D.H. Lawrence, Ripples and Flames

Our stories are important. Our myths, our songs, our poetry, our uncensored expression. They have lives of their own once the breath moves through them, and garner even more life-force when shared..

Every piece of his poetry lights a fire that cascades and ripples through the psyche, illuminating the corners of ourselves waiting to be seen.

Take the ride if you choose.

SICK

I am sick, because I have given myself away. 
I have given myself to the people when they came
so cultured, even bringing little gifts, 
so they pecked a shred of my life, and flew off with a croak of sneaking exultance. 
So now I have lost too much, and am sick. 

I am trying now to learn never
to give of my life to the dead, 
never, not the tiniest shred. 

-D.H. Lawrence 

I flip to another page as if spinning a roulette wheel. I believe peeking into books without knowing where you’ll land.. things you’re meant to see in that moment jump out. The next poem seemed to pick up where that one left off.

IMAGE-MAKING LOVE

And now
the best of all 
is to be alone, to possess one's soul in silence. 

Nakedly to be alone, unseen
is better than anything else in the world, 
a relief like death. 

Always 
at the core of me 
burns the small flame of anger, gnawing 
from trespassed contacts, from red-hot finger bruises, on my
inward flesh. 

Always, in the eyes of those who loved me 
I have seen at last the image of him they loved
and took for me 
mistook for me. 

And always
it was a simulacrum, something
like me, and like a gibe at me.

So now I want, above all things
to preserve my nakedness
from the gibe of image-making love.

-D.H. Lawrence

“There will be three types of people: Crazy people, angelic people, and dead people.”

— a prophecy passed on to me from sources unknown.

D.H. Lawrence speaks of the dead.

I know these people.

I know that person, at least…

---

I can’t be a hypocrite either,

I myself have been among the living-dead. I myself have been among the parasitic, the self-serving, the frantic, the deceptive, and at times, the ruthless.

So I cannot hold too much contempt, for I am capable of that behavior, as history shows.

I am not that person today.

But I keep watch within myself, to make sure these insidious human traits, stemming from unmet needs, self-centeredness, scarcity, fear and shame, never raise their heads to harm someone else, or wreak havoc and destroy my own self.

---

D.H. Lawrence knew rebirth and rock bottom.

He had that experience on the same land I did, New Mexico.

That is why his poem, “New Mexico” is tattooed on my leg.

When my time in the desert ran its course, I did not want to go home, and I grieved it for so long. Getting the tattoo brought me comfort. It’s still my favorite one.

New Mexico

In the magnificent fierce morning of New Mexico one sprang awake, a new part of the soul woke up suddenly, and the old world gave way to a new

-D.H.Lawrence

Our stories are important. Our myths, our songs, our poetry, our uncensored expression. They have lives of their own once the breath of life moves through them, and garner even more life-force of when shared.

The story of New Mexico, and all of us who were there in 2017… I do not share that often. I will tell it here soon.

I’m not sure what you would have called us.

The ones who had long fallen through the cracks of this world, grown so accustomed to living in darkness, that when the desert sun rose, we didn’t know what to do except huddle together when the wind blew, and chain smoke.

Then we began to write lyrics, play guitar, sing, rap, and tell jokes. These were interesting times. These were the best of times. Everyone had a story too dark for most stomachs to handle — but we all laughed so much there. We were rescued from the void, if only for a short time.

The collaboratively collected and documented messages from our time there showed up in a moving box that I unpacked two weeks ago.

They are from 7 years ago. I had no idea I had them. I’ve moved to four different states in that time period, and all over the place within those states/cities. It’s incredible the things that hang on to us, even when we forget they exist and certainly aren’t hanging on to them.

These are medicinal remembrance blessings that follow us, as if they were waiting to be rediscovered and shared years later. As if we wouldn’t be ready to fully appreciate and share them until we had been through more trials, more doors, more hallways.

I suppose that is called for next.

When stories are not told, there can be consequences. We aren’t meant to hoard the Force of Life.