Above and below as pure mirror

Collected poems from different generations

Here. They say to look here. Lie down on a
patch of earth
so you can see
the delicate
underside
of Queen
Anne’s lace
As Sun pours
through it.
And this is not
just happening
Outside of you. And
this is not just
happening inside of
you. Whoever
brought this lace,
this face, will
take us back.
Queen Anne’s Lace. Above
and below as pure Mirror. The gate
we think an obstruction, merely a
Gap where welcoming dogs
sleep. (I hope the sound of these words are gentle enough
For I wish no injury to any of us.)

Bennett Bridgers

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This week I want to highlight words from my family. Things that centered, delighted, and guided me this week as I gingerly pick through notebooks one work-weary afternoon.

The piece above was painted and written on cardboard by my mother sometime in the early 2010s.

---

I SEE THE OLD WIDOW
KNIT THREADS OF LOVE IN THE
SKY I SEE THE MIRACLE
OF PEACE IN THE RAIN
I SEE AXES CHOPPING
DOWN TREES THAT ARE
PATHWAYS TO HEAVEN
I SEE THE SPARK OF LOVE
MAKE A TAPESTRY OF ALL SORTS
OF PATTERNS I SEE THE MEDITATING
GURU PLANT MOUNTAINS
AND TREES I SEE LOVE AT A
GLANCE

Quentin Moss

---

Quentin would write like this on occasion, prophetically hallucinogenic. I’m not sure when that piece was written. His handwriting stayed the same from age 11 to age 21; large, scrappy letters that fill fat lines of composition books. He was 11 when he wrote the family’s most loved poem of his, The World At Sea, eventually read at his funeral.

---

THE WORLD AT SEA

The world is adrift on a never ending sea
The world is in the body of a trout
It is the deepest part of everything
And on the shore
Floating gracefully
The world is in waves crashing against rock
It is everywhere at sea
But all the world is
Is a thought of the mind

---

Quentin didn’t always write like this—a journal from when he was 20 or so opens with the delicate verses: “FUCK THE MOON / FUCK THE SUN / FUCK A BITCH WITH A GUN.” So. There’s that side of him, too.

Last, I’ll share an unfinished poem that my maternal grandfather, Ben, wrote for his eldest granddaughter, Jane. I lay in a field reading it as the sun went down. And as much as it leans toward the feminine, the matrilineal, and the eternal, it nearly brought me to tears thinking just of him. A quiet masculine presence, who put a concerted effort into seeking beauty in the world.

Whenever I think
Of Mothers

I think of a
long line

a double helix
that stretches

all the way
from Eve

on the African delta
long ago

to my mother
and you

to your mother
our daughter

and our beautiful (lovely)
granddaughter

and even those
girls and

women who we’ll
have seen

who have been
kind enough

to let we guards
and hunters

travel along together
with you

as you collect
and gather

food and flowers
pets and

healing hands to
feed and

succor us all
on our

never ending
journey

—Ben Bridgers

Through generations, it’s all we can do to just stand around and gape. The world is full of awe, full of constant ends and beginnings, and full of love. Thank you for witnessing and reading the story of my family and my life. As my mother wrote,

I hope the sound of these words are gentle enough
For I wish no injury to any of us.

Thank you for reading Internal Alchemy.