Excerpts from: "The Nature of Things"
Copyright: Lucia A. Pirisi-Creek, 2003
Foreword and Selected Poems:
I had the fortune of experiencing the arts, music and literature in particular, as an integral part of my everyday life and a vital component of my education since a young age. To this day music is company, refuge, comfort, and an endless source of joy. Writing gives an outlet to my feelings, a voice to my deepest emotions, a tangible form to my darkest moments and the happiest ones as well, so that they are not wasted but live on, defying the erosion of time. Like a collector of precious artifacts, I’ll treasure them until my very last day, when I shall go without complaints, knowing that I have cherished every moment, and eager to find out what lies ahead.
More recently I began exploring the technical foundations of dance and experiencing this art form “from the inside” after many years of passionate, longing spectatorship. Thus, I have the joy of making dance too, in my own little way, a part of my life. This experience is so enriching, contributes so much to my physical and psychological well being, that it has further solidified my conviction that people need art as they need food and water. It is not the ability to use manual tools that most markedly distinguishes our species from others in the animal kingdom. It is our ability to produce and interpret art, and in so doing communicate with others and re-interpret, express our world. This ability is so exquisitely human that it might very well define who we are.
Among the many reasons that compelled me to write this book, was the intent of encouraging my readers to begin their own exploration of the art within themselves: the art forms they grew up with, as well as new forms of artistic expression they may encounter, belonging to different cultures. Each culture has its wealth of art and its unique art forms. Yet, there is nothing more comforting than the experience of finding, in the wonderful diversity of artistic expression, those common motifs in which we can all recognize ourselves, and that make us feel at home among all people.
I firmly believe that the practice of an art, no matter at what level, is a vital tool in education, a means of communication and personal and social progress, and a powerful source of healing. We cannot afford to neglect the arts or underestimate their impact on our society and our personal lives. With these thoughts in mind, I placed my poems on dance in the very first chapter of this book. These poems were inspired by my experience of Terrance Henderson’s work, and represent my views on dance and art in general. The rest of the book is, very simply, a window into my mind.
From "Acknowledgements:" (last paragraph)
.........A special thanks goes to Susan Anderson, for asking me a very simple question one day: "If you like dance so much, why don't you take some classes?" and for asking Terrance to teach West African dance to a very unlikely group of dancers, the following semester. That is how it all got started: not only my experience with dance, but also the process that ultimately led me to gather enough courage to bring these poems out in the open.
In the grocery store
Just a few people wander
Amidst leftover Santas sitting on the shelves
With packages of red and green candy, outdated
Like the wrapping paper of the same colors,
And the sparkling wines, and the rows
Of failed Christmas trees that slowly die
In the cold mist, outside.
Gifts never given are replaced
With bright red Valentines.
A soft, tranquil music fills the air,
So different
From the festive carols
Of just a few days past.
Easy walking, no crowds,
No lines. The initial sense of loss
Gives way to a peaceful feeling
Of breathing free: I welcome the return
Of everyday life.
Back home, I undo the Christmas tree
Placing back in their boxes, one by one,
My favorite ornaments
With the same care, and almost
The same pleasure
I took weeks ago, when I brought them
Out to life.
Humble, hand-made ornaments,
Priceless however: each one a special symbol,
A memory, a smile:
Faraway friends, family members
Apart, but not forgotten. Aunt Mary,
Who really never left,
Comes back every Christmas
When her ornaments shine on the tree.
The golden Christmas spider
With its sweet little story
Came from Aunt Thelma, a thoughtful
Last gift.
Parents, growing older,
Thankfully in good health
Each Christmas send two ornaments:
One for each child.
Framed little pictures:
The kids, when they were little,
The kids, as they grow up.
Grandmother's features in my baby girl's face,
My father's traits in my young boy,
Their eyes like mine,
Their happy, mischievous
Funny smiles,
Their father's kindness, quietly
Shaping their ways,
All come together, vividly
In a little glass ball, a shiny
Golden spider, a cut-out paper shape
Crocheted little angels
With white cotton hair,
A needlepoint box, a hand painted
Ceramic rocking horse…
Just as each fragrant batch
Of the Sardinian bread I bake
Brings back my grandma's touch.
The lives of many others
Are intertwined with mine
Into a textured, colorful landscape
Where time stands still, just enough
For me to find my place,
And I no longer question
The meaning of my life.
I know for sure I had
A very Merry Christmas
When I put it all away,
Looking forward to a whole New Year
Of ordinary days.
January, 2001
Your mind is a child
Hurt
By rough playing:
Let me hold her
Close to my heart.
Let her cry, softly
On my shoulder
Until all tears are dry
And a happy smile
Brightens her face,
Until she’s ready to run
And join her friends in play,
More cautious, now,
Not to be hurt again.
Your heart is a room
Closed
For too long:
Let me come in
Open all windows,
Turn on all lights,
To chase away
Every last shadow,
Every musty breath.
Feel the bright spring air
Rush in, charged
With the scent of flowers
And the warmth of the sun.
Your mind is a book
Stained with tears:
Let me write on each page
A word of happiness
And a wish for peace,
To replace the hopeless thoughts
You recorded here, one by one,
In your lonely nights.
My mind
Is a deep ocean
Restless, under the sun:
Throw in your burden
And watch it sink,
See the waters rush
Over it, eager
To resume the endless
Pulse of their waves.
Walk free, on my shore
Then on your own trail,
Your foot light, your stride confident,
Your heart filled
With a new strength.
As you walked this path once
You might walk it again
Only, now you know
How to trace your own footsteps
And find your way back.
December, 1997
Like fireflies imprisoned
In a canning jar
We stare at life out there
Through the thick glass walls:
Distorted images
In a broken mirror,
Smothered whispers,
Flickering lights.
Then, it’s suddenly darkness
And silence again,
Even that broken mirror
Is too far away.
Women (of all places and times)
(to Ann Coker)
Trained
To raise our sons
In their fathers’ image
To perpetuate wars
Waged on our children
Mutilated
Vulvas, broken feet,
And perfectly willing
To inflict the same horrors
On our own daughters
Ready
To cherish the boys
And abort the girls,
To fulfill what’s expected
Of mothers and wives
Forced
To cover our faces
Suppress our needs
Kill our curiosity
Renounce our identity
Ignorance
As a way of life
In an inferior role, suited
(We are told)
To our inferior brains
Burnt
As witches
When too wise or too free,
Sure, we have come a long way
In this brave modern world!
Now
Empowered and confident
We must stand accused
Of lack of humility
For being (rightfully) proud
Of the progress we made
Now we are said to threaten
To castrate, humiliate
If we compete as equals
And enjoy some success
And how so very selfish of us
To ask to be loved
Understood and respected
To relate and connect
As whole human beings!
You may see happiness
As solid sheet of sumptuous
Red Damask cloth
Richly ornate with gold….
I think of happiness
As a patchwork quilt
Made of so many
Pieces of scrap fabric
Lovingly arranged in endless
Vibrant patterns,
Where the darkest, most desperate hues
Find a place too,
Alongside those lively and bright.
My own
Is ever changing, as I add
More fragments, more colors
And in so doing, I choose to play
With placement and shapes.
No single scrap prevails, no one
Stands out alone, but even
The smallest piece contributes
To the final design.
I work at it incessantly,
A bit every day, and yet
I’ll never finish my quilt:
When hands grow old and weak
I shall pass it along
To those who cultivate
Patiently
The same craft.
January 29, 2002