gregory
What do you all think of this rather interesting Tarot poem ? Does it add anything to the cards - does she "get it" ?
It's by Paula Jennings.
Moving Inward, Moving On
Fool
The first card, the O, the circle
full of squirming space,
and through this sacred hoop the young fool leaps
into the young day,
radiant as a crocus,
inches from the cliff's edge,
on each foot, she hopes, a little wing.
Page of Cups
The fish jumped in the cup,
the fish swam
in my left eye;
there were pictures in the scales,
shutters of pearl opening for me.
The Devil
Jumps up and prances,
shakes a leg, shows how it's done.
You can focus on the yellow eyes
and feel your terror stretch
or you can go on down
past the cold mouth,
past the sharp arms with their prongs
reaching out to snag you,
the torso like a cliff, and then,
shudderingly,
furred haunches with your shame
barely hidden between them,
and you can get stuck here
while grown-up voices burn your cheeks.
You can do all this many times
but if you keep on down
you'll see hooves dancing,
drumming all the rhythms you ever wanted.
Two of Pentacles
Two worlds are tossed in air:
they fly on muscle and movement,
holding their course over and over,
faster, they are a lemniscate of light,
balanced on nerves and arms and eye.
They are the juggler's certainty
until she wonders
am I artist or deceiver,
and her worlds collide.
Ace of Wands
One-in-fire is will
gathered in a burning bud,
is red for fighting and winning,
throwing off a calyx rough as a cat's tongue
scarlet silk unfolding like a spring.
Moon
On the moonpath to the sea
old fears flutter from her in rags,
dark streamers,
but her mouth trumpets lilies
and her feet sing on the wet sand.
She wears her scars like brooches,
cool pearls,
and all her loves, embroidered
on her sleeve in runes and spirals,
glisten in the metal light.
Jester in monochrome,
she plays to this night beach.
Eight of Cups
There is a humming here,
a grey note.
This is the steepest dreamworld
and I choose to scramble down
through tensions locked at a high whine
to where light is white cloud cover,
low pressure storm glare,
and
losing
balance,
I am scattered.
I count my fragments: these are my feet,
these my hands, my head this sobbing
camera.
Sliding,
I plunge beyond language into my body,
to a grief so whole it feels like joy.
It's by Paula Jennings.
Moving Inward, Moving On
Fool
The first card, the O, the circle
full of squirming space,
and through this sacred hoop the young fool leaps
into the young day,
radiant as a crocus,
inches from the cliff's edge,
on each foot, she hopes, a little wing.
Page of Cups
The fish jumped in the cup,
the fish swam
in my left eye;
there were pictures in the scales,
shutters of pearl opening for me.
The Devil
Jumps up and prances,
shakes a leg, shows how it's done.
You can focus on the yellow eyes
and feel your terror stretch
or you can go on down
past the cold mouth,
past the sharp arms with their prongs
reaching out to snag you,
the torso like a cliff, and then,
shudderingly,
furred haunches with your shame
barely hidden between them,
and you can get stuck here
while grown-up voices burn your cheeks.
You can do all this many times
but if you keep on down
you'll see hooves dancing,
drumming all the rhythms you ever wanted.
Two of Pentacles
Two worlds are tossed in air:
they fly on muscle and movement,
holding their course over and over,
faster, they are a lemniscate of light,
balanced on nerves and arms and eye.
They are the juggler's certainty
until she wonders
am I artist or deceiver,
and her worlds collide.
Ace of Wands
One-in-fire is will
gathered in a burning bud,
is red for fighting and winning,
throwing off a calyx rough as a cat's tongue
scarlet silk unfolding like a spring.
Moon
On the moonpath to the sea
old fears flutter from her in rags,
dark streamers,
but her mouth trumpets lilies
and her feet sing on the wet sand.
She wears her scars like brooches,
cool pearls,
and all her loves, embroidered
on her sleeve in runes and spirals,
glisten in the metal light.
Jester in monochrome,
she plays to this night beach.
Eight of Cups
There is a humming here,
a grey note.
This is the steepest dreamworld
and I choose to scramble down
through tensions locked at a high whine
to where light is white cloud cover,
low pressure storm glare,
and
losing
balance,
I am scattered.
I count my fragments: these are my feet,
these my hands, my head this sobbing
camera.
Sliding,
I plunge beyond language into my body,
to a grief so whole it feels like joy.
