thank you, Maker Table Makers
my children make me a picture
of what’s worth protecting
but they miss themselves
moments later there they are
spitting with the effort
required to stay afloat
here I will build
a wall of light around them
a fiery band of love
that they can always call home:
whatever they do is enough
whoever they are, they’re loved
disappearing act
my favorite part of the concert
is when the house lights dim
my body melts into the seats
and my form becomes invisible presence
I’m there and transported
a silent witness
until my hands are invited
to beat the air into wild approval
percussive acknowledgement
of what the souls on stage have wrought
that we are here together
in this moment in this place
in this desire to see and be seen
to make something new
and be part of the making
opera house
shells returning the sound of the sea
echoing the breath
trumpeting the news
cradling pearls of reflected human forms
each made from the uncomfortable itch
of grit worried around until
layer by slow painstaking layer
a round rainbow-hued orb
smoothed out the rough patch
& turned injury into art
Palu Museum megaliths
the thousand-year-old figures
show the body plain
and filled with power
fierce naked stone spirits
all eyes ears nose genitalia
perceiving generating nourishing life
Alex told me about the cadaver
what they do to help the students
view it as form not being:
cover the face (obviously)
but also the hands
the hands disturb them
when they wield the knife
too personal and desperate
too likely to move
every day everywhere
we learn what makes us human
all us apes gathered in a clearing
thinking about the ones before us
who chipped stone with stone
to leave for us these silent symbols
saying who we were
When we visited the Norval Foundation art museum in Cape Town, South Africa today I was delighted to find wonderful poetry handwritten on sacred texts scattered around the exhibits. I asked at the front desk about the artist who created this work, and was told that it was part of a performance piece that day called Historical Glitch, and the artist would be performing at 2pm. We had already signed up for a guided tour at that time, so I also asked the guide if we needed to choose between the two events, and she explained that the artist would perform at the end. Our family waited to see what would happen, and a woman with a very long braid descended the stairs and then sat among spiritual implements like drums, stones, flowers, red clay, and a pan of water. A man knelt in front of her and they took hands and quietly talked while she washed and massaged his hands in ritual fashion. It was a loving and forgiving gesture. I thought maybe he was part of the performance piece, but then she looked at me and invited me to join her. She explained that we were doing an intervention to heal the wounds of division from colonialism and the harming of our earth, to remember that we are all one. It was very moving, and in our brief conversation she intuited some things about me that were spot on. Owen took a turn, too. It was another gift from the universe – the only way that I even heard about the museum was thanks to the fact that yesterday when we had lunch we walked past the Simons Town information center. I don’t usually go into those, but something made me double back and see what information they had. The Norval brochure said “Where art, architecture, and nature meet” – yes, please! Today our main goal was to go to the Indonesian consulate, and it ended up being a quick visit because they explained they only issue visas to South African nationals. Unsure what to do instead, I sifted through the brochures and noticed that Norval has a monthly free day on the first Thursday of the month – today! And it was on our way back home. We stopped at their lovely restaurant first, but through a mixup it took about an hour for our order to even be taken – another stroke of luck, since we probably would have left before two otherwise. When you’re open to it, the universe finds a way. Tonight I did some research and found her name: Vuyi Qubeka. When she performs, her name is listed as “Vuyi Qubeka with diopmawu,” which I think means her spirit guides/ancestors. I didn’t find a website or email address for her, but she’s active on Instagram and Twitter, and you can watch her TED talk about becoming a healer: “Don’t Die with Your Song Still Inside You.” I incorporated some of her well-chosen words in this thank you gift which I hope makes its way to her!
Our Hope for Humanity: Vuyi with diopmawu and me
she comes bearing songs
born of red clay,
an intervention
inviting audacious hope
she holds a circle of water
that dissolves guilt,
makes new space
for radical compassion:
the resolve to see
All One Always
palm to palm
we make a circuit –
loving energy looping
round our own tiny peaceful
world of now,
smiling eye to eye,
joyful servants to the work
of binding wounds
and stitching things whole
even as the seams strain
This poem was inspired by Virginia San Fratello and Ronald Rael’s installation of teeter-totters that spanned the US-Mexico border wall, which I read about in Khuluma magazine, published by Kulula Airlines.
teeter-totter wall
across the cold slate of stacked stone
she makes a pink slab
bob its own yes
turns the sad slash of stay-away
into the warm sound
of play-with-me
and hearts on all sides
go balanced and calm
Tsodilo Hills Masterwork
3,000 years ago
one soul laid on his back
smearing red on rock
saying
I’m here
now.
Yes,
and I see you knew
how to mark a whale
spinning through blue
stabbed with sunlight –
something my tentative hand
still can’t manage
despite all the time in the world
to try.
fitting in
the pattern’s designed
with only so much wiggle room
our limits marked off
in clear straight lines
even so
we are artists
choosing how thick to lay the mortar
how even to space the edges
how close to the plan to stick
we take rigid angles
and make waves
flowers bloom
where we come together
old young in-between
we’re each getting our hands dirty
planting our own bit of soul here
trusting we’re part of the plan
and leaving something to last
