MEDUSA REVISITED (A Poem)

[Light Medusa by Vera C. Wareham, Through My Window.]

Here's a 30 year-old poem of mine about Medusa, the Goddess -- yes, she was an earth goddess in older versions of her myth -- with snakes for hair whom the very sight of turns men to stone. I have had a fondness for Medusa from early childhood, in spite of her horrific aspect. Then one day I met the most incredible tree, branches writhing in the wind like snakes, and voila, I wrote the below poem in Medusa's voice, talking Perseus out of his intention to kill her.


MEDUSA REVISITED

Oh, you gave me such a start!
But do not be too sure of yourself, young man,
had my sisters' eye been more watchful
you would have died before you ever neared my bedchamber.

But be that as it may,
please pardon this uproar about my head.
Waking to your murderous intent is more horrifying to me
than anything you see reflected in your shield.

Now be honest, even as they hiss and dance,
do not my serpents hint at a treasure worth your knowing?

It is true many have writhed in rage, spewing venom,
through long hair-raising histories.
But there are a thousand dazzling more!

Like these shedding ancient skins
for newer patterns just below.
And these hibernating,
inspiring webs of myth and prophecy.
Or these delving into sunlight and shadow,
challenging dry places with sinuous strength.
Or these creating scintillating scales
with little more than air and bone.

Or this infant over my left ear
inquiring after its own tail.

Then there are those times, awesome even to me,
as now, when all are finally still,
hushed like an ancient sargasso sea
cradling brilliant sunrise on its breast.

Come, sit beside me.
What news is there abroad?
You can leave your sword and shield by the door,
you will not need them.

Though there is much to fear and revere in me,
only your refusal to accept this diversity I offer
can turn you to stone.

* * * *

I used to really like reading this poem at readings, but was vaguely puzzled when if it got much response at all it was to find it amusing. Of course, I did intend for the opening to be worth a chuckle but not the piece as a whole. It was a rare and happy moment for me when someone got my point. Ah, well, I share it now here for what it may have to offer and still deeply believe that only denial can truly petrify us.

Resource: Mytholog, "Literature of Mythic Proportions."

‘til next time, keep dreaming,

Roswila
[aka: Patricia Kelly]
****If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile")****My other blog: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL.

A COLLECTIVE DREAM WORKING

[The Ace of Cups from the Rider/Waite/Smith Tarot]

Below is an excerpt from a lengthy letter I wrote to the editor of Dream Network, that was published about ten years ago in their paper format journal.

In this excerpt I refer to a Group Dream. However, I now would call it a collective dream working. But no matter what it is called, the process was inspiring. For all the shyness in the room, there was a lightness as one after another participant would speak up and offer their gifts to the writing.

[Excerpt]

“... I’d like to share a Group Dream developed in an exercise I led recently in a workshop on Using Tarot and Poetry to Explore Your Dreams. I defined the categories such as main character, environment, challenge, etc., and the group chose – from the dreams, Tarot cards and poems share in the workshop – which images were for which category. Then one member strung them all together in a scenario, which we fine-tuned. I feel this group dream thoroughly reflects the group’s hesitations and, more importantly, bravery. I was particularly struck by the sea image being both that which overwhelms and that which offers help (not uncommon in my own life experience). This group dream could as readily be called a myth, since mythology has been said to be the dreaming of the collective.

GROUP DREAM
by BettyJane, Daughn, Geoff, Laurie, Mac, Marty, Patricia and Speranza
September 21, 1996.

The smiling boy stands at the edge of the White Cliffs of Dover. He looks out, enjoying the sight of the turbulent sea. Suddenly, the first in a series of tidal waves crashes into the cliffs, reaching even as high as he. Threatening with each overwhelming surge to sweep him into oblivion. Huge hands reach out of one tidal surge, gently cupping him. He starts to grow wings, to become a bird! “If only I COULD become a bird,” he thinks. Then he could fly safely off this cliff that is being overwhelmed by wave after wave from the sea. But he knows he cannot shape-shift; he has no such fabulous talent. As soon as he thinks this, his budding wings disappear. He also knows his increasingly precarious footing at the cliff’s edge will not survive another assault from the sea. That being true, why NOT believe he can become a bird? He releases his doubt into the fountain of shimmering purple, that rises now like a blessing from the turbulence below and takes sweet flight, out over the ocean, into the wide, magical world.”

* * * *
Resource: DreamGate, dream and dreaming resources on the net.

‘til next time, keep dreaming,

Roswila
[aka: Patricia Kelly]
****If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)****My other blog: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL.