If fire is my destiny
and we’re to dance for life,
how do I grasp the
passion end of the straw
and leave pain hanging?
Fire has been my silent witness;
my antagonist, my animus,
scorching me in places tender,
a desert terrain, I, parched,
wanting only water.
Fire, before my incarnation,
burned my body,
tied to a log and set aflame,
taking my life, my dignity,
my womanhood. Insanity tipped
the scales, the pendulum
swings back and forth:
Grief and rage.
Rage and grief.
Both burning, both
without water.
Fire, in the year 2000,
burned my stomach,
took my home, my animals,
mum’s marriage. Insanity tipped
the scales, the pendulum
swings back and forth:
Grief and rage.
Rage and grief.
Both burning, both
without water.
Fire, in the year 2018,
burned my brain,
took my home (again), my eyes,
my soul. Everything ablaze,
I lie darkened, alone—
still as death, not like death
at all. Dazzling lights,
cosmic stars, kaleidoscope, spinning
and dancing and whirring about.
Not beautiful. Nasty, really.
Too bright, too fast.
Sanity tipped
the scales, the pendulum
swings back and forth:
Grief and rage.
Rage and grief.
Both burning, both
without water.
So, if Fire is my fate,
where do I place myself?
There is no middle, no end.
Only pain reaching to passion—
passion reaching to pain.
The pendulum can’t stop but swing.
But I know to rest mid centre.
May 11, 2019
About This Poem
I am a fire sign (both in European and Chinese astrology), have red hair, and the element fire has followed me throughout many, many lives …
