My Body is a Forest-Elm/Left Arm
By Scott Vanya
()
About this ebook
In this part of the "My Body is a Forest", esp. "Elm/Left Arm", I have included poems of strength, courage, nature, manhood, and human kindness. It is with this "body part", we as humans lift ourselves above the daily troubles that strife us all, to something nobler: like human compassion, caring, empathy, and just plain working things out.
This book, holds, so to speak, one half of the courageous poems, about divorce, hurt, and how to rise above those things. Some are hard poems, difficult, even sad, yet in them all you can feel that there is something driving the speaker to lift himself above those "issues" of daily life to a place where people really do "get along".
Because in the end, there is nothing more crucial to happiness in life, than happiness as a member of the Human Family.
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-Elm/Left Arm - Scott Vanya
Chaste is Love
Chaste is love
Being purer than
life or death.
Immortality, itself,
when I dream,
You come to rest.
Our child in his bed,
to himself;
religions,
lightly touching his shoulders.
I've lain the stones
on the path.
Time like the wind
waiting for voices
to sing
so they may be filled
with light
and fly away.
Poem knows.
Poems knows and he sleeps,
he dreams, he
wakens and he sleeps.
To know
one's own heart
is to know God
and never be alone.
I am so blessed.
Previous:Next
To the Unheard Saviors
I speak to you the unknown saviors
of the unspeakable god
To all those whom have shown us the way
But whom we have not met
and have not seen.
To the enlightened beings,
Before us on the path
whom have left no shadow.
I write to You
who cannot hear me
and stride so far beyond this listening
You who have shed your self
and died so quietly in your being.
Thank You, for your silence
which adds its drop of patience to the infinite sea
I hope these words I speak
may only smooth the path before you
Disolute
and
Calm
Previous:Next
Before Going
At the end of the world
when the universe
is crumbling
to the ground,
I will hold you up
to God
and Yell at him
"This!!!
"This is the answer!
"This is what made
it Good.
What gave it meaning!
He will accept
my indignation
with grace
and no self-righteousness.
Any power
that I have
stripped from me
fallen to
a bed of faces
coming to rest
with Her
all that remains.
Previous:Next
my love of sunlight 12/23/01
shining through every word
held up like a stem of grass
burst with a web of ice...
I have seen these things:
a maw open and deep enough
to swallow all the world
a set of fingers clasp'd
around my own
mingle
and inseparable
a smile and pair of eyes
thinking "I will cast aside
every anger I hold against him
for he holds nothing more
sacred than me"
And they all are like glass
a scale of a fish
that is picked from a bench
by a licked fingertip
held up
Hold everything up!
Let the sunlight
permeate the morning prayer:
the paradox that a child
seems forever sweet when
He is being sweet.
Only sunlight
Capable of transcending
I will be as thin as air.
today, every gasp taken
only satisfying enough to sustain.
I will not be fulfilled.
Hungry and lustful
for the taste of my drop of sunlight
that is mine and mine alone.
And only in the end,
reaching it
and there
thinking of nothing
but
More.
Previous:Next
There on the Beach
I see it there
upon the shore
this transfusion
of images
that exists
between us.
He shimmers in
the movement
of this matter
upon my eye
Olden aged
I do not know him
but feel his stare
He sits
still
I wonder if he sees my eyes
between the
waves
I will not know him long
As They close above my head
Previous:Next
Loam
Deep rich Texas soil
rectifying myths: truth is
twitching in our fingers
we distill from our conversations
the inebriated moment: we: ripe, plucked, pressed
from the vine
an ungratifiable debt
to the inspiration
neither yours nor mine.
If I were lost amongst trees, waves, dunes, or weeds
the only direction I would recall
the only muted compass I would have at hand
the only common language, the inconstant clouds
condensing, dissipating, drenching
my bowl full
would I then ladel out a portion of said elixir
and sup it down, gulp,
post-haste
remembering moments when I tempted,
teased out even, the creation
of verbal, dictated experiences
from the ground our common home
this You and I.
Being ourselves, six feet above resting,
comingling as rapturous journeymen
aprentices to the Word Wright's trade
we have read one another
deeply tilling our apreciation,
respectfully harvesting
be it weed or wine.
I continue to flourish in our common bond.
The heart beat, he awakens
this child of the Word Wright
and says -
I do not wish to pound or bend my language
around wheels or even into plowshares.
If I were free to choose my own setting,
I would slip gently
away to the far distant worlds
where my father has not touched or bombarded the planet
with his indistinguishable from himself metaphysics.
The truth, I
bring no truth.
The cause,
I have no purpose.
The meaning,
I answer to
noone's why's.
Unassisted and unburdened by a creator or ethic,
this voice,
clothed in persona,
adorned by character,
doppleganger of reality.
Call it sun.
Call it star.
Call it Consciousness!
Figurative language would do well
to avoid his reach
for he will untaint
and purify it
to such a great degree
that our swollen headed ears