Mythic Yoga Journey: Three Poems by Sydney Solis Published In Moko

I have been writing a novel in verse with various poems strung together based on my time living on the island of St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands. The sights, sounds and people as well as intense beauty of nature was extremely healing for me on my Mythic Yoga Journey abroad I took beginning in 2010 when I left my hometown of Boulder, Colorado with my two young children.

My Buddhist name is Guyo - Brave Sun for a reason! Looking back I think, who would do such a thing? Well I'm glad I took a risk and followed my bliss!

Various fictionalized accounts have been getting published. These latest three in  the November 2016 issue of Moko, The Magazine of Caribbean Arts and Letters. 

The manuscript is finished, and I have a little Daruma doll I picked up in Japan to keep me focused on sending more poems out as well as the manuscript for publication!

Enjoy my latest three poems: Three Roosters, Frederiksted Pier and The End of the World. Definitely subscribe to Moko! A fabulous publication! 

The Mythic Yoga Journey Continues!

Visit my new website at SydneySolis.com!  Subscribe to my new blog! 

OM SHANTI

Mythic Yoga Journey to Japan - The Osaka Diaries

Amaterasu, the Japanese Sun Goddess.
Her myth has had personal meaning
for me, Solis, Latin for "of the sun."

As fate would have it, I am leaving for Osaka, Japan tomorrow. That's what happens when you follow your bliss, practice yoga, live in the now, battle your demons and trust in the silence. Trust in the mystery and listen deeply for instructions. So unexpectedly I find myself leaving on a jet plane.

That has been my Mythic Yoga practice for nearly two decades now. Delving into meditation and the depths where it takes you. I practice daily. That's where the magic comes in. When the veil of the ego is parted and the true self is revealed. What awareness and insight. What freedom and what gifts from the universe! These boons the Gods present. My partner is taking me to Japan because he has accepted a transfer with Universal Studios Creative.

Never thought I'd end up in Japan. Just like I never thought I'd end up on the island of St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands, and from there end up in Florida. The adventure continues. My children are older now and back in DeLand, Florida. I'm hoping they will come this summer as we go back and forth. I will be helping my 83-year-old father in Boulder, Colorado too more often, as he fell and broke the top of his right femur off and has been in Manor Care for a month now.

My grandfather, Albert Willem Straub, who died
in a forced labor Mitsubishi tin mine
outside of Tokyo in 1943 .

I visited my father in Boulder for two weeks recently. Such another amazing mythic destiny of personal mythology that is intertwined with this trip. Considering my father is a child survivor of a Japanese concentration camp on Java during World War II when it was the Dutch East Indies, a colony of The Netherlands. My ancestors were colonialists. The one percent.  My great-grandfather a professor of engineering at the University of Delft.

Growing up as a child. in Boulder during the 1970s and 80s, Japan was the enemy, my mother reminded us. Had the war not ended with the United States dropping the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, I would not be alive, for my father would have died in the camp had the war continued, my mother warned. My mother's brother, Uncle Charlie, may have died as he served in the Pacific too.

I was conflicted, because in Boulder in the 70s there were candle light vigils for peace, but my mother was on the other side. My father said he forgave the Japanese, but I know he still suffers. So that lingers as my story as my father's father died in a forced labor Mitsubishi tin mine outside of Tokyo in 1943. My brother has visited Shinagawa, and it's now a shopping mall.

So as my father declines, and the story continues, I look forward to this mythic journey. As I read more about Japan after World War II, our economy, our stories, our healing from the tragedy of war, but also to find the mythic in the folk lore and enchantment of Japan. As a confirmed Buddhist I am tickled to go to a Buddhist country. And since poetry is revered in Japan and I"m a poet, I will be writing Haiku on Instagram for my daughter back home. And healing the trauma of war with yoga and stories. I will be using the hashtag of #OsakaDiaries #StoryArtist #VisualPoet and #MythicYoga.

This is just the first of many trips. I will mainly explore, write this blog and find us a place to live before I return December 17. For future trips I will start my pilgrimage for the 33 Kannon temples, try lots of great food, and of course pursue the mythic.  I will eventually make my way to Ise to visit the Shrine of Amaterasu, of whom I have used in Mythic Yoga trainings, Storytime Yoga classes and personal mythology art and storytelling for a long time.

Amaterasu has special significance for me, as the Goddess of the Sun in Shinto religion where women and creation were revered and the solar is female. She will infuse my journey to see if among the traditions of Japan beneath the influence of Western culture there is the mythic peeping up from below, the feminine through the body, art, tradition, food, pleasure, poetry, sensuality and feelings can have an effect on me as I journey to the past in this amazing present and in meditation to temples and shrines.

And I will be meditating, deepening my Buddhist meditation practice I learned from many hours of meditation and Shambhala trainings in Boulder and as a member of the Volusia Buddhist Fellowship in Florida where I received the name of Guyo, Brave One, when I took my vows almost two years ago. For in meditation is where the mythic points me to the ultimate goal - yoga - union - nirvana - peace.

For it is peace, peace for the world's children that I want. Why I made my Storytime Yoga Kids Yoga Music, Mantra and Dance CD. I believe there is a reason I am being sent to Japan. To visit my grandfather's place of death. To visit Hiroshima and Nagasaki Peace Parks and recover what is good, what is loving and what is eternal.

OM SHANTI

Mythic Yoga: Telling the Myth Poem of the Body

Mythic Yoga: Telling the Myth Poem of the Body

with

Sydney Solis

Saturday, January 14, 2017

9-3

Lighthouse Writer’s Workshop

Denver, Colorado

“I am the poet of the body. And I am the poet of the soul.” - Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Delve into the oral tradition by hearing Hindu and other myths and connect it with the body for fresh perspectives in creating poetry, memoir and spoken-word narrative. In this day-long course, Storyteller, Performance Poet and Yoga Teacher Sydney Solis guides you in a self-reflective mythic journey to write from the body and listen to its silent voice by using meditation, yoga and dance, dreamwork and the chakras to discover your personal mythology and tell the myth poem of the body.
It's yoga beyond asana and delves into the psycho-spiritual aspects of yoga wisdom and the expressive arts.

More details coming soon!

Sydney Solis Performs Poetry from Mythic Yoga: Personal Mythology April 24 for National Poetry Month Festival in Ormond Beach

Sydney Solis performs poetry from her upcoming book, Little Piece of Paradise, about her time in St. Croix, U.S.V.I. for the National Poetry Month Festival The Gallery at The Casements in Ormond Beach, FL on April 23.

The book is a culmination of her Mythic Yoga practice of personal mythology after a 5-year Mythic Journey abroad with her two children. Experience the beauty, wisdom and power of poetry and yoga for healing and self-growth. 

Mythic Yoga: Sydney Solis Performs The Man Who Forgot He Was God from the Yoga Vasistha

Sydney Solis performs Mythic Yoga: The Man Who Forgot He Was God from the Yoga Vasistha at The MACDeLand Slam DeLand, Florida August 15, 2015

EVEN SAMURAIS WRITE POETRY

Published in The Squawkback June 2014

My 6-and-a-half-year-old son wanted to be a policeman for Halloween. But the monster-sized Halloween costume outlet store that I took him to was out of policeman costumes except for one that was missing the hat yet still cost twenty-five bucks. His second choice was the U.S. Army soldier fatigues. I thought back to the 5:30 p.m. newscasts about Iraq in which my son said his favorite part was the fallen heroes. Young faces and life stories in thirty-seconds. The face of death this fall as we notice how so many old movie stars are dying this time of year, and how much faster the yellow and red leaves are raining down upon us and the cooling earth as we pick out masks to laugh at death and gut the pumpkin into our own disguise. The fruits of summer off the withering vine to ease the tension of the decline, of our own death, inevitable.

I was aghast about the uniform, considering that after his business went bankrupt last year, my son’s father committed suicide by shooting himself in the heart in front of a fireman. But I remembered America’s wars and I didn’t want to dampen my son’s self-esteem with my disapproval lest he become depressed as a teenager and become homicidal rather than military.

He picked out a gun. He picked the Uzzi police gun. The salesman commented that he didn’t know police used Uzzis and I said, I didn’t know that the Army used Tommy guns like the packaging illustrated. Then the saleslady at the checkout accidentally dropped the Uzzi on the floor and broke its rat-a-tat-tat sound that would’ve made me insane eventually and thrown it across the room at some point, breaking it to stop the noise. Like my Aunt Ruthie did with my cousin Suzy’s pull-string Tom and Jerry doll that was given to me as a broken hand-me-down when I was a child visiting family in St. Louis one summer. Turns out it was the last Uzzi, so the saleslady gave it to us for free and we bought the Tommy gun too.

At home my son watches the Tom and Jerry’s best chase scenes DVD that his father’s brother gave him and he laughs and laughs at teeth being smashed out of Tom like keys on a piano. Later he imitates Jerry who had dropped light bulbs that smashed like bombs on the kitchen floor and scared Tom to death. I worry, then reflect that the Bhagavad Gita was written for the warrior class, and samurais wrote poetry. I love poetry. I also love to stab Caesar in the silent safety of backstage. The tension released. Darkness assuaged. My drama complete as I surrender and exhale, shrinking toward the tomb.

During the school day, my little boy lays his army costume out on the floor of his bedroom, feet facing the doorway. Like a soldier was melted by X-ray eyes. Only the shape of the cloth pants and shirt topped with the plastic meshed helmet reminds me a boy was once there. At night, my little boy wears the costume to sleep, and I lie beside him. Like the mother on the AOL news today who died of a broken heart after her son was killed in Iraq. I wonder if it’s me. I wonder if it’s me.

Prescribed Burns

One day the pesero door hits me in the head, the toilet overflows and all I consume is Diet Coke and nicotine. The next I’m helping you pick out new wallpaper for your downstair’s bathroom, 

wondering what pesticide to apply to your lawn. 
So easy. Too right

For inside me the thief and beggar give way to the lover who flees for her life, with eyes closed and $5 in quarters in her fist she proceeds alone through airport security. The woman who stands at the bar with arms folded in front of her chest, head soaked in lime juice and Corona.

How do I explain that to her the murk of Mexico City air tastes better than Rocky Mountain spring water. That condemned brick buildings with bird cages in the windows are more beautiful than gray wood boxes that strangle the prairie. I heard that some good stories still exist in your world. With the buffalo gone the Mountain Clover no longer nests and rangers must prescribe burns to return the Prairie National Grasslands to its right height to encourage the birds’ return.

I wait somewhere in a picture frame,

haunting old cigar rooms with bad dope.

I am but the wisdom teeth in my jewelry box,

old pain you ought to forget.

Let me die like old Aztec gods

flint rubble forever suffocating in humid hand-scratched tombs.

Forget me beneath Eiffel towards and old lovers without scent.

Forgive me for schizophrenic ancestors, shortness of breath

rough elbows and lost maps.

Love me as one day whistling at a grand slam,

bright-eyed under a Memorial Day sun.

Take me as medicine, some venom, some honey

and one winter morning the burn of my cigarette ash will land on your tongue 
and I will return.

The Devil’s Mother

The toad that blocks the well from flowing wine. The rat that gnaws at the roots of the tree and withers its flowers. You would never have known about the toad and rat had you not travelled to the devil to pluck three golden hairs from his head and chin. You would never have married the princess if the devil's mother hadn't helped you and asked her son the questions for you of why the toad and rat were there, so that within the woolen folds of her skirt you could hear the answers hiding in the plain sight of darkness. You might have missed your fortune and been left stranded on the river bank.

Instead, for your courageous work, so clear the problem of the toad and rat. They bubbled up, because you went looking for them, even though the King sent you out on completely different business with the devil. To release dams and flow wine, strengthen roots and grow golden apples from the once twisted branches of your body, mended from the inside out, stitched together with moonlight and fairytales that map transport to the stars without ever leaving your seat. All because the devil's mother helped you and took you in her lap,
and sang to you these words

Dip deep into the inkwell of your body with breath.

Let it fill your voice with story.
Then enchant the whole world with its flowing song.

Work of Art

I am constantly an artwork, gazing, moving, living through landscapes painted with the blood of every mother's womb. Scenes with echoes of meadows hover nearby. Waiting doe catch the scent of approaching stags and wonder, is there any end to this mystery of who makes sunflowers gyrate their heads with the sun and whistling steam engines turn wheels of time framed within bones and flesh that provide a pitcher to pour the world as me, imagined fresh each day, as flowers in a vase, displayed in front of an open window, ensconced by the splendor of creation, born for all to delight their eyes upon

the Earth.

Wrong Men

They are like soldiers

all the same 

unable to feel

yet they come after you like the enemy to be won

claiming the territory of your body

clever spy
trained to extract information
knows how to invade

all the corners of your privacy
until you reveal your heart

the fatal opening

unsuspecting of a trap 

the snare at your ankle

sets off the explosion 

shellshocked
you're left on the barren field, bleeding
as they march away 

no remorse 

for their duty 

to woman 

left for dead

all those wrong men

who buried
you

alive 

Dreamwork

How luxurious this jewel

the eye of a flower

the flicker of a bird's wing

Listen to the deep where the lotus roots its material
in a mass of mud
below

Hear those voiceless words beaming
through the silence on the shores
of breath

My self

crowds out the mind

with a suit of space

that takes me to the door of my heart

There an old woman points me where to look in its cavern 

so deep

her speech

soft

as petals 

a dove's wing

constantly on the threshold of a dream

as if falling through space and exhaling last words

It is by dying that I live

so take me willingly, free and brave

More Story Poetica

Hibiscus, St. Croix, USVI 2013
Mixed Media Collage
 by Sydney Solis

Estudio Sol - Foto Arte

More Story Poetica 
by
Sydney Solis