Across time: Carol Lee Sanchez

Last winter, a friend gave me a book of poetry, From Spirit to Matter by carol lee sanchez. The book was a thrift store find by a local poet. As I delved into the book’s first poems, I was enchanted. sanchez’s verses transported my mind to that reflective, creative sanctuary that can only be reached between the lines of beautiful poems. My friend and I, both delighted and inspired by the discovery of such a brilliant mind in our corner of the world, began to discuss visiting the poet. After all, she lived in Hughesville. I went to school there as a teen. I often drive past the town on my country cruises.

But when I wandered online to learn more, I discovered Ms. Sanchez had died the previous year. A small, undoubtedly selfish, corner of my heart broke.

Reading Sanchez’s poetry blessed my life like reading Millay blessed my life. “Symbols” moved my mind like “The Eolian Harp” moved my mind.

For a few bright hours I thought I would be able to say thank you.

In the author’s note, sanchez writes, “these poems then are what I ‘bring’ into hard copy, from spirit to matter, my ‘messages’ from where I am here to where you are -- there. I look forward to hearing from you through the pages of time.”

Our times missed a beat and never crossed, though I love to imagine we watched the same corner of the sky turn gold and shopped at the same grocery stores.

Thank you.

symbols - by carol lee sanchez

symbols release energy
move from mind to matter
matter very much
become stored knowledge
precious entities
collected as beads or bytes
restored on recycled tree



somewhere long ago
on an ordinary day
a human mind perceived
nature’s random paintings
as recorded reflections of
familiar things

wind prints on sand or
water marks on rocks
holding line and shape
together to form: animal
fish fowl tree branch leaf
human faces human bodies

somewhere on earth
on an ordinary day
a human hand understood
the magic transcription
used stick stone and bone
to etch symbols from her mind
into wood sand and stone

Knotting Song

These little songs come and go: gifts from the spirits. When I leaped--or rather hobbled--back to my bead box, I was disappointed to realize the "knotting song" had slipped my mind. I remembered a bit about seeds and beads, but the words and rhythm drifted formlessly. After all, I hadn't made macramé in over a year. Only the lull after graduation and a sprained ankle freed enough time and inspiration to string beads...and dredge my mind for weaving songs.

Happily today, as I began the long work of creating a macramé hoop, the words returned. I'm writing them down in hopes they'll linger. ~Blessed Be~

Sort and gather, searching for seeds,
Sort and gather, stringing the beads,
Sort and gather my mother’s red thread,
Tangle and spiral, both form a web.

What I make, the hands give shape.
What I break, I mend,
What I take, I give.

Lullaby

Twinkle, twinkle in my mind,
Tiny baubles in tangled twine,
The thread, the knot, each woven row,
A word where rippling waters flow.
As sycamores bow to greet bright breezes,
The mind will twinkle as she pleases.

-Graduation day, May 14, 2010

Hooper's Landing (a love poem)

The sunlight streamed brighter that day,
The leaves shimmered green in a dazzling way,
As I spun my hoop in an arc through the air,
Till it dropped with a clattered against the leg of a chair.
The girl learned forward, preparing to stand,
Dangling the hoop, like a wand, in her hand,
Then passed it back. I read in her glance,
That in motion or still we both form the dance.

Archive - Soul Song

I sing of soul coiled,
At the root of my spine,
Wrapped in red veils,
Kundalini, the bride.

I sing of soul rising,
Amber as flame,
Dancing, sweet Lakshmi:
I sing in her name.

I sing of soul changing,
Even when still,
I sing yellow birds,
On a cracked windowsill.

I sing of soul patterns,
In word-tangled art,
I sing the green maze,
Of hands and of heart.

I sing a soul river,
That flows from my throat,
In silence, reflected,
One timeless, blue note.

I sing of soul amethyst,
The luminous mind,
I unfurl my soul,
and sing what I find.

We are sisters...

We are sisters, of the goddess,
we are keepers, of the flame,
we are sisters,in a circle,
and we sing, to this flame.

We are sisters of the maiden,
dancing, drunken in the rain.
We are sisters of the maiden,
this I sing, in Kore's name.

We are sisters of the goddess,
we are keepers of the flame,
we are sisters, in a circle,
and we sing, the soul is flame.

We are sisters, of the mother,
whose child, mid-stanza, wakes again.
We are sisters, of the mother,
this I sing, in Hera's name.

We are sisters, of the goddess,
we are keepers of the flame,
we are sisters, of the wise crone,
who walks alone, in dark and rain.

A Poem by Jelaluddin Rumi

Little by little, wean yourself.
This is the gist of what I have to say.

From any embryo, whose nourishment comes from the blood,
Move to any infant drinking milk,
To a child on solid food,
To a searcher after wisdom,
To a hunter of more invisible game.

Think how it is to have a conversation with an embryo,
You might say, “The world outside is vast and intricate.
There are wheat fields and mountain passes,
And orchards in blood.

At night there are millions of galaxies, and in sunlight
The beauty of friends dancing at a wedding.”

You ask the embryo why he, or she, stays copped up
In the dark with eyes closed.
Listen to the answer.
There is no “other world.”
I only know what I’ve experienced.
You must be hallucinating.