by Anne Valley-Fox
(In deep reverence to the Syrian refugees)

​
Our driver lifts his hands from the wheel to point out a group 
of refugees walking along the road in the warm night. 
“Did you see them?” His voice is rough and sad. 
“Every night a hundred more land on our shores in Turkish rafts.
Mostly they come from Syria. They’re walking to Mytilini hoping 
to cross to Athens. And then? They don’t know. Our own children 
are leaving Lesvos—here there are no jobs. The EU has Greece 
by the throat. What can we do? There is nothing we can do. 
And still they come, every night they come.”
​
                                              ***

They walk in clusters of 20 or 30 along the road’s shoulder. Hum of their talk 
as we pass. A woman turns to a man; her soft laughter 
strums the dark.

July’s full metallic moon spangles their headscarves and hoodies, 
the sable heads of small children carried in their arms. 

How dark their joy!

Because of the bottomless sea. 
Because landfall was cushioned with smooth pebbles.
Because the road rises to meet their feet. 

Because they walk in the open with sons and daughters and brothers.
Because they have honey and figs in their packs to feed the children.

Because their neighbors are corpses. 
Because bombs whistle as they fall.
Because all praise belongs to Allah. 

Because blood darkens outside the body.
Because of Christ nailed on the cross in roadside shrines.
Because of the viper coiled in the dark of the solar plexus.

                                             ***

Each dawn two or three innkeepers greet the refugees with food and water. 
“I’m sorry,” a woman exhales as she climbs off the raft. 
“We don’t need anything,” a man answers. “—only your prayers.”

Because of the pile of life vests, plastic bottles, a child’s pink inner tube 
abandoned on the shore. Because the dingy is already deflating.

                                             ***

Young men call out Hello (not Yassou) as we pass on the road by the sea. 
They can tell by my walk, my claim on ground and air
I come from America.

Because there is no safe harbor. Because we are all on our way.

                                             ***

Sun melts the back of my heart as I climb the olive-studded hill to the yoga hall. 
Yoga mats float melodically on the polished floor. 

Racket of mating cicadas just outside the window—pushed in on a breeze, 
the ribbons of my teacher’s voice come undone. 

                                             ***

Late in the day I bob in the sea, instinctively keeping clear of the channel 
where Turkish rafts, sagging with human cargo, cross the dark water. 

                                             ***

Sun sinks low in the ancient pine winging between the sea and my balcony.
Trio of crows swoop to the field where eight goats graze.

I dream of the sea on its soft wheels rolling towards us.

                                             ***

Because birds puncture the dark with their bright song.
Because sky ricochets off the Aegean.

Mid-afternoon when I walk into town I pass a group of refugees sprawled 
on the ground at the bus stop under an awning. Now it’s too hot 
and they are too weary to smile.

Blogpost by Irish Gersh 
Poem by Stella Reed

    Cristin McKnight Sethi, our enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide today, tells us that we can see objects as moving through space and time. We can rethink or revise objects to see them for purposes of healing ourselves and others, and so today we have begun a journey to find out the “ailments” of our fellow workshop participants, and what we can do as apothecaries to heal them with objects. All the while, or most of the time, we are using our imaginations, and we are writing. 
     Objects may allow us to share experiences. My story is about a blue Buddha gift I gave to a dear friend. I found it at Ruben Museum in New York, in the museum’s gift shop which could never give full summary of and justice to the floors and floors of visionary, Tibetan, all-Eastern paintings and objects, yes, objects like we are looking at today. My friend was pleased for my remembrance, but more amazed that I had chosen this blue Buddha. In the gift shop, the Buddha with the rich gold face was vying for attention with this deep rich blue one. For some reason, I grabbed the blue and ran out into the streets of New York City, giddy from all I had just seen in a few hours. Later, my friend revealed that thirty years before when she gave up heroin and all manner of drugs and alcohol, she entered into the throes of days-long pain from withdrawal and into a place of hell. Then from another dimension, a blue Buddha hovered over her, soft, big, airy, constantly restoring her, and keeping her alive. The blue Buddha, she told me, has always been associated with healing. And so, objects may follow us and will mark our years. In her case, in the moment of receiving the object gift, her memory is unleashed and comes alive.
     In the workshop, we share openly our stories about our relationships with objects that show fear and awe. The forgiving and healing properties of objects have a special place in our memories. Letters found from a participant’s father to her mother reveal another side of the man she knew. It is surprising to hear our often subconscious attachment to and love of objects, not only for their beauty, but for properties that can spark our creativity, lead us to seeking a bigger meaning, or sometimes just reminding us to be kind to ourselves.
     Our workshop progresses where one of us is patient, and one healer, with the roles reversed after we have discussed our diagnoses and prescriptions for health. Some prescribe drinking a number of teaspoons of juice from a lizard cup to wearing a pile of ribbons in our hair to using objects as receptacles for gems and other treasures. Promises of wondrous healing await us. We are having fun with playing, for in most cases with the objects we’ve seen, we’re not even sure what they are! The “crown of thorns” from hundreds or perhaps thousands of years ago, may have been used as a cooking element in some fire pit in a far off land.
     The two workshops I’ve attended, this one and Nikeesha’s “Finding the Inner Deamon” have been transformational, reflective, and most of all, joyful and fun.                               ~Iris Gersh
 

The wearing of a Brazilian Carnival crown as cure for separation caused by a deficiency
of knowledge of others' language and culture
by Stella Reed

Symptoms:    Inability to stretch beyond the boundary of skin, tongue and ears
                     Lack of sufficient power to dream in another language


Rx:                This helmet fell like a yod
                     from the Tower of Babel
                     when god was lightning
    
                     Worn while sleeping it will imbue
                     the seeker with dreams of old women
                     feeding bread to pigeons in every city
                     in every country in every world.
                     Bread becomes pain, arán, chléb,
                     brood, brot, duona.


                    Worn upon waking it will enable
                    the seeker to hear the voices of pigeons
                    in every city of every country in every world.
                    Cooing becomes dove becomes sparrow becomes
                    crow becomes hawk flying back to dove.


                    Translating the scent of pine, bamboo, oak,
                    eucalyptus, boab, willow, and mahogany
                    will be effortless. 


                    The festive ribbons, held in the mouth
                    (taste of corn, saffron, curry, milk, sour plum)
                    allows the seeker to speak in dialects
                    previously unknown, unbinding the tongue
                    oiling the lips, the ears, eyes, fingers, hinges
                    of the closeted heart will swing open,
                    patience will preside, understanding
                    create equanimity.


                    To further lessen symptoms:
                    feet shall be unshod
                    shoes shed on a Swedish mat
                    (woven mountains of mouths, fanged yet friendly)
                    and left overnight.
                    Upon waking, the seeker shall examine.
                    Have the shoes changed?
                    Place the shoes back on the feet.
                    Do they fit?
                    Walk a mile.
                    What does the seeker feel?
                    Is it right? Left?
                    Circular, ether, above, below
                    betwixt, between?


                    Circumambulate the waters
                    Any waters.
    
                    Do the shoes fit?
                    Wear them.
    


    
        

​​    Reading reportage about police brutality stirs up an underbelly full of primal feelings and Darryl Lorenzo Wellington is a brave man to lead a group designed to digest editorials on the subject, find the resonance in them, and make them over into poetry.  He shared several articles and poems, and read poignant pieces which mastered this knack of turning social commentary into poetry, such as Poem about Police Violence by June Jordan, written in 1980 referencing Arthur Miller, an African American businessman and community leader who was killed in Brooklyn 1978 in a chokehold by the police, an eerie echo to Eric Garner killed in a similar manner 36 years hence in Staten Island. In The Falling Man (for Eric Garner), Darryl showed his own talent of creating art out of the ashes. 
     In a striking and radically different approach inspired by the same 2014 tragedy, Darryl read A Small Needful Fact by Ross Gay, which evoked the palpable precious humanity behind the name of the brutalized, teaching us of Eric’s former profession as a horticulturist, using imagery of his big hands gently planting into earth, nurturing the things that make it easier for all of us to breathe; a not-so-subtle heartbreaking irony. Beyond the content, Darryl took us through the structure of these poems, contrasting the use of syntax and punctuation as we discussed how these details and choices were used to contribute to the meaning and how they impact us. 
     Emotions were high for a few of us throughout the session, given the heart-shredding stories and base culture that allows them to happen, and Darryl navigated all of them with grace and composure, protecting the tenderness, and artfully stopping commentary that tried to derail the focus.  He held the space beautifully, with his infectious laughter and incisive clarity, and I admired the generosity with which he handled all the different perspectives and knowledge (or lack thereof) of the subject matter. 
     Using the examples of a blues song by Robert Johnson and a letter to the police by June Jordan, we spent time composing our own poems and sharing them in class. The quality of writing and expression by the other participants was inspiring; it’s amazing how much talent resides in this town and I was grateful they were drawn to this workshop.
     The time went by too fast and I wished the class could have been longer. Perhaps Darryl will do a reprise. With so much rich material and his expertise, it would be a natural choice for an ongoing offering, and I encourage anyone to seize the opportunity to listen to and learn from Darryl. 
 
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