Stealing Fire From the Gods
The Connective Pulse
Listen Here- Author Read- Podcast Style
Poetry begins where death is robbed of the last word.
Odysseas Elytis- Greek Poet
It’s something - Naked. That knows. We feel the pinch of the swell to pull fire out of the back of our throat. Burning into the being of a place to stand on.
The ineffable has no categories. We feel it before we see it. There is a rub, a quiver and wonder. Sinking in and singing out all in the same moment.
Beyond the senses. Rising out of being. We cannot touch it with our name intact. A sigh of creation. An absence of form. In the sacred stillness of silence between the shadows and the sins. Poetry begins where death is robbed of the last word.
Stealing Fire From the Gods
Can language see beyond language.
To rub up against the far side of words.
Undressed
by stillness caressing shadow
with the fingerprints of a whisper.
Silence stretching between the worlds
as a syllable.
What we can’t see
knows us better
than what we can see.
Sinking into the skin
deep enough
to write on the bones of meaning.
© Jamie MillardMoments lost and moments found. An ache on the far side of meaning. Being.
We steal the sacred fire from the gods if only to keep it alive.
The connective pulse. The writer. The reader. The seer. The seen. A sacred act. The conjunction of time and space. The circle.
Thanks for Being - Here.
Thank you for entering into these words and that something else that is carried along with them.
Lots of Love,
Jamie
Hi Jamie, I so resonate with the in-between spaces and what is 'ineffable' ... born through my senses, beyond the language of words, I found myself speaking in silences with my sister-in-law, in the sacredness of her leaving ... her shadows and sins, with a laugh, a smile ... "no more silly ... love, love, love ... you", as she closed her eyes to sleep, to dream her exit. In stillness the silence grows — "with the fingerprints of a whisper". What a beautiful poem. Thank you 🙏💖
Dear Poet, the place you write from is exquisite! That edge where language brushes against what can hardly be named. The way you speak of the connective pulse, the silence between worlds and words, and the bones of meaning ... brings to mind the poetic landscape of the Soul … the very terrain where poetry breathes before it becomes form.
For me, there’s a sacred moment here where something ancient seems to lean close and whisper, “We cannot touch it with our name intact.” Yesss! Oh how that line shimmered straight through me!
And the way you muse about response ... not as afterthought, but as part of the sacred exchange ... feels so true. It’s that luminous meeting place where poet and reader both step into the same firelight for a moment (or ten!) ... sharing the same breath, the same wonder!
Oh Jamie, you write with firelight and starlight in your hands! Thank you for carrying the flame and letting us gather around it with you. Thank you so much for keeping the circle bright. 💖🙏🔥