I want to make a magic world 

think of Middle Earth

Today I think about how it was the need of it to write of “Middle Earth” for J RR Tolkien

I dwell upon the visual landscape of his world then 

Do not mistake my silence for complacency. It is just pragmatic to not throw away energy. Throw away in such as it starts to feel like the quest for the holy grail. Or some crusaders’ lost dream. 

And here like Orlando, I step away from the maddening crowd and 

     think of Middle Earth

I think, what might have been on his mind:

       “Middle ….. somewhere safely far from here. A place not like but similar in some ways to earth. Some magical place to command. Some place to vomit out the horrors of my nightmares. Let them rage with fierce violence assuaged by some renewed hope of heroic justice and let us hope —let us hope ….together —through magic —that will deliver all back to the faith that the greater good will out for kindness not greed nor supremacy” 

With a back to World War I and facing another ….gas masks and trenches on the landscape and there germinates Orcs and Ents

ghosts

I slip into anonymous and then find it brings me to a world I never knew was there  

is it easier to find one’s voice when the audience is glad you speak in a whisper 

and listen better 

if they cannot see my face —how do I say, I’m not ok, please do not come too close to me….. don’t ask so many questions ….. don’t look at me so closely ….sometimes I wonder if I’m a zombie but here when I say I’m a freak to a faceless virtual room 

   it starts to get eerie when you wonder if the echoes are real or just the tubes in the matrix farm 

she wolf

come howl 

at me 

    don’t 

leave me lost 

come howl 

your predator call 

having said

seen but maybe 

now lost words upon  

   my

 walls 

& tell me

to you do

I 

matter

oh come howl

& say you

see

me

still

on this whirling planet 

    we spin 

and we hold on trying not to let go the grip 

as it flings us 

it flings us 

   come howl

howl at me 

and drag me back to your cave

do you see me 

changing in the distortions of life, the distortions of light, changing yet ever constant 

in the moon’s changing light

do you hear me howl ?

A rumpled head Analogy

Analogy

I have brushed my hair for the first time in years. What chaotic havoc the curls have created, it has been a war with Medusa’s snakes; they have a mind of their own, those locks. 

No I correct myself; they are coils but with individual minds like an octopus and all at war against me. 

I say—go there! I say—nay, not to the left, wave right—once twice then get the iron and guess what? It is tougher than even heat the mulatto beanfield war of flames 

After two weeks at war, on the battlefield I find once the overgrown Rosamond sleeping beauty is unearthed 

brush, brush brush grandma always used to say—one hundred strokes a night, she insisted and there was so much more even then to contend with as it reached mid thigh

bend forward, brush down and count 

stand up and there you see the rays of the sun dance like a lion’s mane around my face and static —after which I have stretched out the coils to discover it’s several inches longer than pretended to be. The liars!

and still it does not go where I say 

How is this analogy — ?

what is beneath the tangles is just as chaotic 

and you can never win an argument against it (I know, I’ve tried all my life)

 

waar ben je gebleven? Net als de ridder. woorden. Ik zou jouw magie kunnen gebruiken om me weer te laten geloven. Het pantser is te veel. Waar resoneert het?