Blood and Brine
Listen Here- Complete Essay/Poem
Listen Here- Formal Poem Only
The highest point a man can attain is not Knowledge, or Virtue, or Goodness, or Victory, but something even greater, more heroic and more despairing: Sacred Awe!
Nikos Kazantzakis (Zorba the Greek)
A rooster cries into the soft song of birds.
Singing with the ascending thrust of the rising Aegean sun. Releasing the light from a sea of darkness. Deep ruddy orange kisses a calm cyan blue. Lips oiled in the mountainous purple mystery of Mediterranean wonder. The sweet taste of morning air, an incense of arrival, reaches for the swelling presence of being.
Aphrodite softly whispers my name.
I lean in to respond.
The only sounds that greet me
are the passionate screams of the awakening
cicadas.
Crete.
I’m standing at the ocean’s edge.
There is a moment when a song ascends between souls. Unseen yet fully known. Communicated before it is understood.
A sense of unbridled presence.
The here is an open door for the there.
I become one with something beyond myself. Beyond bones. Beyond body.
In a place - and at the same time - of it.
A place embalmed by flowers and honey, olive oil and sea breeze. Mountains, valleys, beaches and plains. A place where the mysterious powers of landscape bleed into the palms of soul. An ancient wisdom. An island. Swallowed whole by an ocean of history and mythology that tastes of the cosmic. Celestial alchemy. An island. Swallowed naked by the skin of revelation. An island. Swallowed in the sounds of cicadas.
Do you know the legend about cicadas?
They say they are the souls of poets who cannot keep quiet because,
when they were alive, they never wrote the poems they wanted to.John Berger
The blood of my ancestors brought me here. The verses of their lives are written on my bones. They painted the colour of my eyes and the shade of my skin. They left me graves. They left me shadows and stories to protect me from the sun. Some of the stories are riddles. Some of the stories don’t belong to me anymore. Yet they called me here. To see with my own light, if only just to deepen the mystery. If only just to drink mirrors.
They say blood is thicker than water. My blood only flows through me. I was given a name. I have a name. An island. The oceans all have names yet they all touch. They are all connected. They all flow into each other. Through each other. One widening circle. Water sees through everything. Maybe we all came from the water? The ones without wings. Mermaids. Starfish. Brittlestars. Swimming above the waves. Crawling onto the beaches to feel the sun. Looking for the other in this world.
The souls of poets that never wrote the poems that they wanted to. They were given wings and the ceaseless cicada tymbal tremolo of a song. Looking for the other. For silence contains all poetry. The raw material of literature is words. Poetry is made from the shadows of words. Joining words that knew each other in a different life. Poetry deepens the mystery of our existence alluding to something that we had forgotten. A something from a previous life that at one time existed. Remembering.
Verses written on our soul.
Poetry arrives and from somewhere inside of me, even from somewhere beyond me, she finds those words in the silence and in some mysterious way she writes the poem she wants me to write. Poetry gives us a sense of being a part of the other. Connected to the whole cosmos that surrounds us. The brine of the world flows through us. We are truly never an island. What is inside me is inside you. The collective soul of poetry embodies the world’s collective soul. Remembering.
Blood and Brine. The relationship between us and this world is poetry.
The legend of the cicadas was always a love poem. A love poem with the world.
Blood and Brine The serenading cicadas ecstatically sing into a ceaseless ecstasy. A tremolo of olive oil and sea breeze meet the tymbal of the golden sun. Perspiration is liberated through rivers of wrinkles opening up flowers of skin to taste the rhythmic song of bees. The voice in my blood grows into the expansion of soul. Water sees through everything. Blue - is the colour of memory. Its depths and shades are touched by every change. Stripping bones naked in the speechless vibrations of being seeking no attention as honeysuckle and jasmine lick the salt off the wind. Tender raw scents of mystery drip into the quivering herbal lips of presence. The breeze has secrets that are whispered to the waiting sea. What cannot be seen is what she carries with her in the unravelling swell of the brine. Unnamed. Beyond the convictions of the world. It is the ocean’s push that collides with the firm shore. Unfolding herself in circles. Palms up turned in the trident tongues of waves that echo into the bloom. Toes curling into the effervescent wine of revealing. All the roads I’ve walked on flow into her. She does not need to speak. I know every word. © Jamie Millard
Sharing two, beautiful beyond Nobel prize worthy poets, I met this past week who have woven their way into this post. Please check them out!
I thirst for myself
And drink only mirrorsAna Blandiana
All that is unknown becomes even more unknown beneath my gaze,
for I love flowers and eyes, and lips and graves.Lucian Blaga
Thank You for Being - Here.
May the ocean be a mirror you drink from. May blood and brine connect you to the flowers, eyes, lips, graves and the light of others. May that shared light deepen the world’s mystery. May that light deepen you. May we remember.
Lots of Love,
Jamie
absolutely beautiful. You have captured your beloved Crete so well, the sounds, the smells, the colours, the breeze, the sky meeting the ocean, Aphrodite's island...
and then this ending:
"She does not need to speak.
I know every word."
just stunning 💗🙏 🐚
Heart-blood connection crosses time and space - that's for sure. Love the sea pic; a doorway of altered perception. Take me there ... oh, you just did. :)