Making Room
Mary Ann Moore
Open to the irritation
grit forms a pearl
it's been said
fish for mermaids, dive for pearls
the end is the beginning -
Down at the bottom
a mouldy smelling trunk
black and white photographs
with lipstick smears,
a wedding gown,
a Bible with passages marked.
Place them on the sunlit sill
until the memories infuse the trees.
Those elders with their waving arms
know what to keep,
what to surrender to the wind.
You stand mesmerized
by dust particles
in a river of light.
Making Room is included in The Names of Things, a chapbook of poems by Mary Ann Moore, available from the Flying Mermaids Studio.
grit forms a pearl
it's been said
fish for mermaids, dive for pearls
the end is the beginning -
Down at the bottom
a mouldy smelling trunk
black and white photographs
with lipstick smears,
a wedding gown,
a Bible with passages marked.
Place them on the sunlit sill
until the memories infuse the trees.
Those elders with their waving arms
know what to keep,
what to surrender to the wind.
You stand mesmerized
by dust particles
in a river of light.
Making Room is included in The Names of Things, a chapbook of poems by Mary Ann Moore, available from the Flying Mermaids Studio.
Unpacking
Mary Ann Moore
I unpack the poppy goddess and place her in the middle, tall like
Mt. Juktas, arms outspread, the wings of the double axe at Knossos,
the frescoed dolphins, iced coffee, a rusted yellow mailbox and the
bright blue sea,
the sage I pinch from a bundle wrapped in a town called Kas where
I swam in azure waters among Lycean ruins. Covered my hair with
a purple cotton scarf trimmed with seashells. Showered with two women
under one lone spout,
I sit at my table in Wisdom's Chair, the Aghia Sophia held up by marble
green columns from the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, the smell of halvah,
the Spice Market, the boat on the Bosphorus, the red hand of Fatima,
the multi-layered mysteries of Byzantium,
this bit of kitsch is from Frida's land, a dancing skeleton - it helps to create
a shrine to the artist of the Casa Azul, a retablo of the Virgin of Guadalupe,
the colours of pain and death: sinister blue, yellow love, gangrene
a land I've never been to but the colours remind me of something,
a photo from Ghost Ranch at Abiqui, Kokopelli, Georgia's animal bones
chilies in an orange/red wreath, the white-washed walls of Mabel's adobe house
where D. H. And Frieda met with Ansel and Willa. The weather-beaten
birdhouses lined the fence, the magpies' mischief filled the yard. We could see
the cross on the hill at the Pueblo, loved to roll the words: Arroyo Seco,
a poetry book of odes to ordinary things, Neruda's delight in mermaids, socks,
onions and scissors like wings. The poet's obligation. Rumi's mevlevi, a blue-
covered book from Konya where he and the other dervishes rest, each in a
sarcophagus adorned with a fez, alight with Arabic gold calligraphy praising Allah,
the crocheted edge on the small white hankie, a smooth brown stone like an egg
from a chicken I was afraid to put my hand under. Enough water to scald
a pig like the one Grandpa chased around the barnyard. Later hung and
disembowelled in colours like the blues and pinks of Grandma's house dresses
covered by a butcher apron. The time she burned the baby bonus in the wood stove.
A quilt of patterns stitched together with commas.
"When My Heart is Open" is included on When My Heart is Open, a CD of poems by Mary Ann Moore. Available from The Flying Mermaids Studio.
"Frida's Advice" was the third place winner in The Bookshelf's annual poetry contest and published in Off the Shelf (Guelph, Ontario), May/June 2005.
Imagining
In Process
My writer self does know fear - not the fear of writing but staying with it, to enter the unknown, the previously unexplored. It's time for that now, to go into the dark, the cave of Mother Earth. It's not so scary there. It's just dark and a bit damp. There are things to feel, smell, taste, hear. It's a oneness I dare myself to approach as I walk the path to the opening.
Seven Rooms/Seven Steps
Ou-Yang Hsiu (1007-1072) was a Sung dynasty poet, essayist and scholar. "The Pleasure Boat Studio" was published in Carousel 17 Spring/Summer 2005 (University of Guelph, Ontario). www.carouselmagazine.ca
"Fishing For Mermaids, Mining for Light" was published in Carousel 16 Fall 2004 (University of Guelph, Ontario). www.carouselmagazine.ca
Mt. Juktas, arms outspread, the wings of the double axe at Knossos,
the frescoed dolphins, iced coffee, a rusted yellow mailbox and the
bright blue sea,
the sage I pinch from a bundle wrapped in a town called Kas where
I swam in azure waters among Lycean ruins. Covered my hair with
a purple cotton scarf trimmed with seashells. Showered with two women
under one lone spout,
I sit at my table in Wisdom's Chair, the Aghia Sophia held up by marble
green columns from the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, the smell of halvah,
the Spice Market, the boat on the Bosphorus, the red hand of Fatima,
the multi-layered mysteries of Byzantium,
this bit of kitsch is from Frida's land, a dancing skeleton - it helps to create
a shrine to the artist of the Casa Azul, a retablo of the Virgin of Guadalupe,
the colours of pain and death: sinister blue, yellow love, gangrene
a land I've never been to but the colours remind me of something,
a photo from Ghost Ranch at Abiqui, Kokopelli, Georgia's animal bones
chilies in an orange/red wreath, the white-washed walls of Mabel's adobe house
where D. H. And Frieda met with Ansel and Willa. The weather-beaten
birdhouses lined the fence, the magpies' mischief filled the yard. We could see
the cross on the hill at the Pueblo, loved to roll the words: Arroyo Seco,
a poetry book of odes to ordinary things, Neruda's delight in mermaids, socks,
onions and scissors like wings. The poet's obligation. Rumi's mevlevi, a blue-
covered book from Konya where he and the other dervishes rest, each in a
sarcophagus adorned with a fez, alight with Arabic gold calligraphy praising Allah,
the crocheted edge on the small white hankie, a smooth brown stone like an egg
from a chicken I was afraid to put my hand under. Enough water to scald
a pig like the one Grandpa chased around the barnyard. Later hung and
disembowelled in colours like the blues and pinks of Grandma's house dresses
covered by a butcher apron. The time she burned the baby bonus in the wood stove.
A quilt of patterns stitched together with commas.
"Unpacking" won third prize in Literary Writes, a poetry contest sponsored by the Federation of B.C. Writers and was published in WordWorks, Winter 2006-2007. www.bcwriters.com
When my heart is open
Mary Ann Moore
When my heart is open
I lay on a sea swept beach
an open shell
overcome by ocean waves
refreshed
replenished
confident
I cherish their absence
knowing other waves will come
I see the sun's lacy design on azure water
stones smooth and rounded by time
When my heart is open I don't
see yellow but daffodil
not red but pomegranate
not purple but aubergine
I smile, take in
an unexpected smile in return
I can forgive, see another's anger, criticism
as more of a description of their pain,
not mine
I am in my own sanctuary of gentle sounds
and sacred scents
not needing chaos to feel alive
looking back to a peaceful world
absorbing those memories into my veins
to recreate the better part of history
not needing to be distracted
this is enough
No longer wondering what
you're doing
but rather feeling the heat
of that chemical attraction
to keep in my pores
ready
with or without you
full of love
knowing there is a reason I am here
one of the open shells
among glistening sequins of sand
near a bottle with a message washed ashore
When is a heart not a heart?
When it's a jar
I lay on a sea swept beach
an open shell
overcome by ocean waves
refreshed
replenished
confident
I cherish their absence
knowing other waves will come
I see the sun's lacy design on azure water
stones smooth and rounded by time
When my heart is open I don't
see yellow but daffodil
not red but pomegranate
not purple but aubergine
I smile, take in
an unexpected smile in return
I can forgive, see another's anger, criticism
as more of a description of their pain,
not mine
I am in my own sanctuary of gentle sounds
and sacred scents
not needing chaos to feel alive
looking back to a peaceful world
absorbing those memories into my veins
to recreate the better part of history
not needing to be distracted
this is enough
No longer wondering what
you're doing
but rather feeling the heat
of that chemical attraction
to keep in my pores
ready
with or without you
full of love
knowing there is a reason I am here
one of the open shells
among glistening sequins of sand
near a bottle with a message washed ashore
When is a heart not a heart?
When it's a jar
"When My Heart is Open" is included on When My Heart is Open, a CD of poems by Mary Ann Moore. Available from The Flying Mermaids Studio.
Frida's Advice
Mary Ann Moore
Ask me why people are so fascinated with
my crazy life, mi vida loca,
and I answer:
it's the combination of sinister blues, yellow love, gangrene
the difference they see as exotic,
my body,
of work
the flame in the pain.
I was in anguish and
origin-
ality
the smell of the paint, the brush
in my hand -
transcended the pain.
I say:
Go to the centre of the fire.
See what's there.
It may not be as hot as you think.
It may be blue cold.
Write in bed.
Surround yourself with what matters.
Explore red.
Come to Mexico.
Read Octavio Paz.
Free yourself from the still
life.
As for my pain
it was always there
but an angel with cut-lace wings kept me breathing
kept me examining every fissure
on my face,
every symbol of my lineage
every radical expression
left in me.
I will write to you with my eyes, always.
my crazy life, mi vida loca,
and I answer:
it's the combination of sinister blues, yellow love, gangrene
the difference they see as exotic,
my body,
of work
the flame in the pain.
I was in anguish and
origin-
ality
the smell of the paint, the brush
in my hand -
transcended the pain.
I say:
Go to the centre of the fire.
See what's there.
It may not be as hot as you think.
It may be blue cold.
Write in bed.
Surround yourself with what matters.
Explore red.
Come to Mexico.
Read Octavio Paz.
Free yourself from the still
life.
As for my pain
it was always there
but an angel with cut-lace wings kept me breathing
kept me examining every fissure
on my face,
every symbol of my lineage
every radical expression
left in me.
I will write to you with my eyes, always.
"Frida's Advice" was the third place winner in The Bookshelf's annual poetry contest and published in Off the Shelf (Guelph, Ontario), May/June 2005.
The Pleasure Boat Studio
Mary Ann Moore
Imagining
The studio these days is clean, simple, calm, like a store. A store just for me.
The table - very long - is in the middle of the studio. There are various journals and pens - a few chairs. As I change, I move from chair to chair - poetry at the end of the table, personal essays at the side where I stretch out, letters to myself at the other end, fiction on the second long side. They all blend together in the middle of course but I start from the chair in a particular position.
In a corner of the studio there are built-in shelves with rows of bottles of ink - organic inks of beet red, saffron, Casa Azul blue, lilac, sage green. I love looking at those bottles as the light hits the colour and the liquid dances words.
Inside a built-in cabinet with glass doors are things I created. They bring me joy just to see them there. Small watercolours on paper, poems decorated with collage, fabric bags, painted boxes, whimsical spirit beings.
In each corner of the studio is a small table with a glass vase. In each vase, a gerbera daisy: fresh, bright, colourful, invigorating, nodding in approval.
Wooden dowels against one wall hold papers from around the world. Shelves hold other papers for writing.
The studio is for the pleasure of learning. Did I say there is a water garden at the end of the studio? Water ever flowing over rocks. Water lilies reminding me of focus in stillness. Gold fish always a surprise.
The table - very long - is in the middle of the studio. There are various journals and pens - a few chairs. As I change, I move from chair to chair - poetry at the end of the table, personal essays at the side where I stretch out, letters to myself at the other end, fiction on the second long side. They all blend together in the middle of course but I start from the chair in a particular position.
In a corner of the studio there are built-in shelves with rows of bottles of ink - organic inks of beet red, saffron, Casa Azul blue, lilac, sage green. I love looking at those bottles as the light hits the colour and the liquid dances words.
Inside a built-in cabinet with glass doors are things I created. They bring me joy just to see them there. Small watercolours on paper, poems decorated with collage, fabric bags, painted boxes, whimsical spirit beings.
In each corner of the studio is a small table with a glass vase. In each vase, a gerbera daisy: fresh, bright, colourful, invigorating, nodding in approval.
Wooden dowels against one wall hold papers from around the world. Shelves hold other papers for writing.
The studio is for the pleasure of learning. Did I say there is a water garden at the end of the studio? Water ever flowing over rocks. Water lilies reminding me of focus in stillness. Gold fish always a surprise.
In Process
I see the part of me that writes as
a recorder of everything I do,
an asker of questions,
a truster in the voices of guides that come through my pen,
a faith healer in the sense that I am healed by faith in the ever flowing words, their reassurance in the moment,
the very act of moving pen across paper.
I see my writer self as a teacher,
a lover of children,
an observer,
a clown,
a creative mystic minstrel.
a recorder of everything I do,
an asker of questions,
a truster in the voices of guides that come through my pen,
a faith healer in the sense that I am healed by faith in the ever flowing words, their reassurance in the moment,
the very act of moving pen across paper.
I see my writer self as a teacher,
a lover of children,
an observer,
a clown,
a creative mystic minstrel.
My writer self does know fear - not the fear of writing but staying with it, to enter the unknown, the previously unexplored. It's time for that now, to go into the dark, the cave of Mother Earth. It's not so scary there. It's just dark and a bit damp. There are things to feel, smell, taste, hear. It's a oneness I dare myself to approach as I walk the path to the opening.
Seven Rooms/Seven Steps
If my studio was seven rooms long
like the Pleasure Boat Studio of Ou-Yang Hsiu,
I would enter the first
from which I would say goodbye to friends.
In the second, I would swim in a turquoise pool
and float on my back. In the third I would
enter the Turkish steam bath, the Hamam.
In the fourth, I would be massaged
on a marble table by caring, experienced hands.
In the fifth, I would sit on a kilim and be
offered some salad chopped fine with a hint of mint,
a glass of strong tea on the side. In the sixth,
I would bathe myself for the journey,
anoint myself with rose oil. In the seventh,
I would be at the cave entrance, a vulnerable child,
ready to face the wild dark.
like the Pleasure Boat Studio of Ou-Yang Hsiu,
I would enter the first
from which I would say goodbye to friends.
In the second, I would swim in a turquoise pool
and float on my back. In the third I would
enter the Turkish steam bath, the Hamam.
In the fourth, I would be massaged
on a marble table by caring, experienced hands.
In the fifth, I would sit on a kilim and be
offered some salad chopped fine with a hint of mint,
a glass of strong tea on the side. In the sixth,
I would bathe myself for the journey,
anoint myself with rose oil. In the seventh,
I would be at the cave entrance, a vulnerable child,
ready to face the wild dark.
Ou-Yang Hsiu (1007-1072) was a Sung dynasty poet, essayist and scholar. "The Pleasure Boat Studio" was published in Carousel 17 Spring/Summer 2005 (University of Guelph, Ontario). www.carouselmagazine.ca
Fishing for Mermaids, Mining for Light
Mary Ann Moore
At the corner of our cafe table
between our neighbour's steaming soup
and our quesadillas
our conversation of poets and the like
Neruda appears
solid, like homemade bread, pan integral
Neruda, the Chilean poet
who descended into mines
to read poetry to workers
underground
spent his Nobel prize money
on mermaids and shells
wrote odes to honour
ordinary things.
We talk, as poets, of time we spend
listening
when pen does not breathe on paper
our observations
stored in pitchy cupboards
to be obliged
when they are ready
rarely see the server
that seems to be okay
the quesadillas are tasty
Neruda is near
as we bemoan the days
when nothing seems to happen.
between our neighbour's steaming soup
and our quesadillas
our conversation of poets and the like
Neruda appears
solid, like homemade bread, pan integral
Neruda, the Chilean poet
who descended into mines
to read poetry to workers
underground
spent his Nobel prize money
on mermaids and shells
wrote odes to honour
ordinary things.
We talk, as poets, of time we spend
listening
when pen does not breathe on paper
our observations
stored in pitchy cupboards
to be obliged
when they are ready
rarely see the server
that seems to be okay
the quesadillas are tasty
Neruda is near
as we bemoan the days
when nothing seems to happen.
"Fishing For Mermaids, Mining for Light" was published in Carousel 16 Fall 2004 (University of Guelph, Ontario). www.carouselmagazine.ca