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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
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