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    My Body is a Forest-Cypress/Right Arm
    My Body is a Forest-Cypress/Right Arm
    My Body is a Forest-Cypress/Right Arm
    Ebook206 pages59 minutes

    My Body is a Forest-Cypress/Right Arm

    By Scott Vanya

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    About this ebook

    In "My Body is a Forest, Cypress/Right Arm", the strength, perseverance, faith, and courage represented in Elm/Left Arm are also born witness to. In truth, as the books were laid out, no preference was made to put either Left or Right, as preferred. They are equally "important" and neither could survive without the other.

    It might be said, the two Arms books, are put together in the lap of a meditating man or praying nun, to hold them together so that, as with the Forest analogy, the writer is a Whole thing, consistent, kind, generous, and unboundedly faithful toward the love and compassion he holds for all men, women, and children.

    And as with the other books, this one is inclusive of many faces, voices, images, people and experience, ranging over a 30 year period, from young man to seasoned poet.

    I hope they "lift you" up to the Sun, Moon, and Tree Tops.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScott Vanya
    Release dateMay 11, 2014
    ISBN9781311922243
    My Body is a Forest-Cypress/Right Arm
    Author

    Scott Vanya

    I've been writing for a very long time, what seems like my whole life, taking it seriously from the time I was about 11. Now, at 46, I think I may be starting to get the hang of it: Say what you feel, as passionately as you can, but always with an ear turned to those who are listening.Most of my more serious work is done at live performances, which i do totally extemporaneously, channeling the mood of the room as my fingers play on the guitar. You can see some of that if you go to "my" website. (Open Mics Austin is a platform I created to showcase the Spoken Word scene here in Austin, TX. Only a small role in which i play.)As far as I can tell what makes good writing is LOVE. Love ,plainly simply, and with no strings attached.I put these words/books before you, not so much because I want something back from it, because I think and feel like I feel my bones and my soul, if you were to see the world, experience it like it do, for even a brief moment, you would walk away from that happier, more alive, compassionate and in tune with all those around you.Peace, good will, and harmony. Let those be your guiding light.Agape forever,Scott VanyaPublication Credits:Stepping Stones Magazine, The Main Street Rag, www.carcinogenicpoetry.com, Texas Art Initiative, Phoenix New Life Poetry, Walt’s Corner, Manna, Perigee, Chicago Literary Review, Mobius, Cosmic Trend, Pitchfork, Romantics Quarterly, Artisan, Pegasus, The Neovictorian, Red Owl, The Story Teller, The Blind Man's Rainbow, Atlantic Pacific Press

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      Book preview

      My Body is a Forest-Cypress/Right Arm - Scott Vanya

      What does the soul have to say for itself...

       

       

       

      or need it speak?

       

      The conversation within my head

      they ramble and speak

      and pass

      and touch on conversations

      they've had before.

      They are old friends

      (I think) of John

      this cigarette, this cold. the air

      reminds me of home

      and windows

      where I lay and watched cars below.

      At the end of a street I sit

      at school

      and learn of wings, the air and other things

      that soar above the earth.

       

      In the clouds, droplets catch on feathers

      the wind in my eyes.

      I let the laws run their course

      and merely sit and wait

      (for Love).

      Previous:Next

      What was had with a squirrel

       

       

      Did I get back in time

      to feed the hungry squirrel?

      in truth, it was not

      corn, he wanted, rather,

      a taste of closeness.

      Twirled about it

      He and i, neither

      looking directly nor ignoring.

      Has he lost his appetite;

      can not regain what was

      tenderness, vanity, and game.

      Struggled aft and fro

      to not want him,

      nor fear him, all that he

      carried, curative and slow,

      gone, longing. Contrived?

      No, truly, it was so . . .

      Previous:Next

      She drinks at roses

       

       

       

      It's all I can do to sit still,

      my eyes running out to her,

      twining the morning glories about the trellis.

      Standing empty and willing, everything open

      amongst the potted garden and beds

      as the roses' light trickles into her.

       

      What's thought to be quiet and soundless,

      rattled about by dogs' and water hoses.

      I've told her, I know, and

      She accepts that I am aware

      of her secret,

      that the cup the roses fill,

      she sips in solitude,

      when I am gone to write.

       

      Awfully empty, with the cat

      to watch the blooms

      so patient, so so patient,

      we really do not matter.

      Though when she arrives,

      they giggle like school children

      let out for the day,

      run amuck quickly stopping

      for kisses before they go.

      So grateful. No regrets.

       

      What's resumed as she

      shares a bit of nectar

      looking openly into us at the darker

      wilderness, unable to bloom.

      What's in the garden' pots and beds

      tenderly and motherly

      trickles into another cup

      quietly and soft.

       

      As good in as out,

      not for even a moment

      do words come against my lips

      as much as truth, at a loss,

      joining the Gardener,

      and leaving trickling

      wellness to the roses.

       

      for Jessica, the deepest of mysteries

      Previous:Next

      With this, this memory no more

       

       

       

      The Engine of a rudderless ship

      in a moonless night;

      Good thing

      no clouds are out.

      We, Ghouls,

      may lay on the deck

      And bask in the starlight.

      We know the tanks

      are not bottomless

      And port is a

      compass away.

      No matter. No matter;

      dawn would return us

      to dust any way.

      And the sea breeze

      would flutter us

      off the deck.

       

      Let us enjoy Above,

      the ocean of

      darkness with

      its endless school of silver fish

      and our skulls

      tremoring with the deck

       

       

       

      as we idle about.

      In the Captain's cabin

      a man's hands

      collecting

      what used to be

      our liege's face,

      like spinarets

      of cloud,

      the fortress

      of Storm which

      cast us here.

       

      We had forgotten

      the quake of our own hearts.

       

      Some how, the

      Darkness itself has come to an end

      and this Fall

      morning resplendent with

      cool, bliss and child

      has blown to the last iota

      the tear

      the soak, the sadness

      of what last night

      seemed like the end of the world.

      Previous:Next

      The Forgiven Angels

       

       

       

      The Lady who kept time

      with angels

      And the man who

      with space

      constructed his anxieties

      took up living

      under the same roof.

      And as she clicked

      off time with each

      feathery blink,

      he set about

      building something in ink

      which might hold its form

      for longer than

      a moment.

      Their skills of

      judgement and reason

      leading them to reap

      bundles of wheat,

      harvesting their

      love for one another

      like many I have known.

      He is not always

      wrought with architectural desires,

      for much was the time

      spent in oblation

      to the warmth

      and pureness of her being.

      The best answer

      I can muster for,

      why I tell you this,

      is that you might

      pay it a good mind

      to pause, reflect for

      in their next kiss

      (which you may not notice -

      until after it's over)

      the world and all its

      contents will explode

      and as the

      wax poured away from

      the mold: There

      will be cast.

       

      Art

      Moments, moments. Time

      is no moment rather

      timing is a life

      of angels ensphering

      a person where

      the within of the universe

      comes out, unstitched,

      and at the limits

      the angels stitch it

      back again.

      The Master and Lady

      of the house

      with a ball of yarn turned

      in coils and rhythmically passing

      what matters between them.

      And enflowering

      in her hair

      his thoughts,

      somehow he gains a

      bit of feathers

      himself and doubts

      not the value of his

      contribution.

       

      At ease.

       

      The joy of relating

      a hummingbird

      with morning light.

      Without name,

      she is a stranger.

      We must wait

      until we see her.

      Sitting here together.

      Red dragonfly

      and

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