The Muse
by Alice Risemberg

My Muse sings to me 
constantly, 
and so often 
I beat her down. 
I have a mallet 
for that very purpose 
clutched 
in the right fist of my mind. 

She sings, and I 
crush her skull 
and hammer her 
into the ground 
until her song sounds 
like a soured accordion squeal. 

You have to understand, 
she is not my primary target. 
I am. But 
she gets nailed in the crossfire.

So many years of 
spiritual annihilation 
of my most colorful parts. 

My Sacred Rage rises up 
in a luminous flash of scarlet red 
in the sky of my inner world, 
and I pummel it. My poor Muse 
goes down with her every time. 
I don't think my Muse 
understands why. 
"Whyyyyy?" 
I hear her cry. 

But there she is again, over and over. 

My Sadness rises up, 
and she is riding her back, 
my Muse, 
like a cowboy on a stallion, 
and I kill them both with one arrow. 
Sadness is not to be tolerated, you see, 
for what does it say about me? And Muse, 
who I profess to love, 
dies murdered by my own hand. 

I am left with very little to say, after all, 
even as my Grief 
had carried 
a thousand thousand words in her pouch, 
ready to be pulled by the handfuls.

I don't know how I never noticed my murdering ways. 

I thought I was so 
peaceful and open. 
Calm, enlightened, and righteous. 
But I brought death 
to every part of me 
that the Muse considered 
her benefactor and dear friend. 
My hands were bloodied again and again. 
I was brutal.

I've begun to have 
a mad affair 
with the parts of me that 
the Muse loves best. 
At first, I thought it would be a 
fleeting fling, 
but the Muse 
shouts encouragement at me, 
pouring inspiration into my heart 
each time I grab hold of 
my unsavory, wild inner beasts 
in a hug, 
a kiss, 
a long, slow, orgasmic trace of longing unleashed. 

Sometimes the Muse does more than encourage. 

She gets right in the middle 
of our entwined bodies 
and writhes with us 
and screams out her own ecstasy. 
It is a delicious ménage à trois 
when she joins in lustily.

I am unsure if I can maintain this erotic pace. 

I have always been so 
cautious about loud living, 
so those muscles that hold it all 
up and in 
when the orgies carry on all night 
are flaccid and weak. 
I need to take breaks from time to time.

I put up a wall between 
me 
and my wildness 
and pant for a while. Sometimes 
I watch a game show. You know, 
to while away the time. 
I turn the volume up 
so I can't hear the wild beasts 
clawing on the door 
or the Muse 
drawing breath to warble another aria.

But then I open the door, 
and I 
and the beasts 
and the Muse, too, 
take down the wall, block by block. 
One time, I caught my Frustrated Cynic 
tagging what was left of the wall 
with blue and violet cans of spraypaint 
the Muse was handing her one by one.

My muscles are 
building up strength, though. 
I have to admit it. I can 
sustain the wild flow of madness 
more and more. I can 
hold those 
once-hated parts 
with deep love and affection – 
even amusement, at times. 
I can give them space to 
rail at the world, 
or cower, 
or warn, 
or gripe and bitch and moan. 

And the Muse has quadrupled in size. 
She rains down 
words 
and movement 
and inspiration 
in a constant flow from above, 
so all I need to do is 
tip my head back, 
open my mouth, 
and let it all fill me.

I've become quite greedy. It tastes so fucking good.

copyright Alice Risemberg 2017

The Muse

In the Dark
by Alice Risemberg

What am I so afraid of?
In the stillness,
in the dark,
in the space
between.

Why is it so hard
to leave ambition
on the ground
where I set it?

So many times, 
ambition has
engulfed me, 
enflamed me,
and smothered me,
without my even seeing it.

And then,
like fireworks
bursting through my skin 
from my hidden truth body,
the ambition is illuminated.
And I recoil. 
And I 
throw it down.

And I breathe.

Spaciousness 
takes the place of ambition, 
and I think, 
never again.

How do I not know by now that 
Never 
is a treacherously false word?
Never is its own trap.
Never tricks me 
into a kind of grand hope, 
which is an ambition 
all its own.

The truth is,
there is not just one ambition.
I fill my pockets with
the stones of ambition,
and these stones
multiply.

When I throw down one 
with passionate violence 
and decree my 
Never Agains 
loudly into the air,
I forget that
a cairn's worth of stones
is still pulling me down,
hidden away.
Covert ambitions.
Breeding like bunnies 
as my Nevers 
cloak it all from my eyes.

Even in the awareness,
here,
now,
of all these ambitions,
multiplying to take up 
as much heavy room in me 
as they can, 
I forget 
the important part.
The stillness,
the space,
the emptiness itself.

Perhaps if I spent less time 
fighting those
pernicious ambitions,
I would realize
they are not the opposite of
spaciousness.
They are not the enemy.
They are not even worthy
of this much regard.

Right now, 
I turn my eyes away 
from the stones of ambition
to the great vast dark of being.
There is nothing there to grasp,
so I find myself
distracted
and looking away.

But the silent whisper 
within that 
no thing that fills every thing
is wooing me.
Its romance is 
deep and compelling.
It tells me I am 
tired
tired
tired
and beckons me to
rest.

I am afraid of that rest,
even as I long for it, 
have always longed for it.
Even as I have always
had it,
though there is no
It
to have.

That rest,
that coming to 
stillness,
that dance of no illusion
within me and
every thing,
it reminds me of the siren song of 
wanting to die.
I released that song
long ago.

But this 
truth of emptiness
seems, on the surface,
just like that song.
I can know until
the end of knowing
that they are
not the same,
but still,
I am afraid.

So I practice. 
I walk through
so many gateways to
the nowhere of space,
the darkness of light.

I speak my way in,
and meditate my way in,
and chant my way in,
and sing my way in,
and imagine my way in,
and walk my way in,
and love my way in.

I have companions
all along the way,
friends and strangers, both,
who walk through those gateways
with me.
They buoy my strength,
and I set them free.

And even between our palms,
as we hold hands and step through
together,
I feel it.

The fear.
And the stillness.
Both.

When I can be with it
for a fleeting while,
I know there is 
no origin and no destination.
It brings a peace 
and a yes
and a flow of movement, too,
that have no match 
in any other 
way.

The fear is there, but 
it is made up entirely of 
the spaciousness,
so it does not wound or limit
the way it normally would.

So you would think
I would live there, 
always, gladly.
And I suppose I do, 
in a way, as there is 
no escaping it.

But sometimes the loudness
drowns it out.
And right now,
I don't mind that, either.
It's a kind of 
human song that serves.

Breathing. Breathing.
In a pause,
I know I am done
because there is nowhere to go
and nothing to do.
Breathing. Breathing.
I am done.

In The Dark

Elemental Prayer
by Alice Risemberg

Divine Beloved,
We are earth.
We are flow.
We are the
sacred pelvic bowl
that holds 
manifest room
for the 
infinite mystery.

We are love.
We are light.

Divine Beloved,
We are water.
We are surrender.
We are the
sacred ocean
of wild allowing.

We are love.
We are light.

Divine Beloved,
We are fire.
We are rhythm.
We are the
sacred creative pulse
that burns away
what is not true
and gives
force and freedom
to what is
blazingly so.

We are love.
We are light.

Divine Beloved,
We are air.
We are lyricism.
We are the
sacred soft uplift
of the 
dance of flight.

We are love.
We are light.

Divine Beloved,
We are space.
We are stillness.
We are the
sacred dark 
in that is out
and out that is in.

We are love.
We are light.

Divine Beloved,
We are wholeness.
We are alive.
We are the
sacred all
expressed through these bodies
and embodiment's gifts
offered up 
in holy sharing.

We are love.
We are light.

We are love.
We are light.

We are love.
We are light.

Elemental Prayer

The Wildflower Way
by Alice Risemberg

I spent a lot of years
thinking, wanting
to believe,
that I am a tulip,
straight and tall,
rising directly and colorfully
toward the face of the sun.
So much energy spent
to prove that,
yes,
I am this red tulip.

But finally,
finally,
I have come
to see myself.
I am no tulip,
but rather 
a mass of 
wildflower chaos,
growing in every direction,
straggly and stunning
all at once.

The wildflower way,
I have discovered, is
no better than 
the tulip way.
It is no worse.
I bow deeply
to the true tulips,
whose stalks are green
and clear
and whose petals
are simple and bold,
reaching up to the sky.

When you try to be a tulip
when you are a bushy bunch
of wildflowers,
the tulip way
brings grief and struggle. 
Just as I am sure
any tulips 
splitting and bending
this way and that
to pretend to be 
a clump of wildflowers
would be retched,
indeed.

The wildflower way,
which I never imagined
to be so bright
and beautiful
and naturally poetic
in its bends and twists,
its ups and downs and
explosions of blossoms,
fits me.
From the inside, I feel
it is nothing I wear
but simply 
what I breathe.

It is the easy way
for me
to take rain and air 
and sun and 
nourishment from the soil.
It is the mad, weaving dance
that my soul leads.

For just as each tulip
does, indeed, have its 
own sweet soul,
so, too, do 
all the wildflowers.
Even yours.
Even mine.
I can feel my soul's aliveness
in every rangy stem,
every bloom and leaf
and root.

And without trying hard, 
I find, yes, when I 
walk the wildflower way,
I can simply 
be glad.

The Wildflower Way

Supernova
by Alice Risemberg

My heart center is a supernova.

The spindly fingers of my ribcage
cradle it tenderly, gently,
and keep it safe
from the harshness of the world.
Though it cannot be contained
and surely needs no protection.
Though it harbors and irradiates
world upon world in its 
explosive vision and reflection.

Every heart is a supernova.
Every heart is the chaotic order
of void and light, motion and still gleaming.

Every heart is the swirling dance of the universe,
infinite color 
and vast light and heat
and black and utter cold
swooping and swaying and gyrating together.

This is your heart. Beat.
This is your heart. Beat.
This is your heart. Beat.

Your heart center is a supernova.
Feel it free you. Let it free you.
See it illuminate the freedom that already is you.

This is your heart. Beat.

Supernova

The Hummingbird
by Alice Risemberg

I am learning to trust -- 
to crave, even --
this buzzing, delicate hum of me 
when I walk carefully forward, 
feet deliberate in their placement 
one by one on the ground, 
neck elongated, left shoulder 
up and back, exposing 
my heart and my breath. 

Exposing my jugular. 
Leaving my soul 
flickering in the air around me. 

In these clear and open moments, 
I am the hummingbird. 
I shimmer as I dart through the air, 
seeming so sweet 
and fighting so ferociously 
for my territory. 

This nectar --
I demand, declare, and command --
is inviolably mine. 
I move so fast in my veracity 
that you can barely follow. 
And this is how I like it. 

You think I never sit still, 
but in truth, I spend 
much of my life 
perching on branches and twigs, 
fully available to the sun, 
to the rain, 
and to those predatorial hawks. 

But only if they can catch me. 
Only if they can catch me.

AliceClara