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    My Body is a Forest-Willow/Left Leg
    My Body is a Forest-Willow/Left Leg
    My Body is a Forest-Willow/Left Leg
    Ebook180 pages55 minutes

    My Body is a Forest-Willow/Left Leg

    By Scott Vanya

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    About this ebook

    The "My Body is a Forest" Legs books include those poems which "do the heavy" lifting. Unlike the Arms books, which move things from place to place by hand, i.e. courage, faith, prayerful moments, strength of "arm", the Legs books do the heavy lifting. Forcing me/us up from places of deep despair, sorrow, loss, grief. They are the Motivators, the Forward-Movers, the Get-Up-and-Get-Something-Done poems.

    It is easy to sit idle by and watch as the world operates according to its own causes, be overwhelmed by that, write to release, and speak to be heard, but it is The Legs that say "Get out there and go to open mics", "Share", "Move", "Dance", "Be heard".

    Because in the end, no matter who we are, are where we come from, we Deserve, DESERVED, to be heard. You are The Beginning, so begin.

    Not just by our friends, family and other loved ones, but by everybody. Because we are good at what we do? No. Because we are talented and gifted in matters to which others can not know, nor even understand? No!

    Simply put, Because no one knows us like we know our self. And if Life means anything, from it's essence springs up the simple word - Teach. Teach us who you are, what you know and how the world looks from where you are. Because no one else is there. Only you stand in the spot you do.

    And all the world is waiting for you to tell us, what the world looks like from up there.

    AKA-These are the LEG poems.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScott Vanya
    Release dateMay 11, 2014
    ISBN9781310719868
    My Body is a Forest-Willow/Left Leg
    Author

    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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      Book preview

      My Body is a Forest-Willow/Left Leg - Scott Vanya

      evaporation

       

       

       

      up from the amniotic

      the appearance of process

      coagulation and image

      beneath the eyes

       

      this tale that follows cells

      arising as it enters in to substance now

      from within the bowels

      there comes this flesh

       

      standing on the banks

      casting in to stream

      expansion as it passes bend

      i return these waters to the source

       

      such a pleasant process that is this rain

      Previous:Next

      carrier pigeon

       

       

      arrive alone?

      no companion, journey lit

      by only moonlight and stars.

      I heard him on my ledge

      cooing.  In letting in the draft

      I let in a messenger.

      Above his talons, a vellum parchment

      held by lace

      embroidered upon

      the script was hard to read though.

      (I shall not recite it verbatim)

      "I am lost.  And if

      return this note with

      directions.  I shall be gone:

      moved on across the desert

      I search for Home."

      It seemed as if the hand

      was at once steady and the same obscure.

      Yet, written in mixture of

      ochre and tears, the name scrawled

      there in blood - Love.

      I did not know if this

      was she that wrote me

      or if she had lost her way there

      and could not bring herself

      to pen her name.

      And as the bowl of seeds

      grew empty and the water dry

      I found a sheave,

      should I follow this pigeon?

      should I fall out of my home

      and use her, guide to me,

      through the streets to where

      the writer wept her name?

      I will leave others to it

      And tell my self I have not

      failed.  And send words

      encouraging, inspiring, a bit of faith

      "You are no lost.

          Follow my voice.

      I am coming.

      -  Hope"

      I am sure this message will arrive

      before I do, for I must follow

      and tying on my note

      let the pigeon go.

      I must discern her cooing

      from the noises of the street.

      Through alleys I follow

      Sing on, sing in this moonlight

      I will reach you, surely I must.

      Out from the city, out form light,

      across forest, across fields

      where does the desert begin.

      Hawk and owl, thirsty for flesh

      veer and gyre above us

      we must press on.

      Will Love be there

      or will the messenger

      return to where she left you

      cold, hungry, thirsty, alone?

      And sand, all around, sand

      scorched, the pigeon rests,

      rests?  I do not know

      until he pecks to me -

      here a note:

      Reading

        "Carry on.

        I am lost

        and do not know

        where I came from.

                      - Love".

      Previous:Next

      Blooming

       

       

      the riddle of the sphinx

      or was it the king's wager over a chess board

      or other still

      the greedy touch that turned my daughter to gold.

      The sun however is gld in its purest moments

      brandishing the sky like no jewerly of this earth.

      It is a strange thing

      these web-like thrands interlacing

      between the branches of Both Trees.

      What scribe, what illuminator I remember

      from the half-etched-half-embossed pages

      of my primordial self? soul? being?

      Call it what I wish and it is still

      a great vessel ever unable to be filled.

      And tarnishing, catching scratches,

      ever presenting an aging face

      to my impatient eyes,

      If time is a watch

      If time is a watch my love gave me

      If time is a watch my love gave me which I only take off before I sleep.

      If time is

      Yes, but what if time is . . .

      there upon the bank of The Great River,

      a plant growing, a rose bush dwarf,

      opening buds - experience - as if smiling

      time swallowing the waters and expanding

      growing

      and blooms.

       

      dedicated to W. Shakespeare

      Previous:Next

      Ars Politic

       

       

       

      She doesn't want the poem

      She wants the poet.

       

      He knows the poet

      but he's not very fond of him

       

      She doesn't want to listen

      She wants to see him speak

       

      He's not the poet

      unless he's writing

       

      She's more fond of the man

      The man in the poet

       

      He speaks poetically

      but not half as eloquently

      as when he writes

      (he thinks).

       

      She loves to hear him talk

      un- rehearsed nor scripted

       

      The thought of speech troubles him

      cramps his style, so to speak

       

      Pen being, much more supple

      than lips

       

      When it's said and done

      He, poet/man, answers questions

      She hopes he'll say the right thing

       

      Sighs mostly, he does, nods, evades

      better listen closely, she thinks

       

      Something in him's sure to slip

      I'll note it when it comes

       

      And ring it. Clearly what

      he thinks is pure

       

      though mostly, he's sad and lonely

      full of rhyme and ink.

      Previous:Next

      Tomorrow she will

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