<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div class=""><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;" class="">My reading on YouTube</span></div><div class=""><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;" class=""><br class=""></span></div><div class=""><font face="Segoe UI Historic, Segoe UI, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" class=""><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;" class=""><a href="https://youtu.be/_QwqMvu9MGk" class="">https://youtu.be/_QwqMvu9MGk</a></span></font></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">and the poems read</div><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;" class=""><div class=""><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;" class=""><br class=""></span></div>Riantee was born in Paris, France, where her first book of French poetry was published. After traveling around the world she moved to the Mendocino Coast with her husband and 3 children in 1973. She participated in poetry readings, radio shows and contributed to reviews, magazines and anthologies with her poetry, articles and short stories all over the country. She has been a translator of French Poetry and Art Essays. She has published wo books of her poetry, one of non-fiction, one of travel stories and a fictionalized memoir as well as her first book for children, Mimi the Cat.
Riantee's poems
CALYPSO ORCHID. TO MY SON
I’ll meet you at the edge of time
by the big redwood
where your spaciousness and mine come together
in the heart of the tiny, wide-eyed orchid,
looking upon the world with innocence
and purring with the contentment of an open heart.
As we sit in our silence
the small flower lover of the giant
receives our beingness
and offers us our true Self.
Redwood needles carpet our steps
with tenderness
as you guide us
on the Fairy Slippers' trail
that leads to our inspired self,
that place of unity,
the All in relation to All.
Without relationship
nothing exists;
in relationship
there is everything.
And the tiny orchid with the many names
sprinkles the forest floor
with the love notes of spring. .
THEY ARE ALL SLEEPING - 2010
TO JULIETTE ON HER LAST DAYS
When you are more awake than ever
they think you are sleeping,
when they believe you have slowed down to nothing
you are most actively exploring,
when you say you no longer want food or friends
you are nourishing yourself
with most subtle essences,
when you utter that you have been old
sooooooooooooooo long,
you are ready to start your new life.
FORGIVING
So much perfection
in the single blade of grass
ready to cast its seeds into the wind.
I sing.
I receive so much love
from the field of grasses
in which I lay my body down
I write.
I witness such forgiveness
in the shadows cast by slender stocks
leaning into the wind.
I forgive myself.
POSSESSED BY MUHAMMAD'S MUSE. 2007
The muse didn’t wrestle me down on a street corner
or on the threshold of a forest
to insufflate poetry into me,
to force feed me that inspired prophetic breath.
The wind of healing
that whispers in the chosen’s ear
and orders the mouth to recite
didn’t blow on me.
I wasn’t taken down, like Muhammad,
by the angel who crushed his chest
under its enormous weight,
split it open to tear out his heart
and purify it with heavenly waters.
No, the Muse didn’t possess me,
didn’t command me,
like Muhammad,
to deliver the truth.
To me she is more like a nag
who will not give me any peace
until I put pen to paper
in the shade of an apple tree maybe,
on the porch of an old school house,
by the orchard where blackbirds cackle
and Hermit Thrushes serenade.
She orders me to follow with my pen
the subtle currents of wind,
pushing shadows into worlds of desire,
stringing memories like pearls
around the morning’s neck.
She directs me to catch a radiance not to be missed,
but forever escaping description.
She insists that I must.
The mind resists the supreme effort
of flying with the word,
birds twitter, amazed at this resistance.
To them flying is second nature;
they often wonder why humans
have to stay so close to the ground.
My eyes follow the play of light
on the fruit ripening on the branch,
discovering a Jay ready to gulp it down,
but when I consult the sky,
what does the sky tell me?
“Recite!”
That muse won’t let go
until I find the right word,
the right phrase,
that will embrace the whole story
of poets, prophets, singers and healers of the past
into a single breath
of lavender and rosemary.
Like Muhammed
I submit.
THE EMBROIDERER
The house hides in the back of the garden.
No voice comes from it.
The village has moved to the fields.
Dishes are quiet, not a cork is popping;
it is the hot hour.
The sun beats the flagstones to distortion
as they surrender their inscrutable density
rising in hieroglyphic waves.
Nothing is awake to excite the barking of chained dogs
lying in the dust behind the barn,
nothing to entice the prostrated hens from out of the shade and into the farmyard.
The curtains are drawn, shutters closed, nothing indicates whether the house is lived in,
except the suspicion of a shape sitting dark inside at the threshold of light.
Look closer, it's a woman. She embroiders.
On the table next to her a vase holds one white lily.
She stirs the cool shade of the house
into Summer's immensity
like a frail vessel on a troubled ocean,
sewing truth with little stitches, big stitches.
She embroiders, this expert stitcher of life,
weaving complicated filigrees into the daily routine,
linking each thing to the next.
Safe inside, her lover swims in the sleep of oblivion.
She says nothing, insists on being quiet about a thing
that is only revealed when man's hustle and bustle is appeased.
He is the loud mouth, the story, the noise,
he has the bright feathers,
but she is the vessel on which he can explore the big water,
the bridge allowing him to cross safely to the other side
and come back.
A stitch at a time she secures their union to each other
and to the earth.
Sitting in a house at the edge of life a woman embroiders.
She has no use for idle gossip, political games, boastful displays.
Her house hides in the back of the garden,
no sound comes from it.
It has only known solitude and intimacy.
This house is ours when we are ready.
INSECT ABSORPTION
She remembers
that as a child,
when she came across curious markings on pebbles,
or encountered those lustful insects with iridescent armours
drilling into the heart of the flower,
she cried.
That was enough emotion,
for one day,
probably
for one week,
maybe even
for her entire life
––she was not sure about that––
but she was glad
to have
such a long time
to find out.
In that moment she knew
the budding
within the wounded flower,
the mysterious tongue it used
when questioning the earth
about its journey,
she knew that within the question
lay the answer,
she knew
that the outrageous display of petals
called the bug to its transformation.
And through the passage
the absorbed insect became
the flower's untold name,
her own name. . .
She remembers.
SUNDAY PROMENADE
In those days
the Parisian pavement
had stars in it
like celestial twinkling beneath my feet.
I rearranged them into
constellations of my creation
lagging behind the grown ups
until clacking high heels,
the chatter of crinkled crepe and chiffon,
and the scented message trailing behind
my mother and her friends
put me back on track.
Abandoning my worlds in formation
I'd run fast, past the women
to join the powerful men in suits
walking ahead of them.
Having dutifully separated
their body from their head with dark silk ties,
they talked business, sports and politics,
all matters that counted.
Gently slipping my hand into my father's
I pulled him away from his companions
and back towards my mother,
chatting away,
hoping to connect with her hand
before he became aware of what I was doing. . .
… And there I remained
a foot up in the air,
hesitant to take the next step
and lose the precarious balance
I had not yet achieved,
holding this precious moment suspended
like breath...
TO LIE DOWN AND DIE
Yes, she says, yes...
it is alone by a rushing river,
held tight between twisted roots
on mossy ground speckled with blue flowers,
that I will lie down to die.
Yes, she says, yes
I will be alone.
Alone with my cancer teacher.
Solitude leaves no choice
but to surrender.
And suddenly,
every woman, every man in the world
will stream down,
stop by my side
offering arms and hands,
legs and voice
for me to use
as I may...
and my fingers will see,
and my voice will clear a straight path,
and each of my movements will reach
to the end of time,
and the love that is the world
will wrap me 'round.
Yes, she says,
alone, she says...
It is an act of trust.
ARE YOU SURE IT'S FALL?
COMPTCHE 1975
I crumple in my hand
the wrinkled faces of crackling leaves
as their lace turns to wings;
I fly dragonflies as kites
above the stream.
As we enter another season
are the songs of summer all lies
and illusions?
"In spite of the weather
forget about seasons"
answers the river,
and the rope-swing entices our bodies
into the icy jowls of winter.
"Didn't you remember to decipher
the messages of mid-summer?"
asks the salamander.
"only when they are digested will you accept
being reshaped into a true self!"
Is the sweet-acrid smell just autumn decay,
is the whisper of water just time passing
or does it carry my love to him?
Drops of golden sweat fall from his chest
and reflect my image
out of chaos.
His chainsaw growls
and he orders winter into his truck.
It measures in cords.
Sweat and resin stick to our skin.
We are loading the truck.
It makes us companions
companionable in everything.
So we grow our coat of splinters
and driving down the road
we talk ourselves into the fall
of our people.
MY BODY AND ME
Not feeling well?
Run to the doctor.
First try the healer,
the whisperer,
the -puncturist
the -pressurist
the herbalist,
the body worker
‘the candle stick maker’. . .
and when everything fails
resort to the one who believes
that to heal is to separate the pieces
and suppress the symptoms.
Let someone else tell you
what’s wrong with you,
that you need a nudge from the outside
to show you how you have been victimized,
compromised,
fragile-ized.
But I say no:
the body knows!
When I give up the trust
in its amazing capacity to recover
I take away its power
and it gives up on me,
lets me look for the cure elsewhere,
outside of it,
lets me start the search for a conjurer,
a master
someone who knows better,
who has much more power than me
to create
the reality
of my true Self.
But I say no:
my best doctor
is my body. . .
with me!
SMOKING ON THE EQUINOX
In the silence of the forest
my smoke rises
blurring the edges
softening shapes, lines, colors,
enticing the formless to remain undefined
unspoken, unnamed.
There is no grounding to the vision floating by,
I can load
whoever wants to come on this ride with me
without adding any heaviness,
for in vision nothing weighs anything,
there is no separation.
In this lightness of being
I breathe a sight of relief,
I go up in smoke.
Equal night and day,
days and nights. . .
Equanimity ascertained
I am free from comparing:
every one
every thing
perfect for its own purpose,
no waste
no sins
no mistakes
no more decision,
no more opinion.
I leave no trace on anyone or anything.
I go up in smoke.
Smoke is pleasure I have been told
and pleasure is smoke,
when I blow this smoke into my silence
and offer it to the universe
as a blessing to our deepest humanity
to my brothers and sisters,
to all my relations,
the ‘otherness’ is gone,
I dissipate with the smoke.
I am all pleasure.
I am smoke. . .
A CUP OF TEA WITH ANGEL
First there is water
crystal clear, serene, patiently waiting
to reach the right temperature.
Then the first bubbles tickle and trouble the water.
It’s the moment when I drop into the teapot
––my son brought all the way from China––
just the right amount of my most favorite tea
lovingly kept in an earthen jar.
After a few second of teasing with a silver spoon
I let it sit until the prompting produces its effect;
a cloud of brownish-gold floats up
and dissolves in the water.
I wait a few moments
before I introduce other elements
proven by time, culture and practice
to enhance the taste and produce the best experience.
Finally I bring to my lips
the handsome cup I always use
because it was made by a friend,
and in that instant
the delight to my tongue
awakens my taste buds to a soothing caress
sliding down to the throat,
reaching the nostrils,
then continuing to delight all the senses.
I take full responsibility for that perfect cup of tea,
as a matter of fact for all of my creations.
They are very good!
That’s when the mischievous angel materializes
out of my breath like Aladdin from the lamp.
It sings and dances in front of me, it teases me,
it gives me directions on how to dream my day
as the dreamer of all dreams within dreams,
instructions for a week without goal, opinions, nor decisions.
I need do nothing.
It merges all senses into one,
shatters all mirrors of identity
and points to the gateless gate
as my self dissolves into darkness within darkness,
the pregnant emptiness.
This is the gateway to all understanding, it tells me,
no one can pass through the gateless gate,
so. . . be no one.
CRUMBS OF REVELATION
When a thunderbolt of revelation
hits me like a ton of bricks
I feel so en-lightened
that words spark out of me
like fireworks
in myriads of colors and shapes
undulations, convolutions, ripples,
intricacies, flutters, and waves.
I put those down in a hurry
in the belief that it could be food for many. . .
A little time passes. . .
When I think it is the moment
to put those words ‘out there,’
and have them heard,
I look at the page and come to a realization
that hits me like a thunderbolt of revelation.
I thought I was offering a pie to share with everyone
when there were really
only crumbs on the table:
hard picking for anyone
to try to get nourishment.
More time passes. . .
Then that new revelation comes to me:
poetry and writing belong to all of us,
my crumbs are only meant
to inspire,
to activate in everyone
the longing to create,
the desire to bake a pie.
It’s only when I enter in relationship
with my inner silence
that my true voice can be heard.</span><div class=""><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;" class=""><br class=""></span></div><div class=""><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;" class="">Riantee was born in Paris, France, where her first book of French poetry was published. After traveling around the world she moved to the Mendocino Coast with her husband and 3 children in 1973. She participated in poetry readings, radio shows and contributed to reviews, magazines and anthologies with her poetry, articles and short stories all over the country. She has been a translator of French Poetry and Art Essays. She has published wo books of her poetry, one of non-fiction, one of travel stories and a fictionalized memoir as well as her first book for children, Mimi the Cat.
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