This piece I wrote in response to a prompt I gave my Goddesses retreat in Arles, France, June 2017. The prompt was, “Write your own Nobel prize reception speech.” Image credit: Proserpine, by Gabriel Rossetti
The poet speaks like ancient druids and fairies
of turning sideways into the light.
Makes no sense to the shareholder, the engineer. Whispers
that stir under canon fire but that the drones of death cannot annihilate
because words are nothing:
immaterial, immortal, immature, immediate,
immense. The woman
takes hold of these words. Fondles them.
Suckles and molds them like clay, like the Goddess she is.
With these immense immaterial things makes little people, animals, friends, enemies, memories.
Spins universes not because she wants to leave this one behind but because she knows
its depths: Grief excavated, and fear, and rage, and inexhaustible longing for softness
from the womb of language, house of being,
matrix of the infinity
that each of us