Tag Archives: ANCIENT

Alyssa’s week 6: Ancient

Alyssa's week 6: Ancient

What would we hear our ancient ancestors say if we listened hard enough?


by | February 12, 2013 · 12:59 pm

Triple Goddess


I am the salt of the volcanic
ash earth
the first burst of light
from a virgin star
the breath between ocean
and atmosphere
born in three different places, all
at once
I am the mother of happenings
the caretaker of your
the queen of things
to come

I was split, like fruit
with baked flesh
like the plates of the
I was spit from the mouth
of the Motherland
sent to the convict
where the land used to rage
untamed, used to
sup from the molten
centre of an ancient

Now, I am looking for the
two thirds
a blonde and a brunette
I think
they’re hiding out in California
sipping fairy sugar from crystal
taking hearts and eating them
like apples
sucking secrets from the


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What Is Ancient?

this came to me while I was in the shower, stretching and watching my legs disappear into green water that was filled with Lush’s Geophyzz and I wrote it during a word wars. My friend called it “intense” and my response was “I can never write something my parents can read”.

“What does Ancient mean?” Eve asked her first grade teacher. She heard the word one night from the lips of her mother who was whispering to her dad about some gray hairs between her legs. Ancient is how her mother felt.

Because Miss Honeyton believed in the thoughts and opinions of six and seven year olds, she asked the class, “What does ancient mean?”

Some kids said, “Dinosaurs” and some said, “Old enough to be forgotten” and Zachary Hitchens said, “It’s when your boobs sag and your skin wrinkles and you can’t see because you have catracks in your eyes and no one wants to hang out with you anymore like my nana Mildie.”

Finally Miss Honeyton said, “Ancient is old, but how old is up to the person who uses the word.”

So Eve imagined her mother as a petite small armed reptile who ate plants and ran from the T-Rex. She tried to imagine her mother as forgotten but that didn’t make much sense to her. When she tried to imagine her mother with wrinkles and blind, no image computed into her imagination. Eve decided to seek knowledge elsewhere.

She went to the library and read about the buildings that Rome was made of, she read about the gods in different countries. In time she read entire New Testament of the bible as well as suspected histories of the earth, the universe and lots about dinosaurs. As time passed Eve forgot why she asked the question or what anyone else’s answers were, but still the word haunted her.




Eve’s first tattoo was of the words “We are all ancient” in forest green ink that swirled down her side and curved toward her belly. She asked the tattoo artist what he thought ancient meant and he said, “Tattoos are ancient, dating back to tribal and primal times as signs of power and expression.”

One night while her boyfriend blind folded Eve and fucked her because that’s the way she came the hardest, he slapped her soft pale skin just beside the word “ancient” on her hip. Eve came so hard she saw light sparks beneath her eyelids, she screamed one long loud scream and she thought of a chapter she read in a book one time that said that ancient people believed that achieving orgasm was an act of divinity and an opportunity to communicate with God. It was that moment Eve knew she was ancient, we are all, because we date back to Adam and her namesake when pleasure over ruled divine word. And the fact that pleasure is what makes our bodies can reach a point of bliss where for a few moments nothing else but the wholeness, the vast everything, the lump in her throat as she struggled to catch her breath, exists.


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Ancient Sea Monster


Remember when we used to think that these things existed?

Some of us still do. Screw sonar.


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Aidan Week 6 – Ancient

Form has not varied much from generation to generation, no matter which medium we use. This is my homage to my ancient brethren leaving their mark in caves for us to discover. They didn’t know we’d see what they did, and 99% of their work has vanished in transit, but I wish to fill in some of the mystery.


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Daddy Ancient, Daddy Gone


(inspired by the ghost of Sylvia Plath’s poem Daddy, on this, the 50th anniversary of her death. rest in peace, ancient goddess.)


Daddy ancient, Daddy gone

Daddy harmful, Daddy past

Love confined, endless conditions

You slam the door












Twenty years of dust

Layering the shame

Daddy statue

Daddy stone

Daddy rattling

Shattered bone


I bury you

You do not do

I have buried you


I do not visit

Your vampire grave

Shadow of my youthful night




Lie back in your coffin with a seething migraine

I stepped on the line

I broke your spine

But you broke mine first

Before my birth




The life

The soul

The spark

Careless giver of life

You bastard you

I’m through with you too


You couldn’t stop

Propogating this earth

You made babies

Little bits of you


Shot by shot

One through five


Our creator

Our destroyer


Daddy’s little girls

Little boys with so much hope

Always afraid of you

Always afraid of you

Shot down

Thrown over the side

Dragged behind the boat

Crashing waves

Choking throats

Screaming cries


Hold our bobbing heads



We made it through

We made it



We five

We made it out alive

But shattered

But broken

Like ancient relics

Stick us together with glue

The pieces no longer fit


The family that you made

The family that you broke apart

With your tar black heart

Never get it right

Always need to win the fight


With lying eyes

You raise a colony of fear

Fertilize a garden of hate

You teach a festering kind of rage

Tiny bleeding fingers

Clawing at the cage

You taught us to run

To never turn back

We jagged shells

We flee the madhouse

Scuttle on

Scuttle on

Ancient tales

Covered trails

Dragging along

Pretty bleeding sand




I’m through

And the neighbours never liked you

You are the key to my past

I have set blazing

I have burned to ash

Sooty safe

Beneath this one black shoe


If I was the goddess in an ancient myth

You are the rock I am forced to push

If I was an ancient faerie sprite

You are the giant who strips me of flight

Maim me

Mark me

Steal my wings

If I was a cosmic wonder from outerspace

You are the secret service who shields my face

Making up lies

Shrouding truth

If I was the graveyard willow standing centuries tall

You are the chain-saw that makes me fall



Stroke by stroke


You worked

So hard

To control and to crush

And to fuck us right up

And it almost worked

On almost all of us


You buried us

One by one

When we were eight

We were wishy-washy

When we were twelve

We shamed the family name

When we were twenty

We jammed our middle fingers in your face


You are the disgrace

The opposite of love

You are the ugliness of hate

A product of lies uprising

Victim of a long line of deception and control

But that doesn’t mean

That you had to be mean

What does it mean

That you chose to be mean

Just like your mother

Brute heart

Dagger sharp

Thorn of bitterness

Spilled over

Spread through you


You let the sickness flow

You chose to be

The bastard son

The vacant father

Your own daddy exiled

You keep grandma’s tradition alive





Vile exile

Two children tossed out

Like a sack

Like a sack


Pull me out

Of this erosion

Volcanic explosion

Tear down my imaginary walls


I have built

A forest

So thick and lush

So safe and magic

It will keep you out

My siblings

And all those fallen cookie crumbs

We will find our way back to ourselves

Spider webs and emails sent

Protect me from your spell

You can no longer hurt me from your space of hate

You are so gone



Forget you

We are through

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ancient ingredients

I bought a sample of this perfume last year on a whim, simply because I loved the name.  It took me a little while to get used to it, but now I feel naked without it.  And I adore the story behind it.  It got me thinking about ancient ingredients and I started thinking about how ancient Egyptians used honey back in the day and then I thought I should try to whip my own bath product up using honey.  So, here is something I threw together this morning, and let me tell you, it’s pretty amazing.

Honey Sugar Scrub

1/2 a cup of brown sugar

1 tablespoon of honey

1 tablespoon sweet almond oil

1/2 tablespoon vanilla extract (totally optional but it made the scrub smell really yummy).

Mix it all together in a bowl and scrub yourself down with it in the shower or bath.  The sugar scrubs off all the dead skin and the oil leaves you soft and smooth.  I used it this morning and my skin feels incredible!  Perfect wintertime pick-me-up.


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So, I’m thinking about my ancestors this week, too.  Or maybe my lack thereof.  That’s my Grandpa Mitchell.  I’ve been wanting to add him into my deck since the beginning.  I thought of him during Foundations, and during Sage, but I never could figure out just what I wanted to say about him.  I’ll try.

Here are a few things I inherited from my grandfather:  my weird sense of humor, my love of photography, the way I blink way too much–deep blinks where I squint my whole face, and also the ability to rock a flannel shirt and bowler hat.  I never see much of myself in my Missouri family, perhaps because they are so close, but the other half of my family, my dad’s side, full of quirky, intelligent New Englanders, I totally get it.  But where did it all come from?

Here are a few things I know about my grandpa:  He was born in Canada to a 16 year old girl and then adopted by an American family in New Hampshire.  When he was 16, he crossed the border on his Indian motorcycle and went to track his birth mother down.  He found her, but she wouldn’t even come to the door.  I’ve heard he threw quite a fit, but she never spoke to him.  So, he went back home without any answers.  He was always curious about his heritage.  I don’t know if you can tell from the blurry photo but he looked Native American, as do his children.  About ten years ago, he had his DNA tested, hoping to dig up more answers, but the results were “inconclusive, with some Asian markers”.

He passed away last year without ever really getting those answers he was searching for.  So, it’s weird.  He must have wondered where he got his blinky eyes and weird sense of humor and ridiculous fashion sense, but he never knew.  But I look at these photos of him and at least I know where I got mine.  And I guess that’ll have to be enough for me.

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[sic] meditation on ancient: a playlist and a poem.


Listen and be transported. Ancient


dig up the calcified relics
dust them off and
don’t tell anyone the truth
build them up
sort and stack
rearrange until they appear attractive
the Jurassic era, ferocious
magnificent, wild beasts
consumed by fire
or ice
the verdict is still out
the jaws hold only echoes
nothing concrete

they live in museums now
some shockingly nude
skeletons in a great hall
overlooking Central Park
guarding three dimensional history lessons
others covered in skins of
their brethren
next to intricately carved replicas of
native people
who still exist
as if extinction is imminent

I want to press you into
carve your memory in earth
all mine
the faeries will stand watch they have been around longer than any of us
zipping about
planting the first seedlings
from ambrosia
sipping sap

I think a faery was the first
plant syrup was far too sweet
they required
bitter, bitter fruit
and made humans
in their image, then
blurred us all, softened
edges, now we are not so
we are all just short of perfection
injected faery dust into our veins
waited for the magic to bewitch
these organs crafted from
slippery fish skins
trout pout hearts
Shakespeare was a mouthpiece
for the fae
the tragedies in particular
those absinthe loving little fuckers crave
(ovulation was just their sick sense of humor at work)

there is a show at the planetarium

simulation of becoming

big bangs

white hot stars sizzle

ancient fae trapped in rocks

this is what i think

there is magic in us now

my guts
you keep them in the wooden bowl
by your bed
next to your keys
I retrieved most of them last time I saw you
but I left a blob about the size of a quarter
it’s probably a hard little smear
you tried to scrape off with your thumbnail
but stubbornly it

i’m preserving bittersweet memories
like insects trapped in
they will outlive all of us
we will be dust
and they will still have the capacity to sting.

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Week 06: Ancient, Tree

I grew up in gold mining country. Where men went to the grocery store with shotguns strapped to their backs because in El Dorado County that’s what men did. No one had yards, but there were parcels of land. It was called “property.” Mustn’t wander off the property. Mustn’t trespass onto the neighbor’s property. One day, when I was eleven years old, I told my mother I was going in search of leprechauns. I had found a tree that definitely curved and gnarled into a portal to a fairy realm. But I had read fairy tales. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going that day, so I was afraid to climb inside the tree in case I couldn’t make it back again. I waited until March, because I thought of March as a fairy month.

When I went to search for the tree, I ducked under a barbed wire fence, red and loose with age. I followed the creek bed that had just enough water to gargle with. I saw the tree, set back from the others—enough to blend in, but far back enough to be remembered. As I started up the hill, a man with a mustache rode up fast on his horse—so fast that I hadn’t heard hooves on soft mud. He pointed a shotgun as long as I was tall at me and said to get off his property.

I trespassed onto that land again in June to find the tree. When I crossed the creek, it ate one of my shoes. Swallowed it whole. They were my favorite pair: acid washed with neon splattered drips of paint. I thought maybe it was a fairy test. That if I kept going, I’d be sure to find the portal. But when I rounded the hill, looking for that wide and gnarled tree with a child-sized hole in its belly, it was gone; no stump, not even a hole where its roots had once lived.

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