The Place of Forgetting
Name me what you wish,
healer, crone, wise one,
elder, shaman, recluse, druid,
sorcerer, charmer, witch,
it matters not.
My body carries chant, incant, enchant.
Orpheus taught me poetry and song
communication and communion
far beyond mortal being.
Animate and inanimate all respond.
Call it what you will,
root cellar, cupboard, pantry,
they store apples, walnuts, parsnips,
bulbs of garlic, root of burdock,
blackberry, ginseng, sassafras,
seeds of mugwort, milk thistle, mustard.
Bundles of sage, yellow root,
yarrow, devil’s claw and dandelion
hang from hand-hewn rafters,
gathered when the moon and signs were right.
For all of these you will return
when black wings spread.
I have been here always.
Watched as you lost the language
of tree, grass, soil, animal,
insect, sea and wind. Still my
left hand holds fast to sacred space.
October carries the last leaf down,
earth embraces, blesses
that which you do not.
I place the elementals
and your ignorance
into the oubliette of time and wait.
This poem is still in "process". It is in reponse to a writing assignment from my writing group. The assignment was to write a poem about "what kind of witch are you."
ReplyDeleteCarla called: did I know anybody who could give or sell her some yellow root? I took her some the next day. As part of his worldly goods, her father brought to our marriage a plastic Smith and Wesson bag containing a brown paper sack, which held a generous handful of the stuff. I'd kept it for 19 years.
ReplyDeleteI held back a tiny bit for myself, of course.
The whiskey, she'll have to furnish herself.