What interests me about mythology is how metaphorical storytelling is used to fill holes within the things unknown or that otherwise can’t be explained. 

I’m working currently on creating an original story with mythological elements.  My first creative attempt, with me meditating on what mythology does well, is the poem Seven Daughters.

Its a unique poem for me; totally fabricated, female-centered, visual and metaphorical.   Mother Allula appeared out of nowhere.  Am not even sure where her name came from.  The River is quite real and is in West Africa.

The poem was inspired by the photograph of an African sculpture.  There’s much to be said for the writing exercise of taking a photograph or piece of art and bringing it to life, making it talk.  I should do it more often…

The ending– the very last line– is me sampling myself.  Years ago I wrote another poem that maintained a chant: “Your spirit is on the outside, the flesh only seed.”  The line is totally nonsensical, & contradictory.  (I was young when i wrote it, sue me.)  When I finally realized what I was trying to say I decided to recycle it here.

***

 Seven Daughters

every seventh daughter in our clan

gets the call of spirit through her feet

& her nails keep growing despite all

efforts to stop them.

at spring solstice her toenails

would begin swirling

and twisting into brittle roots

sharp as antelope antlers

slicing through bedding, floor, walls

as if reaching for food, for light.

The inaugural event was traced back to

Mother Allula who walked the banks

of the Ogooue, dragging her feet along the

stone road hoping to break them apart

but failing.  She waded into the river

kicking fish to shore.  She sat on a stone,

pulled her feet towards her mouth,

and chewed her nails loose, spitting

the gray chips to the wind.  But by sundown,

she’d rooted in place, too deep for the tribes

strongest wrestlers to unfix her, and drowned

in the blue monsoon her toenails

provided the last ingredient for.

since then, the elders began instructing us

thru dreams to sacrifice cattle

and write poems in blood,

dry  their skins into bulbed skirts,

bury ourselves waist deep in coppery

mud, paint our faces in flour and clay

as we petition the gods to free us

until these branched tendrils dissolve into ash

and we learn spirit is our true body

our flesh only seed