Cradled

Spirit is my cradle.
So many hands reach out for love
Grasp at each other, try
to find that solid holding
that can take their weight
and bear them up

So many hands
(mine included)
have felt the flailing
as the hands we reached for
were trying desperately
to have us hold them
And we all kept falling
through the emptiness
of our shared need

But Spirit is our cradle
Resting here, our hands reach out
and give each other
what we have so endlessly desired.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 18, 2013


Slow motion

In slow motion
Everything moves with grace
Even something shattering —
the crazed fracture lines
forming, in an instant
along the paths
determined by the structure
that the molecules assumed
when the material was forged

In slow motion
There is grace
in the crumbling and falling
of an item
Each particle becoming its own agent
Free to fall along the course
that it, alone, is pulled
To roll, tumble, bounce
and settle, finally
in the place
where it has come to rest.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 17, 2013


Vocation

May you know yourself
May you have no doubt
That this you
This very one
Just as you are
Can rise, and must
To fill out all the edges
Of your splendid code
Will flow in your imperative design
Unfurl your lovely colors
And your fine capacity
Such that, in the niche where you are needed
All will see you from afar
And cry look!
The one we’ve waited for
Is here!

©Wendy Mulhern
January 15, 2013


Rising

When we both come up
Through the thick, viscous soup
That holds us heavy and slow
When we come up
Rising with the lightness
Of slow bubbles
Rising as we must
Because our light
Bears us ever up
When we break the surface
And ascend to brightness
Then our signals
Will flash instantly
Across all time and space
Our messages will already
Have coated all planes
Inside and out
With joy
We will be caught up
In that space embracing
All comprising
Pulse of yes
Exalting in eternal day.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 14, 2012

The taste of life

Having tasted life
(even in a dream)
we will no longer settle for survival.

No longer put up with
the dry stand-ins,
trinkets, chores, routines,
dispatching of accumulated obligations,
points accrued for things checked off the list.

Having tasted
the electric connection —
the swift-coursing,
igniting, kinetic concatenation
of communion,
the lighting up of our being
in the hallowed glow of oneness,
we will never stand for tedium again.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 13, 2013


Sonnet

There’s nothing new about this longing
How it rolls up, like mist across a lake
And hovers, haunting and etheric
Obscuring the horizon with its grey
This urgent need for contact and belonging
Cries out for feeding, many times a day
A quest for soft, shared heat, and mingled breathing
A constant call, that doesn’t go away
We once were weaned, or so we may have thought
To self-sufficiency, a virtue (so we’re taught)
But to remember, once, this grand connection
Sends our sufficiency to forge a new direction
To weave our lives so we can be together
In comfort and in shared support, forever.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 12, 2013


To free your soul

OK, first
you have to get it to be still
for a while:
Bring your hands in gently
on its crazed, self-harming struggles
Hold it so close that it can’t flutter,
till it calms.

Then all the loud repeating voices
pacing through your consciousness
inciting one another to a greater din
will cease,
startled to silence by the pause within.

They will look on in awe
as you take your soul
cradling it
to the open window
Reach your hands outside
And let it go.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 11, 2013


The day flirts with snow

The day flirts with snow —
In the morning, lets some fall,
though it’s far too warm for it to stick;
In the dimming afternoon,
sports a portentous light
in the pockets of the clouds —
Shades of blue and cream 
between the stark, bare limbs of trees,
that calls for snow.

There is some sense of magic
in the stillness
where, at their tips
the white pine’s needles hold their muted pearls,
that makes me hope
for that white transformation
that stops time,
Makes me catch my breath
in the freshness and the sweetness
of the now.

The day flirts with snow —
It won’t deliver
But at least it kissed my soul
with its bright shiver.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 10, 2013


Publishing your work

For many years, the notion of getting published was lofty and mysterious for me — deeply desired and too daunting for me to even quite set as a goal. Now I have two poetry books published, and more on the way. Granted, I’m publishing them independently as opposed to through a publishing house. But many things in the field have changed so as to make independent publishing feasible, and also more desirable in several ways to traditional publishing.

In traditional publishing, the first hurdle to overcome was that you had to sell your work to a publishing house, or to an agent who would then sell it to a publishing house. And agents and publishing houses want work that they think will sell. But their formulas for what makes things salable seem to be as follows: People who are already well in the public eye sell. Compelling concepts may sell. Concepts that fit stuff that is already selling well may sell.

Concepts. An interesting term. They don’t even want to look at your work, don’t want to step into the flavor of the first sentence, if you can’t summarize your whole book up mainly in one sentence and then polish off the experience in the rest of a short paragraph. (This is for the ditty that is called a “query”. Much is written about how to make a good one.) If your story is something that sneaks up on the reader, is not easily characterized but may captivate and move them, you don’t stand a chance, unless you can condense that same experience into one short paragraph.

But my experience with this was in the attempts to publish my novels. Poetry is a whole other story. Basically, the conventional wisdom is that poetry doesn’t sell. Most people who are considered successful poets, and have published several books, also have day jobs.

In traditional publishing, there seem to be two routes to getting a poetry book published. One is to become a professor associated with a university that has a press. The other is to submit many poems to various literary magazines and get them published, thus developing enough of a name that you might be considered for the publication of a book. Of course, those magazines have to agree to publish your poems, and from what I’ve seen in many of them, their criteria for what makes a publishable poem are different from mine.

So the fact that I can publish these poems myself is extremely liberating to me. In publishing my first book, I have had great help and support from my artist collaborator, Mellissae Lucia. In publishing my second one, I’ve had great support from many friends, who encouraged me to follow my muse and the call to develop myself as an artist. My third book, in production now, has support from still another source. I will talk more about this in my next post, as well as sharing my experience with independent publishing.

One Truth

Why should it seem strange
that for all our differences,
what we all want 
is the same?

Yet I find myself astonished
at how one truth
dissolves so many schemes,
Renders irrelevant the diets, the regimes,
the resolutions and the dogged efforts,
the striving to be marginally better,
the accusations, tit for tat, of sin,
the arguments on which approach will win —

Listen:
You are beloved,
You are accepted,
You are needed,
You belong here,
And your many gifts are priceless.
You deserve to live,
And you deserve
all you need so you can fully thrive,
And what your heart tells you is right
really is.

The moment we are each convinced of this
We leave all hurt and pain and grief
for bliss.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 9, 2013