Invitation to Negative Space

by Leland Jamieson

A meditation based in part on Zecharia Sitchin’s Earth Chronicles.

For G.K.J.

What may we say that’s not clichéd by sex
roles Anunnaki thrust on you and me?
What shackled slaves can clear the holds and decks
of dense ship Earth orbiting a solar sea?
You ask, “Why can’t we just take thought — be free?
Why do you clueless men obsess control?
Why want a woman’s body and her soul?”

Had I an answer that would satisfy
your heart, I’d surely give it to you — quick! —
to ease the pain that stabs your Inner Eye.
To spot the Anunnaki’s cruel trick
within our heads is not enough to wick
up, from our souls, the poison and the bile
still sloshing there from our genetic trial.

Our species’ male obsession with control
of females stems from envy, lack, and fear.
Males don’t swell up, bring forth a brand new soul.
We compensate for this deep lack with beer,
with sex, gold, power, war, and art that’s drear.
We worship spaceship “gods” who made us slaves,
and mimic mindlessly how each behaves.

In Raleigh, when you showed me “Jean,” in ink —
you’d drawn her quickly with a three-foot dowel —
I felt perhaps you’d stepped up to the brink
and grasped the night with the eyes of an owl.
No need for painter’s smeared-up wiping towel.
The essence of that deep sweet soul named Jean
negative space alone could cleanly glean.

This space is most mysterious, and may teach
us gardeners — poets and artists pulling weeds
from ears and eyes — to open up the breach
imagination strides to sow her seeds.
Her seeds sprout fresh new feeling. Heart concedes.
(If her green shoots rise up in space we’ve feared —
watered, it may become our most revered.)

The camera caught the joyful girl in Mom
out in Los Alamos (where you lost yours,
or what remained beneath the bomb’s black thumb).
Could rage grow weeds which your great thirst assures
you’ll pull, revealing soil each weed obscures?
Weeding, ’til negative, this space with her
may waft your soul, and hers, the sweetest myrrh.

Hijacked from evolution’s natural path,
we make in art what solace we can find
as slaves of culture “gods” imposed with wrath.
No art undoes what they did humankind,
but art redeems an Earthling’s state of mind.
May we who struggle making art find healing —
for feelings raped by astronauts’ false dealing.

© 2007 by Leland Jamieson



About the Author

Leland Jamieson lives and writes in East Hampton, Connecticut, USA. Recent and forthcoming work appears in numerous print and Internet magazines. His first book, 21st Century Bread, can be previewed and is available at


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