I have been slowly going through boxes of my old photos, cards, art supplies, random junk. Today I came upon a beautiful journal I received as a gift in August 1995: SARK's Journal and PLAY!BOOK. I really didn't make good use of it, but folded inside the back cover I found this poem I wrote in the Beehive, the computer lab at SCSU. It is printed out on the paper that was typical for rough drafts, the kind that you have to tear the edges off. I have actually looked for the poem a few times since ethioPifinn began. I was a naive 20 year old, versus the naive 37 year old i am today. Makes me smile- I hope you enjoy it...
1 April 1996
(i scratched that part out. i'm guessing it was addressed to a boy)
I am in this hive and the Queen Mother is coming to eat me up.
My mates are all buzzin and shaking--mapping out the path, telling
they found the nutrients
but i'm no vega, give me meat
I need something to move my wings and I
need to eat--not be eaten.
There is the Great Fear because question lies
around the next bend keeping me
from ease and completion...
Just Ask is the advice and
cleavage is the fence.
Blonde cleave and all that---
somebody get me over the roocky rapids
i mean rock solid rapidly
head over heel, hand over fist
sleeping waiting wanting watched
wound so tight that the it,
stop and go only far enough to be almost
And the honey makers have made the honey and they are
through revision and larger words and smaller thoughts.
The buzzers aren't buzzing they are screaming
and aren't mapping out the path the
Path. The Path is long made
and the buzzers are lost and unsearching
and the hand touches up,
not touches UP, but moves upward for the source
of the thoughts and
the strokes and the line.
But the buzzers are flying over me and flying backward
--am moving slowly and with wings-on-loan--
not of my own accord but via post...
Post is flakes of morning,
not mourning but rejoice wit the
strength and power of the unseen wing, navigating
carrying on in the
post is the nourishment of the carrier and the sender and
Well the idontknow, the
Of life, of love, of the nonhoneymakers,
of the new winged,
The Newly Winged.
Alighted in the cortex not the stomach of
we fly so that we may not be dewinged and this
is why this jumble,
jingle, jangle, jingle
and the mirror is clouded
and full and does not reflect the
in hope in the upward
jumble desists for the
need of silence and
of escape, not the same, not even similar.
How do the others move on without the
jam, the traffic, the
questions of impossible contem-
so do they have it, not It but
the snag the hitch, propelling
it is all about the flight and
the company we keep along the way and
so she, so
write and ease the mind and rest the weary wings, no
i provide no fuel but
rest the sea legs, fry the flying fish
and put away the hooks,
or the Books,
they are the same.
The words come and remind of the Wellness
and the breezey open field.