Bone and Marrow
Listen Here
My soul is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake,
it neither sleeps nor dreams but watches,
its clear eyes open, far-off things,
and listens at the shores of the great silence.Antonio Machado
Bone and Marrow
In the crumbs of coins lost in the cushions
the years have scarfed down the days
in a riffle of cards
snapping through the swallowing thumbs
of a shuffle. The moments
a mutiny against the creased wind of time.
What gets left behind?
Buried in the flannel of forgotten
Hiding in the corners of an unmade bed
still waiting to be heard
breathing beneath the words
that were never said.
A murmuring of essence burns
into the ingle of a chasm.
Something is always looking back at me
tongue deep in the lick of a flame.
There - has followed me - Here
The silence does not need to speak.
© Jamie MillardSomething is always looking back at me.
There - has found me. Followed me - Here. We know ourselves through this world. Flesh and Blood. The world knows itself through us. Air and Water. Life’s own will to survive is always looking out at us. Earth and Fire. Always looking in at us. Bone and Marrow.
Something is always looking back at me.
The poets speak of angels. Rumi, Blake, Angelou, Stevens, Rilke. Are these angels messengers from another realm? Are they emblems of transcendence? Rilke’s angels from the Duino Elegies have no voice. They are soundless in their existence. Watchers. Inner witnesses. The witnesses to the witnessing. Rilke’s angels may represent deeper awareness. Something we may only ever catch a glimpse of. Meaning? That elusive angel, meaning, that evades the realm of speech.
Something is always looking back at me.
Could it be meaning that lurks in the shadows, watching? Almost invisible. Marrow. Watching yet never presenting its full acquaintance to the existence of this skin and bone. Possessing yet never allowing possession. Moving through us somewhere between the unspeakable, and the already spoken.
Something is always looking back at me.
The two great poets. Time and Age. They both carry something along with them that knew me before I existed. There is no place Here that does not see me. The silence does not need to speak.
Thanks for Being- Here.
May the ides of February watch over you as an angel. May the mystery, metaphor, myth and mirror of poetry meet you as a messenger and a minstrel of soul.
Lots of Love,
Jamie
Another brilliant 'word of art' and insight that is the result of this poem and other ways we wonder about life/death—the mundane beside the ethereal. We search for these questions endlessly, yet somehow, we KNOW, despite our inclination towards negativity and the resulting thoughts, that when these thoughts are silenced - when we are still, are essentially tangible experiences. At least, that's how I feel when I meditate and often try to sink into that deep presence - whatever it is. That sense of being watched, with nothing escaping the eyes that see everything we attempt to keep hidden from view. The awe of wonder and the 'seekers' wondering. Simply brilliant.
Jamie, you're marching ever onward to a new level of insight and articulation. I find it both comforting, and scary, the notion that the universe is experiencing itself through this node of consciousness I call "me". When walking in Nature, I sense Nature observing me (and I wish I had more of an affinity to communicate with her) but nevertheless I always find such experiences comforting, and not scary. I'm blabbering, but I love your poem and the sentiments it conveys.