Pupils

Pupils
by Timothy Reed


my eyes creak and groan under
the weight of such sight
they stretch to take it in. 

little red cracks in the glass
point to a stormy sea
then inky blackness, fathom upon fathom.

where sight lacks,
words are rolled thin and milky
as paper, sheet upon sheet.

pupils, be pupils
dilate, don't dilute
what you have seen, what you see.



_______________________


"The assumed knowledge of a thing often disrupts the perception of a thing." 

This thought is heavy on my mind lately. I've been thinking about writing and wanting to achieve a more powerful degree of abstraction in poetry. Rather than trying to re-frame life in symbols, I want to see it as a series of symbols and metaphors and to simply use words to capture that sight. That is the weight of sight, and why my eyes "creak and groan", as they try to expand to see more deeply. Also included is the idea that when we don't see things clearly, words multiply "sheet upon sheet". We are hooked on particulars and haven't yet achieved essence. 

"Words, bear witness - don't fabricate (you are not the weavers)."

Summer Storm

Summer Storm
by Timothy Reed

the hours arranged themselves in bookcases 
while the clouds sat overhead like grease in a pot
thoughts, a medley of feverish flotsam and jetsam
eat, eat until I am full to bursting
but the day would not relent
Summer Storm is upon us, it seeps up from the deep

all the light things, airy things, press us down into the blaze
Summer Storm, Summer Storm. 
if we had the kindness of soil below us, we would have hidden 
we stew down, every substance divorced, every issue separated
we become hundreds of ourself, splitting and splitting 
laid out on black iron, haphazardly 

whipping wind and whippoorwill draw us up to the tempest
but only in eddies - they smack of inevitable return
Summer Storm, Summer Storm
Storm on, but I pray for any other season





________________________





This poem is a juxtaposition of a summer thunderstorm and a stew-pot. The subject of the poem finds themselves with their heart and mind stretched between the two, squeezed and dissected by internal and external analysis, issues, convictions, & controversies. In short, it is the turning of a soul upon itself as it wrestles with the core issues of life. 

SBS Poet Circle Presents: Diary of a Snakebite Death

DIARY OF A SNAKEBITE DEATH 

The first prompt we decided to tackle was this simple, but dramatic phrase. This prompt originated in a historical event in 1957, when Dr. Karl P. Schmidt was fatally bitten by a Boomslang snake. Knowing he was beyond the reach of available medical care, he catalogued in great detail his experience until he lost consciousness and died. Our poets all watched a video on this event (or were familiar with the details) and independently wrote poems from this prompt. We hope you enjoy our look at “Diary of a Snakebite Death” as a springboard for deeper, parallel and divergent thought. 

in a diary of a man
before light split his eyes:
(see below)

in the darkness of her womb
in a half-remembered dream
before steps were taken
‘ere he could even scheme

no cage nor bar
no arm nor wing
could, to safety, pledge
could, to purity, cling

as wee babe, swaddled 
midst warmth and goodwill 
was soon given
above all, meanest skill

the snake, he was there 
his fangs he did bare

venom seeps through 
fleshy rope to

his belly

and that babe became a lad
and that lad became a man
and that man, for all his merit
for philanthropy, for every plan

walked among us, blind, dead
unable to purge poison from blood
unable to hold flesh on bone
his mind a graveyard, his heart - mud

until the day light split his eyes 
broke snakebite, apple-bite
as he entered another womb - tomb 
and gave up vein fight

and gained blood, light, life

diary of a snakebite death
(turn page)

N.
maybe betrayal is as beauty
the answer unveils the beholder’s soul 
not the beheld

O.
just once her eye chances to linger
the glance cracks open the window for longing 
to slip in, sliding down to her soul like a finger

I.
who knew venom dressed in scales?
or that one bite would untether her
who knew the heart’s reach for beauty fails?
or that passion and longing would weather and wreck her

T.
imagination sprung, her mouth begins to water
a deep inhale. Desire,
raw as the hanging fruit, dear as an unborn daughter 
kindles a fire

C.
the pounding of her heart is a hammer to a bell
hearkening back to a word she once knew, and once knew well 
just one word from a voice that was dear
just one word could direct passion, paint things clear

E.
mystery beckons, her mind begins to wonder 
it sweeps open the door

R.
and venom untethered bites her
after all, her heart looks beautiful scaled 
passion and longing right her
where all external compasses failed

R.
fast forward five thousand years
ocean-going folk sing of the lure of far off lands, 
flirt with danger, sail open seas

U.
she lives the meaning of these songs, understands 
oceans are but inner tsunamis

S.
in a world of black and white
at least the thunderstorm is painted blue
at least it summons swords of fire, nostalgic sight 
at least in a world of restrictions
the waters tear down
all walls, all walls

E.
yet each crash carries
craving
for divine eyes and hands, 
the beautiful land lost

R.

beating blood 
pushed through 
the entirety of 
my being
—
punctured, the 
poison penetrated 
the heart of each 
premature person
—
silent secret
sin seeped 
through
the soul
—
the only antidote is the savior.

The Scientist felt the rush
as passion gave way to realization. 
The year? 1957.
The occasion? He’d been bitten.

Desire to know, to experience—it began his end. 
Ever the Scientist, he recorded what famously 
became known as Diary of A Snakebite Death.

Mother Eve knew the feeling.
Desire to know, to experience—it began her end, too. 
Venom creeping, her countdown began.
She accepted her reward
and quietly left the Garden.

To be like God.
To know, experience.

Her final recorded words:
“I have acquired a man with God!”

To co-create with ADONAI. 
To marry Passion with Wisdom, 
the eternal Tree of Life.

Despite herself she became 
the Mother of All Who Live.

To humbly number my days 
and generate for others 
what I myself cannot keep.

I am my mother’s daughter. 
May I be my mother’s daughter.

from Maaike:

This poem is an exploration of the dramatic disordering of body, soul and spirit for our mother Eve, and the thought that the enmity between serpent and woman lived on in desire.

The last “diary entry” is left open and unfinished. The letters retrace to spell ‘Resurrection’. There is an old Jewish idea that by bearing suffering and exile, the Jewish people will repent their way back into the Garden. This poem plays on that idea. In the first Garden, Eve chose to listen to desire over the voice of God. In the moment of resurrection, the enemy of Eve is crushed and Mary hears the voice of God again.



More info on the Slowly But Slowly Poet Circle

Slowly But Slowly Poet Circle

Welcome to the dawn of a new and exciting creative project - the Slowly But Slowly Poet Circle! 

The Slowly But Slowly Poet Circle is a project to explore associations and stylistic variance among faith-inspired poets. For each poem series, the poets are exposed to a common prompt - a word or phrase - and then allowed to write their own poem in isolation from one another, to help prevent influencing each other during the creative process. Afterwards, they all compare their art and publish the result. The goal is to compare and contrast different thinkers and promote more careful and faith-infused thinking in the public through their poems.

Stay tuned for our upcoming project: Diary of a Snakebite Death.

Our Poets:

Timothy Reed - Timothy hails from the place where intuition and reason overlap, driven by the questions of life, embracing both the pain and the joy of the human experience. As the creator and host of the Slowly But Slowly Poet Circle, he hopes to provide thought-provoking content as a challenge and an inspiration to whoever may read this unique poetry.

Maaike -Maaike is Dutch-Canadian and grew up in East Africa. She is pursuing studies in World Arts, and sporadically experiments with words on her blog at: www.shoutofjoy.wordpress.com

bethany rené -  bethany rené is a twenty-something who consistently walks in the tension of the fight for life and the favor of God. her words are like brushes initiating strokes of paint to the illustration of that very journey. yoshi and several plants call bethany "mom". she often spends her saturdays with many friends and cups of coffee. you can find her over on instagram at @withfavorandfight or withfavorandfight.com

Heather S. - Heather S. has chosen to live/love among the brokenness of the world (particularly migration and war) and has drunk bitter tears herself along the way. Poetry, she’s found, has the astounding capacity to hold the tension of reality, allowing neither escape nor denial, yet giving voice. She concludes in one of her poems, “The Poet writes the mysteries and the mysteries write her, too. She eats them and she eats Him—and in writing, at last, she enters His rest.”

Parentheses

Parentheses
by Timothy Reed



"I am... content... in this season." 


"I am

(learning to be)

content

(during the parentheses)

 in this season."

Spice Trade

Spice Trade
by Timothy Reed

they say I am to voyage
and that explains
the way my roots have been cut
my leaves stripped
my stems tied

I feel myself shrivel from inside
a spice
a grain
a husk

I am pickled, preserved
I breathe ether
in salt, vinegar, water


and the dark, rocking parenthesis around me -
the dull hope that throbs through dying veins

once I die and we make port
perhaps I am the spice the new world lacks

Atlantic Taunt

Atlantic Taunt
by Timothy Reed

Go on, chirp at me
cricket in a jar
why do you let yourself be tamed so?
Atlantic, Atlantic

why, even a Pacific harbor
Speaks more dread 
than your shoreline

I see your gulls
have adopted your lethargy
as they glide voicelessly
o’er your placid face

If you hadn’t learned to
farm out your fear
to another face, that evil eye
you would surely have been forgotten

when did you give up your fire, 
water?

I can hardly even smell your breath