unto thee i

unto thee i

burn incense

the bowl crackles

upon the gloom arise purple pencils

fluent spires of fragrance

the bowl

seethes

a flutter of stars

a turbulence of forms

delightful with indefinable flowering,

the air is

deep with desirable flowers

i think

thou lovest incense

for in the ambiguous faint aspirings

the indolent frail ascensions,

of thy smile rises the immaculate

sorrow

of thy low

hair flutter the level litanies

unto thee i burn

incense,

over the dim smoke

straining my lips are vague with

ecstasy my palpitating breasts inhale the

slow

supple

flower

of thy beauty,

my heart discovers thee

unto

whom i

burn

olbanum

e.e. cummings

in these quiet years

without

the fortune

of all that i know as

'my life'

i might not have seen

the subtle stroke

of a wildgrass paintbrush

on its canvas of new snow

in these quiet years growing calmer,

lacking knowledge of the world’s affairs,

i stop worrying how things will turn out.

my quiet mind makes no subtle plans.

returning to the woods i love

a pine-tree breeze rustles in my robes.

wang wei

street ice

what story is written

in this softly threaded

tracery?

did this water once pass beneath

the bow of a roman trireme?

perhaps it cooled

paul bowles' lips

as he sat in

a moroccan bar?

or could it have fallen as rain

on my parents before i was born?

here it is.

a thin cracked

frozen film

on a road.

filled with stories.

the lonely winter wind

the wind

last night

sang

low, cold and thin

i couldn't help listening

as the wordless sounds

found their way through

the cracked glass of the window,

across the softness

of the bed

and into my ears.

dulled with sleep

i heard the words

as wishes

"release me"

as winter comes,

the sound

from the valley stream stops,

and a wind from the mountain

visits my window.

shikishi

a crystal sail

frost

lifts a crystal sail

to cross the ocean window

david's birthday

fifty years ago today my little brother was born.

he's the little one on the left.

i doubt i was bothered by his arrival.

i doubt i was happy.

as time went on we learned

to have a real

and deep hate for each other.

i have memories of taking out

one of his front teeth with a bicycle pump.

i have little white scars on my left bicep

where he stabbed me

with an x-acto knife.

i have memories of our evening fight

- yep that's right -

every evening we had a fight

as soon as we were "tucked in".

we fought in silence

because

any noises that escaped us

would draw the attention

of our father

who art reincarnated.

the attention we received

from him

was far more painful

than anything either of us

could dish out to the other.

but you know what?

over time

we grew closer.

still leaving lots of space

the way neighbouring cats do

but close.

close enough for hugs,

close enough for

the truth of love.

so today

i think of my little brother

or "bruvver"

as i say

with love.

sweet day david!

steven

the sweetest gifts

yesterday's posting

came from a memory

of experiencing

the wistfulness that comes out of

a sense that things could

be better or different or better suited to my needs.

i felt that feeling a lot in my first three decades.

over time

i've accumulated so many

memories

some very small

and some very overwhelming in their scale.

they all

find a place in my

self.

i love

to fall back on them

when my daily experiencing

is more than i can bear

or when i feel

that

perhaps

i can learn something

from a moment

long passed.

but the most special

and magical

remembering

are those unbidden moments

that appear

without rhyme or reason

and fill my mind

with

their long past presence.

the loveliness of forms and thoughts and colours,

a moment marked and then as soon forgotten.

these things are ever near us, laid away,

hidden and waiting the appropriate times,

in the quiet garner-house of memory.

such gifts are sweetest when unsought.

all italicized words archibald lampman

a simple place

walking home from work

through the snowy streets of the city

lost in his thoughts

paul signac snow, boulevard de clichy, paris

he slowly climbed the stairs

to his tiny apartment

gustave caillebotte rooftops under snow

catching his breath -

a glass of wine in his hand -

he found himself

wishing

that he had

climbed the side of a hill

at the end of which waited

the place he called home.

a simple place.

alfred sisley a village street in winter

with a view

that left him breathless.

theodore robinson winter landscape

the gift from the manor

not long before christmas

a gift arrived

from willow of the manor

an oleg cassini crystal paperweight!

in my letter of thanks

i included a commitment -

to photograph the crystal through the seasons.

here then

is winter.

my blessings and gratitude willow!!!

a stone for a pillow

a frost-fractured

rock

spooning lovers.

using a stone for a pillow

I drift toward the clouds

santoka taneda

when silence becomes singing

an icicle

grows

outside my window

the sun fades

below the horizon

the beautiful whole

inside the beautiful part

i am a little church (far from the frantic

world with its rapture and anguish) at peace with nature

-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;

i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

ee cummings

the sky through fingers

the sky has been

filled

with clouds.

trace amounts

of snow

falls from them.

i keep looking up

waiting

for more

and what i see

is the sky

through the fingers

of trees with more patience than i.

the wise

winter trees

whose voices say

accept

that what is

is.

winter trees

all the complicated details

of the attiring and

the disattiring are completed!

a liquid moon

moves gently among

the long branches.

thus having prepared their buds

against a sure winter

the wise trees

stand sleeping in the cold.

william carlos williams

down stream

snow-swallowed valley

only the

winding river . . .

black fluent brush-stroke

boncho

~

not very far from here

a stream

makes its way through

the woods

fed by the countless springs

that trickle

down the valley sides

its shallow body

flows over

water rounded pebbles

making a music

that can't be contained

in words.

the sound of the stream

is as gentle

as gentle can be.

each pebble

feeling the water

flowing over its polished body

rings a tiny water chime

and in the clear air

of a winter morning

mingling

with the water's stony chimes

it's the

slow gentled

music

of my heart

i hear.

wind fingers

silver-white fingers

of wind

stroke

entangled

bare

winter trees

cold caresses

the warmth

well-hidden

bitter winter wind --

blowing now

yet no leaves to drop

natsume sôseki

belonging

it's not so

very far

to my mother's

home

the journey allows

for a blurring of worlds

to a place

we know as

belonging

yes is a pleasant country

this morning’s listening comes courtesy of

swiss singer susanne abbuehl.

her disc, “compass” is breathtaking in its ability to take complex text

and place it in a very listenable and yet challenging musical frame.

the music is sparse and economical,

giving susanne’s voice the opportunity to slip in and around,

through and under the assemblage.

go here to see and hear a sample of susanne’s work.

listen here to a work written by ee cummings and sung by susanne:

not a breath

snow clouds in the sky

not a breath of wind moves

in the winter woods

through the trees

a doorway

blending with the air

i pass through

into a hushed

reverent

place

where treasures

in the form of

water, snow

and dried leaves

form the currency

of a world

caught

within this world

gently worn

near my mother's home

at the water's edge

ice and pebbles

dance

backwards and forwards

side-to-side

in the ebb and flow

of the waves

much like lovers

shaping

each others destiny

as much

as they are being shaped

shining wings

on my walk to school

a form in the snow.

i stop long enough

to catch my breath -

for it had escaped

without my knowing.

oh give me wings

for my back,

shining wings

which seek

only virtue

mariko kitakubo

the bridge

i was making my way through a valley

alongside a small stream

still running

in mid winter!

my heart leapt

when i saw this

i leaned against a tree

in wonder.

first snow

falling

on the half-finished bridge.

matsuo basho

entangled

mornings like this

i wake up

and

make my way

down the stairs.

sitting

still

i think -

so

here i am.

my coming, my going --

two simple happenings

that got entangled.

kozan ichikyo