The Heart in My Body

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My heart in my chest,

Quivering, alone and unsure

Feeling small in a strange land

 

My heart in my head,

Rationalizing away the fear,

Lost among wayward thoughts

 

My heart in my eyes,

Hesitant, always curious,

Imbibing a world of wonders

 

My heart in my throat,

Stumbling over words not true

Groping for songs in the dark

 

My heart in my belly,

Holding space for the girl inside,

Crying with her until smiles come

 

My heart on my skin,

Exposed too soon, it feels,

Hoping wildly for tenderness

 

My heart in my hands,

Longing, feeling the way

To every fragile connection

 

My heart in my knees,

Falling to earth, breathing relief,

Sinking to a necessary pause

 

My heart in my feet,

Soaking up life, gingerly,

Taking all the steps I need …

 

My heart in my chest,

Back home, nothing looks the same

It is a wiser love, love, it is home.

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In the Dark of Light (Poem)

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In the Dark of Light

In the light I play,

porous and awash under sun,

where the colours are more

than they are, strewn upon the ground

in their wildest symmetries –

and I am emerging into

all that I am, until the

sun sees through me

and I can’t bring my body to

hold its luminescence –

I close my eyes and wait

for nature’s rhythms to carve

smooth this rupture.

Colors and shapes dance ecstatic

before my eyes to their own echo, and in

this shadowy place I retreat,

not quite unafraid, having birthed

in its swell of memories,

certain now that the absence of

earthly hues I’ve tried to

forge into my skin is

today’s calling,

so I enter and rest, soothing

my frantic chest, swimming through

and whispering into the silence

while my bones quiver, threatening to fall –

I reach one hand out to catch

what light I can and hold

the other to close me,

to draw out another

piece of the dark.

I in the Universe (There’s No War in World)

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone

I in the Universe

(Thailand)

I am a microcosm of the universe.

My palm, tongue (my latest obsession), ear, is a microcosm of me.

Who am I and what is the universe? Trained, I can see illness, health and all the happinesses with a quick scan of a body part, because everything large is contained in everything small, once you start looking.

Look closely, examine the little details for a grand portrait. And the other way around? I know I am contained in the universe, but where can I see it, see me? I can only look within; as of yet, I don’t know how to see my imprint in the stars.

I just have to believe it’s there because I know that I am here.

I feel this. Things move through me that leave me wondrous and sometimes so confused. Lately it’s somewhere in the middle. I am in between things. Maybe a shift is taking place. The things that used to confuse me have either disappeared or else I’ve become adept at living around these confusions. Not because they don’t matter, but for the simple fact that they don’t cling to me anymore, leaving me free to live in a world without their strong presence.

At the same time, some of the great passions are gone too. I’m not sure what I need to create, or to talk to people about. When I used to feel this way, depression was near, like a shadow. Now, there’s more of a feeling of peace.

Still, uneasiness lingers. I believe that to live a long, full life, passion is necessary. Purpose is necessary. Maybe that’s what these travels have been about: looking past my familiar archive of me-ness, and up to the stars.

Up there I can be a part of something other than myself. I can look up and my gaze can be reflected anywhere, and if I don’t think too much, I can find the reflection of that gaze and follow it to where I need to be.

Everyday, I can hear my heart sing a little more. I can listen to music and feel parts of my body vibrating. It makes me want to tell my mind that while I have depended on it so much, I need to let it go. It has convinced me that there is illness where there is health.

It has allowed me to indulge in sadness when joy is the obvious state of things. It tells me again and again what I should not be doing when all there is to do in this world is to be free. I almost understand this.

I almost accept that the rain and the sun come at surprising moments here on the island, in beautiful southern Thailand, and that whichever one comes is perfect. Then, when I look at my tongue or my palm, and see lines and cracks and marks, I can also see the pureness in canvas on which they lie.