Beltane Fire

Disillusionment and desire, an artificial pose?

Pouring over Bogan's poetry, I watch her mix threat and retreat, torment and release, muse and invisibility. Her cauldron vacillates between simmer and boil, sometimes pushed to overflow. What many label as her fury seems more like courage and energy, if you ask me. No one is asking me.

I question my own motivations to express myself. Bogan's conviction that poetry springs “from the passion of which every poet will be afraid, but to which he should vow himself forever” feels like a campfire tale, which upon hearing, forces one to consider how much of it is true. Am I afraid of my passion? Do I victimize myself by not unleashing the full power of expression? Gah, this feels like a form of madness – this “Sleeping Fury.”

A. gives me a hug from her Wiccan grandmother to wish me a “happy Beltane.” More than once this week I have been called to examine Gaelic and Celtic roots. Kendra asks if I consider Ireland a spiritual epicenter of sorts. Maybe the energetic veil thins there. Maybe one day I'll hear the sea break on her green shores and know. The clanking racket of the clock suggests otherwise.

These Fires with the power to give and destroy life. To fear them is to love them. How these flames leap upon themselves.