It’s shiny – Cary Briel

Posted on Jun 12, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

It’s shiny
and that’s the in.
It could be a bracelet, ring,
or even—especially—
shoes.
And I say, I can write this.
You wake and think,
‘I will be pretty.’
You can’t possibly know
that it’ll bring a smile,
that a beat will skip,
that you’ll draw eyes
in passing,
or from a distance,
and that it says something.
It’s shiny
and so are you.
My heart leaps,
as you pass, and I think
we knew each other,
it must be true,
in other worlds,
in other lives,
and I held your hand,
and you cried.
And I must have loved you so.

Each day – Cary Briel

Posted on Jun 5, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

I’ve set an easel up
with canvas, 
brushes,
paints,
with colors of 
no worldly hue.
And each day I paint  
a memory—
bathrobe, 
dress 
or hat—
a memory of you.

One deep breath – Cary Briel

Posted on Jun 5, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

One deep breath
at times when your knees
speak volumes
that I cannot hear in your words,
and your eyes cannot say
my name.

One soft kiss
when I’m not expecting it,
and am reminded
of why you’re my best friend,
and yet not my friend
today.

You’ve invaded my world,
and I cannot breathe and not
think of you.
My work is not work anymore,
my play not play.
I am overthrown in my place.

Smitten, taken,
eaten up and swallowed whole.
I ferment in the belly
while I wait for a sign,
longing for the stir
of the sun.

What would make a man? – Cary Briel

Posted on Jun 4, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

What would make a man
seek nylons
and high heels,
and weeping
two days long away?
Except he be young,
except he’d agreed,
when he was a he.
 
What would make a man
seek mountains,
just to fall,
just to leap,
and to be caught
by his angels,
by his kin,
when he’d become a she?

The fence – Cary Briel

Posted on May 29, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

The fence is straight.
It’s an inch out here
but the wind ignores it
and the crows haven’t noticed.
To its posts and planks
the grass huddles and clings.
Ants ascend to their gods—
they stand in its heights
and worship something.
I think they’re wiser.
The sun lights and warms
the fence,
the ants,
and me.
I’ve gone to the roof to cry.
No one looks up but the ants.

Taut – Cary Briel

Posted on May 24, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

In a field, I see you and I lying taut in the sunlight, stretched so perfectly that no finger or toe is even slightly bent. There are no ropes, no restraints, so I tell the me beside you, “ask.” And I see me turn to you and ask. In your eyes, I see it. I can’t help myself, I can’t. I’ve understood.

At night, the moon lights your flesh so I could swear I’m not stretched anymore. I stand and run around you, still understanding your taut predicament. But I’m free, and you’re rooted like a tree, unmovable. I know this, but still run free. I’ll get to it eventually.

I’ll miss the left – Cary Briel

Posted on May 21, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

There is no war to end it,
just a tired old man
behind a trick.
A closet with a serpent suit
and multitudes.

I’ll miss the left,
her slender legs,
the myth.
Waters torn
from fortitude.

Your feet are peas – Cary Briel

Posted on Apr 26, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

A waif, an angel.
Run ’round our garden
calling til I wake.
I’ll shed my shame,
my Calvin Kleins.
Let’s be shameful
for the kids’ sake.
You sweat.
Your hands,
your lips,
your smell.
Sticky girl,
I’ll never tell.
Then flash it back,
and feign,
pretend,
crash flesh and wet
into me again—
crash sin.
Your feet are peas,
my hands reveal you—
make a meal of you.

I’ll buy a house – Cary Briel

Posted on Apr 23, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

I’ll buy a house with many floors, one within a peak, with a window to let in light, sun and moon, and an unassuming, little desk pushed against an ill-planned wall. And that’s where I’m going to write. I’ll shut the door, and the world out with it, and dream.

Under the magical spell of maya, actors on a stage within lila, the divine play of God

Posted on Apr 21, 2011 in Notes, Writing

The basic recurring theme in Hindu mythology is the creation of the world by the self-sacrifice of God – ‘sacrifice’ in the original sense of ‘making sacred’ – whereby God becomes the world which, in the end, becomes again God. This creative activity of the Divine is called lila, the play of God, and the world is seen as the stage of the divine play. Like most of Hindu mythology, the myth of lila has a strong magical flavour. Brahman is the great magician who transforms himself into the world and he performs this feat with his ‘magic creative power’, which is the original meaning of maya in the Rig Veda. The word maya – one of the most important terms in Indian philosophy – has changed its meaning over the centuries. From the might, or power, of the divine actor and magician, it came to signify the psychological state of anybody under the spell of the magic play. As long as we confuse the myriad forms of the divine lila with reality, without perceiving the unity of Brahman underlying all these forms, we are under the spell of maya.
–Fritjof Capra