creation / destruction

When striding on
your way to wholeness,
pain cuts ground away.

Two branches:
One strong, vibrant.
One wrapped tightly
on the first
in wicked spirals.
The first, instinct, goodness.
The second, pain.

When pain enters
from nearby,
my voice stops, movement fizzles out.
Silent words speak from my hands,
an artist comes to be.
That's me.

When pain enters
forcefully,
surprisingly.
Your voice is there and lips still speak,
and grace informs your dance, and yet
sometimes you halt or stumble.
Pressure builds, must be released.
A writer comes to be.
And that is you, my love.

A longing
to
undo the bad, and right the wrongs,
stirs in you.
It breaks your progress,
sometimes.
This hidden feeling breaks your grace,
hits you with rough surprise.

My love,
conservative, we fear
if life allows its brother,
pain,
to disintangle, to release,
then life will end (for lack of brother pain).
And so we nuture pain and hold it close.

When almost all is gone,
I can now see
my branch of life is stark and strong
against the faded landscape of my history.
The branch of pain, that branch of death,
I see it now as this:

Another's pain,
a gift to me,
to stop my flowering,
or to rot my fruit.

Writer, strong and young,
wise and blessed,
alive in many hearts,
why wait so long to see?

I know your heart,
you never flinch.
You're Kashmir's open airs.
And yet you asked
if you could lose your voice,
in this past new year's time.

If you must stand on
pain infliction's ground,
this pain, though yours,
is not your making.
It is not you.
Unwrap the branch of death.

Live,
and be yourself,
have health, be happy.

You will never
(instinct tells me)
lose
your voice,
for pain unshut
your eyes
always and forever,
and you will always see.
The pressure's built and you
will never lose
your voice, your life.

Oh writer, live in open joy.
Your full, authentic voice
will stay
when all that pain unwinds.

© h/m/q, Jan 2006