Eric Syrdal

Transmogrify…

girlgrass

 

She lay back
into the plush green
of the meadow
with lids closed
she turned her face
to the warming embrace
of our radiant star
hands cupped under her belly
she pulled back against
the soft velvet of her skin
an embrace of singular passion
for herself
the birds in the conifers
around this arena
burbled and whistled
like the voices of so many
just outside her peripheral
always pontificating
always instructing
do this
say that
be humble
be a lady
be demure
be a pleasant decoration to the room
a china doll
wrapped in taffeta
on a shelf
not to touch, engage or hold
to be seen and admired
but not to be heard
she was to be expensive and fragile
and placed behind glass
to sit upon a mantle in the parlor
for the sport
of the rich
to be won as a prize
for expertise in misogyny

but today
she climbed down from her perch
key in hand
with tangled hair
and smudged cheek
she bounded across
the open ground
soaking her slip
in the dewy grasses of summer
to fall here
barefooted and brazen
with not so much
as a “by your leave”
to those who imagined they held
those leather thong straps
that secured her
to her post

And so it was
that she came to be
splayed across the grass
like her mother’s prize bearskin rug
arching her back
to raise her bosom to the heavens
and offer her heart
as a sacrifice
to the sun’s fire
that dripped down
from the robin’s egg blue sky

here
would she determine
her own worth
here
would she burn away the paint
they applied to her
here
would she make her stand
and never more
would she be considered
“a thing”

Cartography…

She looked again
but she could not find her
not on this scraped and scribbled parchment
not here among the faint ink lines
that denoted landscapes long forgotten
hills and valleys
that were worn even by the winds of time
though she continued the search
for the she before her
the paper oracle in her lap remained silent
it would breathe no word
of the whereabouts of this woman
the she before her
the one whose locks
were not of ash and peppered coal
she whose mane
flowed like an ebony flame
and how often through the gold of a crown
it hung in the salt air
aloft on her shoulders
before they were pauldroned
and framed in steel
she who walked amid
daisyed fields
and through the shade of willow branches
in the sun-swirled breezes of early march
and knew no particulars
of drought cracked earth
beneath the flap of torn rag battle standards
the she before her
who knew not the sound
a blade makes as it slices through dragon flesh
the edges of this map
here be monsters
they all knew her name now
the monsters
and they all would retreat
when e’re her boot heels would approach
and though her sword
slept at her hip
it knew they would not find her
the she before her
for the woman they sought
was the self same maiden
now warrioress
who rests upon weathered stone
and dreams of a time
when this map
was a stranger to her

– Dedicated to Christine Ray – Beautiful Woman, Amazing Friend, Trusted Ally, Champion

We Will Not Be Silenced – Launch Tomorrow!

We Will Not Be Silenced: The Lived Experience of Sexual Harassment and Sexual Assault, Told Powerfully Through Poetry, Prose, Essay and Art is in the best seller #1 position for Poetry Anthologies and the #1 New Release in Women’s Poetry on Amazon!

Please, if you have not yet purchased a copy, consider doing so for someone else if not for yourself. You can even purchase to give to a shelter or rape crisis center. We deliberately kept the cost low so most could afford a copy and the message in this incredible anthology would be spread.

We Will Not Be Silenced is going to have the first of several events tomorrow November 30 on Facebook if you are able to attend and whilst there, if you want to join We Will Not Be Silenced on Facebook and the accompanying site, Sisters of Indigo Light

We Will Not Be Silenced is available on Amazon

Ally…

4-Tr
when I first met her
it was on the road to our homeland
the sun shone bright
and the birds sang praises to the gods
she and I shared words
of beauty
written on the pages
with our blood in the ink
when next I met her
she cupped her hands
around an ember of my heart
and breathed courage across it
a flame danced and flickered
in the dark of my doubt
and so lit the way for my dreams to walk
when last I met her
it was on the road to war
I stood by
as she leaned upon a shattered fence
I attended her wounds
while she caught her breath
and it was my honor
to hold her shield while
the pain of battle ebbed
in her weary limbs
and while tears dried upon her cheek
I renewed my oath
and I
will walk with her
toward home

I Knew My Heart…Eric Syrdal

 

I knew my heart
when boys were boys
and making her cry meant you liked her

I knew my heart
when concrete met flesh
misjudged that bump and bicycles learned to fly
are tears really necessary? … walk it off

I knew my heart
when “one of the guys” was
pushing rumors down grapevines
thorns and all
and awkward silences when entering crowded rooms
“protect the brotherhood code”

I knew my heart
when men don’t say
I love you
to other men

I knew my heart
when shirts vs skins
ribs and lanky arms and bird legs
and non-stop dogs barking with no respite; no solace

I knew my heart
when lights were out
and shapes are monstrous
calls go unanswered, nothing in the dark that isn’t in the light
“grow up”

I knew my heart
Could decode the lies
my compass never pointed south
when I became my own cartographer, armorer and blacksmith
and I wrote my truth

_______________________________________________________

Brute – Eric Syrdal

This is something I need to write
while the fire of anger is in my heart
In these later years of my life
I have learned to let go of anger
more quickly
so what is left of my heart doesn’t become
blackened and bitter

But I must say this

You disgust me
You have my complete contempt
and that is not an easy thing to do
I have a forgiving heart
I strive to understand
to accept
to empathize

I cannot do this with you

You confound me to no end
I am continuously embarrassed and confused
by your actions

You can not comprehend how much
rage fills my heart when I think of you
what you do
what you consider amusement
is a sick and twisted malady
which is incurable in the likes of you

what gives you the right
to approach her?
what broken logic
do you mutter to yourself
in the throes of your indecent behavior

you can’t be content
with all the warnings we are given as children
you can’t be satisfied
that a butterfly perched upon your finger

You can not marvel at her beauty
with eye-watering wonder
You can not sit in peace
as she shows you her gorgeous colors
close your eyes and feel
the tingle in your soul at her delicate touch
upon your skin
sigh out loud
at the pride swelling in your heart
that she chose you
as a place to rest from her weary flight

You had to touch her wings

Your alpha-bullshit
convinced you that you could do such a thing
and she would be fine
and so with slobbering tongue and whining like a beast in heat
intent on humping the furniture
you repeatedly let your primitive hind-brain
type out a string of tripe to her
always on a private channel
because your coward nature doesn’t let you make advances in the light
where men such as I
could see
and oh how I wish you would give me the chance to see

You inspire me to violence
because you make me physically ill
Your alpha-animal-fuckery makes me want to
give in to my primal side too
and thrash you within and inch of your life

So of that you can be proud…you drag me kicking and screaming to your level

I hate you for it

You can’t walk past a beautiful flower
without putting your filthy hands around the stem
and yanking her from the earth?

On this massive battlefield that we all share
you can’t celebrate her strength and power
without hooking a finger behind her breastplate to see
what’s underneath?

How dare you, you wretched filthy piece of trash…..

In this war we all fight
how good does it feel to protect her flank?
take one more worry off her mind
that she can feel confident you are an ally
You will never know
what it feels like to put your back against hers
and devote all of your willpower to the forces in front of you
never worrying that something may attack from behind

I enjoy
so much
lying on the ground
next to their fire and watching the beautiful shapes
amid their crackling flames

They warm what is left of my soul and you have no idea the battle that I fight to keep it every day

and you are putting them out
these wonderful bonfires of strength, magic, and beauty
sensual and romantic
hard edged and joyful
you are snuffing them out one by one

and I hate you for it

with every shame-laiden-panick-attack-inducing
unwanted advance
you remove more and more of them from my universe
and I am tired of it

So very tired

They owe you nothing
and that is all you will ever be

 

  • This is a subject very close to my heart. One that I have taken on personally to fight against. It has claimed so many of my female friends here on Word Press and other social media sites. The day to day anxiety and stress from dealing with unwanted advances online has snuffed out their existence here. And it is among the greater tragedies of my time to have to acknowledge that the situation seems to get worse and worse by the day.
  • unwanted online advances of ANY kind are tantamount to sexual assault. And should be treated with the same seriousness we would if it were happening in the everyday real world.
  • it is imperative that we do everything we can to address it and to also be supportive of the victims. I should not have to explain how terrible it is to deal with this type of behavior alone, no one should feel like they have to put up with this. They need allies and support, always.

Lithograph…- Eric Syrdal

 

1082130079

Sculpture by M.J. Talbot

Near the hollow
Where the babbling brook plays
Where willows bow
their shaggy helms
juniper kneels to holly
And oaks remove their crowns

There lived a maid
The daughter of a giant
Though she inherited no great height
nor the strength to crush a mountain
Her birthright was of the heart and of two gentle hands

She loved a Sellsword
Who, asked neither for coin nor power
When he sold his heart
To her blue eyes and fair smile

Though, as her blood demanded,
Never would she walk by daylight’s escort
lest she forever be turned to stone

Theirs were the hours
of darkness
in moonlight
and to the symphony of the night
they danced by torch’s flame
until morning’s fire
drove the pastel fingers of dawn
over the horizon

Then they would away
into shadow’s umbral arms
until the evening
lowered its twilight curtain

Sellswords
even those bound to a heart
must answer
when the war drum beats

Death cares for neither
coin nor power
when a heart is crossed
with a blade

So it was without fortune
nor fame when he was brought
to the hollow
where the babbling brook plays

At the feet of his love
he was laid
by the golden light of morning
his wound, mortal
he would not greet the evening alive

She
wishing for him to see her once more
before his body was cold and spirit gone
stretched out her arms to shield
his loving eyes from the sun…

…and ever after you shall see her still

their love immortal
forever fixed in her eyes
and in her embrace of stone