Page 36 - Jack Foley | The true litterateur
P. 36

I wrote this for one of her birthdays:

               There is a long lake                    To deliver you to this world?
               And trees surrounding it                Was there another you
               In a womb-like formation                Before this one?
               With marvelous, shifting                What was your history?
               Clouds in the deep blue sky.            What was the little girl
               I know this lake                        Who looked around her
               Doesn’t exist                           At a world
               But I think of it                       Which at times
               As where you were born                  Would be cruel to her?
               In Oregon                               What lies were you told?
               A womb place                            What truths?
               To which your mind returns              What is it that makes you
               And to which, now,                      Sometimes shudder?
               My mind has access.                     Is it the memory

               I think of you                          Of that lake, that forest
               Emerging from it                        Those marvelous,
               With the magical name                   Abandoned
               Sangye                                  Wings?
               Defining you.                           Did the boatman betray you?
               There are birds                         None of this is true
               In this forest                          And yet truth enters into it
               But they are silent                     And a magic world
               As your consciousness                   That radiates
               Arises                                  Delight and fear and love.
               And comes into the world.               What were they, those clouds,
               None of this is real.                   Those trees, that lake, those wings
               It is story                             diaphanous?

               Something I made up                     Could they protect
               To fill my mind                         The living soul
               With what I cannot                      That arose in magic
               Know:                                   And carried with it
               Your origin.                            Traces
               Were there wings                        Of that Nowhere,
               That you discarded                      That magic Land
               At the lake                             Through  all  your  loved,  tumultuous,
               And a quiet, bearded boatman            passionate, fiery days.

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