at my ankle
If I thrash, they’ll wrap me tighter
Tempting me to spend my power
Till I sink
But it’s water that I float on
And it’s here, and it will hold me
I can glide along here softly
Let the milfoil drag behind
And as the water deepens
They will finally cease to reach
Up to my world, and I’ll swim free

For now, some say “swim gentle
Think of its fronds as caressing you
A tender tickle, nothing to alarm”
Some say “swim with scissors, 
Cut them off, deep as you can.”
Some say “just add water
Floods and floods will do
To drown out tugs of maya
And carry you.” 


©Wendy Mulhern
September 27, 2011