I Am The Phoenix Poem by Suzanne Hayasaki

I rise from my own ashes, daily.
I seem to have a flair for conflagration.
I just can’t seem to get things right.
I am a walking disaster.

I suggest you keep your distance,
And stay upwind if possible.
You never know when I am going to blow.
The tiniest spark sets me alight.
I am as fragile as a filament,
As flammable as frankincense.

You see, I am my own experiment.
I am an auto-alchemist.
I am trying to turn lead into gold.
I hear it is possible, I just need to find the right incantation,
The right combination of words and symbols,
Insights and paradigms.

If I can just catch my reflection in the mirror of destiny,
I might be able to peer around the corner at who I need to be.
But as of yet, I have only caught glimpses of paradoxes,
I have only peeked at puzzling prophesies.
I have seen my future, and it is more of the same:
Failure after failure after failure.

And still I refuse to lose hope.
Rome is an eternal work in progress, is it not?
From Romulus and Remus to its current catholic character,
From the sun-roofed Coliseum to the Eden-scened ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,
It has been ground zero for the march of time.
All of its past rests in strata of ashes.
Each era plowed under to feed the seeds of the future.
Each hero in turn brought to his knees,
Often by a dagger in his back or a self-thrust sword in his belly.
The next generation nursed on the blood of its father.
And yet, Rome herself is eternal.
Her proudest moments frozen in time,
Preserved for posterity,
Observed by eternity.

And so I give myself up to the fire,
Knowing it will only renew me,
To yet another attempt at enlightenment,
Another bid for Buddhahood.

I may cycle, spiral, spin myself dizzy,
Without ever catching hold of the golden ring,
The key to my innermost being.
But at least I will have spent my time trying,
Enduring the trials of self-examination.
Putting myself to the test of self-determination.
Whatever the outcome at the end of my days,
Which are just an entry into a new form of existence,
I will have no one but myself to look back on,
Either with self-incrimination or to relive the moment of triumph,
When finally, I grasped the truth, as trifling as it may turn out to be,
Of “Why? ”

“Why me? ”
“Why now? ”
“Why must the walls be so high? ”
“Why must each day be so short? ”
“Why must the path be so rocky? ”
“The weather so stormy? ”

But for now, I simply pull up my hood,
Shoulder my pack of minimal provisions,
And set out for the next peak, the next ridge,
The next narrow pass through crags,
Hoping for just a glimpse of my goal,
A summit somewhere ahead.

I know it is not “the summit.”
I know there is no such thing.
But I search for a hermitage.
A safe cave in this maze of mountains.
A place where I can make my nest.
And set it alight.

To rise, once again.