Some visionary moments during hot yoga
There is geometry and gemology of the positions, colors, feelings. Thoughts, longings and shapes in the mirror are bejeweled by a dragon.
That is, a dragon - thought, feeling, gesture glittered and faceted itself in my body, in space, in the mirror. Pale blue diamonds floating in collar bones and ribs. I fold and release, arc to the side, become a tinsely pine tree, a draping chandelier pine tree, a pine tree seeping rich and sticky sap. Dragon scales drip and flake away. A firebird is dragon born. Wings and skins, eye jewels that multiply reverberations and re-virginations through elemental signatures. A body poem of becoming - like the jewelry of space and earth, fire and water, air as in everywherair. Emerging like a moment fountain. Stitching it through each pose and tipped down and reaching up to a strand of ceiling silver, where your hand reaches back for you from wobble pool.
How to condense and expand, magnetize and release these jewels - -as available to pick as an apple of orchards? An apple of orchards of bejeweled bees rumming and hovering and sizzling the air. Little dragons, golden filaments, a process of heat and curling and light. The V and triangle turn and return. I bring the energy of earth V into my pelvis. Pulse of blood and breath, shimmering of feathered scales. Arms open as crane, swan, phoenix. A carved in Buddha shadow in the window sunlight. Beyond that, rooftop triangles elbowing clouds.
1.
She looks into the black behind her eyes. Thick black, folded into a carven lair. She has the breath weapon of fire but does not speak except by a language of light. It is back -lit and serpentine. Dimensional layering from the subterranean depths. A light that doesn’t utter, but reveals in radial silence, the rings of the numinous, the illumined.
The dragon’s tail ends in a diamond arrowhead tip that touches both the eye wound in the sky and the deepest womb below the rock, she draws in lightening from the stars or from the cavern’s utter depth.
She has slept in the rock, pinned and subdued by unnatural gravities of the clouds’ battle in blind gloom. And thunders and crazed lightenings -reveling storms and dry clouds. She looks into river banks where amber-weeping poplar trees and rippled waters are home to flocks of white swans. Swiftly moving clouds shudder the surface and she reads the shapes as an oracle at her scrying mirror. Feather-like snow continually falls; an arrow riding prophet and swans in clouds, past numbering circle the buried earth temple as though they are purifying it by their flight.
She is the first to chant the hexameter into being, light tracing a six pointed star where a second temple is made by bees from bees-wax and feathers. Her breath stirs Hyperborean snows of the hidden North. Crystal plumes and rimed dendrites so precise they omit a continuous chime into the air of this bluest winter. This is what she sees behind her eyes, in velvet black, lacunae in the center of the completely encircling river. The pole stars tremble. The wild olive tree fruit is hidden, and they are known of as none.
2.
He is from the near sun and the farthest starlight. He slips into trees, especially the wind-soaked leaves of Spring, scattering light and sharp shadows. He can become as bright as the swans inside of her mind. His movement is the sound of reeds and tall sweeping grasses. The rumming bees and churring birds. He is also ringing silence - an unceasing cosmic dialtone inside curved canals reaching deep into the center of the head.
He looks up. He looks forward. He looks out. He is the breath rider, whose body is now a cloud with limbs. And quickly he moves, rival of lightening from the eye wound. He demonstrates the sky as thoroughly available. There is nothing it will not accept. All sky. All gravities, natural and brutal alike. Light cannot be captured, only obscured. The eye wound flutters shut, blinks open again. This is always true he says.
3.
She dreams of an angel’s body. She can only imagine it as made of jewels and darkly gleaming. She can only imagine it as she has known herself: under pressure, a being of rock, unable to move or speak, except in the faceted ways of jewel slanted light. He soars far above even the mountain peaks that touch the sky from three sides. This is a lonely place, a false solitude. Sky allows all experiences, false or true.
She has lain in the rock so long now her veins are flowing gold. She is in her turning. Time has opened to her and he travels to her rumbling tomb. The prison stone bed has begun erupting in rhythmic release. As he enters it becomes a wildly prismatic chasm. Cold molten passages lighten in new chemunication. It is told of the two pathways, how he is meant to descend, and she to reach. And the way of this meeting is as Phoenix, though it is also cataclysm, burning forests, the reckoning of the waters, and a long reigning pall of fear moving in search of a new host.
And what part of this fire do you see?
You are here to anchor the light.
I heard this from someone who came back and forth from the dead. This world needs beacons, harbors, liberty bells. Love belongs to any place it cannot live on its own. This, too, came from a threshold singer. Does heart meat conceal the crystalline mouth of a river of light? I imagine a rock sudden with door. So then, not what it seems. The seaming of things. I fold and unfold them - I don’t want to be fooled but I love a surprise. No sudden door appears when approached with this preference.
But I don’t want to be hurt I say (she says, they say, he says) in a choir of singularity. Left-brain locked and loaded, left alone is all you get.
And here is where to look through her eyes as they hold your own: dimensions moving clockwise and other wise. Orbiting thoughts, perceptions, mind habits, intuitions, flesh and finally, bare awareness. This elliptical mirror rests in her lap as seen - through transparencies, like silk scarves swirled in the space around her.
Turning upside down in the Underworld makes a right angle to witness the burning phoenix. Its smoke curls into lassos and chains. Light particles climb and wind in spiraling ease. The curious shapes of ash heaps can be taken as a souvenir of the holy fires that finally transmute all inherited pain into blue-gold radiance.