Poetry: Each Morning, The Unseen Blank Page

CS Sherin May 21, 2019

I awaken.
I arise
each morning.
We all do.
At first seeing,
what is not seen —
is the blank page.
Upon it are wisps,
remnants of elusive,
felt dreams from sleeping.
They haunt the unseen blank page
like vivid watercolor drops that fade
as they dry.
Each new day, when we arise,
pages have already been written…
in dreaming, and other days, and then
we awaken again upon a new page
where we write our lives
by living,
breathing and being.

Blinking eyes, happily taunt-stretched limbs,
the loud yawn of awakening, the guttural
bellow
of the flexed stomach releasing…

we may wake up with expectations and a schedule.
We may be woken up by interruptions and demands.
We may arise alone or crowded, or something in between…
and we may want it, or not want it.
We may wake up peaceful and content, afraid and
worried, or neutral, or excited, or confused.

Still
we wake up living
and so
we write upon the blank page
of morning.
Each blank page becomes filled
with feelings, thoughts, actions, words —
the seen and the unseen, and
by choice and by no-choice —
consciously and unconsciously.

For me, in the past year and three months,
ever since a kitten was unexpectedly adopted…
every morning, my blank page begins
with the most persistent shower of
warmth and affection —
a cuddle like no other on my tip-top upper area
of the chest
with a complete nuzzling-in of a little face
deep into my neck, where he
purrs… and then sleeps, if I let him there long enough.
He is soft as a marshmallow
and just as sweet.
He is a being who comes to me
like a patiently timed magnet
instantly attracted — upon my awakening.
I do not write this on my page exactly,
it is a repeating miracle shining upon me
by a little mysterious being
of love, brought here by
my life partner. So,
our pages can change in certain ways
that are beyond us alone.

This young cat’s constancy,
his persevering
affection and gratitude
changes
my page of awakening.
He softens and warms my voice
and has been applying a medicine to
my heart each morning
that it has not known in this way
and sorely needed at this time.

The unseen blank page and
what I write upon it
is up to me…
because it is me…
living and breathing. No one else
can actually write it. Though others
may influence and affect it.
A life partner doesn’t write my pages for me
but he writes beside me, and I with him.
We fall asleep holding hands, waking up
we are next to or near each other.
Yet, everyone too…
because everything
and everyone
are connected to all that is.
We are all connected. If I forget that…
my page can lose its strength.
And if I forget
that I am writing my own life by living it
and that no one else can…
then my page can lose its magic.
That has happened before.
That was
something I wrote on pages of my life
at one time. And…
it is not happening anymore.
Today
I am writing a poem,
as the silence holds
my breath, writing, and
being in spaciousness.
That, for now, is all there is
in this moment
upon the page.

There is one more thing to say
about
all of this…
shining sunshine upon others
may not write upon their pages
exactly, because it is our own pages we write on.
Yet, what it does, is it
uplifts and warms,
it comforts, relaxes, and inspires, and can
help to welcome in
all kinds of
goodness and healing.

CS Sherin, Wild Clover | WildClover.org 2019©


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A Tribute, In Loving Memory of Dr. Mary Oliver, Poetic Goddess

January 17, 2019
CS Sherin

Please Note: The article below was originally written and posted on a former version of this site. This article from 2012 has been edited and re-published in honor of Dr. Mary Oliver, who died earlier today.

Before you read the following article that I wrote after meeting Mary Oliver back in 2012, I would like to say a couple of things about her now, for today. Some of her childhood consisted of neglect, sexual abuse, and loneliness. Her life as a poet was the truest self she could be in this life, and the best. When young and throughout life, she found comfort, life, and what is sacred out in nature and with animals. She was a contemplative poet, with a naturalist’s passion for nature and simplicity. Every part of that encapsulation of her has given me hope and saved, affirmed, and encouraged me—as a survivor, poet, human, and naturalist soul. I send her well wishes on her soul journeys that begin today, and so much love and gratitude for all she shared with us. Shine on, dear Mary Oliver, holy voice for this earth—and what is so precious in this life.

The program for Mary Oliver’s honorary Doctorate at Marquette University on Nov. 12th, 2012; and my copy of “Swan” that Mary signed that night.

Nov. 13th, 2012
CS Sherin

Did you happen to feel a big bliss vibe yesterday?  It could have been from me.  I got to meet my favorite poet of our time, an inspirational goddess of poetry–Mary Oliver–yesterday.  Because of this, I have residual Mary Oliver bliss that I know must be radiating out into the rest of this place.  *big smile*  Read on to learn what it was like to: see her, listen to her read her own poetry, get writing advice from her via the Q & A, how it was to meet her, and what it all meant to me.

I went to Marquette University with some of the best poetry loving friends, in order to witness Mary Oliver receive an honorary doctorate there. Mary Oliver’s smile, in reaction to the donning of the Doctorate robe, was such a revelation to me! In general she has a serious and drawn face.  And quite suddenly, it burst open like a shimmering flower of tropical sunshine.  It was a jolt–an amazing joy to behold.  We then listened to Dr. Oliver read her poetry to us. It was an hour, which passed like a few minutes. After, there was a Q & A, and then a line formed for book signing.  My best poetry buddy, Marci, and I got to speak with her briefly together, when our turn approached for signing—more on that later.

The main and briefly summarized impression I had from the poetry reading itself was of: Mary Oliver’s affinity and compassion for nature, her dog, and for the real connections of this life that she expresses in ways that soothe, affirm, and stir my soul.  This is why she is beloved–her poetry is transpersonal and deep, yet accessible. The whole experience was holy.

In person, Mary Oliver is small, and she is older now, so she has a cane and white hair.  She was very much like a fairy-godmother presence, especially while delighting in choosing which poems to read to us. She seemed to me to be mostly: witty, cute, wild, rebellious, tender, open-hearted, bold, wise and magical. Also, Mary Oliver’s heart and mind seem to have beams of focused energy, clear and strong, that are able to shine out upon the world–wherever she may be sitting, standing, or speaking in the moment. There is an air of serious concentration about her. And, it is clear, she adores the natural world, and has a passion for it beyond simple observation—she is in deep relationship.  It is also clear, she deeply cares about people, no matter how humble, shy, and introverted she is. She made a tremendous effort to transmit her love and appreciation to us with grace, humor and oomph.

During the Q & A, a fiery passion came forth as she responded to a question, giving advice about how to be a successful poet. I can’t quote her word for word, but it was something I can paraphrase as this:

Forget about being successful! Spend every day caring about your writing. In this economy, forget about the nice car and nice apartment.  Focus on doing the best you can, writing every day! 

She did answer my question, which was something like, “Does poetry flow from you in the same way it did 10-20 years ago?”  She revealed, in not these exact words, that inspiration doesn’t hit as hard as it did once; that things have slowed.  And yet, there was a new book in front of her and she mentioned another was on the way.  She told us that she never had trouble with writer’s block.  That if there was a little of it, she knew the answer was always connecting with the earth and being grateful, and it would come back, and flow.  She also mentioned that, if anything, she wrote too much.  I could tell that having inspiration leave her would be like an athlete suddenly becoming immobile with no hope of future mobility.  It would be devastating.  But I don’t really think that will happen.  Her very being has become poetry, just as Whitman had described.

Her eyes are full beams of mystical presence…they struck me as powerful, yet gentle–a concentrated energy that I really haven’t ever seen in someone before.  Her eyes are full, with presence–that is it—fiery, grounded, watery, elemental.  Her life has been a discipline of not only presence, but deep relationship with all presence.

Speaking of those poetic goddess-like eyes, I had a chance to look right into them, across a table, at the book signing.  I was feeling extremely shy and in awe, but I managed to say awkwardly, but honestly, “Thank you Dr. Oliver.  I love you.”  There was a significantly silent pause as she looked down at the book I had given her, before she wrote in my copy of Swan, then she said quite slowly and deliberately, “Well…I don’t know you, but…I love you too.”  Then, she looked up and gave me the gift of presence, looking intently into my eyes–really looking.  All I could do was smile at her with love and gratitude.  It. was. awesome.

This signature in my copy of “Swan” represents a powerful memory I have of  encountering a person who improved my life, and inspired me, through poetry and parts of her life she was willing to share. I am thankful for that day and time.

What I have always known, since I was 12 years old—was presented to me in the flesh yesterday, as pure and utter gift:  A great poet speaks for and to the soul, as much as to the person.  She is voice for the soul, for presence.  She is also the medicine.

”For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”  ~ Mary Oliver

Those words of Mary Oliver’s came to me as we all listened raptly to her, reading her poetry to us.

I felt, indeed, that I was hungry and cold, and maybe even a bit lost, and that she was feeding me (us) and my deeper self–like a mother bird feeds her babies. Yes, I felt that yesterday with Dr. Mary Oliver, and it was bliss.

CS Sherin, WildClover.org 2012, 2019©

Poetry: Even In 1984 With Treason

CS Sherin
October 17, 2018
tinydaisylikeflowers_cssherin2018_wildclover.org copy
What gracious time is this

when I walk through air on

earth and swim through water

under the sky? What grace

filled time is this

where I am sheltered every night

surrounded by six other beings who

wish and show me only love, who

stand by me no matter the weather

or time?  What glorious synchronicities

are these that orchestrate order in spite of

chaos, beauty and kindness in spite of active

hatred, wild regenerative wellness in spite of

polluted toxic disease? What timeless peace within

is this that reverberates endlessly in the

midst of cacophonies of strife and unrest?

What beautiful mind-bending grace is this? –this

breath, this heart — the rhythm and song within

us? PurplePrairieFlowers_2018_CSSherin_wildclover.org copyWhat is this glorious triumph of love that

travels beyond atrocities, that has no rival–

unmeasured goodness surviving here,

beyond the vision and grasp of all the

twisted distortions that destroy, erase, consume,

and assimilate. It is the great mystery of

ultimate reality beyond this, yet it is evidenced

through and through. Just as we give up hope,

just as the darkness enfolds, just as the distortions

distort yet more, the day after, the breath after that,

PrairieFlowers2018_CSSherin_wildclover.org copythe morning after that, the week after that–woven

through everything, invisible yet ineffable,

indelible — Great presence endures — untraceable

even in the worst 1984 with treason.


CS Sherin, WildClover |WildClover.org 2018©


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Haiku ~ Fourth Week Of April

Lilac Buds, 2018. Photo by: CS Sherin

By CS Sherin
April 28 2018

This concludes this fun series of daily poetry that I began in honor of poetry month. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I have. I love the discipline of the haiku. I have been writing poetry since I was 13 years old, but have rarely had a regular practice of parameters like the sonnet or the haiku. It is worth doing! In mid-life now, writing poetry is as joyful and mysterious a flow as ever–and even more satisfying. Poetry, at its best, is a voice of truth and of the soul. Thank you for listening to mine.

April 23
One inch closer to
my goals. Meanwhile this world has
lost its mind alright.

April 24
Everything shifts with
weeding, letting go. Garden
of what is real now.

April 25
Dreams are riddles
decoded in patterns of
the following day.

April 26
What do you like so
much that you want to chase it?
And what chases you?

April 27
Perpetual waves
of ocean, sun rise daily—
our love, enduring.

April 28
That weight is gone like
heavy snows melted turning
into bright lit Spring.

April 29
The kids frolic as
we step into our deeper
selves of skylark too.

April 30
I know the dragon
that bites you. For she bit me
too…insomnia.

CS Sherin, WildClover.org 2018©

The Poetry Month Series by CS Sherin, links:
Week One | Week Two | Week Three | Week Four (current page)


Tips of gratitude are welcome here! Click the pic to support this site.

Haiku ~ The First Week Of April

Haiku For Poetry Month: April 1st to April 6th
By CS Sherin
April 6, 2018

To celebrate poetry month I have been writing daily haiku! It is fun! Remember, poetry is the language of the soul. It is nourishment, a salve–it is necessary on regular days, it is essential on trying days.

Poetry became a part of my practice at age thirteen. It simply flowed from me. My mother was astonished. I accepted it without question. Because people are not always so open to poetry, I have most often kept it private. Now that I am middle-aged, I seek to share my poetic voice more. And, I do have a couple of books written, waiting to be published! I keep the poetry that comes from me sacred. I share it with love.

Words have power to unite, divide, heal, free, enlighten. Poetry takes that power into a naked truth that illuminates what is unspoken, and what we long to express and hear.

Happy poetry month!

April 1 2018
Is the joke that we
wait for a magic that is
already herein?

April 2
She embodies all
love I’ve known so far.
Bright daughter, magic.

April 3rd
Whenever we kiss,
the snow melts a bit.
Endless Spring love, Jeff.

April 4th
With all of the snow
we could build a snow person
who could melt this Spring.

April 5th
Rejection stings me.
Relentless persistence is
what the cat taught me.

April 6th
When nothing makes sense
the only thing that matters
is breath, movement, love.

Chandra S Sherin (CS Sherin), WildClover.org 2018©


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An Irrational, Transcendental Poem For Pi Day

Celebrate the Irrational and Transcendental Pi that is Pi Day, with Pi facts and the inspiration of dreams, tea, and Adventure Time through poetry

Image by Aitoff, Pixabay

“3.14159”

by CS Sherin, 3.14.2018, updated 3.14.2019

We traveled to Australia.
We look younger.
We see the strange and unfamiliar
as well as things that look
just like home.
We are traveling with other tourists.
I am on a tall ladder-like platform, and
large Afghan-type dogs appear.
Four of them.
One comes to me specifically.
I am to put my hand on his back
and he will lead me where we need to go.

The dogs were blue at first,
then turned black, and last, white.
They can puff up their hair
when they want, and smooth
it out again at will.

We end up at a long corridor of
open dorm beds that are like
a partial camper-sleeper/barracks.
Some female family and acquaintances
are there too, it turns out.
I choose to sleep halfway
in the corridor of beds.
A woman across from me exclaims
that she knows she is sad because
when she is happy she feels horny.
I roll my eyes and think,
I have to put up with this?

Another woman playfully-not playfully
taunts me about not knowing
what a former friend is doing now.
I don’t need to know, I think, irritated
by these arrangements. And then,
the alarm awakens me.

Today, in waking life,
I saw the pi symbol formed
by tea leaves at the bottom of
my tea cup.
Quite
a surprise.
And has never happened before
or since.
Then tonight,
on Adventure Time
Finn drank from a cup
with the pi symbol on it.
My amazement was complete.
So I dove into all the
alluring pi facts…

Ancient Babylonia,
ancient Egypt,
the Old Testament,
the Greeks all
knew it to some degree.
Pythagoras helped
Archimedes to really find it.
Madhava of Sangamagrama found
more of it.
Within the atom and through
computers we find more of it
each day.
Irrational,
transcendental,
infinite pi…..
Wherever there is a circle,
there is pi (I smile
thinking of all the mandalas I create)

Pi is not a root–not algebraic.
It’s patterns never repeat.
Pi measures emanating ripples well,
and probability determination,
the unchanging ratio of any circular
circumference and diameter.

This is the day that 3.14159 (and so on)
tapped my shoulder
with it’s waking life answer —
a mysterious, romantic, infinite
irrational answer —
to my night of dreaming, and day of waking…

3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197….They say
just those first forty digits could hold the answer
to our universe.

CS Sherin, WildClover.org 2018/2019©