Archives
12:15:00 AM CDT
The Artsy Essay
Voodoo Blue
I am safe
when that midnight wind
comes rustling,
making the flowers shimmy
and shed their dresses
in passionate dances
they don't understand.
Wisteria, azalea, crepe myrtle, camellia
sacrificed to decorate the
hungry ground.
The spanish moss whips toward me
the hair of the bony fingered, smiling hag,
restrained from chasing me down.
I can withstand
the late night whispers
from those who
have gone before,
laughing,
or mocking,
or scolding,
or calling me to a love
that had to end.
Fog rises from the boneyard,
white marble mansions with doors
supposed to stay shut,
as my steps take me home,
weary, sweat wet and watchful.
But I am safe.
My flowers grow on the graves of
the heads of animals killed
to feed me.
My house is kissed by heaven's own blue
on its shutters and roof,
bathed in the fierce joy of the ocean,
yellow walls a tribute to the sun.
Lightning and flood are on my side.
Protected, secure,
I am armed for the battle
with mystery.
Copyright pending.
This poem was inspired by the mystery photo from Judith Heartsong's Artsy Essay contest, http://journals.aol.com/judithheartsong/newbeginning/entries/1396, and my recent trip. The mystery photograph reminded me of old roof shingles, and they're in a wonderful bright blue. I don't know why, but it's an old southern superstition that blue shutters will ward off evil spirits. I've heard of it in the Carolina islands. It's in the Mississippi Delta. I've heard it in southern Alabama and in Lousiana. It seems to be more of a flatland and coastal than mountain superstition. The farther south on my trip, I got, the more blue shutters and blue roofs I saw. It's another southern superstition that animal's heads are bad luck and have to be buried. The back of more than one farmhouse in the south will have a garden where the flowers or vegetables grow larger than the rest from the remains of the animals that have nourished the soil there.
As I mentioned in describing my trip, the Mississippi night feels alive. I borrowed that feeling, New Orleans mausoleums, deep south Spanish moss, a bit of a barely remembered Welsh myth, the witching hour, that sense of memories that long to be more than memories, the flowers that graced one of my former backyards, and a gut level belief that many womens' struggles are with what is ephemereal, but our response to them can't be. I let the intangible nature of those struggles show up as the "offstage" ghosts in the poem. Seeing Judith's mystery photo was the missing ingredient. I stirred it together and this is what came out. This is very typical of my poetry writing process. Multiple images, memories, symbols and bits of trivia come together to express my ideas.
The feeling of being protected is so powerful, but it can work in two ways. If we look for protection to something outside of ourselves, it can make us feel vulnerable. Superstitions do that very well, but they also work in the opposite way. They provide us with actions to take, which makes us the source of our power and control. I believe that it's from this duality that goosebumps arise.
Poetry does the same thing. What I see as my best poetry is something that comes to me from an external creative source, but my effort and action is required as well. Like a bright blue roof, poetry gives the feeling of gifts and protection from something much greater than myself, and through it, I can recognize my strength because I've hammered the shingles into place.
Written by sistercdr Blog about this entry |
Add to del.icio.us | 
digg this
-
I love all the descriptive words. This is a wonderful poem. Congratulations on your win.....
-
I felt a little stirring inside me that WAS NAWLINS!!! The unusual customs, unlike anywhere in the USA. I've lived many places, but never felt the local music so rooted as is jazz in this colorful city and surroundings . . . here the music moves the revelers to get out their shiny white hankies, then young and old strut, and make those hankies DANCE!!!
All the parades, faces of joyous children catching candies and beads. The voodoo is a bit scary, but respected and many don't make a move before their fortune's told. Catholic churches everywhere. Spirituality of all kinds abounds and it is RIGHT and GOOD and drives much of the culture and lifestyle. The music, gumbo, rows of picnic tables at a crawfish boil, covered in crawdads, corn, red potatoes and is it SPICY, including the language . . . the main question when folks sit down to this outdoor feast is WHO SUCKS HEAD? That's a specific way of eating the Crawdad. I only have tail, but some suck head. lol The laughter fills the steamy night air, laughing people enjoying conversation way into morning . . .
oh, and your wonderful description of the smell of the flowers, sister, that was a lagnaippe!!! lol
Your poem took me back! Thank you. -
Terrific writing, both poetry and prose. The Heartsong club is getting classier all the time. Now I'm worried about getting thrown out.
-
Congratulations on your win! YEA! I have never been talented at writing poetry, but, boy! You sure are! Compelling! Well written, and I especially enjoyed your telling us at the end about what went into the writing of this piece. Being from the South, I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Sam
http://journals.aol.com/gaboatman/DockLines/
4/27/05 8:06 PM
~Dona