April in Myth

April in Myth

April is old like water, prehistoric, recycled. Womb and bladder.
To my Third World parched skin, she’s America, running the tap.
And now, in a foreign hottub, she mothers me, as if she
has it to spare. Water and muscles, air and my salty grief.

April has bloomed before, on schedule, sometimes an early surprise.
She has chased and she’s been cupped to the lips, been drunk in,
and done someone’s share of drinking. Me, too, always in August.

On April’s flesh, tears and kisses evaporate, leaving shine.
On mine, brine, crusty, leaving in cakes like the ice shelf.
I watch it go, with foreboding that natural disasters will result.

But water and her children won’t be possessed. In time,
she does the possessing, pooling foolish souls like shrimp,
pulling us through hurricanes and extinction and silence from space.

Mammoths, raccoons, wrens and Americans.

Like water, April is old, knows how to crest and trough, be a beating
organ of the beast, a good germ on the living planet.
Some herons are like pterodactyls pulled by hunger too far from shore.
There are fools and there are fish. Drink, says April.
Extinction breeds myth. And oh, what a magnetic myth we make.

–Wren Tuatha

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The Timothy

The timothy is a lake of tickles and scrapes,
for capering and cackling in these
early days of fall.

I’m turning forty this winter.
I bring my dogs and goats and my
neighbor’s children to the edge and watch
the show.

The air is satisfied. I love it till I hate it.
The children crisscross the waves and swordfight.
The shelties dive, surface and pounce.

Random mice and voles are herded
like fish in schools, unseen in
brown water.

I’m a pisces in the timothy, a fish on land.
I’m a fish on land. Two inches, the right
flip and I could be righted.

The goats chew and check my location.
They depend on me and I live
vicariously. It’s t.v. Symbiosis, and the waves…
technicolor.

A warm clean breeze is a moment to be savored
on the tounge. I learn from the goats.

From the dogs–A hole is to dig.
And children…Where is the child I
planned to have? The timothy spits pollen in undulations.

I make it hard, a pisces in the timothy.

–Wren Tuatha

This poem appears in the spring ‘08 issue of Loch Raven Review:

Big Talking Rocks

I’m moving the muscles to breathe in
cold water. They feel like bone in the effort.

We had the same brand of toothpaste
on the night we didn’t speak of the
dimming between us.

Snow that doesn’t stay.

You would kiss me poetically
then pull a story out of me like a
magician’s scarf, red then yellow
through my throat.

I undressed to expose skin
printed with stories I should have
withheld, psychic tattoos with ink so
shiny you were afraid to

touch and be branded.

I’m moving the muscles to speak of
big talking rocks, monoliths like
grandmother trees, who have
stories in whispered radio waves

because they stayed.

They speak in hugging colors and
purring hum smiles because they
watched while mammoths, raccoons,
wrens and Americans

skittered in circles that never avoided
their fate. Their muscles made them do it
while big talking rocks wrote the
mythology of staying long enough

for restlessness to have its season.
I brought the brand of toothpaste
you use. I have enough for the season of

snow that sticks.

© Wren Tuatha

Previously published in The Baltimore Review and the poetry anthology Blood and Tears.

Make Soup, You Said
I’m making a soup
to fill my bowl.
I’m after that carrot of consolation
you dangle.
I would remember
a recipe
uttered
in that season of my childhood
without language.

The three sisters–
corn, beans and squash…
When they hold hands
they can give weight
while they dance and stir,
balanced in a circle chain,
resolved, complete.

If I know the right herbs,
if my flame is humble,
if I stir with the tide,
if I ladle with steadiness,
if I eat with grace,
if I digest with stillness,
I will understand
why you have gone.

I wrote you a letter.
(I had no place to mail it.)
I burnt it,
buried it,
scattered it,
sent it sailing,
nailed it to my bed.

Make soup, you said, nothing is simple.

–Wren Tuatha

As a writer, I’ve often joked that I never have to make anything up. I have the laziest muse on record. I just stand in one place and crazy, goofy, fringe things happen. Or maybe my eyes are just open.

I’ve certainly lived an interesting life. I grew up in a haunted house, been “out and proud” and “genderfluid”, been to film school, been a widely published performance poet, and I live in what some would call a “commune.” I lead homeschoolers in classes that take place up in trees and in the creek. And now I’m planning a child as a polyamorous coparent. It’s not my stories but the rules of life that I’m making up as I go. This is my diary.

You can use tags to follow many threads through my entries over time–coparenting, intentional community, veganism, love, sustainability, etc.

I’ve come to realize that living at Heathcote, a cooperative community in Maryland, has helped me to walk my talk more authentically than if I lived on my own. Read about my community experiences here on Hippie Chick Diaries. I’ll add content to help you explore if Intentional Community is right for you, such as reviews of communities I visit and links to communities and information organizations.

Watch for regular features of this site, like the bumper sticker of the week, and emails to and from my favorite online social network friend, onewitheverything. Coming soon is my list of great names for a band. Feel free to email your suggestions! Some posts will be longer articles with photo galleries and links to explore topics further.

In this first post I have to sing big love to Paul, of Co Op Tek, and Roni, of Skinny Minny Media, for walking me blindfolded through website development. I’d trust you guys in traffic! Thanks for your patience and excitement on this project.

Here we go! Keep that Hippie Chick bubble off the ground!

–Wren Tuatha