Thoughts from a Moody Poet

I used to never be "moody". I used to be so even keeled. Never got irritable, never really depressed, never over the moon either. Things are different now. I"m not sure exactly when they changed, but it's been awhile. And although I'm no big fan of this new world order, every mood has it's gifts if you choose to look for them...

You know those times in your life when you just want things to change, to get better, to move on already? When you are sick and tired of whatever you've been doing/thinking/feeling for what seems like an interminable length of time? When you know something has GOT to change, but you don't know how or what or when? This poem came from one of those times, a time when I felt compelled to consult whatever oracle was handy...and that night it was the runes. I drew the one called Isa or "Standstill", and it's wisdom was not welcome, but it was accurate. I often think of that night and this poem when I'm sick of winter, sick of feeling blue, sick of feeling stuck. It is not so much about giving up, as it is surrending to what IS and being THERE for as long as you must.   

Isa

Standstill.


Let the icy winds of Winter
Blow right through
Till you are clear
And crystalline.

Unmoved,
Dispassionately allow death
To silence
Your least
Breath.


Then, wait.
In stillness
Stand
And listen
As the wisdom wind
Blows you away, cell by cell.

Then
Still
Wait.

The winds will die
The ice will thaw
And a new sun, cold and small,
Will yet appear
In the East.


This poem came from an even darker mood, more depression than mere frustration. These moods have been descending upon me every year for awhile now, usually just as Christmas is approaching. I like to think of it as my psyche's natural response to winter, the desire to go within and be quiet, and like Persephone, spend a little time in the land of the dead in order to prepeare for the new life of Spring. But this particular year it came on me later, during a time when I should have been pretty happy overall. So, in keeping with my respect for the goddess in all her guises, I tried to find her reasons, and found a gentle rebuke for a certain self-indulgent wallowing I am sometimes guilty of...  
 
Persephone
 
She usually calls for me in winter,
But this year, I did not hear
Until the earth was in bud.
It seemed strange
To turn toward that dark stare--
To go down--
When life was already celebrating
A return.
But when the Dark Goddess demands a descent
You must go.


You must go down
To open more,
To be pried open in your most closed places.
To let the darkness that lives there
Spill out onto the floor at your feet
Like blood,
And you must grieve
The loss of the hurt
You held so dear,
Before you can join the flowers.

And, speaking of flowers, we should end with a mood of contentment and quiet joy from the months when I finally sat myself down to write the thesis required for me to graduate and move on with a new career. I procrastinated for a year, but then found I loved the process more than I ever dreamed. It's been 10 years since those lovely, wonderful, mornings indulging my creative and intellectual muses.


Some Joys

After the off-to-school bustle
A silent morning house
Soft clear light
Sleeping dog
Hot tea, books, and keyboard await.

A candle is lit
A prayer is whispered
Musica Divina begins with the flow of thoughts
And I write
Weaving threads of ancient myth
And my own
On Athene’s loom
I create something new.