By: Tor Strand
This world is loss
and your grin
the angle
of the horizon
so tell me
what you saw
in the sky
lying there
like a sheet
of inked paper
the earth
cupped
in a fire
in your eyes
of whirlpools
and rain
when you
dance I breathe
the colors
of your
expression
when you
dance with
found wind
on black
sand stories
ossified inside
the river
on the firm
beach of desire
arms wide
skin like
smoothed stones
the blue
green backs
of crabs
and tumbled
glass glow
with you
the sea’s song plays
in your ear
spiral shell
take in
each note
with the same
invisible grace
that makes
our bodies
warm with
earthlorn light
dewy heartbeat
the valley
of twenty four hour
life blades
the morning
on your
calves
how I
imagine
your lips
pursed
on these words
in the rise
of every
s-curved slip
Tor Strand is an alumnus of Linfield College in McMinnville, Oregon. He graduated this May with honors in creative writing and a German studies minor. While in school, he was an editor of Linfield’s literary journal, “Camas,” and as a senior was awarded an internship to be the assistant nonfiction editor for “High Desert Journal,” a literary magazine of the mountain west. He has forthcoming poetry to be published in “Caustic Frolic,” a student-run journal of NYU’s Graduate School of Arts and Sciences’ Center for Experimental Humanities, though he would like to give a shout out to Cathexis for being the first place to accept his work.
“This poem was inspired by a dear friend and the powerful connection she shares with her homeland, the Canary Islands. The unpunctuated train of zigzagging images are my attempt to reflect her vibrant, fiery nature. Another motivation, including the title of the piece, stemmed from a story she told me about festivals held annually in the islands called Romerías. In particular, a traditional dance that celebrates the Catholic saints of her home island of Tenerife, known as the “Baile de Magos.” “Mago” is conventionally translated as “magician” or “wizard” but in the Canarias it can also translate as “farmer” or someone who lives in a small town. My friend went on to tell me that many years ago, some parts of the islands were not fit for farming and lacked fertile soil. Therefore, the farmers (or magos) were said to have “made magic” with the land to produce their crops.
I chose the title in an attempt to not only represent landscape, but also the durability of the human soul and our deeply embedded connection to the land we are born from and thrown into. I also felt like the form sort of “dances” down the page. “