For my Mama

 

 

More paintings by Molly, but having trouble painting at present...  love to all, Molly

 

 

 

 

 

I decided I was completely known and loved by some Croatian stranger.
I liked that.
I prayed.
Tiny angels swarmed toward me like bees in single-file and made a halo and flew off.
I preferred this to the thought of calling the doctor in the morning.
Marty, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you at the end.

On the Wing

Seems like I almost caught a poem that wanted to visit, but it breezed by so quickly, by the time pop has fetched me paper and pen there is but a whiff left.

I try to snatch its tail feathers.

“Please come back, please.  Take up residence, even.
I’ve been waiting.
Okay, I’ve been desperate.”
My tattered grey matter is entangled with scary medical stories leaving room for little else.
Make way for a poem!
Can a poem bring me home?
Oh, reader, how naked dare I make myself before you?
This poem wants to be a water buffalo soaking in mud.
Or some parasite tucked neatly in the wing of a migrating bird,
world far below, the secret cargo of an animal following a deep instinct
I hope science never comes to fully understand.
Or hear this: It baldly wants to be in its mother’s womb.
And if it had to be born, it wanted to be a token of comfort to a particular loved one in pain. 
It broke down when it could not.
I don’t know much about this poetry biz. 
I guess you don’t get to choose how they are born any more than any other creature does. 
But recently it has seen some really bad poems, and doesn’t want to take up residence amongst them.
Though desperate, it is still snooty that way.
It slides backwards, clinging to the past;
it can’t understand you who have moved on and are loving someone other than me now.  Love Me.
The beauty of the world taunts me, irritates me, even as it breathes me.
So, if you can, I demand that whoever you are, you enjoy it where I cannot,
and at the same time that you allow me a moment of resentment that you can.
And if you cannot enjoy the beauty of the world, I kiss your feet. 
That too is one of the lives of the heart.

This poem has gotten blunt blurry.

It happens like that, comes into focus only occasionally on the page,
surprising me for a moment in my fuzzy world.

This is not the poem I wanted to catch on the fly, but it is the one that landed.
Its taste is sour. 
Sometimes even medicine is like that.

--Molly Hunt  November 2013

Fuzzy World

Hard to decipher through miasm of brain and wonky vision.

I used to like the world gone indistinct:
Driving on a dark foggy night, trying to decide on high or low beams;
skiing through mists, having to rely on the feel of the snow under my blurry skis;
or gazing dreamily out a rain-drop blurry city window.
The world of vague forms emerging under painfully opened under-water eyes.
How about this.  Hiking at night: be careful, but be bold too.
And what about blind-folded party games—did everyone else cheat as much as I?

These days things go blurry with tears over silly things: the sight of Papa’s beloved sweaters—ones long coveted and snuggled in or up against—now suddenly appearing moth-eaten and abandoned in the pile of trash.

World swims around me while I try to navigate; even while lying still in bed.
I don’t like my new blurriness.  It’s not transporting and exciting like the old kind.

Give me back the old kind of indistinct me: the one you see in those quasi-mirrors in smelly outhouses on government-land campsites with unpotable water.

Nevermind all that

Today it seems like any beautiful sight could save me.
Let’s not lie.  We all just want want want.

When my hawthorne went skeletal during the drought it put out one strong runner,
which thrives to this day, with that deep strong root system gifted from its elder.
Same or different tree?
The skeleton gave me one glorious spring of hammock-lying while providing the invitation for a  for a red-headed woodpecker.
Grieving an ended relationship, I joyfully watched a male find the spot and hammer relentlessly to create a perfect smooth nest, and then fill it with soft padding.
Then he sang wildly for a mate. 
She heard his call, and found him and his nest acceptable.
She flew his routes with him.  You could set your watch to their flights.
She grew almost too fat to wiggle in and out of the opening.
Anxiously I waited and waited to see hatchlings.  None emerged.
Some mammal must have fed its own life force upon those eggs.  The parents disappeared.

Soon, the wind blew over the skeleton of the tree during the night, right where the nest had rendered it unstable.

Good-bye nest.

But the younger tree—the runner—grew each season at a shocking rate.  Symmetrical perfection.
Till finally it was tall enough to provide me privacy, my own nest from my neighbors.
I’m told the tree still thrives, though it’s been four years since I’ve been able to go home and see it.
No one watches it with the attentive eyes I gave it.  Does it care?
I just now peaked for a moment on google images at pics of hawthorns.

Gasp.  I must have it all back.  I must.

Don’t speak anything spiritually correct to me.  I am deaf.

Please visit a wonderful blog called The Rag Tree, kept by writer and poet Eric Quinn. He kindly posted a poem of mine entitled "Hieroglyphic."  I wrote it in the wake of an incident in September in which my father took quite a spill.  For those of you who don't know, Papa is doing fine.  All that blood turned out to be due to blood thinner he was on, and he has recovered nicely.   Here's a link to the blog and to my poem:
http://cathay12.wordpress.com/2013/10/16/molly-hunt-local-poet-local-hero/
Here are pics right after the incident, and one more recent.  If you look closely, you will see there remains a scar.  But, I'd say he if he had to have one, it's a rather handsome effect:

Tipping Point

It is dusk.
I sit on my parents’ bed and gaze out the window.
A rare treat.
I see a beloved grove of aspen surrounded by their darker pinon-mates,
in a previously oft-visited arroyo.
I do believe I could walk that arroyo blind-folded by heart, if only.
The aspen stand tall and golden in the lingering sun,
bright enough I cannot yet tell if they are still clothed
in their fall yellows or are naked for winter.

A couple of mornings ago, at dawn,

I hobbled up here seeking comfort to find my parents on the spot I now inhabit;

they were sound asleep curled toward each other,
foreheads touching, arms draped tenderly around each other;
they didn’t even awaken when I curled up in a vacant corner of the bed.
During waking hours they suffer greatly,
but they have this shining deep-sleep-comfort;
you can plainly see the over 50 years of unconscious body attunement.

They awaken to this view,

but I don’t get to look outside much—
I have to catch the tipping point of the day—
neither too bright, nor too dark; 
I’m the outdoors type so this is serious deprivation.

Now as the sun lowers,

I discern that the aspen are a mixture of still-clinging leaves and bare branches;
how can I be this out of touch with the basics of this tipping season?

This poem set out to be about the tipping point of my health.

Shall I move toward greater life or death?
Gasp, I have now written That Word.
A recent practitioner described the precariousness of my present condition this way.
It resonated with a gong of truth
I did not want to hear, but cannot deny.
Oh death, whatever you are, do not take me yet.
I cling to this bed, this view.

I want to tip back into life.

My blessed parents have rested in this spot year after year

to restart each day sacrificing long and hard

to help me tip back into life;

one that we may enjoy more fully together;
and so that they might tip away one day, before I do—
a prospect I have long dreaded, but
the “natural order” we all took for granted.

Don’t speak to me of equanimity, not now, not yet.

I am too scrambled to metabolize what is happening.

So, back to the window:

Now pink clouds appear over the mellowing aspen.

I heard in some indigenous culture it is believed
the soul dies if you can’t see the horizon. 
Mine suffers from this loss;
it is rare I can visit this vantage point at the right time.

Now dark, heavier stark clouds streak the sky above—

Oh, please no thunder, no sound of rain!
My being can’t take that.
It unwillingly contracts in response to that which it once embraced.
It barely tolerates the sound of the felt tip marker on the page.

I confess I long to see Papa walk up the driveway this window faces.

I feel safer when he is here, as if he can protect me from my invisible demons.
I am glad he’s getting exercise, though.

Now the light New Mexico is so famous for is fading,
calling for an appreciation of the subtle browns and greens.

I must put down pen and paper soon; the writing isn’t good for me.

Here is Papa now!
I wish his gait were steadier,
and he walked a straighter line.

Deep breath.

I can’t afford to start crying over that now.

He looks down as he walks.

I hope it is to be careful with his footing,
but it appears more like his habitual preoccupation.
He’s not the nature lover I am;
doesn’t relish what every sense can take in as I would.

He enters the house, and believe it or not, I am annoyed. 

More sound.

How do you solve a problem like Molly?

Now it grows dim outside, and my vision is blurry.
And I believe I have committed one of my more recent errors:
My scribble is so messy and small I may not be able to decipher it later.
Aggravating when trying to compose communiques to docs
and I have no idea what I jotted down that I thought was important to convey.

I must get up and face the rest of the tasks of trudging on.

But still, it seems I cannot approach the subject of death.

I naively thought this poem might help us make peace,
even ease me away from IT.

What a lot to load on to a little poem.

All that has arisen is a poem defeated.

At least it used the scary word, and that’s a start.

Ok, now it’s pretty much dark, and though I still appreciate the shadowiness,

I know I am avoiding the suffering that lies ahead,
amplifying it even. 

I don’t want to abandon my perch.

But I will.  I will be careful.  Mindful as I navigate. 
Sit and eat my waiting dinner. 
And then who knows what to get through the evening.
 
Oh world, hold me, keep me, tip me back toward you;
reach for me tenderly or fiercely.  Yank, if you will.

Afterlife, be beautiful, but wait;
push me away for now, out of this limbo.  Push me hard.
But if you must come now, please be kind and swift.

Now, the coyote are making their crazy calls.

Have you heard that sound?
The mind knows that it is an earth-sound,
but it is so eerily incomprehensible it seems from another world.
Some say animals remember the other side.
Is that the language you are speaking now, coyote friends?
Because, oddly, in this moment, it is the only sound that doesn’t rattle my being,
as if it echoes the wail I cannot make.

--Molly Hunt   October 26, 2013

WHEN YOU ARE LOST

Know there is a stranger in a foreign country who wants to love you for no reason;
there is a sapling that would like your company;
and there is a rock that has always known you.
The earth has been hugging you to it,
and gently turning so you may know dawn and dusk;
and there is a star that sent its message for you tonight
millions of years ago.
There is a small mammal that would like your comfort,
and a large one that is genuinely interested in you.           
Even you who are in prison,
or are being ruthlessly tortured;
you who have lived a timid life,
or have turned against your gifts;
you who let your true love get away,
or who feel cursed;
you who have betrayed loved ones,
committed or been victim of heinous acts:
You don’t have to be strong;
you don’t have to be grateful;
you can be bitter.
Still, there is a rabbit with a fist;
a stone circle with a secret;
someone who believes in unicorns.
There is a ghost town with the cross of a long-passed individual who would have adored you.
There is an artisan devoted to crafting clay ducks
who would like you to have one,
and a seagull that would like to play with you.
Someone somewhere is composing just the music you need to hear.
There is a tree branch just so, for you to sit comfortably upon;
a plant that awaits your deep remembrance that it has the right medicine for you;
and another that wants to feel your touch.
There is a lion that is shy,
and a mouse that is brazen.
Even if you are as lonesome as the very last member of a dying species,
there are sea tortoises that know your birth song,
otters that know your secret name,
and an undiscovered fish fossil that is your ancestor, and longed for your birth.

I came across a coiled snake once on a back country road.
It must have just been run over.
I sat with it, crushed, while its life drained away.
It lives with me still.

--Molly Hunt, October 2013

Cougar, by Molly Hunt

COUGAR

For decades we tracked each other,
allies, prayer-mates and honored opponents.
We each had paid our respects to the other in a variety of ways.
I won't share how this secret relationship began.
There were dreams you took me on Technicolor adventures.
In others were you were a calm strong companion by my side.
And in some you roared at me.
I would awaken with a fright.

Then we met at the top of a mountain pass at 4 AM,
you hissing threateningly, eyes glowing red in the dimness.
That time you introduced me to my primal animal nature.
I grew large, bared my teeth and displayed my fingernails turned into claws.
I heard my own fierce growl – a new emanation from my throat –
echo off the valleys on both sides.
Every cell in my slender body believed without doubt
that I could and would rip you to shreds should you attack.
You backed down from our face-off.
Thank you for bringing out my killer instinct,
the proper use of my own sword.

But now, cougar, I have a new kind of predator;
they have taken up residence within the body that faced down yours.
Micro-organisms are tricky adversaries.
They have been wrestling with me for my now-mangled sword.
I have not been able to wield it successfully.
Infiltrating my being,
they have even confused me as to who I am.
loved ones are sustaining injuries in the battle.
These microscopic attackers aren't like you,
they torture me in a long drawn-out process.

When you confronted me,
there was a simplicity about it. No animosity.
an age-old agreement between species.
I knew you were defending your young, or hungry.
I defended myself.
The way of this world.

But what motivates these tiny beings?
They won't face me squarely.
Their insidious methods are cruel.
Perhaps they are a bit lost and confused, like humans can be?
But I sense no interspecies connection, here.

Is there anything you can teach me now, my cougar mate?
Any of your relaxed strength you can transmit to me?
I am in great need.

Or do I need a new teacher now?
I saw a slow-motion film once
of you beating out your prey in the chase.
That rabbit knew when its time was up.
It turned belly up at the last moment,
offering itself to you, to the intrinsic order of things.
What beauty in that!
Has that time arrived for me?
Is it a rabbit teacher I need now?
If so, I'd like to surrender with such grace.
Then, will we all lie down together,
lion, lamb, rabbit and pathogens?
I always vaguely thought that sounded nice.
Now I'm not so sure.
And I still resist.

--Molly Hunt, August 2013

DONKEY

DONKEY

I stumbled upon a timeless communion with an aged donkey.

Already compromised by illness,
I sat on my wobbly three-legged camping stool.

We met eye to eye, transfixed and still.

Who knows how long we dwelled together

before I was obliged to pull myself away

and resume ordinary life.

 

Perhaps we are still there now.

 

How can I tell you what I beheld in the depthless black eye

of that white-haired fellow-being?

 

I found something more captivating than the night sky

in the deep wilderness

brilliantly dense with stars.

But it was so unassuming it could have easily been over-looked.

 

Imagine a fullness so complete

that it was larger than the universe itself,

All that ever was and will be,

burbling yet blissfully peaceful.

My life, yours

all the struggles and striving of us two-leggeds were at home.

 

Had that animal existed forever?

Witnessed everything?

Before the big bang,

before and after God?

 

I sometimes wonder what her unwavering eye saw in mine.

 

That elder donkey was approaching her immanent threshold

as naturally as she was shedding her coat for a season she would never know.

 

My illness seemingly progressing, I contemplate my own threshold.

I recall that episode,

so seamless and simple at the time.

 

But now I won't let it alone.

I grab for it.

I want it back.

I want to swim into that eye.

Or to be that absolute totality on four sturdy legs,

unconcerned about the future, the past,

without the desire for answers, without regrets.

 

Somehow the juicy eternity in that now-dimmed eye must be reachable,

though the eye itself no longer shines.

Can I find my way there?

Will it claim me?
 

--Molly Hunt, July 2013

This is a painting that my friend Charlotte Price painted in response to the poem above.  It is entitled, "Unburdened Beast."  Thank you Charlotte.  I love this companion dearly.  Anyone interested in learning more about Charlotte's artwork is welcome to email me.