Lost Links, my Beloved Sons and The Search for the Phoenix

The revisions to the site continue...I nudged E.J. the other day, as I see he has NOT YET re-established his links to the special sites I had made for a few of my poetic friends (Mari Laureano and Erin Kelly-Moen to be precise) as well as the links page...he says he's on it, we shall see.

It was reinvigorating to see the boys...they are growing up so fast (they're 12 now) and they are brothers, for sure. They argue over ridiculous variations in worldview (Dante is very zero-sum, Elric is into the path) and I love them both (and their mopey sister, Peri) very much. I've been asked repeatedly why I do not write much about them in my poetry...the bottom line is conflict. I am completely unconflicted in my feelings towards them. Conflict creates internal stress which is relieved through the poetry.

I'm going to add a weekly update on my blog entitled "The Search for the Phoenix". So many people have written about how excited they are that I am pulling a "Bragi, reawakening in his tomb" and deciding it is time to seek the (next?) great muse. My preconscious has pulled another magic trick in choosing a preliminary name for the muse. What does it mean? I don't fully know, as I did not truly grasp the humour (my preconscious has a sublime sense of humour) of Ann being "the leopard" (as in "a leopard cannot change its spots), but it could mean I will be more hyper-aware of women I've already known who may make a re-entrance. It may be somebody going through a personal re-awakening. It could be a redhead. Who knows?

I am "lost in the possibilities" as I once wrote in the poem (oops, "award-winning poem") "The Patchwork Skirt of My Love"

the sound of soft fingertips across the strings of a lute.
strumming the memories. humming the melody of life.
and I am lost in the possibilities of your presence,
pleasant, peasant prayers that lead to the summit
of the mountain in the distance, where legends reign.
kings cannot know this brandywine. princes pass perplexed.
and all the bishops seem ignorant of the nature of God
when their ignorance of the crux of creation is displayed,
paraded in the sudden dance of a smiling child by the fire.
and I am lost in the reverent reveries of this revelation.

play for me that melody, the one you tried to teach me,
you tried to reach me with when I despaired of lost love
and the angels and faeries all seemed annoying pinpoints
that pricked and sticked and stole the moment that was mine
and you came for me, barefoot and arrogant, like a poet.

and the fires swam into the sky and I, I was reborn.
torn to pieces and re-assembled like a patchwork skirt
to brush your bare legs in the summer heat and to defeat
the angry winds that would come down from the mountains,
mounting the horses of hoarfrost to charge your charms.

I live now, in more than just abstract recollections of a score
of forgetful lovers who would not give me second thought
were it not for the trinkets of my words they wear as bright badges
as they tell their tales of the pale blue moon of memory.
and they don't wear the patchwork skirt of my love. or play the lute.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Selah.