A witch knows
real magic isn’t conjured
out of hats: power lies
not in trickery but in work.
To feel magic,
stick your fingers in the dirt.
To craft magic,
plant a well-loved seed.
To see magic,
care for each sprout and watch
it
grow into fruit—
the harvest of your work is
always
a taste of real magic.
the last tomato harvest of this season
- for
Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #48: Words, Words, Words)
I birthed my children knowing
they would grow up to consume
me, billions of bites at a time.
I watched them make tools
full of teeth, cannibalize
the tender greens
on the forests of my hips.
My children used to be bright;
if they fell my shoulders bare,
they would plant cuttings
in the hollow of my throat—
for balance, for tomorrow.
But something has gone wrong
with their minds (or their
souls).
They’re stripping all I am,
and now we can barely breathe.
I knew they would consume,
but my nightmares never dreamed
they would waste everything.
-
for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #47: Breathe in the Words).
I
grew up surrounded by myths and folktales I can’t say I loved. Or, at least, I couldn’t
love what said tales implied. For instance, most mythological creatures in
Dominican mythos are depicted as evil or tortured souls paying for some
terrible deed. Our little mermaid (María la O) was cursed by some god because
she defied her mother; our best-known goblin (el Bacà) wasn’t the
traditional fairy being most mythologies speak of, but a demonic creature; our
witches (brujas) were ugly, old women who fed on babies.
The
last one was particularly problematic for me, since I was raised by people who
practiced folk medicine and witchcraft (but never ate a babe). These men
and women were the best people I knew: they helped the community, the land, and
each other. So, I stopped caring for stories that painted them in such a
terrible light, tales that turned the mysterious and unknown into something
horrible and harmful and unwanted.
I
have always wanted to read a collection of Dominican folktales that tells
balanced stories, where mythical beings are defined by their personal actions
and not by what “everybody has always known about them”. The following elfchen was
inspired by those feelings (also, at the end of this month, I will share a
wee retelling of the Dominican witch).
When
their glass
slipper doesn’t fit,
write your own folktale
boot.
- for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #46: Playing Catch Up).
-
inspired by Folktale Week 2020 (on Instagram), which starts on November
23rd. These are the daily prompts: Birth, Ritual, Courtship,
Solstice, Death, Harvest, Dance.
Last
week, I shared this Pratchett quote: “There should be a word for the microscopic
spark of hope that you dare not entertain in case the mere act of acknowledging
it will cause it to vanish, like trying to look at a photon. You can only sidle up to it, looking past it,
walking past it, waiting for it to get big enough to face the world.”
Then, I asked my Instagram friends to
share words that said “microscopic spark of hope” to them. These are some of
the words they shared: sideways gleam, breath, comfortably numb, democracy,
dormant, glimmer, glint, grace, growth, inkling, longing, seed, shimmer,
smidgeon, twinkle, wisp. The haibun that follows contains their words and
my feels.
I remember that day… when chaos
and anguish named themselves victorious, when temper ran fierily short and compromise
turned cryptid, when our dark and our bright couldn’t come together to birth a
twilight all could (or wanted to) be thrilled about. I remember feeling
a wisp of wonder, a glint of grace, a glimmer, a shimmer, a twinkle, a sideways
gleam of something… beautiful and free.
I remember asking, “What is that?
What is that dormant seed I see, that comfortably numb warmth spreading yum
through tongues and brains and feels? What is that?” I remember a garden of
voices answering, “That is your wish and mine kissing reality, that is a
smidgeon of democracy longing for more and better… for all.”
in our words,
a growing inkling
of wild hope
- for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #45: Artistic Interpretation).
I I
took a look at last week, and noticed that a lot of what I’ve posted on Instagram
included the word “change”. I can’t say that I’m completely surprised. I mean,
most people with working brains and hearts have been hoping for the
same. What I find fascinating (and a bit amusing) is the fact that I didn’t
do it on purpose. Things are different today. I’m reposting on purpose and with
purpose. In the future, if (when?) someone asks me about my state of
mind around the time most of the US reclaimed its heart and brain, I shall say,
“Well, I was around planting seeds, hoping for change, feeling things bloom… Where were you when a lot of the US took a hope-full breath?”
Be the
seed of change—
vote.
tree
and sky
painting
songs of change,
can
you see?
Change
blooms
a
beautiful feeling.
- the background of the magnetic poem bit is from American Gods, Vol. 3: The Moment of the Storm, written by Neil Gaiman and illustrated by P. Craig Russell, Scott Hampton, and Rick Parker.
- for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #45: Horses and Courses).
At this moment,
the world is all
storms,
storms,
storms
with no eye.
But
b r e a t h e, my heart—
for moments and storms,
storms, too, shall pass.
- for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #44: Eye of the Hurricane).
