Meditation in C

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

The day slowly closes its doors and shadows begin

taking up residencies around park benches and dishes left in the sink,

evening drapes silver in the willow—not unlike the streaks of silver in my hair,

the growing darkness makes the heaps of buildings and abandoned factories

into asylums of shadow. Thunder sounds a blast, and lightning creates

little skirmishes between what you think you see and what is actually there.

 

It is important for me to remember

darkness is susceptible to light,

and breaks easily. No matter how dark the night gets

moonlight fringes treetops and gardens,

and no matter how heavy the bundles

of shadows on my back become, light has gone

mountain hunting, and will return tomorrow

to begin its careful workmanship on another day.

 

I know there is necessary darkness, and morning can be recklessly sudden

and bright, so before the avalanches of rain begin to fall, I let the night

shepherd me to my door, and I forfeit the day for the reverence of fear.

You see, dreams are coming to carry me down shoals of rivers

flying towards the sea. Everything in my head will become disheveled

even before I take off my clothes, and someone will swear me to secrecy,

and I will find myself just outside the garden of Eden, where I will look down

and find the serpent’s tooth, and wonder how I will ever make it across the long

diameter of woods. This happens almost every night, and I end up kneeling among

salamanders and sylphs, only to begin swaying until I slump over,

giving myself up to the old theologies of guilt.

 

But maybe this time, the silver in my hair

will be ungovernable, and I will hear

the deep melodies of blood flowing

through my veins, and I will snatch up the ember

that has spirited from the day, and perhaps,

with a tinge of the demonic, stand

through the little shiverings, and

embroider the night with fire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hymn

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

Through every gate angels spread in descending curves and wild delight–

bringing quickenings and seeds of roses.

 

Ananda! Ananda! Ananda!

 

The innermost is now outermost, as the Great Imaginatrix

brings her absurdities of joy and a thousand reassurances,

and elaborations of flowers and bliss.

 

The intuitive swinging of branches to-and-fro, says it all—

this ecstasy, this immediacy of music is for you. Ananda!

 

All heartbeats are given, and everything is the source of everything,

and everything is amenable to desire.

 

And the magic of farming, and the magic of bridges

surprises even all of heaven.

 

And pre-cum is adorable, and sweat initiatory, and everything

is kin to the lion and the lamb.

 

And every eagle and pelican, salamander and frog, every manta ray

and cuttlefish—shatters chains of thoughts.

 

And while the ax is ever-present, so are seeds of roses,

and contingencies of sweetness, and Saraswati strums the vina,

and the outermost is innermost, and mountains are faithful,

and rebirths too, and all things incline towards unison.

 

Ananda! Ananda! Ananda!

 

Angels are here! Angels are here! Angels are here dancing among us.