the hedge

julian alden weir connecticut scene at branchville

on the other side of the hedge

another world

beckons

a world

that affords

the most simple

and commonplace

it's a world

in which goodness

and grace

are the currency

a world in which

blessings

are respected all the more

for their unknowing

of expectation

passing through the hedge

and wandering down the dusty road

requires nothing more

than a kind and loving heart

a trusting and thoughtful mind

and a sense of purpose

infused with goodness

unfettered by expectation

push the densely matted branches apart

look

see

julian alden weir branchville, connecticut

i cast my net into the sea

in the morning i cast my net into the sea

i dragged up from the dark abyss

things of strange aspect and strange beauty

some shone like a smile,

some glistened like tears,

and some were flushed like the cheeks of a bride

when with the day's burden i went home

my love was sitting in the garden idly

tearing the leaves of a flower

i hesitated for a moment

and then placed at her feet

all that i had dragged up

and stood silent

she glanced at them and said,

'what strange things are these?

i know not of what use they are!'

i bowed my head in shame and thought

'i have not fought for these

i did not buy them in the market;

they are not fit gifts for her.'

then the whole night through

i flung them one by one into the street

in the morning travellers came;

they picked them up and carried them into far countries

all words ~ rabindranath tagore

slow motion

portions of my day are spent looking at these forms.

reading them for holes, cracks, ice, tongues of tarmac.

my ears are attuned to the motors of the cars, the buses, the trucks

and of course to the calls of my friends the crows.

my nose takes in the smells of the many restaurants and houses i pass by.

baking and cooking smells carry a long way - both in the air and in my heart.

thankfully further than the harsher diesel and catalytic converter smells.

my body feels the changes in temperature.

there's a noticeable distinction between the warmth of the inner town

and the cooler air of the edge of town where the wind has more freedom.

i know all of this because i walk and i ride bicycles.

i know that my sensitivity to my environment

is due in no small part to the need to have my senses attuned - for survival.

and from that basic need has come my need to write and to share what i see . . .

and then to share what i have learned from what i see.

i could never have imagined

the goodness that has come from such a simple choice.

slowing down some of the processes of experiencing this world, allowing for a degree of suffering (because i won't fool anyone into thinking that using your body to get around this world is always fun and easy

or painless or without consequence) brings gifts.

as anne lindbergh said

'if you surrender completely

to the moments as they pass,

you live more richly those moments.'

sullen light

the light between

the darkened dawn

and the darker dusk

flickers faintly

all day long

through a vanilla fog

a light

whose soft and sullen spirit

cries for the hope

a candle

or a small fire

might bring

a little winter walk

this is the view . . .

in late january during a small snowfall

looking out one of my classroom windows.

what a gift for my kids and i to see trees every time we look outside.

at the end of the day

my walk home takes me across a bridge.

the river is still open, but ice has very slowly built out from the sides

on the other side of the bridge there are ducks.

they don't seem to care what season it is . . .

some nights i take a right turn after the bridge.

i cross the railway tracks.

and follow a route

that takes me around what is known locally as little lake.

it's not a lake at all but a widening of the river.

no matter.

it's beautiful all the same.

and on those lovely nights when the wind is soft,

the air is gentle

and i have no idea what time it is

and really have no interest . . .

i stop right here

for a while

i'm sure you understand

the black cherry in winter

three years ago this tree was dying

i didn't know why but he was clearly sad

i asked him what was wrong and he told me

so i took the dead branches off him

spent more time watering him

and gave him my love

the next year he blossomed -

a cloud of blossoms

each as soft as a kiss

have you held a blossom on your lips?

i was deeply thrilled

to touch the pink blossoms

each carefully painted

with thin deep red threads

but to feel my friend's rough body

to know that he had found his life again

well that was pure joy

and that joy

was driven even deeper

by the appearance of fruit

the birds ate it all in three days

but to know that the black cherry

had returned and made its place again

was the purest magic

he's sleeping right now

but i drop in on him

to let him know

i'm still around

waiting

and hoping

that he will be too

searching

image: kevin westerberg

i walked into a small now defunct record store (the record pedlar) in toronto in the late eighties and saw a man enter the shop and walk up to the front desk.

i heard him ask the tattoed and pierced boy at the till:

"where's the michael brook section".

the boy at the till said "i'll show you" and the two walked side-by-side

to a plywood stand jampacked with vinyl.

the boy at the till returned to his post as the man thumbed through the pile. after a while, the man went back to the counter. "thanks for stocking my stuff, call me if you need any more".

i was caught in the moment. it was michael brook himself!!!

michael brook - the guy who'd worked with brian eno.

the guy who taught the edge how to play infinite guitar !

when i moved from toronto and continued to follow michael's path through his work i was astonished at who he drew into his circle. robert fripp, mary margaret o'hara, julia fordham, jane siberry, u. srinivas, youssou n'dour, and, most amazing to me was nusrat fateh ali khan but more about that another time.

today i'd like to share with you a piece of work that spun on my turntable many evenings.

the piece is entitled "searching" in which michael plays alongside the dutch musician pieter nooten

searching

you’re searching

words ... words ... sentences

see these things

our end

slowly moving in the air . . .

hear our thoughts

hear how they play

a long forgotten tune

in the big green coloured chair

can no man rebuild rooms

corners of

all me

arise high above this bed

searching

you’re searching -

the images

the memories

but see these plans

our end

slowly moving in the air . . .

red hair

i should be genetically predisposed to be drawn to red hair

because a portion of my genes are drawn from a small pool in

the border country melding england and scotland.

when i went there

i walked up the pennine spine of the middle of england.

it was not like going home.

it was like being somewhere that had long ago said goodbye

and added under its breath "and don't come back".

who knows the story behind that?

nowadays,

when red hair walks into my life i'm drawn to it

and then i usually run the other way.

i loved the colour red when i was a teenager.

my room had a red wall.

crimson red.

the accents were bright red.

i had a copy of chairman mao's little red book.

it all sang for me.

perhaps that's why when the willow tree outside my mother's home caught the setting sun i was captivated.

passage

my eyes turn to the very sky

the light falls from

tumbling past

soft-feathered birds

bursting through

dark green needled trees

flowing molten

along iced fingers

and settling in hummocks of pale pink blue

on the soft peace of sunday morning snow

throughout

surely

the light of the sun

rising higher with each day

will shorten my shadow

like life itself

i like to find these little places

where the animals come to drink

i wonder at what passes through their minds

as they approach such a spot

carefully reading the snowy indentations

of others

who have passed this way before

listening for sounds

and sniffing the air for scents

that suggest companionship

or danger

and then cautiously

lowering their heads

to lap the still water

i like to find these little places

because they are so much

like life itself

dogwood

the crimson tangle

of dogwood

on an overcast winter day

it's soft fire

flickers warmly

in my eyes

frost-hardened heat

alone on a winter's night

it's flag-whipping cold

my essence brother du mu wrote poems so very long ago

and yet

they're right here

right now

like me

grasping

at the essence

of cold winter aloneness

~

outside the window, wind and snow blow straight,

i clutch the stove and open a flask of wine.

~

later on, liu zong yuan arrived in a similar space when he wrote;

not a bird in miles flying in the cold,

on all roads and tracks, not even a soul.

only one old man with a grass hat and shawl,

fishing in his lonely boat in the snow.

~

oh man it's cold and lonely ...

the wild deer call

my sense

of

the sparse

and partitioned

experiencing

of mid-winter

that i know

is that

if

i hold tightly

to colour and form

no matter how small

a quantity

of each

is present

i will also hold

more tightly

to my self

the wilderness is shadowed with white new-flying snow.

a hundred birds from an empty mountain scatter and return;

three thousand miles of floating clouds darken and lighten;

a wildgoose fledgling, left behind, cries for its flock,

then river waves are calmed

and birds are mute that were singing,

like a long wind swaying a forest, a downpour breaking tiles,

a cascade through the air, flying over tree-tops.

...a wild deer calls to his fellows.

words excerpted from "on hearing dong play the flageolet - a poem to palace attendant fang" by li qi

street song

the creative use of body on the street is a

vital expression of the human condition at its most vulnerable.

for this alone

i love street energy

for its outward arrogance

and its inward reverence

the first expression

of this reverent arrogance

comes from korea

in the form of

prepix dance group

the energy between the dancers and the audience

is breathtaking!

this is such a stunning

and visually complex piece

that my strategy is to watch the clip four times -

once for each of the dancers.

you'll see.

headphones on ladies and gentlemen!!

body

the next clip has already made an appearance on my "cycles" blog.

danny mcaskill - does things on a bike, with his body that are simply beautiful

and hard to ignore.

body

a peninsula of light

following a worn and fractured canyon

i got caught in the lift and tread of my feet

until finally emerging into

a peninsula of light

i heard the mumbled beginnings

of a tale of tales

worn bare

through their retelling

and i listened to the old stories

all the same

because

they pointed the way

past serpents bent on devouring

whatever was handy

and especially because

i have always wanted to find

the golden icicle cave

which as everyone knows

is where the real treasures are kept

washed ashore

the sky lays softly

upon her weathered wooden mouth

eyes creased

by countless waves

body blurred

like a vision

i think i can hear her wordless whispers

but she holds her thoughts

like sheets pulled up close

keeping out the night

forest echo

hello and welcome to the golden fish!!!

if you have a craving for poetry today, then nip over to my other blog flow.

i've shared a little something to one of tess kincaid's prompts.

if you need to read something connected to cycling then pop in here.

otherwise stay right here and listen to this - one of the most beautiful songs i've heard in the last two years!

headphones on please ladies and gentlemen.

to read a review of this album and to hear more - streamed - go here.

home through the snow

edward willis redfield between daylight and darkness new york city

after an hour the mild

confusion of snow

amongst the lamplights

has softened and subdued

the nervous lines of bare

branches etched against

the chill twilight.

paul gustav fischer jacobenson square, copenhagen

now behind me, upon the pallid

expanse of empty boulevard,

the snow reclaims from the darkened

staring shop windows,

guy wiggins winter in new york 1927

one by one, a single

line of footprints.

maurice cullen winter night, craig street, montreal

all words kenneth rexroth

the quiet house

i am deeply grateful

for the rare moments

of aloneness

when

even i

get out of my way

winter loneliness

in a mountain hamlet grows

only deeper, when

guests are gone, and leaves and grass

withered are; so runs my thought

italicized words minamoto no muneyuki ason

the little window

i found

a little window in the snow

holding my breath

i moved closer

to see inside

a world

of soft round pebbles

sleeping

the reed flute

whenever i forget what this is all about

and get caught up

in the apparently significant

i find the words

or a place

that remind me

of the very simple and the very complex

all at once

God picks up the reed-flute world and blows

each note is a need coming through one of us

a passion, a longing-pain

remember the lips

where the wind-breath originated

and let your note be clear

jelaluddin rumi

scarfed

i love getting mail

real mail

a soft parcel

sealed

with lots of clear tape

and colour splashed

with foreign stamps

the other day

i opened my mail box and inside

was just such a parcel

can you imagine?

it was from france!

i have never received anything from france!

what is it . . . what could it be?

cutting a thin sliver off the end of the package i pulled out a scarf and a card

and it was from . . . .

nancy and maurice and the rest of the rats and all the cats and of course

the pink bunny!!!

so thankyou nancy!!!

so very thankyou!!!!!

for the excitement, for the beautiful hand made scarf, for the gorgeous card

and especially for the soft parcel that came all the way from france!!

steven