My Body is a Forest-Cypress/Right Arm
By Scott Vanya
()
About this ebook
In "My Body is a Forest, Cypress/Right Arm", the strength, perseverance, faith, and courage represented in Elm/Left Arm are also born witness to. In truth, as the books were laid out, no preference was made to put either Left or Right, as preferred. They are equally "important" and neither could survive without the other.
It might be said, the two Arms books, are put together in the lap of a meditating man or praying nun, to hold them together so that, as with the Forest analogy, the writer is a Whole thing, consistent, kind, generous, and unboundedly faithful toward the love and compassion he holds for all men, women, and children.
And as with the other books, this one is inclusive of many faces, voices, images, people and experience, ranging over a 30 year period, from young man to seasoned poet.
I hope they "lift you" up to the Sun, Moon, and Tree Tops.
Scott Vanya
I've been writing for a very long time, what seems like my whole life, taking it seriously from the time I was about 11. Now, at 46, I think I may be starting to get the hang of it: Say what you feel, as passionately as you can, but always with an ear turned to those who are listening.Most of my more serious work is done at live performances, which i do totally extemporaneously, channeling the mood of the room as my fingers play on the guitar. You can see some of that if you go to "my" website. (Open Mics Austin is a platform I created to showcase the Spoken Word scene here in Austin, TX. Only a small role in which i play.)As far as I can tell what makes good writing is LOVE. Love ,plainly simply, and with no strings attached.I put these words/books before you, not so much because I want something back from it, because I think and feel like I feel my bones and my soul, if you were to see the world, experience it like it do, for even a brief moment, you would walk away from that happier, more alive, compassionate and in tune with all those around you.Peace, good will, and harmony. Let those be your guiding light.Agape forever,Scott VanyaPublication Credits:Stepping Stones Magazine, The Main Street Rag, www.carcinogenicpoetry.com, Texas Art Initiative, Phoenix New Life Poetry, Walt’s Corner, Manna, Perigee, Chicago Literary Review, Mobius, Cosmic Trend, Pitchfork, Romantics Quarterly, Artisan, Pegasus, The Neovictorian, Red Owl, The Story Teller, The Blind Man's Rainbow, Atlantic Pacific Press
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My Body is a Forest-Cypress/Right Arm - Scott Vanya
What does the soul have to say for itself...
or need it speak?
The conversation within my head
they ramble and speak
and pass
and touch on conversations
they've had before.
They are old friends
(I think) of John
this cigarette, this cold. the air
reminds me of home
and windows
where I lay and watched cars below.
At the end of a street I sit
at school
and learn of wings, the air and other things
that soar above the earth.
In the clouds, droplets catch on feathers
the wind in my eyes.
I let the laws run their course
and merely sit and wait
(for Love).
Previous:Next
What was had with a squirrel
Did I get back in time
to feed the hungry squirrel?
in truth, it was not
corn, he wanted, rather,
a taste of closeness.
Twirled about it
He and i, neither
looking directly nor ignoring.
Has he lost his appetite;
can not regain what was
tenderness, vanity, and game.
Struggled aft and fro
to not want him,
nor fear him, all that he
carried, curative and slow,
gone, longing. Contrived?
No, truly, it was so . . .
Previous:Next
She drinks at roses
It's all I can do to sit still,
my eyes running out to her,
twining the morning glories about the trellis.
Standing empty and willing, everything open
amongst the potted garden and beds
as the roses' light trickles into her.
What's thought to be quiet and soundless,
rattled about by dogs' and water hoses.
I've told her, I know, and
She accepts that I am aware
of her secret,
that the cup the roses fill,
she sips in solitude,
when I am gone to write.
Awfully empty, with the cat
to watch the blooms
so patient, so so patient,
we really do not matter.
Though when she arrives,
they giggle like school children
let out for the day,
run amuck quickly stopping
for kisses before they go.
So grateful. No regrets.
What's resumed as she
shares a bit of nectar
looking openly into us at the darker
wilderness, unable to bloom.
What's in the garden' pots and beds
tenderly and motherly
trickles into another cup
quietly and soft.
As good in as out,
not for even a moment
do words come against my lips
as much as truth, at a loss,
joining the Gardener,
and leaving trickling
wellness to the roses.
for Jessica, the deepest of mysteries
Previous:Next
With this, this memory no more
The Engine of a rudderless ship
in a moonless night;
Good thing
no clouds are out.
We, Ghouls,
may lay on the deck
And bask in the starlight.
We know the tanks
are not bottomless
And port is a
compass away.
No matter. No matter;
dawn would return us
to dust any way.
And the sea breeze
would flutter us
off the deck.
Let us enjoy Above,
the ocean of
darkness with
its endless school of silver fish
and our skulls
tremoring with the deck
as we idle about.
In the Captain's cabin
a man's hands
collecting
what used to be
our liege's face,
like spinarets
of cloud,
the fortress
of Storm which
cast us here.
We had forgotten
the quake of our own hearts.
Some how, the
Darkness itself has come to an end
and this Fall
morning resplendent with
cool, bliss and child
has blown to the last iota
the tear
the soak, the sadness
of what last night
seemed like the end of the world.
Previous:Next
The Forgiven Angels
The Lady who kept time
with angels
And the man who
with space
constructed his anxieties
took up living
under the same roof.
And as she clicked
off time with each
feathery blink,
he set about
building something in ink
which might hold its form
for longer than
a moment.
Their skills of
judgement and reason
leading them to reap
bundles of wheat,
harvesting their
love for one another
like many I have known.
He is not always
wrought with architectural desires,
for much was the time
spent in oblation
to the warmth
and pureness of her being.
The best answer
I can muster for,
why I tell you this,
is that you might
pay it a good mind
to pause, reflect for
in their next kiss
(which you may not notice -
until after it's over)
the world and all its
contents will explode
and as the
wax poured away from
the mold: There
will be cast.
Art
Moments, moments. Time
is no moment rather
timing is a life
of angels ensphering
a person where
the within of the universe
comes out, unstitched,
and at the limits
the angels stitch it
back again.
The Master and Lady
of the house
with a ball of yarn turned
in coils and rhythmically passing
what matters between them.
And enflowering
in her hair
his thoughts,
somehow he gains a
bit of feathers
himself and doubts
not the value of his
contribution.
At ease.
The joy of relating
a hummingbird
with morning light.
Without name,
she is a stranger.
We must wait
until we see her.
Sitting here together.
Red dragonfly
and