The eighth round of SPARK – my fourth time participating – wrapped up today. As is so often the case, the writing that came from it is nothing like my regular writing. I decided to play with a form this time, and wrote a sestina. Of course, it is different from my usual writing in form, but really the subject matter is right on, lots of burning, surrender, and all of that business. But, I have a feeling that this is my last heavy piece for a while. I think I am ready to move into something new.
Following are the inspiration and response pieces for the round. My sestina has some religious imagery which always makes me nervous, especially when it is imagery that is outside of my own inherited or adopted traditions. Although the language is in places suggestive, really the heart of the poem is that when we (yes we, all of us) drop our defenses and connect on the soul level, we connect with the divine in other people and ourselves. It took some rough language to get to that gentle place.
My inspiration piece, from the very talented Mark Martin – music this time!
And my response.
Rose Heart
I watched you unfold from your little car
As I stood on the steps of St. Theresa
Your shoulders scarcely cleared the door
Less a vehicle and more a suit of armor
You smiled, shaking the groom’s hand
Looking so much taller than I rememberI wonder sometimes if you remember
That icy night, talking in your car
You breathed warmth into my shaking hand
In the parking lot of St. Theresa
I wore my intellect as bright as armor
Refusing you when you held the doorWhen last I stood here, by this heavy door
Another wedding long ago, I remember
A limp rose pinned at your chest, your only armor
We shared a flask of whiskey in your car
Bellies burning as we walked into St. Theresa
Each the fire in the other’s handFire swirling between your hand and my hand
The groaning of the arched wood and iron door
That closed us up inside St. Theresa
All tangle in my breath as I remember
That night with you in your little car
Your limp rose heart pressed to my tarnished armorFire cleaved to fire, left molten armor
Above me, you held a flaming spear in your hand
A plunge to the heart left me brittle as a burned out car
All glass melted, seared-shut door
Diabolical or divine, I cannot remember
Surrendered in ecstasy like St. TheresaStanding on the steps of St. Theresa
Time does not heal, it only forges armor
Soldered plates of what we choose to remember
The fire swirling between your hand and my hand
The groaning of the heavy wood and iron door
That frigid night inside your carLet me suffer, like St. Theresa, or let me die at love’s hand
Memory’s spear pierces armor, melts the hinges off the door
This is the fire I remember, as you unfold from your little car.
I sent the third part of my uber-triptych, Elements, to my partner as inspiration, and this was his very beautiful response. Parts of it made me weepy and made me want to be a more gentle writer.
