Elegia Memnosyne

You are
dressed
in the gauze
of dream.

The dream
is born of
fire.

The fire
by daylight
appears
like madness.

But the
madness 
is only
the voice.

The voice
is that
which calls 
me home. 

I am listening.

Yoga Sutras: Extensive practical explanations of the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. The Yoga Sutras succinctly outlines Yoga Meditation for Self-Realization. Patanjali created no new Yoga, but rather, systematized existing Yoga into the Yoga Sutras.

She cursed the world
Because she refused
To make room in
her own mind
For it.

She cursed time
Because she would
Not meet it, but only
Let it slip
Forever passing her by.

She cursed the
Daylight because
She didn’t want to grow
Upward to meet it.

She cursed her darkness,
And loneliness
Because even they too
Were more constant
Than her heart.

your feet
at the bottom
of a photo
from Brooklyn
tell me everything.

I lie in darkness
To know it
To not fear it’s
Seeming endlessness
Because it turns my eyes
Inward
Where I find there is
Space
To breathe
To rest

And in that breath
I find a small thing,
It is a spark, no more
Just a dull blue
Zap of electricity
But it comes
With the breath
And I sense that
It goes somewhere
When I don’t see it
I feel it slip through
Muscle and bone

I breathe again
And the blue flicker
Snaps and grows brighter
Not quite a flame,
Definitely not a light
But it is something
Trying to come to life

I feed it breath
Nurture it with
Patience
And soon it grows
So that it glows
Even when I hold my
Breath
And it starts to
Pulse
As if with the
Beat
Of my heart

And I remember
This is what I
Sought the darkness
For
To make space
To turn inward
To find the light.

He says
‘She is timid
as the leaves
On a tree’

She says
‘He is like
The wind
Whenever he’s
Talking to me.’

He says
‘Just hold fast
And don’t let go
No matter how hard
That wind may blow.’

Just hold fast
And don’t let go
Let me come in
Throw open your
Window.

The jacaranda blossoms
Are everywhere
Like a velvet coat
Over the grass
And the street
and the cracked sidewalk
That runs between.

Cars parked below are
pasted, a thick blanket
Of decaying buds.
Everywhere there is the
Thick heavy scent
The perfume of a city.

It unifies the other smells
The light jasmine that wafts through
The bright aroma of
Orange blossoms
And the musky vaporous
Skunks beneath.

But the jacaranda—
That is the smell of LA
Through the spring until
The quarrelsome breezes
Of Santa Ana and Niño
Strip the land bare
Of all but the smell
Of hay, drying parched
Land and fires waiting
To burn

But today there are
The purple trees,
They consume the
Urban and natural
Landscapes with a steady
Sprinkling of pollen
And decay.

There is no place
Left to breathe,
no where at all
To grieve.

Let us wrap ourselves up 
in blackness
and pierce ourselves with stars
we will usurp the night
and call ourselves gods
of the naked black
and the endless dusk.

I’ve lost my place,
it has wandered away.
The very ground I tread
and the soft patch where
I laid my head have,
relocated.

Whole bits of earth have moved
and been sent north
to a strange and desolate
place.
There it is not the moist
and fertile loam, but merely
rocks and dirt scattered 
across barren tracks.

No one can distinguish
my earth from the chalky
dust, the hard cracked mud,
but I would know it 
always,
it’s scent of fertility
I can only find my peace
upon it.

How does one recollect
what’s been scattered unto dust?