[Thespiritexpress] Poem read at Mastery

[Riantee Rand]

This is one of the poems from my French village I will read on the 28th. Also new poems


RIANTEE

May 28, 2021 @ 11:00 am - 12:00 pm

Zoomuse presents Lydia Riantee Rand

Link to Zoom event: https://zoom.us/j/99414930537 <https://zoom.us/j/99414930537> 
Organizer: SICA, Subud International Cultural Association
email: www.community at subud-sica.org <http://www.community@subud-sica.org/>
website: https://www.sica-subud.org/zoomuse <https://www.sica-subud.org/zoomuse>
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 light 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.    






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