Guest Blogger Hedy Habra
“My Sacred Space,
My Sacred Place”
Habra at the Portage District Library Reading
Most of my writing is done at home, and I have a couple of “sacred places.” The first one is my library where I feel comforted by the presence of my books. I have books in Spanish, English, French and Italian, and shelves cover the adjacent walls.
This is where I sit by my desktop computer to do my online research and polish the several versions of a work in process. This is also where I relax as I read, take notes, or watch nature surrounding me--the change of seasons being a source of constant inspiration in Michigan.
My second “sacred space” is my kitchen table that is lit by bay windows, and is the ideal space for reading while underlining and taking notes. This is where I usually write longhand.
This also where I paint and keep my brushes and watercolor supplies on a corner of the table.
Deer, squirrels and all sorts of birds keep me company on daily basis.
Or Why I Love to Paint Cranes in Chinese Ink
They carry dreams under their wings,
flattened over rice paper, cranes spread
their wings in grey shades, their necks
bleed ebony, its darkness melts all over
their raised tails. See how their kohl-lined
eyes frown under the red patch of bare skin
cresting their heads like a mask or a crown
as they stand on one leg, majestic, immobile.
(First published by Fifth Wednesday Journal)
We both stared at the illuminated images
of what must have been a rare book. Its pages
seemed to turn on their own, one by one,
following the rhythm of our breath--were we so afraid
to touch its precious leaves?
I noticed faded characters here and there, like
distant memories, missing lines rubbed away by fingers
or written in invisible ink, perhaps words never said,
unable to fall in proper order--could the writer or scribe
have wished to light a match, imagined its fire racing along the
elongated curves of the phrase, erasing even the traces
of his thought?
Then came an empty page, papyrus-like, arresting,
intimidating the one about to stamp it with the colors
of life--what ever happened to this page, I wondered,
realizing you were gone.
First published by Puerto del Sol
From Tea in Heliopolis
Under the Crescent Moon
The violinist has grown wings,
the donkey is flying.
The bride and groom listen all nightlong
to the blue notes cascading over the red-tiled roof.
They hear a secret tune,
each from a different slice of the moon.
He takes off his top hat, unties his black knot,
hums to the opalescence marking
the beginning of his dance.
Dovelike, she lies in embroidered sheets,
her ruffled dress rests on a chair like discarded wings.
She knows her waist will swell by the full moon,
dreams of its dark side where Chagall is hiding.
First published by Sulphur River Review
From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)
*All Poets and Writers and Artists are invited to share his or her SACRED SPACES, SACRED PLACES by answering the following:
Describe your sacred space, sacred place where you write or perform any artwork?
Submit a photograph of that sacred space, sacred place
Submit a photograph of you inhabiting that sacred space, sacred place.
Submit at least two lines of a poem (can be the complete poem) written from that sacred space, sacred place or an image of your artwork.
Submit contact information to Christal Rice Cooper at email@example.com or her Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/christalann.ricecooper
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