A Poem for Firelog Pose

"So much of our lives can be spent / collecting crumpled paper, twigs, and kindling / for a flame we do not ignite...." -- except from Firelog Pose by Corie Feiner

I find that poems can be like little gifts left for you like the last piece of a birthday cake set aside in the freezer or like a love note someone tucks in your bag only to be found years later.

Have you ever had that? When you lose something or forget about something it shows up again as a gift?

This poem for Firelog Pose was like that for me. When I reread it, I teared up. I needed to hear it, especially as the burning bush in my backyard begins to redden and my morning skin shivered when I stepped out into the grey autumn air.

I teared up with love and connection because I needed to hear the message of allowing myself to ignite.. to embody fire, to let myself flame up towards the heavens. To show up… I mean really show up.

I read poems out loud to myself. Not just because poetry is born of an oral tradition of incantation and prayers, but because I need to use another one of my senses to take the poem in. Listen to the rhythms and meters, feel them in my throat, my mouth, my heart…