Dear Brave Souls: Also by request from La Lisa, for the souls who are being rowed out...
The Warrior We Called 'Painted Wings'
Some say endurance comes
from 100 reps, each muscle group,
over and over, and spaced out.
Fair enough.
from 100 reps, each muscle group,
over and over, and spaced out.
Fair enough.
Some develop beautiful bold muscles;
It is hard work,
and I am in gentle admiration.
It is hard work,
and I am in gentle admiration.
Too, there are billions
of reps and lifts
made by one pair
of fragile painted wings.
over and over, spaced out
in a trail of orange music
through the sky
every year
from California
to Michoacan Mejico—
of reps and lifts
made by one pair
of fragile painted wings.
over and over, spaced out
in a trail of orange music
through the sky
every year
from California
to Michoacan Mejico—
over 1,675 miles
by that one,
that black and orange
supple stained glass one,
who since
ancient times is said
by that one,
that black and orange
supple stained glass one,
who since
ancient times is said
represents the true Soul.
Now we can see why.
Amazing endurance,
no matter the weathers.
Now we can see why.
Amazing endurance,
no matter the weathers.
***
Living in Mejico
as a young woman,
Maria Elena the puppetmaker
taught me a balm
to rub on my forehead,
my cheeks, my throat and chest...
and this balm attracted the souls,
I mean
of course,
Living in Mejico
as a young woman,
Maria Elena the puppetmaker
taught me a balm
to rub on my forehead,
my cheeks, my throat and chest...
and this balm attracted the souls,
I mean
of course,
the butterflies.
***
And as I flew alongside you
in your disheveled years
which I found painful
and of a certain beautiful...
and during your fragile years,
which I found challenging
and also often beautiful...
And as I flew alongside you
in your disheveled years
which I found painful
and of a certain beautiful...
and during your fragile years,
which I found challenging
and also often beautiful...
and in your frail years
which were beautiful
for the bones of
a butterfly are beautiful
but made me often weep...
which were beautiful
for the bones of
a butterfly are beautiful
but made me often weep...
what words, what words
could I say to you, old warrior,
that would have any meaning
about where in the migration
we were tacking and arcing?
could I say to you, old warrior,
that would have any meaning
about where in the migration
we were tacking and arcing?
Thus, I traveled backward
in time, my face again
covered
in black and orange,
remembering the words
to pray/ say
after the long migration
in time, my face again
covered
in black and orange,
remembering the words
to pray/ say
after the long migration
across an ocean,
then across a nation,
then across the life
of a man now
in advanced old age...
then across a nation,
then across the life
of a man now
in advanced old age...
The chants we sang
to the Monarchs...
the words to my old father
were the same... the same...
to the Monarchs...
the words to my old father
were the same... the same...
Rest your brave warrior wings now.
May your heart be kept safe now,
inside The Heart of the One now,
Mariposa, La Alma, the True Soul now
The inane, insane, amazing
journey is over now.
You are home at last now.
Rest now
"Painted Wings"...
Rest...
----------
and with love to all who row a loved one out now, have done the hard and so blessed work and joy and sorrow of rowing a soul out, will row a special spirit out some day, one day far forward or within sight. Even the difficult, even the conflicted, even the 'gone but still here' still have living souls. Even if they have forgotten their souls, we can remember. Even if they no longer know, we can know. Even if others are not decent, we can be decent
dr.e
---------------
Poem "Little 'Painted Wings", from a trilogy of poems about life/death/life from unpub'd manuscript La Pasionaria/ The Bright Angel, Collected Poetry of Clarissa Pinkola Estés ©1978, 1998, 2012, 2015 C.P. Estés, all rights reserved
-----------------
CODA
The first generation of Monarchs, born in the first wave of any year, often do not live long enough to make the migration back again to Calif and the west...unless they are born stateside especially the third or fourth generation of butterfly births that year. Those first generation female Monarchs who reach Mejico will lay their eggs of the next generation before they die. And that is the nexus of one of the three poems in this trilogy, that we are given birth to, even as others pass. The third poem is about the 'radar' butterflies use for such long migrations.
-------------------
My beautiful brutal strange smart 'illiterate' talented father, Pinkola Jozsef, one of the last survivors of the once massive now decimated by WWII small tribe of Danau Schwabische from the tiny villages of southern Hungary, passed from this world in 1999. I hardly have any new words to describe how it has been since: it is still that I miss him like fire. Requiescat in pace... siempre, siempre.
---------------
Poem "Little 'Painted Wings", from a trilogy of poems about life/death/life from unpub'd manuscript La Pasionaria/ The Bright Angel, Collected Poetry of Clarissa Pinkola Estés ©1978, 1998, 2012, 2015 C.P. Estés, all rights reserved
-----------------
CODA
The first generation of Monarchs, born in the first wave of any year, often do not live long enough to make the migration back again to Calif and the west...unless they are born stateside especially the third or fourth generation of butterfly births that year. Those first generation female Monarchs who reach Mejico will lay their eggs of the next generation before they die. And that is the nexus of one of the three poems in this trilogy, that we are given birth to, even as others pass. The third poem is about the 'radar' butterflies use for such long migrations.
-------------------
My beautiful brutal strange smart 'illiterate' talented father, Pinkola Jozsef, one of the last survivors of the once massive now decimated by WWII small tribe of Danau Schwabische from the tiny villages of southern Hungary, passed from this world in 1999. I hardly have any new words to describe how it has been since: it is still that I miss him like fire. Requiescat in pace... siempre, siempre.
And for your fathers [and mothers] who have passed also. It is my understanding, not belief, that they are perfected now. May you ever be comforted in whatever way is best to you, for you, with you.
No comments:
Post a Comment