Untitled I took birth in this World With a longing knit Into the fetus's Ecstatically dividing cells Like supercharged plutonium This motive exploding Lit and glowing in The dark blood pulse of My mother's spongy womb. I would slide into this World I rejoiced to myself Like a slippery seal, A superhero A sedulous servant Come to soothe the suffering Of a fast-contracting World. But I did not hold that Red-pulsed longing Long For as I hit this atmosphere It disintegrated, falling, Fiery orange ball of meaning Cascading slowly wordlessly Into ten thousand streaming embers. It had been slipped to me offstage (yes I'm sure it had) To carry into this World (how had I lost it) Like a blazing gem-like lodestar (a treasure beyond reckoning) Pressed & pulsing Up against my breast.
Fiona James' Questions:
- As a reader can you accept the assumption of this pre-birth identity,
this context of a bardo-like state in this poem?
- What would be a more skillful way of conveying this intense, unlocalized "pre-identity" identity, without using "I" as the subject of the poem?