his earth was my body this wrath shook from

The old man who doesn’t listen, because he can’t hear, carries a cane. I married him when I was young and I withered. This is a story about time. And the moon. About how my father died and I couldn’t save him. I have no education but survival. These threads I weave are from the past. Lifetime after lifetime. The ships we sank to be together. The stars are watching, even now as I shrivel. I was not a beautiful bride. I was thrown in a box filled with papers. My owner’s people poked at me as long as I let them. I am not an animal. Later he put a saddle on me although he was too old to ride. I began working and although I was speaking, inside I was silent. Seething like a slave who loves its master. I had no power otherwise. But for my world within, all was in crisis. He told me I was cryptic and that I was a dominatrix. He smeared my blood on pictures of dead gods. He grew silent when I cried. He stole my poetry and signed his name. Sending my love to his girls from before. He said my words didn’t belong to me. I wrote about a bird in God’s throat. He thought it was him so he sang to his people and I sat next to him blackened by shadows. Deafening bells filled the air, he was deaf. The world is blind. My body became heavy with the noises around me. We lived many places and I vacuumed them all. Sucking in anything that wasn’t clean. I became filthy, so filthy my own pain didn’t want me. I died on the hospital floor and I came back with stitches and staples that meant I was free. This story began with a picture of a dead man. This story hasn’t ended because I am stuck in it’s roots. I don’t know. I have no way of knowing. I feel through these pages towards the mist that covers my memories. My father was a killer and so I was too. The ships that took me, underwater and into the sky. I lay awake at night thinking about the things I took. When I lit the match I was the fire. I would myself have burnt this flesh, cut this arm or leg away. When his body would burn I vowed to the gods to throw myself inside. The days came and went the sun barely rising or setting. The moon took over underneath a table no one sees, where hands cross and pants come undone. The skirt rises there below the waist. This long sad horizon of life without the hallucinogen. The pixie dust, the dancing fairy stardust, the cold hard rotten bones. His hand was in mine, gnarled tree branch claws hanging on. I was the words inside the dirt hiding and making everything green. Yes me, his earth was my body this wrath shook from.  Sharada Devi

31 thoughts on “his earth was my body this wrath shook from”

    1. what

      maybe the mind is in the way of that

      everything you are saying is fine
      but their is a mind under the one you write from

      that’s the presence of darkness making love to light

  1. This is your story and like you said it isn’t over. Makes me want to be your body. To embody pain and accept beauty, to bring the hands together, night and day. wretched, angelic… lightness of real pain, our blazing acceptance.

    The loud quiet, that I must be to hear. To see, that I must stay. To surrender, to the horizon and the gift of your life coming.
    Pretty song.

    1. this is my poetry.
      it’s everyones story.
      you are my body.
      death will take you daily.
      hear the words
      of mist and dream,
      lingering pain
      creates gods art.

      1. True -it is everyone’s story and thank you for saying.
        I will open my heart to your light and the pain will be mine, to share, to lean into and feel, as you
        are worth it.

        Coming into myself like a baby, because I am first an oak. Not moving, so you can lean on. And we can move, bodies in my heart, wrapping around you. Under the table, lighter than water, shining and vulnerable in pale moon light.

        1. Are you saying you want to feel my pain-

          You must have enough of your own,
          to own – I mean.

          You’re so sweet I can’t believe it.
          The second half, below the table.
          Such a *** angel


  2. There is always a place underneath a given perception; a given mind that can’t know any other mind because of the fact that it’s simply another mind. And so when one says stay present it just means what another already knows! Yes: it’s your story, and the story we all have needs that expression that is shared. Everyone’s story gets realised when you see how it can form shared spaces. 🙏

  3. The warrior is the survival is the poet is the one who EXPRESSES. It’s all unfolding, the multiverses, as they should.

    1. no, it’s not my story.
      it’s the exact opposite

      there is only one mind
      and apparently
      it’s a fucking crazy one.

    1. our “ever renewing spirit”
      has feelings?

      why is this happening to me?

      I tried to stop using words like fuck
      but now it seems it’s all I have…

  4. “Ever renewing spirit ” was not meant to be Pollyanna. I don’t know what it is. The main thing is one does one’s thing and hopefully there will be people who are there for one. If they are not there in the right way, then they are not there in the right way. We live and we learn. And mostly it’s each person is learning at their own pace. Peace.

    1. being wrong and alone can
      sometimes maybe be right?

      or maybe I don’t know
      what these words I’m saying
      even mean.

      like as if I’m crazy and smart
      with info to spill all at once…

      but the moon under the table…
      she sits super still like
      a black hungry panther

  5. there was a hole in the boat that drifted off the edge of the celestial equator
    88 constellations seen and unseen on either side could tell no tale
    88 keys on an unstrung piano played an unsung melody without rhyme nor reason

    who awakens the silent beholder ?

    double digit numbers
    double letter words
    things that are arcanely apparent
    things that are never heard

    i saw you be the fire , i saw you be the deafening swell of slamming bells
    i saw you lift your sails and slip past the gaze
    of the crazed hypnotically focused

    i see the dazzling diamond that blinds the eye

    they never knew what hit em
    they never knew what got away

    1. you are like the tip of the blade.
      like yesterday what I said,
      sharp so sharp
      not even feeling it.

      you’re so intense they say
      but I never felt it…

      that’s you and it’s true.
      blood by the moonlight
      dripping eye.

      magic seeping all around you
      It’s your world Radhe,
      not theirs.

      So bright golden red,
      silver moon opening
      into the hollow
      wind of his heart,

      brave love on the sea,
      keep floating and shooting
      your arrows and stars,

      at these mystical birds
      on my paper.

  6. Sing us a song
    Play to an idiot
    You do what’s right
    You CAN’T go wrong

    They play in jest
    They act so nice
    They’re fired up for fireworks
    Failing Satan’s test

    You float out to sea
    On 88 keys
    You look up dizzy
    You found Geminee

    Gemini The Twins
    Are flying on meth
    Each one prays
    While they both commit sins

  7. I am no poet (in words). I appreciate poets though. Mockery reflects a testing ground. Like: who are you? The part of me that thinks I know who I am is inquiring about the part of you that thinks you know who you are.

    Or maybe it’s got nothing to do with that at all. Maybe it’s just clowning around!

    Peace love and relaxed vibrations. They (those kind of vibes) tend to be better, most of the time. Too much coffee can ruin them.

  8. Trust is self-relationship based. That self-relationship is everything. You go within and when you have space you are free. When you don’t have it you are not free.

  9. Earth bodies
    Rejoicing in the misbegotten pain of
    Their growth through earth
    Fed by the sunlight
    Mysterious fountains of yellow light
    Nurturing, comforting, soothing.

    Yellow springs
    Forward march, say the Protons of Love
    Sunny days in May
    Rainy nights in May
    Deliver us oh Sun of Uranus.

    To plains of enlightenment
    Which we can never reach
    Because that would mean: Time.

  10. I couldn’t save either one of them. Mother/nor/Father. Come’s up on 20 years for Mother. Tomorrow. 5.15.
    I plough through.
    Free your mind and (hopefully) your ass will follow.
    Thank you Sharada Devi.
    I Love you always. (w/a tear in my eye)


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