La Habana, en versos libres: V. Dias Cinco

Not quite late, but nearly
—even so, time enough
to roll the dice
with the coffee machine;
guess who won?

To class, to class, to class!
—the last one
in which we attempt to learn
the most complex genre of dance.

The eyes,
the mind,
the heart open;
so this is the truth:
when they took the drum away,
on the continent,
The People were robbed of their language.

Expected to capitulate,
The People on the continent,
nevertheless invented a new language.

But the islands regained the drum,
by way of the invention of the clavés;
the culture survived,
even flourished,
despite unintended changes,
via telegraph and telephone,
that brought a blossoming,
a renaissance,
to the tropical paradise
of song birds
walking trees
and rum.

This is a true story
[though, from his library in Argentina,
Borges would have observed
it is a true story
just made up;
this would be both
right and wrong]:
There are two birds in the forest;
both are holy beings.

One bird desires
union with the other,
to achieve the basis
that is universal:
one.

The male plumps his colorful plumage,
while the female demurs.

Though the female seems plain,
she is the Queen of
sky, sea and forest;
it is she who is mother of all.

The male, the Fourth King,
he who enjoys a good party,
he knows the Queen is best,
so he reaches into the sky,
calling on Thunder and Lightning,
pulling their power
deep into his gravitas,
placido y not.

The Queen,
she can have anyone.

The King,
is he worthy?

Right now, what can he achieve?

Is this the opportune moment
and portal
for encounter
and engagement?

Can this be love,
or merely convenience?

And what will happen next;
what are the consequences;
will the cosmos be changed?

Harmony is a coordination
of chant,
rhythm,
and movement
—one language,
heard and understood
in all times and places;
call and response,
with an outcome,
is a complete revolution,
a return to stasis and rest,
that resets the stage
for a new play.

Oddly,
“The more things change,
the more they stay the same”
is not true;
this drama kicks forward;
the revolution is really an evolution,
but only when the ritual is
correct and also unique;
there is no empty repetition
if there is blessing,
but blessing only comes
when being is engaged.

This is why the true language,
composed of thought,
                        word,
                        deed,
expressed as rhythm,
                        song,
                        dance,
is not a trinity,
but one expression,
that is being,
only when being is fully engaged.

There is no emptiness in being,
nor is there perfection;
there is only engagement with possibility.

If you believe,
if you know,
you realize the future imperfect
need not be tense;
there are no winners or losers,
there is only change,
even growth,
perhaps even understanding
and healing,
if all goes according to what is possible,
while maintaining the integrity of being one.

This, my friends, is rumba.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

New Music

Perfect love,

if any such should be,

is an absence of all obstacles

to the hearing of Divine music.

Purified of soul,

transformed by a fire

that is not fire, but only love,

there is no place music cannot touch.

The music of the spheres

is nothing less than the loving

songs of angels, continually washing over us

with new music, new ways and peace.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

I was thinking of Walter Hilton and his short tract entitled “The Song of Angels”. 

Kairos

Feet planted firm,
wind fills wings;
Tug on the thread
--my heart rings.

Head in the clouds,
dreaming of things;
Time flies a kite
--my soul sings.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem has been set to music by Carson P. Cooman,
in his cycle of songs for solo voice entitled Brief Vibrations, Op. 870

Wishing you a great weekend and suggesting...

GO FLY A KITE!

The Swallow

Out of the New Moon,
the Sun is a fire reborn
to dance amid gossamer rain,
peach blossom petals
floating on the wings of any
merry breeze.

Freed at last
of winter’s stone,
from the mountain heights
my waters rage with joy,
plunging to meet life,
to drench and then
be quenched in the melody
of my songbird.

But where is she?

The spray from my falls
finds her cypress perch vacant,
her flowered dells empty,
her feathered flights but a memory.

I, who cannot contain myself,
constantly revisit our meeting-place
with what conscious focus I can muster,
to find a sign, a message, a trace of you.

At last, the winds have pity:
with a gentle flourish,
a single feather is dislodged
from its cypress home
to drift in my swirling wake.

As I cherish this jewel
along the length and breath
of my flowing soul,
the winds play on the pine branches
the echo of your song.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Futility

Winter: low,
cold,
in arms,
breathless,
yet possible.

Winter lies low:
close, cold
within the arms
of breathlessness
and possibility.

Winter night lies low,
closed and cold,
holding, within desperate arms
of drawn silence, any breath
that could be misconstrued as song.

Winter night lies low, hushed,
closed off in bitter cold,
holding possibility at bay,
for as long as any breath can be held
away from inevitable amplification
into the possibility of Spring sun and of song.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Mandoline

Plectrum moves across the strings,
finding melodies
in imitation
of songs ancient and modern.

She does not sing the words
--that would be superfluous:
life is the music,
the words are the life;
unbidden, they float on the melodies
of their own concordant accord,
weaving the world into being.

The player smiles,
knowing this.

There is even no need to make music:

We are the instruments,
all of life is the music,
if we would but listen
to one another;
within and without,
we should be able to hear it
playing our hearts.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Winnowing

In the dwindling days of the year,

you find me
in the fields,
ready for harvest.

Shall the culling
be bitter
or shall it
be sweet?

Harvest,
the turning of the year,
the time of turning
and returning,
for threshing
and for winnowing.

Stand amid the grain
and feel the wind,
gathering ripe stalks
with whispering
and singing.

Stand among the still tender shoots
and feel the wind,
caressing each and all
into a dance of plenty
with a song.

The winnowing fan
is aloft, riding the breeze!
The music and the dance,
the singing never ends!

The same song
garners the wheat
as burns the chaff;
in either case,
transcendence
is the fruit.

Now the song,
the sweet song,
has found me,
inside the dance,
inside the spiraling now.

Take me in the field,
and winnow on.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Blessings and prayers for our departed loved ones, this All Souls' Day.