I look back through the curtain
of the past
toward languishing events
waiting to be plucked
ahead of amnesia and prior ro
demise,
in order to reassert their relevance
before relevance becomes
an anachronism of nonexistence.
And I locate distant dreams
of the anima* struggling
for survival within my busy soul
midst an array of transient
rationalism,
and an objectivity composed of
simplistic assertion and mundane
dominance.
Yet she survived in the innocent closets
of uncalculating marriage;
on private preserves of isolated
living on mountains and islands
at the edge;
in writing poetry with less rhyme
and reason than
the mating of anima and animus
to produce imps of warmhearted
irony;
and in teaching about translating
the language of dreams revealing
the Unicorn’s vision of Truth.
My anima grew
to lead me toward
the most enduring creativity
of my life,
and it is with relief and pride
that I rediscover her name
midst the generous bestowals
of her inspiration.
She grew from that illuminating origin,
and I recall the man who labeled,
legitimized, and enrichened the
modest paths I had previously
only stumbled upon
without mission or purpose
prior to his expert, circumspect
postnatal delivery.
anima: the feminine aspect of every psyche, mostly overshadowed in men by animus, the masculine aspect.
She flew,
and I provided her with short
grass landing strips
on islands within myself,
where we celebrated her visits
with facile moments of glory.
He climbed,
on a short ladder leading
through entrances of insight,
and exits of despair,
located between rooms filled
with the furniture of knowledge,
upon which we seated ourselves
comfortably together,
enjoying each other’s company.
We learned to live with
one another in reprises
of surprise and creativity -- -- -
a togetherness we could not bear
to be without. .