Poetry by Jacqueline Hill
Jacqueline Hill continues to astonish with startlingly original images. Her writings span from the narrative to near-Delphic utterances. The astute reader will detect influences of Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson and, perhaps, Rainer Maria Rilke. Hill’s first book, Beyond the Valley, is available from Bellowing Ark Press.
From Volume 20, #3:
What We Have While We Wait
I sit with Pandora and open
the box. We watch the bats
fly and the demons rise. We
watch—but we are not
destroyed; we watch—but
are not led astray. The opening
is painful; the awakening is
hard to hold. I try to hide
but Pandora reminds me—
It is true seeing that frees us—
It is true feeling that frees us—
We send the swine over the bank
and the bats to the cave. We clean
out the closet and protect it with
prayers. We blow the trumpet
and bring the tower down. We blow
the trumpet and send the serpents
home. And what we have is clear;
and what we have is holy. We split
the sea of grass and cross over. We
move mountains by asking. We move
mountains with the intention of being
heard. And...
Mary comes to rock us in our sleep.
Mary comes to tell us she is coming soon.
From Volume 20#1:
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Lessons She chooses the power "to know"
She chooses and lets the world slip
through her hands.
She chooses to hide and know secrets—
She chooses to hide and own her power—
They look for her but she darts her eyes like the sparrows from
the barn. She carries a basket with yarn and weaves stories at night—
She wraps her shoulders in a tattered shawl and revolves around
the icy hot sun. "Someday, I will pass the secrets on," she whispers. "Someday,
women will remember how to fly," she says. Inside every woman there is another voice. Inside every woman there is story untold.
She taps a wooden cane on the ground and turns into a stone. She taps a wooden
cane and teaches her disciples that the body is what it appears and more.
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Moons Holy men come to repeat the same story, but what does it really mean?
I watch the field turn yellow and the country sky bleed a thousand stars—
The bales of hay circle the field like small moons, my brother milks the cow
and swears at the mean goat. My childhood pastor comes to fix the pump
in our broken down farmhouse. My mother sets the table with chipped
plates. In the communion of earth and sky—I meet my maker; bend on my knees
like wheat in wind. In my time of need a kind voice always enters. Heaven tucks
the full moon in its mouth like a white pearl and drops it like manna.
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From Volume 19#6:
Memory
They say clay has a memory. Clay
pressed into a block remembers it was
a block. It remembers and tries
to return. If you roll it in different directions
and flip it over and over
it won’t curl when it is drying. It won’t
curl because it doesn’t remember its
original home. How far back does
the memory go? If the block remembers
does it all remember? Does each grain
remember being part of a stone? Does
each grain remember being part of a
river or a stream? If the clay remembers
do our bodies remember too? Does only
the mind have a memory? Was our body
once a river and a stone? Was our body
part of the coyote’s howl? Was it
the leap of the frog and the splash? Were
stones once flesh and our flesh once
stones? I run fresh water through my hand
and smell the sweetness. I let the memories
swell and burst. I give everything a name;
and I take it away. I toss stones and split
the bodies in half. I toss stones and watch
the rings expand and disappear. I watch
heaven and earth fade in a blink of an eye.
I watch heaven and earth return
to complete what the prophets promised.
I go to the river to listen
to them speak—
I to go the woods to release
Daphne from her fixed state—
The women who died for
their art, the women who died
because living was pain,
the women who were put
to death—
provide large stones to
cross the current. The women
who died
lean across the river
and let me walk over them
They lean their slender
white backs and pave
the road for many.
The road to salvation is narrow,
the gate to destruction wide.
I pool the water
in my hands and watch it turn
to wine. I pool the water
and watch it turn to blood—
The mother-poet gone mad,
the sculptress locked away,
the writer hidden in her room,
rise from the water
and peel the thin veil—
They lift the cloth and release
ten thousand bees, they lift
the cloth and let the moon
slide down their backs. They hold
the sun in one hand; the moon
in another. They juggle
the white eggs and let
the young birds fly.
From Volume 19 #4:
Calling
I can’t remember a time I didn’t search
for Heaven. The words clamped a hold
of me like a dog’s steady jaw—and never
left. There was always hunger. Hunger
the form of wanting; the knowing. The small
verses tucked under Jesus’ chin came to look
for me. I used to talk to God like I spoke to
the old man down the street. Simple and clear—
like directions to a recipe anyone could
follow. Later, thoughts trampled what was
simple and pulled the table wider. Doubts
sat like baked potatoes that were not cooked
long enough. Thomas lifted his sword and sliced
what was raw. In the hay field I looked for
answers. In the green bundles of alfalfa I searched
for seeds. Once I slept out in the yard and tried
to count the stars. “Only God could have made
something like this,” my brother said. I agreed—
but inside the raw egg bled. When my older sister,
Diane, became a born again Baptist, she used to call
me from Arizona to ask if I could tell her the date I
was saved. “If you can’t tell me the year and day—
you’re not saved,” she told me. I tried it but I never
felt saved. I never knew for sure who was saving me
and from what I was being saved. Now, I watch
like a fox guarding her den. I wait and listen to
the words trapped in stones. I wait and watch
the earth spread her thick thighs. What I know burns
like summer fire. What is: trickles through the hands
of tired angels and falls into my hungry mouth.
