Speaking Through Me

I'm sure that anyone who is artistic can relate to the following...

That feeling that someone, or something, is speaking through you. Like there is a voice in your head that is not quite your own, and it is demanding that you do something with it.

Certainly, this feeling is not restricted to artists--although they may be most familiar with the sensation. Call it a Muse, the Voice of God/Goddess, or simply inspiration...perhaps some people experience it as a kind of intuition.

When I have this sensation of "speaking through me," I am often able to quiet it--give voice to it(?) by writing a poem.

Here's one from this week:

The Voice of the Sea

She said, “I am the voice of the restless sea…”

And I, drawn to her ever inexplicably;

Sat my aching body down

On sharp, salt-stained rocks.

I groaned imperceptibly.

She said, “I have called you to me,

As a maiden calls to her beloved--

Using her eyes; using her lips;

Swinging her lustrous hair,

Swaying her hips…

I call you here to give yourself to me!

You have seen me up close;

I’ve nourished you from my stores

And lulled you to sleep…

You have loved me well.

You have loved me as I tore through sails;

Tossed your crew mates around—

Called my children to me;

‘Use your keen senses;

Use your ripping teeth.’

They have listened; you have bore witness;

Yet you love me still.”

And I, a once youthful man;

Solid and humble from a lifetime--

Spent serving at her pleasure

Give myself to her...

A fitting end; who else would take me now?

Here is another, from a few months ago:

This is Why I Hurt You

This is why I hurt you, he said.

He towered over me, fists tight

And hard as stones.

I see the fear you carry

In your bruised eyes, he said.

I plunge myself

Into your sorrow--

And I know I am still alive.

Both times, it was as though I heard another voice--that is the best way to explain how it was I "felt" the the aching body as it sat on a sharp rock; how it was I tasted the briny air as a craggy, worn fisherman. Or how for a short time I "became" an abusive husband/boyfriend, so sick from self-loathing and so emotionally damaged that the only way he could 'feel' was by inflicting pain upon someone physically weaker.

Is it muse? Imagination? The voice of God or Goddess? Is it valuable to write these at all?

What do you think??

inspired by my daughter

daughter of ocean

this is why i love the ocean, she said

and cast her arms wide, as if

to embrace it. her cheeks were pink

from wind or sunburn--

the long messy curls danced

about her face.

she closed her eyes and spun

dancing, twirling,

to the beat of the waves

or perhaps to some inner music

only she could hear.

i envied her.

she tore away from me then, kicking sand

with her strong small feet

returning to the salty waters

that are her birthright,

finding her cousins

among the rocks and tidal pools.

~ Suzanne Reynolds-Alpert 9/1/07

This Poem is Dedicated to My Mother

A recently written poem, which I'm dedicating to my mother. As to why? I'll post about that later this week...

song of self

too long have i basked
in the reflected glory of others;

or the promise of such.
spent too long waiting

for them to a forge a path
for me to follow.

i am done with the dirt
raised by another’s footsteps

ahead of me. i want to
return to the home

that is myself. i follow
the beacon of my own
illumination.

most recently published poem (or, okay, so there have only been two so far)

my most recent published poem, published in the Sisterhood of Avalon's Electronic Journal, The Tor Stone:


She Heard The Call

She heard The Call to Avalon—
and all around her,
others heard The Call
and thought, “The Grail,
It must be The Grail!
Or Arthur! That
just and wise King!”
Yes, it had to be Arthur, a male.

And they took The Call,
and they researched Arthur
and the Grail. And thought,
“Yes, this is it!” And it
supported what they'd been taught
about the Grail, and God,
and about a battle—
between right and wrong—
that had been fought.

But she heard The call, and
heard not Arthur,
nor the quests of men—she heard
the whispered promises
of wise women, heard
glorious music;
sweet voices chanting praises
('though she didn't know the words.)

She closed her eyes, and saw
thin, strong arms raised to the sky;
juicy, luscious apples; windswept
hills, sweet water bubbling from
a spring. Sacred groves of trees;
swirling mists; a boat parting
dark waters. Images of women
changing form—becoming horses, owls—
eagles sailing on breezes.

She saw a magnificent, shining Woman,
draped in simple black cotton;
luminous in Herself. Adorned
with garlands of ivy and flowers;
unruly hair flying—
She called The Call,
and shook a silver branch—
and, it seemed,
every creature listened—felt
The Call in the core of their being.

Trembling with long-unshed tears,
she raised her arms to the sky;
opened her mouth, returned
The Call with power and surety;
surprising herself with
the depths of her longing
and passion. She recognized it, now—
knew The Call. Long-forgotten,
but delicious, this sense of belonging.

She heard The Call—
and returned it. Memorized
it's exquisite sound and form and feeling—
to relay The Call. To help it
ring sound and true.
To help it resonate forever;
to light the path—
for other Sisters, too.

~ Suzanne Reynolds-Alpert, 2006