poetryrepairs 15,05:060

JUDY HOGAN : This Sacred Way #3
VERNON WARING : now i am airborne
VERNON WARING : The Green-Eyed Monster

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This Sacred Way #3

October 5, 2008
What one means by integrity, in the case of the novelist, is the conviction that he gives one that this is the truth. Yes, one feels, I should never have thought that this could be so; I have never known people behaving like that, but you have convinced me that so it is, so it happens. One holds every phrase, every scene to the light as one reads–for Nature seems, very oddly, to have provided us with an inner light by which to judge of the novelist’s integrity or disintegrity. Or perhaps it is rather that Nature, in her most irrational mood, has traced in invisible ink on the walls of the mind a premonition which these great artists confirm; a sketch which only needs to be held to the fire of genius to become visible. When one so exposes it and sees it come to life, one exclaims in rapture. But this is what I have always felt and known and desired! –Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
We enter a time of major and permanent change. All my life I’ve been changing, yet my integrity holds fast. How many people are still connected at age seventy to who they are in their depths so that their words release the invisible ink in the minds of other people? She called it "the Judy effect," but I could not see what I’d done besides encouraging her to read and write. Then I remembered I’d talked about being whole and how one might seem conventional in most ways, but then in some situation, one would be moved to speak out, regardless of the consequences, which is exactly what she did, after sitting on her truth for five years. I forget my integrity, though it regularly annoys someone when I speak the truth. Some are angry; some, relieved; some hate me; some love me. I’m writing novels with clues to integrity, to how conflicts can be transformed by love, how the impossible dream can take on flesh; how communities are created and sustained, how neighborhoods can become places of sanity and love. Call it bread for a hunger as universal as for wholesome food. Along with the garlic, carrots, beets, peppers, beans, okra, sweet potatoes, peaches, figs, pears, grapes, and raspberries, I’m growing communion, harmony, transformation, the coming into its own of the human soul.

poetryrepairs #212 15,05:060

now i am airborne

floating drifting... surrounded by the lightest of waves i am reclining as my eyes search upward and i glide ever so softly so slowly in a perfectly light blue celestial expanse i am suffused with hope with fullness and love with great faith in seeing them again my mother my father i will find them at peace and be comforted when i see them together - with swords bent and broken and buried - their eyes smiling...their arms open to me no more will they be the warring force i'd been subjected to no more the awful couriers of malice i'd been witness to and when i find them in heaven's home, this once sainted child, this damaged soul who glides toward them will forgive them...my heart will be rich with love and goodness transformed and transcendent i will rush to receive their blessed embrace

poetryrepairs #212 15,05:060

The Green-Eyed Monster

She was always angry when any woman looked him over, checked him out. Possessive and jealous, short- tempered and mean spirited, she was a bitch. Always poking at him, second-guessing him, her bold dark eyes glaring at the least little slight. And her tongue knew no limits. She would dress him down right there in front of anyone, ridiculing him, embarrassing him, making him an obvious target of her fury. She would wait for him by the window at night, her sleepy cat nestled on her lap, an aromatic stew or soup or casserole wafting through the tidy city row house they shared. He knew if he lived there much longer he'd end up with his hands wrapped around her throat or maybe he'd just slip some antifreeze in her drink or he could just walk in one night and announce that he finally found the one true love of his life. No bloody knives, no smoking guns, just words aimed directly at the heart.

poetryrepairs #212 15,05:060

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