haller lake

music whirls around this house in all its forms.

the cave singers are sort of new to me.

i think i heard something by them a year or so ago but i didn't really pay attention.

their latest release - "no witch" - has me captivated.

here's a field near me - late last autumn.

i'm looking backwards today - and then also forwards.

ladies and gentlemen - your headphones please

the cave singers haller lake

cathedral

after the past few days of sylvia's incisive and insightful words i feel a compulsion to return to the soft comfy down bedspread that e.e. cummings threw across the bed of my emerging self at the age of seventeen when i first received the revelation that it was very alright to crack the hardened spine of the book of poetry.

i was writing my own at the time and harbouring wishes to become famous and read by everyone and most especially to be one of the black mountain poets who were being read by the cool english teachers to their students and the even more famous writers who were signing record contracts and who of course

were always surrounded by long haired sweet-eyed girls!

now my wish is much simpler and then also much greater in its scope.

to bring goodness through whatever means i can in whatever time i am given to as many as i am intended to.

i am a little church (no great cathedral)

far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities

-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,

i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;

my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving

(finding and losing and laughing and crying) children

whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing

birth and glory and death and resurrection:

over my sleeping self float flaming symbols

of hope, and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

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

winter by spring, i lift my diminutive spire to

merciful Him whose only now is forever:

standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence

(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

e.e. cummings

verdell primeaux and johnny mike cathedral

the white schooner

i'm loving the writing of sylvia plath - reya's comment about sylvia's writing hovered in a sweet spot

"late february is the perfect season for the beautiful, fragile way your mind worked." it really is!!!

"the white schooner" frederick j. mulhaupt

at this wharf there are no grand landings to speak of

a gull holds his pose on a shanty ridgepole,

riding the tide of the wind, steady

the whole flat harbor anchored in

all around us the water slips

and gossips in its loose vernacular

farther out, the waves will be mouthing icecakes

even our shadows are blue with cold.

we wanted to see the sun come up

and are met, instead, by this iceribbed ship

the sun will diminish it soon enough:

each wave-tip glitters like a knife.

words excerpted from "a winter ship" sylvia plath

into glass

the winter landscape hangs in balance now,

air alters into glass and the whole sky

crimped like fern in the quartz atmosphere

words excerpted from "prologue to spring" by sylvia plath

these images were taken at night.

one of my students gave me a small glass sculpture with coloured lights.

i removed the coloured lights and digging under the ice at the back door i placed the lights

in such a way as to illuminate the accumulated ice.

as the thickness changes, the quality of light and the tiny speckles of colour also change.

the nest

in the time i've been given

i've gathered

the fallen leaves

rough-edged twigs

and colourful threads of experience

carefully weaving them

into the nest i know as myself

and still

somehow

life finds its way

through the little spaces

that in my haste

i didn't draw together tightly enough

i am vertical

i am not a tree with my root in the soil -

compared with me, a tree is immortal

tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars

thoughts gone dim

it is more natural to me, lying down

then the sky and i are in open conversation

words excerpted from "i am vertical" sylvia plath

opening outwards

the sun

like a pearl

settling in the silt

of an afternoon sky

small fires

tonight a small luxury - watching the day pass into evening

all the soft losses

the tender releasing

the coloured unfurling

this was such an evening

the myriad formless pieces of a day

gathering together

how these soft bodies

these tender hopes

kindle small fires

talkative world

if i only listened to the howling hungry for heat wind

and the soft hushing of the scudding clouds

well . . .

the sky had lots to say today

but i was much closer to the earth

bent over like the pre-mature man that i am

and of course

the trees leaned in

taking me into their confidence

and the sumac sang a song

about their dream

to become birds -

big soft red birds

no longer holding so firmly

to their branch and twig mothers

free to wing

through those butter yellow sky breaks

and most especially

through the vanilla pale violet and salmon clouds

they look up to all day long

so i walked on

keeping it simple

thinking my big thinks

and taking special care not to interrupt

this suddenly becoming

talkative world

february presents

my little part of the world was washed with wave after wave of warm air that

drifted up from the southern united states.

travelling in its great arms were huge gift-boxes of colours and smells and sounds and a softness that i can't really put into words although if i said it was like walking through clouds of talcum powder

would you understand?

it lasted two days and in that time, each of the boxes was ceremoniously opened and the contents released to adoring children and adults alike who smiled even as the misty rains blew in and especially when the clouds scudded past and left a clear blue sky with mister sun looking shy and bashful as he looked at what he'd done.

"hey thanks for the nice days my man!"

the small wheel

on a day like this

the great arms

that envelop me

pass through my sight in a flurry of wings

creasing the drifting edges of the clouds

and then beneath my feet

across the fields

the soil

the trees

the soft flow of rivers

almost as if they are looking

to catch and hold

my soul's filament spindle

humming taut and golden

stretched

and resonant

with the unfolding moment

sunrise by the river

in every beginning there is an ending

somewhere in the world

night just fell

perhaps gently

perhaps suddenly

behind what hill did this sun just slip

through which trees are the last fingers of night still playing

on which river has the last diamond of light just finished dancing

in whose eyes is this light fading

it simply was

stopping for a moment

in the river of wind

that had pushed me to this place

i stepped backwards

into a snow-blued eddy

my thoughts

wrapped around

this fragile sculpture

this drifting place

where nothing happened

it simply was

heaven and earth

they dropped like stars

on this

the stillest day

their

perfect forms

falling

like earthbound angels

and i got so close

i could see

their little wings

folded one against the other

brushing close

as they settled against

the winter metal

of a rusting fence

and so do

heaven and earth

rest first side by side

and then become each other

someone's sun

i'm in the woods

knee deep in snow

the sky is truly

this blue

the trees are truly bending down

to see who is passing through

bewitched by mysterious nearness

i gaze through a shadowy veil

and see an enchanted shoreline

and an enchanted distance

hidden secrets are given to me

someone’s sun is for me to hold

italicized words excerpted from the writing of aleksándr blok "the stranger"

every window a wall, every wall a window

followers of my other blog "flow" will be familiar with this piece of writing as i left it there a little while ago.

norman clark from an upstairs window

i am

sent outside

to play

sunday morning

even the sun is cold

behind me my mother

watches from the upstairs window

her sight of me

framed

by cream and butter-yellow curtains

now coal soot grey

and soft with dust

.

i like to let my sight of the world

be framed

by the garden walls

each moss-coated brick

has stories

of migrations

flowerings

fairy tales

but even the walls are silent

caught

like me

in the hollowness

of this day

.

the ground is frost hardened

and tumbling with hummocky grass

if my grandfather were still here

it would have flattened

under the weight

of his lawn roller

each blade

would have known the tidy snick of his shears

.

the sudden flapping of wings

draws my eyes skyward

to where tendril branches

grope across the grey expanse

each in search of its opposite

the wind is creating the music for a sort of dance

and i find my own arms and legs

waving and flailing

until

self-conscious

i stop and slowing my breathing

pat the dog's head

he looks up at me

with his orange-brown eyes

as if seeking something in me

if he could speak

i feel certain

he'd explain so much of all of this

the cold finds its way past my clothes

so i turn and open the door to the shed

inside

the darkness is comforting

a single window leaks light

onto workbenches

furred with shavings

the sweet smells of cedar

and machine oiled metal

weave in orange and blue threads

i sit on the floor

and think of my father

and my grandfather

they worked here

both dreamed of the inexplicable immensity

of this place

this world of worlds

within and without

bisected by the single thin thread of work

sitting on the floor

of the wooden shed

i sit still and listen

to the sounds

rising from other gardens

the candid psalm of silence

the candid psalm of silence rises whitely burning

the icy wastes are lit with sunset's radiant yearning

white altars stretch beneath the changeless icy skies

a prayer, not suppliant, a psalm, not voiced, arises

italicized words by konstantin balmont from "in the white land"

reflections

when i watch my children

pass a mirror

they bring me to think

of slender branches

reaching

touching

their own shadows

as a white candle

when you're little

you don't know to ask questions

to admire

it's enough to deal with

the difference

between you

and older people

coming to know

the simple wisdom

and quiet grace

of people

no matter their age

is one of the great blessings

of my life

as a white candle

in a holy place

so is the beauty

of an aged face.

from "the old woman" by joseph campbell

thirty below zero

come into the woods

the air is still and sweet

with the song

of a small bird

singing its tale of the snowy places

where ice fairies dance

hand-in-hand

with white rabbits

and wind spriggans

soft stepping

and floating on chilly zephyrs

past stately old maples

and graceful birch trees

we'll walk some more -

past bronzed autumn echoes

that rustle and shiver

with our passing

even as they reach

to kiss their own grey sliding shadows

oh, they remember us

from passings

not so long ago

footprints lost under the snow

under fallen leaves

under rain washed paths

under the dust

of summer

soft as a may rain

there was an unlikeliness about their friendship.

her an older woman, and him just moving into what his mom called "the messier side of adulthood".

all the same, they'd meet once a week and talk and drink tea and sometimes when she made scones they'd spoon some of her homemade strawberry jam onto them.

"the sweetest thing this side of summer" she'd say

as she popped the lid off an earthenware jar still cool from the cellar.

they'd met quite by chance as he'd been sweeping the floors at his late afternoon job at harper's five and dime. she'd been looking for something small and pretty to place on her kitchen window ledge.

see, a while back she'd been dusting and had knocked the small china cat that her brother had given her clean off the ledge. she'd watched helplessly as it bounced off the counter and then fell back down behind the stove. she knew from the sound it made when it hit the tile that there would be no need

to even think about gluing it all back together.

looking up and down the aisles of harper's it had been hard to see anything that would fit the bill.

the cobwebby shelves were filled with all sorts of knick knacks and distractions and she was rounding a corner when didn't she bump into the back of joey who was equally focussed on getting some of

the kansas dust up off the floor.

when she'd regained her composure and joey had mumbled his excuse me's she had moved further down the aisle, all the while watching him as he worked. then she'd said, "son, the way you sweep that floor looks to me more like someone painting a masterpiece" and he'd been so taken by her words that he plain forgot what he was doing and putting his brush up against the wall began a conversation

that carried through to this very day.

this early february day.

"ada what is it about birds that makes them need to sing so much?"

ada liked to settle back into her chair when he asked her questions that she needed to think about,

just so she'd get it right enough that he didn't go down a path that he might not come back from.

joey knew that when she settled back like that, this was a time for him to be quiet,

to let the sounds and the smells

of the house fill him up with their stories.

"joey i reckon they have so much sunshine and so many stories flying around all that sunshine that they try and tell some of 'em but it comes out all messy and more like songs than stories 'cause they're telling them fast like if you know what i mean."

"so if i slowed up the bird's songs they'd be more like words?"

"well, i sense that it's best to leave them alone", she replied. "soon as you start playing with that sort of thing you get yourself into a mess of bother", and she chuckled in that bubbling brown sugar voice of hers all sweet and soft and settled even deeper into her chair.

soon enough she'd be breathing the little sleep breaths that he'd come to know.

he'd sit on the floor for a while listening to her breathing in and out.

after a time, looking outside he'd see the mid winter light was almost all gone for the day and he'd get up and pull on his boots and coat and quiet as ever, walk down the creaky floorboard hall and pull the front door to with the gentlest tug to make sure the lock caught.

he liked to stop on the front steps and turn around as if she were standing there and he'd say

"thanks for the scones and jam and tea ada. i'll be back next week".

and he fancied he heard her reply, soft as a may rain "i'll be lookin' for ya".

visual prompt provided by tess at magpie tales

the sign

to tell the beauty would decrease,

there is a syllableless sea

of which it is the sign

emily dickinson excerpted from part five: the single hound (cxxiv)

listen to the wind

my father would come here
to watch the sea

i see now
that towards the end of his life
his learning
came hard and fast
but also gently

and when he learned
what he needed
it was all he could do
to hold on to this place

he knew he had to turn around
the next arc of the helix
and so he prepared himself
as best he could

because
talking to the wind
gets you nothing
but answers
that ask questions of you

so

better to be silent

better to listen
to the wind

satyagraha

one

then many

each

filled with stillness

each somehow seeing past the darkness

with eyes like souls

eyes like hearts

eyes like mouths

warming the air

with cinnamon

breath-clouds

each breathing

for

the souls they see for

for the hearts they see for

each

locating reconciliation

redemption even

in the voice

of one man

sitting

alone

with the many

satyagraha

"i have also called it love-force or soul-force. in the application of satyagraha, i discovered in the earliest stages that pursuit of truth did not admit of violence being inflicted on one’s opponent but that he must be weaned from error by patience and compassion. for what appears to be truth to the one may appear to be error to the other. and patience means self-suffering. so the doctrine came to mean vindication of truth, not by infliction of suffering on the opponent, but on oneself."

mahatma gandhi

whole as all

the light of a day

is so much a part of its song

when you think of

the words as its colour

well here they are moving

from a sudden tangerine at dawn

to a slow flowering mid-morning yellow

if you don't show care

on the cloudless days

it can catch you full-faced

and unsubtle

in its glare

with care

it is a scarf

of embroidered silk

drawn across the face

of your world

even the trees

deep in their mid winter contented state

wrapped hard around

the soft green flame

that flickers inside them

even the trees

get caught up in the dance

of the returning sun

and perhaps it's not so much

a dance

as a flirting

between dark and light

a kissing in the shadows

a passing of notes

but it's there

that subtle oscillation

that reciprocation

that solar embrocation

rays as lips

sky as mouth

branches as fingers

whole as all

at daybreak

i had a dream and i awoke with it -

poor little thing that i had not unclasped

after the kiss goodbye.

and at the surface how it gasped -

this thing that i had loved in the unlit

depth of the drowsy sea . . .

ah me!

this thing which i drifted toward the sky.

driftwood upon a wave -

senseless the motion that it gave.

"at daybreak" walter conrad arensberg

turning

on this day

everything is holding its place

under the clouds

my body turns

my mind holds still

one hand earthward

the other towards the sky

until

the entire detail

of everything

that is

floods through

the sky above the roof

so blue, so calm!

a tree, above the roof

waves its crown.

the bell in the sky we see,

gently rings.

a bird in the tree over there

sings his complaint.

words excerpted from le ciel est, par-dessus le toit by paul verlaine

february

i like to be

on the good side

of the candle

i like to feel

the ink draw up the nib

i like to follow

the arcs and quivers

of words emerging

~

today

the sky is thin as wax paper

all around me

people are glimmering feebly

as they pass

through the day

there's more light to be had

than a month ago

but there's an empty

almost

but not quite

hovering

lifelessness

about the air

boris pasternak spent time reflecting on a very similar sort of day

february. get ink, shed tears.

write of it, sob your heart out, sing,

while torrential slush that roars

burns in the blackness of the spring.

excerpted from "winter's night" by boris pasternak