Poetry of Joneve McCormick
Who are you?
You, behind the dark and light forms flowing near,
Behind the mirrors and doors,
Behind the angels and the demons,
Behind this versus that,
Behind thoughts and their frames,
Behind desires and fears...
Who are you
Who teaches that the less there is between us,
The higher I fly on my own wings?
Back to the ses
I want to go back to the sea
where light and dark are one,
where I come from.
Back to sea waits and wiggles
where the will to be
(not greed) trumps right and wrong.
I would be a tiny fish, alive one marvelous moment
or a big one, snapping up the little.
The sea sings, ‘the one who doesn't know me is an orphan.'
I will go to the deepest space I can find
and listen to OM -- I want to fly
where my wings first formed.
Self Image Is Destiny
There was a little girl
with shining curls,
not one in the middle
of her forehead;
daily she was told
they were beautiful;
they grew thicker, shinier
like the coat of a young alpha wolf.
As the girl grew older
she began to hear she'd caused
the hair of her friends
to be thin and limp
because she was claiming
the most care and attention
and she caved in, shrank from view;
her hair dulled, turned limp, fell out.
Then the hair of her friends
didn't look so bad.
(It's lonely at the top.)
Reflections (after Rumi)
A cloud passes unseen,
you see the shadow it casts
Pulled from your source
you long to go back
Desire makes your heart skip a beat,
in the lock of your fear a key turns
In time all images are spent
like gold plucked from a sleeve
While you sleep in darkness
something within you shines
You deem yourself a donkey's slave
yet ride a magical horse
While your body fades to dust
you hop from roof to star
Your body is but a shadow
of a shadow of your love
A Reflection (after Rumi)
How does softness leave a petal,
or hardness a stone?
But the parts, when lost bless,
bring you to all there is,
the Friend you seek beyond them.
Killing the Christ within
(written after reading comments by Benny Morris on ethnic cleansing)
Ethnic cleansing is sometimes justified
he tells the crowd
which roars approval
claps and shouts
believing
what goes around
doesn't come around
when you're armed to the teeth,
and special.
St. Peter isn't there this time,
just an old man
sucking on an empty pipe.
A cock crows twice
and keels over.
He sees the cock drop
and tells the crowd he's had a sign
- it's up to them, self-chosen,
to kill the Christ within
- the Beast is still set to rise,
pitiless as a second sun,
at its appointed hour.
It's Said...
(assorted short poems)
It's said, 'You have to kiss a lot of frogs,'
wet wrinkled ones, eyes bulging.
Many do, yet never find a prince;
find grinning frogs in their mirrors instead.
***
A green fish, nearly too old to breathe, rests
under October's thin ice. Early snowflakes
melt above him. Soon fish and flakes will
leave the viewer, who says he owns them.
***
Some have said that Sound and Picture
are more fundamental than the Word, better
vessels for magic, superior tools for the artist;
but, like fire, language is a gift from the gods;
words can create both sounds and pictures
and turn them into poetry. Words are wands.
***
A bowl of cherries is just a bowl of cherries.
A hawk circles over a farmer's hens
while the farmer plucks cherries for his pies,
pops one into his chin.
***
'Impulsive' is said to be
eager without looking
then - surprised!
Some with that habit
age to 'old and wise';
others become old
with a vengeance.
***
Dancer and red fish dream,
one under satin,
one under stone;
glide like fireflies
from their covers.
***
His poem about a perfect lover
is well-crafted, but no one lives there.
***
What is permitted may not be forgiven:
listen to the still voice within
if you would walk scathless through your days,
your own master, blameless.
For David, the Painter
'Sometimes I want to paint
something as corny
as a sunset,' he said.
'Why don't you,' I asked.
'Maybe you could paint it
like no one else has.'
But he shook his head,
'I have an image to think of.'
He paints abstractly
and, instead of things, an idea
that life is an unending plateau.
His paintings remind me of sunsets.
Some New Scholars
(verse commentary, after Yeats' "The Scholars")
The Scholars
by William Butler Yeats
Bald heads forgetful of their sins,
Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines
That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love's despair
To flatter beauty's ignorant ear.
All shuffle there; all cough in ink;
All wear the carpet with their shoes;
All think what other people think;
All know the man their neighbour knows.
Lord, what would they say
Did their Catullus walk that way?
They used to be forgetful of their sins,
now they seduce their students, pretend they're
young themselves, but can't remember when they
felt love's emotion without self-consciousness;
believe beauty is clever, not ignorant.
The older ones vacation in exotic places, the
younger wear disdain and good will; all wear
the carpet with their shoes; all think aloud
in the same domain of political correctness.
Few in the humanities or social sciences dare
have an original thought that works (I recall
one: "pecked to death by doves"; its source
was speaking of her friends).
All know the members of their crowd; it's still
important to know the right thinkers. In a town
I passed through, those teaching for the local
college bought their uniforms at Sears; the one
with pecky friends asked if Catullus was an
astronaut, then confessed she'd mostly read
classic comics, adding that her specialty was
something else.
for John Milton
When we're young, arrogant lambs
with heart and wool
the world lusts after
we preen and swagger
all the way to hell
(called 'the
fortunate fall'
by a poet)
change radically -
willing, totally -
crawl from the fire,
rise to the light
(called by the same poet
'Paradise Regained')
Those who stayed home
ask, 'why look for trouble?'
and 'who needs to be a hero?'
as though they have little
left to discover
but you reached
into hell and heaven
for secrets of the journey,
show Him planting His apple seed
that holds the fruit
of divine knowing
in our Garden
then creating us
His chosen seekers and finders
of Knowledge.
Thanksgiving 2006
I'm not the body
I move, own, am tied to
giving thanks today
as I consume the flesh
of friends Tom Turkey,
plants I love,
along with air and water...
What is this communion,
one form devouring others,
transforming, mind giving credit
for the privilege
to a god?
Gandhi
"The only tyrant I bow to
is the still voice within."
Knowing the difference,
he chose between dying and living.
Regarding Van Gogh's Advice
Not to Be Afraid and Not to Try
to Make a Painting Pretty
It takes courage not to try
to make a painting pretty.
Few souls can resist,
the desire to please requiring
that ugliness be hidden.
Tell it like it is,
beautiful and ugly,
the best you are able -
serve no other master!
Was that commandment made for man
who has so much to worship, and forget?
A Van Gogh baby is big,
drooling, eternal -
a fat promise
held by a vigilant mother,
her apron wrapped tightly
over simian bones like a second skin,
strings hanging like tails.
It is in related gestures too -
their straight backs,
a jutting hip,
a small leg dangling
and hands ready to reach -
that love and attitude
raise immortal heads.
Winning
(prose poem)
In first grade, I learned long fingers indicate aesthetic bent and
vision. Felt discouraged, until I saw pictures of chimpanzees
with very long fingers, long arms too, especially adapted for
grasping and swinging.
One of my professors remarked that in his experience people with wide
triangular eyes have benevolent souls and those with round eyes evil ones;
his own eyes were remarkably wide and triangular, and when he saw me
looking, noting their glint too, he frowned. Every time he heard his round-eyed
dog bark, he put it in a closet on a vegetarian diet; it lived six years.
And so it goes: white, brown, short, tall, plump, thin, old, young;
we make one better than the other because someone has to lose.
So why don’t we play more games, like, who can be truly kinder?
New York City (1996)
In touch
with the heartbeat
of the world
we have a sense
of action snowballing,
of impending upheaval.
In my neighborhood
a darkness beyond the ordinary
has been settling in
for a long while.
It penetrates the daylight,
walls of buildings,
pores of faces.
We know it is never too late,
but is there a future here?
That is the incredible question
in this City of high energy
where people of every kind
live together in a harmony
unheard of elsewhere.
We play out our dramas
deep in the womb
of a sleeping volcano,
await the purifying fire.
6 haiku
big white fish hiding
under red October leaves
closes, opens lips
***
brief as a firefly
a goldfish glides under weeds
in dusky water
***
carp swims up my scroll,
turns into silver crescent
predicting long life
***
elegant bamboo,
the lucky kind, curls 3 times;
yellow base means death
***
my boots sometimes sink
climbing over a snow bank,
ice cream cone steady
The gnostic
To follow Christ,
prophet of spiritual love,
is too difficult for me
that one who was a son of God
and knew it, even in the
bloody eye of his storm
open to what the winds would bring
trusting
open to dying, to being born;
once I opened all the doors
and it turned my life authentic
but love won't bear another undergoing
so I think, looking back
but today appeared a hurricane
and I am standing upright in it
Don't call me christian though,
a follower of doctrines;
I'm a co-creator, in alignment
Shoes
Feet flatten,
holes grow,
a push and pull
wearing down concrete,
leather and bone.
Like wind and roses,
stone and sun,
like us,
each shoe's life
depends on crafting,
what it is made of
and what it rubs.
The magic footprint
Whoever puts his foot in the side of the cliff
where a giant footprint is stamped
will be granted the wish he makes while his foot is there.
In our town, this is a living myth.
Over the past 30 years, four have tried;
one fell into the sea and broke her hip,
the others say their wishes have come true.
I look, see what I'm intending
and it comes to pass, if I let it be.
I can change, too.
No need to climb there
except for fun.
Not hard to forget
Lights in many shades and hues
danced through corridors,
around corners in his sleepy eyes;
his lips and fingers played
lose and find
with the timing of a master,
the power of a magnet;
he was a drummer,
had words too, having kissed
runes of wisdom and wit.
The man sought to understand
in depth and provoked
a steady flow of delight.
Then he sank the float, saying
"I’ve enjoyed my performances with you."
So much depends on illusion.
The Future's DNA
The future unfolds
the intent of living things
to die and to be born.
The caterpillar inches towards death
spinning its cocoon
willing to grow wings.
Chalk and Board
(or Cheek and Tongue)
Vice makes virtue possible to know,
like white chalk on black or green,
thus there is no role I would not play -
sage, madman, robber, king -
changing skin and gait
on a Shakespearean stage;
the more identities I can have,
the more knowledgeable I can be,
act deliberately,
not re-act mechanically,
or let myself be led by Loki spirits
hovering near.
This reminds me of a dream
in which a traveler lost his way
but that was before I found the devil
(though it took some million years)
who kept me hopping leg to leg,
loss to gain and back,
self to self, parts missing:
the one with a stash of scalps
who told me I'd been chosen
and others hadn't.
Plea to a friend, to act wisely
When have you or I
stopped pursing folly
before many falls?
There is a Zen saying
that some horses only need
to feel a whip lightly,
others in the marrow of their bones.
On a beach
(vignette from a dream)
Shadowy trees wrap around one another, undulate in twilight. Ferns and succulent leaves emerge and fade. A pre-rhinoceros creature with low hanging skin munches lacey grass and indifferently looks my way. Leaving my body on a large rock I view my pose from above. Hills breathe, contract and expand. The beast quizzes himself then walks toward my body on the rock, stops, drops his head and vanishes. Long, biomorphic shapes take his place. A young boy forms from them whose body grows transparent toward his toes.
My focus shifts to light flowing into my space from an unseen source -- and I am in a new, spell-bound land. An ocean shimmers blue, green, gold; the sky is pale rose. The rock I sit on now is bleached skeleton white. I climb down and draw a circle, section it into north, south, east and west. The north represents strength, and here fades in a fragile shell growing large and solid.
There is a test of strength to pass before the Master of Games will let me move on.
I close my eyes, feel a hand on my shoulder and open them. A young man is standing at my side, the same that formed earlier but now he's older.
'Snuck-up-on doesn't bode well,' I say out loud, but like the strength I feel from him. Determination lines edge his mouth. His eyes are like blue ice in summer.
'I've come as required by the Quest,' he says. 'My name is Adam - I'm from the West. You are my partner in strength?'
'Strength is power well-used. Take your hand from my shoulder.'
'If you're going to resist, I cannot be your knight.'
'I'm used to the absence of chivalry.' Perversely, I recall the line from Satre's No Exit: 'Hell is other people.'
'What test do we have with the shell?' he asks, dropping his hand.
'The Master of Games left instructions inside the tip, and we're to get them out without cracking it," I reply. 'The instructions tell us what to do next. They will disappear if the shell cracks.'
The shell is about three feet high and four feet from mouth to tip. 'It's too delicate for anything ordinary to have lived in it,' I comment, drawn drowsily into its iridescence. Salmon, ivory, purple, green and blue lights burst forth from its mouth and with them the distant voices of ancient tribes. Its crust, ridged with points, spirals like a ram's horn.
'Only the beauty of a thing can trap a man. That's why it's important to see it whole,' he says, not looking at me.
The voices become louder, speaking in rhythms and ancient tongues. The shell glitters in the sun. I feel his heightened energy and interest.
'It's up to you to be faithful to our mission,' he says.
Barely awake, I feel the beating in my heart as he vanishes.
Questions Emerging From A Dream About Eating A Pet
Does all food, including medicine,
heal separation?
when we eat we make what is
not us, our own?
is eating, like touching, a way to know
the illusionary nature of form?
are rules made to be broken
in ways that work
like - bite off more than chewable
if very hungry (and learn what you learn)?
Meditation Poetry
I AM OM
Lord of Heaven
give me your blessing.
Color me with your light.
No other can purify
like You, the Ocean.
You make me light.
You are mother, father,
sister, brother,
child, friend, companion.
Satguru, Lord of Heaven
show me what I am,
what I am becoming.
You are the Star guiding
me home, the Lover
who inspires me to transform.
I belong to Light.
I am Om, Om Shanti.
(Satguru means "the true teacher"; Om Shanti means "I am a peaceful soul.")
Child of God, do you know who you are?
Do you know who you are?
Is your self-esteem high?
Deep is the ocean
of unlimited love,
the Mother.
The child who knows her
is not an orphan.
Child of God,
do you know who you are?
From Small Bird Bones
(Published by The New Press, December, 1993.)
My Daughter's Footsteps
Snowflake footsteps
drop at my door and fade.
I wonder, then know
what she wants to hear...
my daughter
who I've ignored
all day, again
(having other things
to do)
asks with her
snowflake footsteps
that I tell her I love her.
Small Bird Bones
My cat's eyes
shine with tenderness,
his tail furls
and curls with intention.
Soon he will meow long
and scratch the screen door
until he's too tired
to see the fallen sparrow.
I want to let him go,
see his black body fly
like an elegant arrow -
have it over with -
but hear my first cat
high in a tree,
small bird bones
caught in his throat.
à la Baudelaire
L'Invitation au Voyage
Allons en voyage, mon frère
mon amant
où ensemble nous nagerons
à travers les sauvages rayons
de la lune, à travers
les mers violettes, en fleur
où il n'importe que tu m'es menti
mon cher, où le soleil
brille quand nous voulons
et nous nous aimons.
J'aime que tu existe.
The Misogynist
He told me
what he did
to women and animals
was unfeeling
rather than
consciously cruel.
He said
all men kill
the things they love,
that I would understand,
being a woman.
Child with a Shell
He touches its teeth
fingers its inner ear, smoothly glazed
like a pink fish-belly.
As he feels further,
whiter, smoother,
echoing sounds from the center -
Broken open,
he holds the empty hull
wondering where the sound has gone
and looks for another shell.
Invocation to the White Goddess
(The Celtic Muse)
Isis of water, earth,
Fire and air,
Hear my prayer.
See with me,
Touch my tongue.
Let me speak to pierce the hearts
Of all who worship you.
Hold me as your child,
That I may know
What is real.
(Ref. Robert Graves, The White Goddess)
Various:
My teacher
(for Minoru Kawabata)
He taught painting in Manhattan,
a wisp of a man, almost transparent,
who knew the world was within himself
and that what he intended came about,
but didn't seem to know
or care that he was famous.
He showed us what is possible,
finding the seeds of what worked
on each student's canvas
and ways to coax forth their powers;
in his care, we grew as artists.
Beyond wisdom, missing nothing,
he found exact gestures and words
to calm the space and lift our spirits.
Though he spoke little English,
he touched our hearts with such elegance
that we outdid ourselves.
Manhattan, I've loved you
from the moment I arrived,
I knew I'd been chosen.
I love your love, your savoire faire,
your wider skies,
your lights, theaters, fruitstands, harbors,
smells of perfume and salt water,
the magic of your ships and towers,
your tales of freedom and tomorrows,
the tongues and colors of your people,
all your styles,
your open eyes,
all that you make possible.
Knocking on heaven's door
Those who knock on heaven's door
know how to open it,
playing, building in that space,
painting, weaving, singing, healing
In that place Spirit turns
words into wands,
water into wine, crosses oceans,
rockets to the moon, soon to other universes
Some call their knocking change of heart
and what comes forth, amazing grace
Some drum up sacred sounds,
dance on them and grow a world
There's no end to what can become,
knocking on heaven's door
My friend tells me...
my short poems are my best...
I start with the wind at my back
and get scared
shut and bolt the door
ramble on
and on and on
as though the wind
is still there,
but as I come into my strength
it happens less that I flee
my one-eyed storm and its rainbow
whether few words fall, or many.
The poet
is a misfit
disaffecting
those who would control her
she's trouble
like plato's escaped prisoner
delights in discovery
in seeing
and seeing further
though she may be
blind like homer
and when her faith
wiggles out of its cocoon
into a poem
it sometimes has wings
My Father
Compassionate warrior, philosopher, poet,
my father showed chivalry to women
and good will to all
I learned from him what is possible,
not what is common now;
he chose to be guided by honor
when I need to discover higher ground
within myself, and hold it,
he is my beckoning star.
3 short poems
Sun
Sun
soft and warm
reminds me of you
touching my arm.
Poetry, Dance and Music
Without these three wise men leading
we are not living, but trudging
through the mire of a base existence.
We need the sounds and sights within
before us, making magic happen
singing: this is what we are.
After all controversy surrounding Christmas ...
there is a winter solstice
carrying the promise
of another spring
and a Christ within
wiling to be born.
Warmth Enough
The blue spruce was white against the sky
and clumps of shadows frozen gray that March,
a pale year, our coldest month in many winters.
My uncle's beard glittered with crystals,
he said a mackinaw was not enough
or the fur-lined boots he wore;
the cold paralyzed his fingertips
through fur-lined gloves; still,
he was hunting because he liked to hunt,
and his fingers curled with warmth enough
to pull the trigger. A squirrel fell from a branch,
flickering crimson across the snow.
Then another. He said we had our dinner
and floundered through the drifts
to pick up the bodies.
He said he wasn't dependent for his meat
on any city's butcher.
Aunt Heather
A black and white snapshot shows
aunt Heather, six years old, seated at a piano
staring hopefully at a page of music.
Short sleeves puff near her pinafore straps,
plaid ribbons tie back her braids.
Her third, right finger is on a key,
those on each side point upward like a spatula.
Though Heather had a teacher,
she learned to read numbers instead of notes -
that seemed easier, she said, but
only notes were in the second book.
(Her teacher said she lacked interest.)
Heather made me promise, on principle,
not to depend on teachers
and to keep to difficult paths.
C'est à l'intérieur...
Le soleil brille
sur tout le monde,
sans juger, mais
c'est à l'intérieur
que je suis heureuse,
ou non.
Où es Tu, mon Dieu?
Où suis-je? C'est moi-même
que je dois retrouver,
comme toujours,
pour sentir Ta chaleur.
It Is Inside...
The sun shines on all
without judging,
but it is inside
I am happy, or not.
Where are You, my God?
Where am I?
It is myself I must find again,
as always,
to feel Your warmth.
Letting Go
Out of the cave I called reality,
beyond the mere life of this body
the universe is disrobed.
There is no place to fall,
no desire to shrink.
All events are extraordinary,
though not all are social
in the changing light.
I see myself crawl out of mud,
hover over the sun
or walk down a street --
I can see everything I've done
pretending many roles.
I see myself
transform into a living cross
or a mummy wrapped in white
spiraling in space
if I choose,
as I've chosen before.
Beyond this mere life
I've traveled many roads
in the all-seeing eye
creating the world;
I was with Homer and Aesop,
in the water Christ walks on,
in hurricanes and harvests.
Don't say it cannot be,
that these and other things
don't or didn't happen;
I know what I know.
And here is my test for truth --
the exact consideration,
and what works:
beyond this body's walls
where I live
the machinery of bondage
in heaven and on earth
is vanishing.
Life digs itself
Following Ayn Rand, some critic claims
an avatar only has power
to the extent he is believed,
without considering the same
might be true of him
And so the eternal game continues:
life digs itself
eggs hatch
bees make honey
thunder breaks
All of us have been in places
no sane person would choose;
mystics say life experiencing itself
is the purpose
And that the avatar is born,
or becomes, so empathetic
he is able to dig anything
and transform mind or matter,
bring forth life from death
Critics secretly believe he negates
their own discoveries;
they protest, watching from a raft
in turbulent waters
From mist to shining river,
egg to feathers
flying with power,
seed to ancient stick:
life digs itself
The poet Rumi calls it creation dancing
in a passion for God
Pegasus Dreaming
An eyelid rises
in the middle of his forehead
and Pegasus gallops forth;
the drums of time
beat on heaven's door:
rum a tum, om ta rum
rum a tum, om ta rum
While Pegasus dreams
his playground forms,
a watery mirror
Narcissus runs toward, knowing
a god will meet him.
rum a tum, om ta rum
rum a tum, om ta rum
He watches in a trance
the wings below
shining with light
not knowing how to let go
of what is drowning.
rum a tum, om ta rum
rum a tum, om ta rum
I had
I had exotic plumage once
soft, brilliant green, gold, red
I turned into a swallow
frail and lice-ridden
What was I thinking?
The Saint
Like a tree whipped by winds
a saint leads a twisted life,
turning time and again
towards light to straighten
until, beyond the pull of opposites,
she glows like a sun.
The Visitor
Like rain dropping into the sea
like mist evaporating
when boundaries disappear
I grow larger and larger
***
The shape-shifter that sets me free
unveils what I hold too tightly,
lives behind my masks and in them,
in stones too, and mere words
***
Faithful as a rising sun
love appears dressed in light
to unite with me, to create new life,
when I am willing.
Mummy Rest
I spend my nights
in a case grown large,
watch serpents in the noon sun
swallow their tails,
at dusk
glide into river reeds.
Nefertiti will bring a womb
for me, soon to be her son,
hoping I will not blame
this time
but remember
the small thought
that begins
life in death
death in life.
Everything that is
vanishes; after sensation
that most delights me.
We sat on thrones
built by slaves,
their songs
captured in the stones,
found, whether king or footstool,
man does nothing
he does not choose --
but much he will deny.
An old woman
inches through the drizzle,
taps her stick
along the foggy shore
looking for something washed up.
We will begin again --
new, transformed
Joneve McCormick hosts The Peregrine Muse, Soul to Soul and Joneve & Friends, an ongoing web project. Her poems, short stories and articles have appeared in various journals, periodicals, anthologies, and on websites such as World Poems. Two collections of poetry have been published: Small Bird Bones (The New Press, NYC, 1993) and The Visitor (Kritya India Arts/St. Mary’s Press, Kerala, India, 2008. Joneve offers online services which include writing poems for loved ones and special occasions, research and writing, ghost writing, promotional writing, consulting, editing and tutoring. Also see: Joneve & Friends, Flowers, etc. and Seagulls. For more information, please send e-mail.
©
