Published and shared posthumously with permission
by Catherine L Schweig
Janavi Held (1965-2018) was an artist, dancer, photographer, yogini and poet originally
from Brooklyn. The daughter of publishers and the niece of Joseph Heller—author of the bestselling classic, Catch-22—Janavi was raised to love books, despite having struggled with dyslexia. Janavi started writing her own poetry and wandering around with her father’s camera as a child. She was a very gentle, yet adventurous spirit. In 1984, at the age of nineteen—while a student at NaropaUniversity—Janavi began practicing Bhakti Yoga. She graduated with honors from Goddard College (2005-2009) where she studied poetry, photography, and media studies. Bedridden in the last years of her life, Janavi processed the intense physical pain that characterized her illness through spontaneously immersing herself in artistic and spiritual growth. During this “renaissance of her soul” she authored Letters to My Oldest Friend: A Book of Poetry and Photography (Krishna West Inc., 2017) and contributed poems to two poetry anthologies, Bhakti Blossoms: A Collection of Contemporary Vaishnavi Poetry (Golden Dragonfly Press, 2017), and Goddess: When She Rules—Expressions by Contemporary Women (Golden Dragonfly Press, 2018). Two of Janavi’s poems were also shortlisted for the prestigious Hamilton House International Poetry Prize awarded by the University Centre Grimsby, and published in their anthology Eternal (Hammond House, 2017). Janavi passed away at the age of 53, on December 8, 2018. She left behind an eclectic collection of work spanning across various mediums of expression, including artistic photography, cinematography, essays, short stories, digital art, and especially, poetry. Janavi’s voluminous literary oeuvre consists of over four thousand poems—some of them appearing in her posthumous poetry collection: Whispers From Her Deathbed (Golden Dragonfly Press, 2022) You may read more of Janavi’s poems and view her artwork, including her digital collages, on www.janaviheld.weebly.com
IT’S TIME
I saw a plum tree dressed in full paisley blossoms,
and although the wind touched my cheeks
with cool fingers,
I felt the sun high
overhead,
breaking through the billowing, unattached air.
It is time to stop peeling open the various wounds
of long-ago yesterdays:
let that spring-like evolution
bring young skin to cover those blistering memories,
let a well-earned amnesia transform dried memories
into food for tomorrow’s nutrition.
Perhaps it is time to sleep,
even when old nightmares threaten
the sanctity of rest,
even when I cannot walk forward
properly just yet,
even when the fog of this cold spring
still shrouds the horizon
and makes invisible the painted sky.
ROOTS
Discarded longings
penetrate the silence
like lightening
reminding me of
yesterday’s earthquakes
and unwanted passions
which tear the roots
out of my silence
the dregs of dismantled
intentions beg for time
and I am here
just here thickening
in the shadow
of yesterday’s dreams.
WALK
I am alone now
Listening to answers
To the questions
I’ve posed
To my intuition, my very own
Miniature version of God
I don’t always want
To do what I’m told
But the sun keeps
Drawing up over
The eastern horizon
And I keep breathing,
So, faith still settles
Into my renegade bones.
Even though I want to run
You say,
“Running is for later
when you’ve learned how to walk.”
I SIT LISTENING
Listen
with quiet ears
so life
does not
unwillingly
pass you by.
A breath of story
blows over my past.
The indoor chimes
echo restless
in my windy mind.
Then, dawn comes;
I sit waiting
for the perfect image
to grow in my veins.
I see,
I am lighter today,
quieter today,
listening to the sounds of creation.
Perfect is not a song I know.
Still, I sit listening.
SOUNDTRACK
The voice of friendship
speaks my soul
back to life
when I have spent
a night in lamentation.
And the sounds of the cresting sun
singing the moon and stars to rest
with her brilliant orange choirs.
And the river
restless, running,
shocking cold to tree roots
who rest and reach to her.
And those trees
velvet, golden, shape-shifting
aspens dancing
partnering with the wind,
their autumn song
prying my eyes and ears
away from sorrow.
They all chant and sing
to my broken open chest,
and in their music,
I neglect all the pain
which has chased me for years.
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