poeming on mythological mysteries
making my own mythologies
day after evening after morning
wandering through this ancestralless
place, surrealing all I touch, see,
taste. and the glory of the song
of me, endless and fragile, is the trees
that didn't get slaughtered, the lake
we brought with us from the smoke,
the viking-ing recoil that started as fire
and traced through the ocean until
every last hallowing was gone
replaced by the our blood line,
running here and there till nothing
( n o t h i n g ) (not one damn thing)
could be given to the ones who remained
my poeming's taken on a surrealist overtone the past few days (although when does it ever not have surrealist overtones - I come from multiple lineages as a poet). this kind of word pay is fun to write but also tricky. I'm not always in charge of where the meaning goes (because the words themselves lead me almost as much as I lead them).
so, a background story on tonight's poem, so I remember, and so maybe my intention will come clearer.
we finished watching Moana tonight.
my ancestors were (in all likelihood) vikings.
ocean navigation and colonization are at the front of my mind, this day before American Thanksgiving.
(a day I would like to see named a National Day of Mourning.)
and Remy loved the story and music of Moana so much that he wanted to be the only one singing and dancing to the song at the end.
so there's a jumble of ideas going into this poeming. and that's what happens sometimes. that's what poems do.
meanwhile, keep creating. keep being thankful. keep pursuing justice.
all. of. us. will. be. free. one. day.
(may I live to see that blessed day!)