Sequestered

These are just a few words varied
in tone of eagerness, like the language of birds
who stress the essential for nest, for mate,
for food, and hold the most elaborate
for what we call song.

Sequestered for days
I have fallen under the garden’s spell
—an urgent invocation: wisteria
and clouds.

Our words grow larger
they will shove us out of the house soon
thoughts following frail bodies into the street
where we will weave between them cautiously
deciphering lines.

A choreography of meaning
visible experiences tumble into each other
or stand as mute statues
bound by material and form.

The whole expression is breath.

So breathe, beloved, breathe.

In This Place

In this place we become our own light
where there is no river we make one
don’t wake me if I’m sleeping under the tree
the nest I’ve laid is lined with lavender and red poppies.

Fish move unseen between muddy banks
through tall grass the cow lumbers down to drink
udder swaying heavy with milk
we’ll churn again one day to press into bricks of butter.

Pebbles roll with the current
but each remains whole
wet and glistening.

The Commute

Hawk in a dead tree overlooking a field
where horses graze. Yesterday, a mattress

dumped on the sidewalk in front of my
building; a restless night with so much

rain. My neighbor upstairs leaves at four
this morning—a guy who usually sleeps past

noon. The engine of his vintage van whirls
under my window, waking me. My drive

begins near sunrise. An opposite commute
they say but still, the creeping numbness

of it. What comes into view day after day
we begin to hold dear—random milestones

of existence—a neon cafe sign blinking:
OPEN. Like mala beads, I’ve come to count

on the hawk and horses. Sometimes I find
no raptor, but a tiny sparrow for prayer.

Benediction—Chimayó

At el Santuario the shallow stream runs wide
and swift; though you do not kneel to drink, it
ripples a momentary reprieve. Still, you know

the horns of the black bull in the field to be
the design of the Tewa War Twins. Tsi-Mayoh:
the hill marks a cardinal point but you are

lost. Come, come out into the sun; crows
recite the rosary on the blooms of the flowering
fruit trees. You have eaten the holy dirt, now

the tumbleweed will carry you away from
here: please place tall candles outside. The old
door creaks with the keening of crosses

woven in the wire fence along the path. Always
this thirst! May you walk through the labyrinth
with a white lily to lay upon your grave.

In 2007 I enrolled in an intensive classical yoga meditation course and was initiated into a mantra by my spiritual guide, Swami Sitaramananda, from the Sivananda lineage. These teachings of classical meditation and yoga, based in Vedantic philosophy, have been very settling and transforming. I first started the practice of yoga in 1999 and meditation followed in 2001, but six more years passed before I made the journey to a traditional ashram to immerse myself. They say when the student is ready, the teacher appears. In addition to the teachings of Sivananda, I wish to express gratitude to the Vedanta Society of Northern California for many hours of contemplative practice at their beautiful retreat in Olema, California, and for their enlightening lectures at the new temple in San Francisco.

Virginia Barrett’s books of poetry include Between Looking (2019, Finishing Line Press) and Crossing Haight—San Francisco Poems (2018, Jambu Press). She received a 2017 writer’s residency grant from the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation of Taos, NM, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She most recently taught in the MFA in Writing program at the University of San Francisco.

More on Virginia Barrett’s work can be found on our Links page.