portrait of a warrioress :: the prophet-poet

“these are the days of madness 

and burning ...”

While scientists still can't explain how a baby's heart raises its first brave beat, this regal declaration by Shawnacy Kiker triggers mysterious, primordial soul-rhythms that echo back to my own intimate genesis. A war cry rises; I fall a little bit in love. But that's only natural. The first time I pored over the resounding anthem that is The Dance of the High Hubris, joy and a strange kind of fierce resolve grabbed me by surprise. Shaky fingers throbbed with brave and I almost imagined Peter Gabriel's Running to the Rain swelling along with an assertion of my own:

... to become wholly entangled with life, 
to stare her in the face 
and grab her by the shoulders and say  

“you, life! yes, you,” and with smoldering eyes declare, 

“life, I WILL love you ...” 

But these days, as I pound my fearless love-song into the earth, I feel like I belong to a circus rather than the grace-lines of an otherworldly dance. The sojourn is messy, disheveled like me. Feet shuffle off-beat; it's more like limping than waltzing, and when I think of how I must look, all I see are the tattered arms of a flailing gypsy as she trips over rocks and broken shards of glass.

But the gift of Shawnacy Kiker?

What is a prophet, other than a brave teller of truth?  A soul-reflector sharing what she sees? 

Shawnacy Kiker

And when this poet spills her truth, life grows lucid, crystal, light-infused. Suddenly the world stops spinning, time slows for healing, and I can breathe again. I can breathe with one who understands this, that ...

This is not a poem about love.

This is about bleeding. And reaching.
And tearing yourself in two, and three, and fourteen thousand
and collecting all the shreds of you
and – on an igneous, blackscar-frenzied night –
rearranging them all on some vast
world-canvas,
creating something
entirely new and unknowable
made only of what was once your timorous self.


This is a poem about
pulling out your bones one by one
and drilling holes till you’ve made of them gory instruments,
and set about playing unheard-of melodies
on your own body
when the wind blows rough.


This is a poem about what happens
to you when you crawl out of yourself
like some holy refugee.
When you tear off the caul you were born with
and throw it to the dogs.


This is about when you see.
I mean SEE
things – and what that does to your
Soul.
~ Kiker, excerpt from This is not a poem about love.

Yes, this.
All of it. I want to stomp, shout. I want to run around all holy-wild. She holds my exhalation in her hand (does she know?); she presses life in, fingers gently sealing the edges. She sends it back and and writes of love again, and can I tattoo these lines to milky skin?

Now, then, will I wind my words for you on a spool
and they will keep – wakeful – somnambulant –
here in my drawer
until you have need of them:
……….the mending of a tear
……….the letting out of a seam;
……….or the fashioning of a coat,
……….that you might shelter your
…………………………………restless Light
……….against the long winter.
~ Kiker, excerpt from I Have Loved You

That coat? I've slipped my arms inside.
It hugs me, soft and warm, and this gypsy, well
she feels just a little less tattered
and a little more grace.

Portrait of a Warrioress :: the Prophet-Poet, Shawnacy Kiker

 
::

I see you, dear poet friend.
You are regal and resonant
In your tenderness and brave.
You are altogether lovely.
How do I thank you for you?
I don't know, but I'll keep on trying.
So. Much. Love.
_________
I am so honored that Shawnacy Kiker has written a stunning guest post for the sacred life which will be featured soon. You won't want to miss it. In the meantime, please visit her at Guts and Juice.

This is volume 3 in the Portraits of a Warrioress series. To hear more, visit Prelude to a Portrait. Would you like to join my warrioress tribe? I am moving slow gathering elements to share, but I will launch soon. Please sign up here!