Tanya Joyce is a San Francisco poet and painter. She has taught literature and fine arts at universities, high schools, and community centers for all ages of students from pre-school to post-graduate school. Tanya has four poetry books in print. Her paintings have been exhibited at West Coast galleries and at museums in California and Vermont. Currently, she emphasizes Open Studios events at which there is time for artists and guests to talk together. Tanya has worked with Russian and Vietnamese poets to retell their poems in English.
An overview of Tanya’s visual art and poetry is on her website www.tanyajoyce.com
Her monthly poetry column is online at www.pinoleartisans.weebly.com
Contact Tanya at tanya@tanyajoyce.com
In case you have not visited before
This is the land of plains and forests,
Rivers flow along the grasslands,
Springs bubble in the woods.
Here, in the recesses of the earth,
Great powers rise, visible in clouds.
In flowers, cones, and the sap of trees
Fragrances manifest.
Intelligence rises on the winds.
Birds tell stories.
Animals keep rhythm.
Fish punctuate the quiet
Jumping, diving.
Insects whirr and everywhere
Contentment reigns.
In case you have not visited before
This is the land of plains and forests.
At night the stars attend.
Lights crackle as they pass
Like draperies rippling on breezes,
Circling one star which, like a center pole,
Holds up the house of light.
Walking the star path, spreading, stretching,
Lifting, descending,
Stepping, drumming,
Crowding, laughing,
Silent, seeking,
Whispering magic.
The monkey king eats peaches here
In the arms of clouds.
He circles from treetop to treetop,
His stalwart staff
A fishing pole, fishing for stars,
Shifting in starlight and jewels.
A scepter of cloud forms,
Coiling in eddies, nurturing
Herbs of longevity
The monkey king eats peaches here
In the arms of clouds.
I am a crazy quilt
A pattern of crackle glazes
Filled with electric charge
Behind spring flowers.
I am scraps of velvet,
Snippets of desire
Joined in ragged shapes,
Edged with scallops
Fingering my life.
A saunterer excited by stillness
A talker excited by listening,
A lover of moonlight
Warm in the sunshine.
A poet who paints.
A painter who writes.
I am a wailing wall
With prayers on scraps of paper
Stuck into crevices,
Pockets, and back packs,
Hopes waiting to take root
And bloom.
I am a scrap booker,
A clipper of articles,
A cutter of tape
And ribbon. I am a ribbon
Of star light. Once you catch me
What do you have?
I am a crazy quilt,
A chalker of hopscotch,
A splasher of ink,
A maker of skeletons.
I am not here or there,
Not playing hide and seek
Out there.
Going somewhere,
Following scraps of paradise,
I am
A crazy quilt.
Anyone can come to the Muses
At any place, in any time.
Scientists can come to them,
Are Muses not the heart of the matter?
Artists can come to them,
Do not the Muses guide art?
The Muses speak to you
When your heart is open to them.
Without opening your heart
Their speech will seem to you
Like blithering.
The Muses are earth.
They roll in atmospheres,
Break out in eruptions,
Know the motions of planets and stars.
They know without concepts
Speak without tongues
Embrace without arms
Lead without flags and banners
Laugh without mouths
Create without traces.
They are the music of the spheres
The light of the heavens
The song of the winds.
In their order there is no hierarchy.
They are within,
Not above, below, or upon.
The Muses require no ceremonies.
In place of obedience,
Consider peace.
Bringing the Muses home with us
Is dedication,
Adherence to our own life’s work.
What is our own life’s work?
Activity that makes us happy.
How do we know what makes us happy?
What makes us happy
Dances with the Muses.
The language
That is not our language.
The tongue
That is not our tongue.
The mystery
That is not mysterious.
The everything
That looks like scraps.
Who can understand these things?
The conference of the birds
Did not take place at a hotel.
Old poets wrote about it
Erupting with first light,
Calling through the wooded hills.
Then birdsong was a tongue that others named
The green language, not a tongue at all,
But melody with neither verb nor noun,
Through which the birds sought wonder.
Some feared a journey into mystery
And others fled.
Some chirped about responsibilities
As reasons to turn back.
Some few persisted, found the mountain top
Home of the wisest bird, most noted majesty,
Most colorful in plumage,
Mirror-like in brilliance, bright as the dawn,
In whom the deepest truths reside.
Each bird saw there, revealed
In silence and amazement
Reflections of themselves.
Here and now,
After the journey,
Birds are awake,
Not sleeping or dreaming,
And through the mist,
They sing the sun’s arrival.
— for Enrique Enriquez
