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Author Archives: Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg

Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg is the Poet Laureate of Kansas, and the author of 14 books, including a forthcoming novel, <i>The Divorce Girl; The Sky Begins At Your Feet: A Memoir on Cancer, Community & Coming Home to the Body</i> (<a href="http://IceCubepress.com/">Ice Cube Books</a>); and four collections of poetry. Founder of Transformative Language Arts – a master's program in social and personal transformation through the written, spoken and sung word at Goddard College (<a href="http://goddard.edu/">Goddard College</a>); where she teaches, Mirriam-Goldberg also leads writing workshops widely. With singer Kelley Hunt, she co-writes songs, offers collaborative performances, and leads writing and singing Brave Voice retreats (<a href="http://bravevoice.com/">www.BraveVoice.com</a>); and she blogs regularly at her website (<a href="http://www.CarynMirriamGoldberg.wordpress.com">www.CarynMirriamGoldberg.wordpress.com</a>)

  • Yoga Poetry - Not Rare But Precious

    Precious Rest Yoga Poetry Not Rare But Precious   Think of what’s not rare but precious. ~ Ruth Gendler   The gift of light. Of dark. The squeaky swing set that’s really a blue jay searching for love and gravity. What tells you to lie down. Why standing back up each morning is precious as breath or clouds splintering into rain dissolving the drought. The horizontal day that turns into the vertical night, the stubble on the path between the furrows of labor, hope, and need. Any curve wheeling toward the horizon, all the dreams of finding your house...

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  • Yoga Poetry - Everything That Rises

    Yoga Poetry - Everything That Rises Rise up without fear to the coffee and daylight skimming the dark.   Rise through the remnants of the dream where you are lost, all pay phones broken.   Rise toward the piano you haven’t played for months, and place your hands on the keys of your memory.   Play badly but loud, and let the ringing rise through your arms.   Rise into the first slant of light breaking across the living room floor to coat the sleeping dog.   Open the door into the cold and run to the passenger door to...

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  • Yoga Poetry - Almost Gone

    Yoga Poetry Almost Gone The sun calls one last word in its rusting voice, then leans to the west, sweetening its tune by forgetting the melody. The taste of light lingers in the sudden cooling of breath, the slim branch of a twisted tree over the horizon where one crow waits for the shadows the moon will throw over the brome field two turns of the wheel back in time.   The stand of cedars wakes with a start. The dry ground loosens its new cracks and tilts rocks for the snakes to emerge. The wind moves on, nothing to...

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  • Yoga Poetry - Body of Time

    Yoga Poetry - Body of Time What did you expect?, the knee asks. Just the way of the world, says the elbow. The wrinkles of the knuckles laugh harder, and the little toes on both feet turn out as if escape was possible. This body of time takes another breath, sends another valentine, ignores another blast of hatred even as it learns new tricks: ways to hang upside down in ropes at the yoga studio, or catch the melting ice cream before it escapes from cone to sidewalk. Since it became an I, it revels in being owned, in being...

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  • The Yoga of Swimming

    The Yoga of Swimming I step into the cold pond, each step a bit more of a shiver, my feet happy and a little nervous on the rounded rocks and moss. My friend surges ahead of me and drives up, splashing me with cold and life. I know I need to take another step and let go, sink in to my shoulders, but I also know that yelping will likely be involved as well as the urge to run back out. But retreat is not an option; surrender is. I jump in, shiver, yell, thrash around, and give myself over...

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  • Yoga Poetry - What the Sky is Made Of

    Yoga Poetry - What the Sky Is Made Of The sky is made of soft rain and hard light, the old yearning to be held, the ancient fear of not having enough, and the fountain of wind that says, Something’s gone, something else is arriving.   The sky is made of rocks shattered finer than the smallest atoms of human memory, air we call breath once we take it in and turn it to motion, anger, or song.   The beating of hummingbird wings compose the sky, as well as the fluttering of muscle on muscle, the space in between...

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  • Where Is My Body? How Yoga Practice Answers That Question

    Where is My Body? How Yoga Practice Answers That Question When I started doing yoga, I was confused a lot. Always having a hard time remembering left and right, and also being somewhat disembodied after years of residing in my frontal lobe, I had trouble following direction. In Warrior II, when the teacher said to turn my back foot in one way, I would often turn it the other way. Sometimes I would bend forward instead of sideways. Even how, over 10 years of yoga practice, when my yoga teacher says to breathe into my back body, I have...

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  • Yoga Poetry - Then It’s Over

    Yoga Poetry Then It’s Over The blue breaks through the setting clouds, an old fire, while the field lays down its colors for the night. Sky tumbles over itself day to night, tension to calm. What we think happened, and what no one but the wind saw-- all lost to the first falling star. Nothing hurts for a moment. Those you love shine whether still here or long gone. A wide darkness envelopes the world, takes your hand, and shows you where to stop looking and where to start.

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  • Ending a Yoga Class

    Ending a Yoga Class When we begin teaching at a certain time, we don’t usually envision the class ending. Such was the case with my Monday noon-1:00 pm. Class I started teaching three years ago. The class was one of the first at a new yoga studio in the west side of our town where there aren’t other yoga studios, which tend to be clumped on the east side. Our hopes were high: this was a suburban area with lots of people, and surely many would want to come practice yoga in their own neighborhood. While the yoga studio has...

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  • Yoga Poetry - The Bridge

    Yoga Poetry - The Bridge The bridge is made of weather. The bridge is made of time. Translucent, the color of water, it spans the world in sharp relief to lushness of green, western edge of blue, rain shadow in between.   Five miles north, the cedars drink up the storm while the sky inhales old starlight, already dead when it lands, for rock and root, bowed thunderhead and nightfall, velocity and cricket song.   The bridge is a slim path between dusk and longing, a wide swath from sleep to starlight, an arm of weather linking here and there...

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