Jill Bolte Taylor's Stroke of Insight

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Saturday, March 30, 2013

Fear, Love, and a Batshit Goddess


One foot in heaven and
one on earth
Goddess of balance and Mother of the Sun
here stands Isis barely breathing
her lovely face whipped with shock
bathed in the blood of her love
her immortal mind slowly going dark.

For all her sovereignty it didn't matter
in the end it was fear, not love
it was jealousy, not courage tore Osiris
and flung him fourteen ways from sunrise.
Goddess she is but she weeps
as mortals do, sorrowing like the damned
her mouth a howling tempest that rages down the sky
floods the Nile and tears the earth into canyonlands.
She spends her tears and then comes
the inevitable fury: Heaven beware.

When Isis goes, she goes out insane
she goes out raging
she goes out mad as a thousand seraphim.
She follows her love down into death
she follows him down into the darkness
she follows him down into the place where nightmares
are birthed, nursed, given their names.

There are daemons dancing and drumming
there are fires that have burned since Time was born;
Isis flares her nostrils, tosses her head
strides through Hell gathering together
all she can of Osiris: his beautiful ravaged form
plucked from the mouths of dragons and devils
dredged from the river of death and torn
with bitter courage from the Tree of Knowledge.
She will have her Osiris, her forbidden love;
he will live, after all--Isis wills it--
the madness of love wills it
and when love goes mad, fear must bow.

The missing piece is all that remains, and here
let jealousy have its grinning prize
its petty macabre jiggling frenzy of a dance
for it will soon end; Isis, crafty bitch,
has created her own instrument of pleasure
and from it will bear Osiris' seed.
Did ever a more powerful woman exist?
And if she did, would Isis not welcome her
with open arms?

Osiris gazes on his love with eyes freshly
plucked from the eternal fires.  He is a wise god.
There are, strangely, no longer any jealous bones in his body
no false pride in his heart so newly pieced together
no domineering desire to shackle Isis to a hearth.  He bows
his head to rule the unruly Underworld
commanding those daemons and devils
keeping the Hellfires burning--and guarding
that ever-tempting Tree from prying human hands.

All things are most well; most imperfectly well
which is all the gods can ever promise.
Isis glows above, her belly soft and round
once again singing heaven and earth into harmony
once again leading the Sun along his path
her madness in check, her love ruling her fear.
When night comes and she softens to lone Moonlight,
Isis puts her hand to her mouth and whispers
secretly, softly to herself
a poem Hafiz once gave her:

Even after all this time,
the sun never says to the earth,
"You owe me."
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights the whole sky.





KB © 3/29/2013









1 comment:

  1. ahhh, yes
    love freely given-and received-is truly priceless
    love the flow of this one
    and the sureness of hope,
    (or knowledge)

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