A whetstone, cold and grey. From my knuckles to my fingertips
I am rough and red. I have a sharkskin pad for bright green
wasabi and a yellow porcelain bowl filled with deep pink ginger
pickled in sweet rice vinegar. I know what is hidden, rooted
in these cupboards, in the shadows behind the flour and sugar,
I know my ingredients. I know what I have and what is missing.
I am full up on the wretched ignorance of samsara, overflowing
with desperate illusion and the blatant grieving half-life of desire.
I don't have satori. I have no locks on my aching heart, ground
under your heel like an inky stone. I have these days and nights.
I don't have you. Now I sharpen, I grind. I place the chips and
shards of my heart in the mortar bowl and bear down on the pestle,
bear down, endless. Are you hungry? Let me feed you.
The oriental imagery which runs through this piece, helps me to read it the way I watch a foreign movie - in awe at the different perspective offered and in love with its new-world beauty.
ReplyDeleteGrace this is a delicous and amazing piece of poetry prose!!! The metaphor that runs through these words is a stunning example of what a true writer can do!!! Love this!!!!
ReplyDeleteObviously, a writer's nose was to the grindstone to produce this! LOL♥
ReplyDeletethis really caught me, i gave you one of my weekly Goddess Awards for your sidebar if you like.
ReplyDeletein joy,
Elise
I think this is very impressive writing, although I prefer to stand outside the debate as to what a "prose-poem" is.
ReplyDelete"Now I sharpen, I grind..."
ReplyDeleteOh, yes. That hit me right hard. Feed us!