Spiral Priestess

Ivy, is this mark.
And look, where it grows.
Clinging woman.
Bacchae, drunk with love, of Dionysus.
Ivy will not bend, to false gods.
She, intoxicate with truth, knows, what she knows.
That there is truth, intoxicate in both halves, of the living world.
Man, and woman.
She seeks, what she knows.
Her own inner.
For was there ever woman born, with no concoction, of man, in her?
No. You are both-and,
That's the truth.
Awake your own green man, long hidden, in your skin.
Be your own Bacchae.

Now, turn lovingly to beech.
Sweet fruit, borne in a nutcase.
Such is life.
Such is life, my little child.
Terrified of shadows.
Terrified, to be nutcase.
But seers are touched, my dear, always, with a little madness.
The serpent-tree, is beech.
Her roots writhing.
Now, will you sit, all day, like a baby bird,
Waiting for nuts?
Waiting for someone else, to shell the cases?
Or will you tangle with this truth:
You alone, can tangle with the roots, of the serpent-tree.
Gaining knowledge.

Begin your quest, my fair child-of-time, with apple.
Come to that tree,
And honestly repent,
Of self-hate, self-harm, crude attachments, to old stories.
Now, look.
Isn't the old tree as strong as ever?
Branches laden, with fruit.
Each day, you eat, of this fruit.
Each day, you know truth.
And here, is serpent, coiled around.
Good serpent, who is a guardian true.
For each true thing, will have a clever thief,
Without the coiled nous.
That canny serpent.

I have many faces:
I come, as Jack, or Robin.
Osiris-Dionysus. Pan.
But let us meet.
Call me, what you will.
Gawain, my dear one,
My bravest knight.
The only one, to meet my eye.
Striking my head, clean off.
I shrug.
Picking it up.
The blood, green.
I make my challenge.
Come to me, Gawain, lovely child,
In a year's time.
Stand, in my green chapel.
Dance, to your own tune.
Grow ivy, round your head.
Become poet, seer.
Gifted, with green.
Strive no longer, for this, or that.
Let your red blood merge, with your own green, transfused through me.
Be yourself, little Gawain, you green-red thing.
Grow stronger.

The greening, cannot be done with staves.
With knives, of words.
With daggers, and cloaks, and false words.
It cannot be achieved, my dear soul, with sermons.
First, all the clocks, must be stopped.
Each one.
The tick, tick, tick, of ‘what am I, though? Really?’
Must be stilled.
All sins must be forgiven, for they were merely errors, in the green.
Time, is a false god, who makes good men, bad masters.
Jack, must be courted.
The queen-of-the-woods, who some call Marion, others Elen,
Must be known.
Trees must be touched.
And, in the touch, there must be turning, back, in, on, through.
The house, will melt, then.
That day, the walls of the small house, will become forest.
The chairs, tree stumps.
The table, just a slab, of rotten wood.
The beds, will become moss.
And you will be welcome, home, my dear, that day.
For that day is come.
Always.

It's not easy, being green.
Darling, you have the courage,
To know this:
The green face, of a hidden god,
Who is more like forest, than man.
More like weather, than person.
More green, than leaves.
More anxious, to be found, than judging, you.
For you, came from green.
Know that.
Green, which is more knowing, than bibles.
Can you see it, dear one, with your own eyes?
The pretty moss, growing through all the pages?

It's not easy, being green.
Forest-born, forever.
Limbed, with oak, and lined with ash, birch, elder.
Beeched, in the modern world.
Stranded. Screened. Typed. Labelled.
Why not say this, instead:
I came far, from green.
I built cities, was enslaved, to distant kings.
They gave me all things: gold, myrrh, silver.
And yet, I feel empty.
I am a babe, of time.
Leafed, seeded, ringed, perhaps, with many lives.
I am canny.
Kings, must still persist, perhaps,
But I will view them from afar.
Greening, distant.

It's not easy, being green.
Having a plant-face.
Sweetly leaved.
Obviously, not jaguar, or fox.
Naive. Sweet. Open.
Flowered, and unfurled.
And yet, my love, nothing is more human.
You were, say the plants, born in jungle.
Born in grasslands.
Raised, and suckled, by leaves.
Fruits, and roots, and seeds, taught you.
And now you are grown,
And calling, in the night, like a lonely cat,
For mother.
She is not home.
Not in the church, for all its many pews.
Not on the telly.
Not in the news,
Not on the apps,
Not on the gamble.
She is green.
Grass.
Seed.
Root, of your longing.
But do not fear, little stranger, to your own skin.
She is coming.

The birthing of stars, is a serious matter.
It cannot be done, as your births are, all-in-a-hurry.
Too fast, too soon, too harried.
Stars, are infinite-slow.
Permanent, you-could-say.
At least, relative to you.
You, with your hungry mouths, and your fast world.
That, is your surface.
Glossy, as new paint.
Underneath, is old wood,
Weathered.

A star, is born.
Conceived, from sixty million s***m.
All knowing, what they know.
And egg, wise-as-star, selecting.
Cryptic female choice, the scientists now call it.
Knowing, what they know.
These are the odds, of you being you.
One, in sixty million, at least.
Conception, like a radiant burst, of knowing.
And now, you, being you, are you.
You can be no other.
Though you try.
You cannot be normal.
That, is just a dream.
A fantasy.
A normal baby, never was.
Each one is strange, star-birthed, cryptic, odd.
Encoded, with inner sun, fire, water, earth.
Truths, much-needed.
Will you deny dry earth water, any more,
Because you are ashamed?
No, you will shine.
It has been decided.

A star is born, you see, my dear.
Though he is small.
Diseased.
Unworthy.
Naked-strange.
Though mum drinks, and dad is nasty.
Though scripture says, he sinned.
Though the times are horrid.
Though the manger stinks.
Though the shepherds, never came.
Though the kings denied, you ever were much.
Though they kept their own treasure.
Though he, was born she, or they.
Though the star came clothed in skin, the wrong shade.
Though the bible says it only happened once, afar off.
Though the ashram say, it takes a long time, to get enlightened.
Still, light came.
Bright, gold, sweet.
Ordinary-holy.
You came, my dear, against the odds.
How precious.

A star is born,
1892. May 11th.
Margaret, child of William.
Poet, trader, child-of-time.
Madman.
He struck his father, with a chamber pot,
Killing him, dead.
A sensitive, who felt too much.
A poet, broken.
And, later on, mother died.
Hanging herself, from a tree.
Poor child, poor Margaret,
How will you fare, in life?
Child-of-time, daughter of sensitives,
Who went mad, from the pressure,
Will you live, and thrive?
Yes! Yes! You will live to eighty,
Become a dame,
Marry, a gentle man,
Foster, a daughter, who will break taboos.
Dawn, a woman raised as a man,
Dawn, the dawn-treader.
Oh! You will be a sweet fruit, rich with joy,
Gracing my TV screen.
And, at fifteen, I will find hope, in you,
And later, you will come again,
When I am as old, and odd as you.
To show me what it means to be
A good woman.

Empire, of the false sun.
The light is on, 24/7.
Achieve, achieve, achieve.
Shine, brightly.
Apollo, Mithras, Aos.
Law, order.
Strength, to push onwards.
The sun laughs, gracious, at this fool's game,
Neither man, nor woman.
A gracious mixture of the two.
Her breasts, molten.
Hot, as lava is.
No striving,
No striving, for the energy just comes,
To fuel this mad world, of Trumps, and wars, and chaos.
Of offices, and chairs.
Of man-woman, weary.
Sit back, says sun, and watch me shine.
You go back to bed.
Rest, in darkness.

A star is born.
Esther Blodgett,
Being rebirthed, as Vicki Lester.
Marrying a man, also rebirthed:
Norman Maine,
Once Ernest Gubbins.
Frances Gumm, playing the role, with star panache,
Now Judy Garland.
The masked singer,
A hit, on ITV.
And you, you, you, my love,
Are you masked?
Hidden?
Lost, in drink, like Norman Maine?
Or pills, like Judy Garland?
For they ease the pain,
Of feeling low, and less,
Perhaps, they make you slimmer,
Nicer, less-at-odds,
With your inner Blodgett.
I love you, as you are, my love.
The awkward gait, bad teeth, big nose,
The wrinkles.
The voice, far from perfect.
I love your mask,
For it has helped you, to stay safe,
In a complex world,
With high demands,
Underneath: a star is born,
Imperfect-perfect.

A star, is born.
Yes, you heard me.
Born, not formed.
From what?
From dust, and song, and knowing it is time, to be.
Being, is constant.
Coming-into-form, as, star, song, man, woman.
The personhood, of sounds.
To you, in your blinkered lives,
You are faces, who walk, separate.
From a star's view, you are different sounds,
Who took form, and, walked, in human bodies.

An old image, is this.
The man-god, liberator, true-king,
Mounted on a donkey.
Riding in, to the big city.
Dionysus.
Then Christ.
It means this, amongst many things:
Ask Eeyore.
Ask Eeyore, when you are blue.
When they have popped, again, your nice balloon,
The one you got, for your very own,
Then,
Pop.
Bang.
Hssssss.
Life popped it.
Pharisees, with pins.
Themselves, Eeyores.
Balloons popped, by unseen Romans.
Oh, Rome!
You hidden place, far, far, away!
Perpetrator, of my sweetness!
Thief, of pretty colours!
You hate diversity, and fun, and sweetness, like the plague,
You have your own hunger.
All I have left, is this:
A dead balloon,
An empty pot.
Still, I am sweet.
Still I am colours.

And will you learn again, from beasts?
Will you make a bestiary, of pictures,
Remembering how you were gifted lungs, from a fish?
Legs, from a rat,
Arms, from chimpanzees?
Will you prostrate yourself, before that master, p***y?
Listen, to the c**k, at dawn?
Beasts, have burdens.
Hard lives, short lives, no food.
But they do not have the greed you have,
The insecurity, self-hatred, lies,
All for what?
Because you want to lie,
And say that you never grew from fin, and claw.
That you do not crave touch, kiss, fo**le.
That you do not suckle, bleed and pass wind,
That you are more than beast, my love,
You, in your fool's coat:
Become human.

Enter the dragon
Stage left.
Long buried.
Never slain.
Not really.
Not really, child.
Oh, they say so.
Yes, they say she bled,
When she was cut, into four.
All the directions.
North, South, East and West.
Screaming.
They say the world is built from this.
Her dying.
Going under.
Mother, woman, wild, thunder.
Dead-to-man.
And he arising.
Father, man, tame, silence.
But they lie.
For how can you untangle this,
A strand of DNA?
Knitted, like wool?
Tied, by the big hands,
Of God, or Nature.
Who-knows-which.
Tied, by the mystery, into one string,
Leading home.
And one day, you know,
The earth will crack,
And scent will rise,
Like perfume.

To these eleven cats, I add one more.
So now, we have twelve, like disciples.
Enough cats, you know, to make a religion.
Witnesses of the Christ, in wounded woman.
I, well, let’s call me Ariel, for want of a better name.
As black as coal, my fur.
My eyes burning, into her skin.
Trying to say, with my manxed mew,
You are in danger.
Sylvia, run!
Take the children, and bundle them, into coats,
Go!
Take off, and find yourself, really.
Take the time, to find you,
Under the dead weight, of Daddy.
Under Mum’s pain,
Under Ted, that s*xy wastrel,
Who spells DANGER.
Stranger danger, was a thing.
Back then.
A warning, to girls and boys.
Not to take sweets, from strange men.
But familiars, such as I, know this:
Most are killed, by familiars.
Ghosts, of Dad,
Demons, which spring from Mum’s grave,
And take the form, of surly man,
Cold woman.
These ghosts are canny.
Demonic power, of what’s forgot.
The days, and days, and days, she mourned, when he died.
The hate, and fear, she felt, for Mummy.
The pity.
The loathing of being woman-born, and not a boy,
The working, at words.
The becoming female.
The slick girls, in the prestigious office.
The looking, in a dark mirror.
The rough s*x.
Fun, but scary.
The games, I played with him, and he with I.
The death.
The sorrow, after death, that I am dead,
For nothing.
Oh! Familiars, of all the beaten children, all around,
Come alive!

It’s not easy, being green,
Says Milarepa.
The Yogi, Bare.
Cosmic.
Kermit, he says, tried it.
Sat, sat, sat, in a forest, singing true.
Deeply in love, with a large sow.
Hiya.
Sassy, or not sassy,
We all try, here, that’s the truth.
We all have a job, you know, to do.
Animal, on drums.
Boom, boom, boom,
The constant beat, of heart, lung, liver, s*x.
Can you feel it, he says, like a force?
Like a drip, drip, drip, of rain, on the leaves, in the deep green, of you.
I tell you true, he says, the man of a hundred thousand songs,
All of them blue.
Rich, with the ta***ic joy, of just being, as he was, alive.
Dripping, with the hot fat, of food, and salt, and sugar.
Oh Yogi, Yogi, Yogi!
He, of the dancing word,
Tell me true,
Where, oh where, is the pic-a-nic basket?
Ah, says he, for that, you will have to ask a wiser sage than I.
Ask the green, of self, in-the-present moment.
Make love, of that green plant, ever new-formed,
Your Yogi.

Milarepa comes, in.
He is nothing, my dear child, if not merry.
He is like a lamp, for fools, himself foolish.
Now, he says, as if he were an imagined thing, of my own mind,
What’s all this crap, about perfection?
His hand, is like sand, on wood.
And I, being ready, am sanded, to become a table, on which can be laid, dharma.
Dharmakaya.
That sweet spot, beyond birth, and death.
It is like chocolate, and cakes, and food,
Suddenly ripe.
It is like good things, for me to eat.
For too long, my dear child, have we feasted on bones.
On gurus.
On children.
Too long, my dear, have we gone to the corner shop, and bought scratchcards.
When all around, was money, in the trees.
Dharma, is abundant, running.
Like honey rain.
It falls sweetly, on the tongue.
Rudi, he says, I have a door.
Spider, he says, I am open.

Auburn tresses.
Bay City Rollers.
Brick, in the same old wall.
Bronze goddess, with no heart.
Bronzed, with terror.
Browned off, at being told,
Her brunette self, is too much.
That old chestnut.
Chocolate, gorged on in self-disgust.
Eaten, in bed.
Rubbed, on brown skin.
Melted.
Choc dips, in a blue pot.
Orgiastic.
Coffee, to wake up.
Dark, is my dark lady.
Her eyes, nothing like the sun.
Nothing.
Her breasts, dun.
Dusky maiden.
Fuscous.
Ginger Minge, winning Drag Race.
Hazel, oh hazelnuts.
Cadbury-made.
Coated, with sudden joy.
Rust, in my holed bucket.
Dear Liza, I am sunburnt, with shame, at being me.
With the orange tan,
My lips botoxed.
The only way, is Tawny.
Toasted, with joy.
Umber, oozed from a vast tube,
That serviced all the greats -
Rembrandt, Vermeer, Caravaggio.
Those boys, that he took in s*x,
And fixed on canvas.
Cook me, in life.
Fry, like Graham Kerr, my shame at being here.
Alive, awake, and joyful.
Too loud, too old, too brown.
Too chatty, q***r, or old.
Grill, by George Foreman.
Saute, my doubt.
Seal my heart, with sudden joy.
Sear my shamers.
Browned off.
Cheesed off.
Discontented.
Discouraged.
Disgruntled.
Disheartened.
Fed up.
Pi**ed off.
Sick, as a parrot.
Weary.
Brown study.
Absorbtion, in the problem, of being me, here, now.
Abstractedness.
Abstraction, a powerful modern movement.
Contemplation, of the paradox, of shame, hate, arrogance.
Hatred, of the hidden self.
Meditation.
Kali Ma.
Mother, as dark as a thousand suns, all sewn in black velvet gloves.
Honor Blackman.
Suits me, Sir.
Musing, on q***rness.
Pre-occupation, with self-denial, coercion.
Reflection.
Black Mirror.
Charlie Brooker.
Reverie,
Etude in Black.
Columbo.
Rumi-nation.

Angelic.
Celestial.
Cherubic.
Ethereal.
Wafty, at times.
From ether born.
Clay-shod.
Heavenly.
Here, now, on one knee.
Seraphic.
Seraphic.
Seraphic.
Adorable.
Beatific.
Beautiful.
Entrancing.
Innocent, of all sin.
Lovely, as love is.
Pure, in being. Essence, love.
Saintly, to be here.
Virtuous.
Ah, there’s the rub.
For what, to paraphrase a king,
Is it, even.
Virtue?
Demonic w***e.
Devilish truth, out to get me.
Diabolic.
Diabolical-wise.
Fiendish-real.
Hellish complex.
Infernal wise.
Satanic?
Blake would know, perhaps.
He would perhaps, say this to me,
Nodding his grey head gently.
‘My dear, there are not words enough, in this world, and the next,
To catch an angel.

La Befana comes, tonight.
So put out shoes.
And in them, she will give sweets.
And you will know this:
Who you are, my darling child, is sweet to heaven.