mid spring (iii)

i stood
and lived
inside
this painting
that moved
and grew
and changed colour

every night is different

this is

an evening that arrives slowly

in the closing

of the cherry blossoms

so pink then pale white

in the moonlight

this is an evening

that flutters in featherfuls

through the deep navy blue

cloud sky

this is an evening

of candles

each flickering of which

wishes into and beside itself

this is an evening

of painted shadows

and vanilla fingers

spreading across

this little reaching out world

that begs

and hopes in fervent whispered prayers

for you

to see

the goodness and the joy

in the very wondrous unfolding

that is your living selfness

forming

blooms and leaves and twigs and branches and air 

all speaking at the same time

all using the same language

all understanding

mid spring (ii)

i very love

the stark and softening

beauty

of a surprise mid-spring snow

mid spring (i)

the little baby leaves are starting to appear now which makes for lots of tiny flutterings and orange and pale red and even yellow leaflets turning green. there's a joyfullness about it all that is echoed in the songs of the birds, the little rushing arounds of the chipmunks, the purposeful nest building, the nibblings of the rabbits, and the happy calls of the kids playing on the street and in the park . . . .

how does this happen?

each day

at some point

in time

i face

a sense

of how this world i live in

formed

when my senses

formed

their own opinions

and i left my

intuitions

and simple understandings

behind

it does not seem

"... it does not seem that nature, as some divines would have us think, was built to stage man's miracle plays, or created as an illustration of his various religions. nature takes no account of man and his curious arts, his weird worships, but remains dark and unresponsive, beetling upon him as he creeps, ant-like, from his momentary past to his doubtful future, painfully carrying his tiny load of knowledge. but indifference is not hampering, as interference is; therefore those that feel within them the stir of a growing soul prefer the dour laws of earth to the drag of the herd of mankind, and fly from the house of man to the forest, where the emotionless silence always seems to be gathering, as waves mount and swell, to the disclosure of a mystery."

mary webb

excerpted from "the house in dormer forest"

(the entire book can be downloaded as a pdf at this site)

she says

i

will

feel

then fill

this sky

with the selflessness

of

my own

wishing

and i will become

the tree

of your imagining

the real beauty

how

did the rose

ever open its heart

and give to this world

all its

beauty?

it felt the encouragement of light

against its

being,

otherwise,

we all remain

too

frightened.

hafiz

the waterfall

for all they said,

i could not see the waterfall

until i came and saw the water falling,

its lace legs and its womanly arms sheeting down,

while something howled like thunder,

over the rocks,

all day and all night –

unspooling

like ribbons made of snow,

or god’s white hair.

at any distance

it fell without a break or seam, and slowly, a simple

preponderance –

a fall of flowers – and truly it seemed

surprised by the unexpected kindness of the air and

light-hearted to be

flying at last.

gravity is a fact everybody

knows about.

it is always underfoot,

like a summons,

gravel-backed and mossy,

in every beetled basin –

and imagination –

that striver,

that third eye –

can do a lot but

hardly everything. the white, scrolled

wings of the tumbling water

i never could have

imagined. and maybe there will be,

after all,

some slack and perfectly balanced

blind and rough peace, finally,

in the deep and green and utterly motionless pools after all that

falling?

“the waterfall” – for may wenson

mary oliver

look up!

after school, a chai tea latte softens the edges of almost everything, making a cheery countenance

much more likely!

looking above the rim of my mug of frothy transporting substance

this ceiling brings a smile to my mouth . . . .

smiles have a life of their own

bringing light into a space

i've noticed that

people who i don't know

are much more inclined to talk

and to share their stories

if i am smiling . . . .

this world

this world spins, decays, and winds itself into itself

to begin again . . .

and again . . .

research and development

i recently entered the woods with a friend who understands and supports my need to be among the trees and the rushing water. she also understands my total (albeit incomprehensible to the thinking world's ) lack of interest in the names of things and recognizes that naming love, beauty and the very little things that grow or scamper or flutter above my head reduces them in some way because those aren't the names they have for themselves . . . for sure they're not . . . they don't even have names!!!!

so there i was, deep in the woods, on a day away from golden fish world headquarters, in the middle of some research and development work, repeating the mantra that "field work is at the core of personal work . . . ."

touching trees brings you closer to their hearts . . i have proof from personal experience...

i have heard their stories . . .

this tree told me that life's good until you get hit by lightning and start to rot . . .

then you become something else's idea of life!

not the tree's idea which had more to do with vastness and leaves and bird nests and squirrels.

this is me experiencing something of a download from a former tree . . .

which (until the lightning strike)

was a very happy tree with a superb and droll sense of humour . . .

and i found myself quivering, my eyes closing to take it all in,

a feeling washed through me that this ... surely this ... would be the insight that has eluded me for decades . . .

when suddenly . . .

the remains of this tree-that-was, fell sideways with a soft splintering sound . . . .

with me somewhat attached to it . . .

mercifully and miraculously ,

no wine was spilled in the process!!!

to protect what remains of the dignity of the golden fish organization, the rest of the sequence of photographs in which this strange man clutching a bottle of terribly sweet wine tumbles indecorously to the laughing earth,

have been consigned to the golden fish vault and will not be revealed until the golden fish world leader has successfully flown away!

the holy otherness

sitting inside the hourglass

of the time

given this body

i can sense the gentle sifting

of the tiny grains of those who came before me

i can feel the outstretched arms

of those who opened door after door

for me

until i saw

my self

and tore my way into this place

this place

where i am filled

so quickly to the brim

of my selfness

with flowers that sing

to my holy otherness

hovering

in its crimson cloak filled with

the tumbled togetherness of my ancestors

inside the me of this steven person

this is linked to tess kincaid's magpie tales page where other writer's responses

to the visual prompt above can be linked to

artwork Red Roofs, Marc Chagall, 1954

that far facade

sometimes

the future

reaches back and pulls us into its arms

and its body

feels so different

sometimes

it feels so good

that even when

its mouth

opens

and speaks

in a different language

organized

in a skewed syntax

i reach out

and grasp at its extended hand

and allow my self to be drawn

into

my becoming

other selfness

the youthful taste of spring

the pillow's low, the quilt is warm, the body smooth and peaceful,

sun shines on the door of the room, the curtain not yet open.

still the youthful taste of spring remains in the air,

often it will come to you even in your sleep

bai juyi

i love you

there is . . .

(well

there must be)

some way

to wrap my mouth around

the words

that speak the unspeakable

to articulate

the details of a way of being

that contains

what i know is uncontainable

that describes

what i know is indescribable

that

simply

and in the most

unimaginable and inexpressible complexity

envelopes and then releases

the understanding

and the experiencing

of my love for you

this ecstacy

if you could

know

the entirety

of who i am

and hold

in some way

the fullness of me

and come to know

the completeness

of my love

and my admiration

and my thankfulness

for all that i am

and all that is

then you would know

the wholeness

of all

of this place

i call "myself"

and you might come

to move outside

of that idea

and call the understanding

of your experiencing

"the universe"

or perhaps knowing better

than to name the nameless

(because

being clever

you would know

that to name that without a name

pins it

against a wall)

you would stop

and see this game for what it is:

a wall

not of mine or even your creation

a place of comfort and security

easily defined

and easily learned

and easily moved onwards from

and so not close

to what

i know of you

and certainly not

what i know of myself

with each wish

i let myself fall

into the stilled life force

of this fallen tree

in its tiny reaching

for the cold

flow

of this

spring river

shadow and the spring river

on this sun-filled spring day

i felt entirely inside

this shadow as it wove

and whispered its way

through last year's leaves

the act of escaping from a hostile environment

tonight, as darkness envelopes the sky and then pours in through the windows, i've felt a deep wish to hear joni mitchell singing "hejira". i know that i have already posted about this song sometime ago so forgive me if i clean that old post up a bit and repost it here. joni mitchell, like her compatriot neil young, has left behind a legacy of powerful, life affecting music. joni’s iconic role as a post sixties intelligent female artist in a business that has traditionally marginalized intelligent women or subsumed them into so much floss, was what first drew me to her. i loved her intelligence, her creativity as a singer, and as an artist, and i loved that she created music that was more than the sum of its parts.

like most people, my first experience of her music came through her big breakthrough hit “big yellow taxi” which included the memorable line ...” they paved paradise and put up a parking lot...” and the equally memorable line “don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘till it’s gone?” it wasn’t until several years later that i happened across an album that i still listen to regularly entitled "hejira"

.

i first heard hejira while living in a residence room in otonabee college at trent university in 1976. the album as a whole has highs and lows which are reflective of her lyrical depiction of the dance of self in a world torn between predictability and chaos. one of the more melancholy songs, the title track "hejira" stands out for me as the highlight among many highlights in the lifelibrary of words and music she has crafted in her more than fourty year career. the songs on hejira were largely written by joni on a road trip from maine back to los angeles, california. this likely explains the many references to highways, small towns and snow. joni said of the album: "the whole 'hejira' album was really inspired. ... i wrote the album while travelling cross-country by myself and there is this restless feeling throughout it. ... the sweet loneliness of solitary travel. ...." the laying bare of joni’s inner self is never more complete than when she sings in “hejira”, “there’s comfort in melancholy when there’s no need to explain”. later when she sings, “you know it never has been easy, whether you do or you do not resign, whether you travel the breadth of extremities, or stick to some straighter line” she drives home the essence of the painful inner torment that plagues all creatively driven individuals - the need to strive for some form of balance between acceptance both within and without themselves - the two being mutually incompatible, sometimes even destructive. joni has often drawn stunningly talented musicians into her circle, and this track is no exception featuring the brilliant and now sadly flown away bassist jaco pastorius (who first found fame with jazz group “weather report”), wrapping the most beautiful and memorable arcing bass lines like velvet ribbon around the gift of her words.

here then are the beautiful words to hejira.

i'm traveling in some vehicle
i'm sitting in some cafe
a defector from the petty wars
that shell shock love away
there's comfort in melancholy
when theres no need to explain
it's just as natural as the weather
in this moody sky today
in our possessive coupling
so much could not be expressed
so now i'm returning to myself
these things that you and i suppressed
i see something of myself in everyone
just at this moment of the world
as snow gathers like bolts of lace
waltzing on a ballroom girl

you know it never has been easy
whether you do or you do not resign
whether you travel the breadth of extremities
or stick to some straighter line
now heres a man and a woman sitting on a rock
they're either going to thaw out or freeze
listen...
strains of benny goodman
coming through the snow and the pinewood trees
i'm porous with travel fever
but you know Im so glad to be on my own
still somehow the slightest touch of a stranger
can set up trembling in my bones
i know - no one's going to show me everything
we all come and go unknown
each so deep and superficial
between the forceps and the stone

well i looked at the granite markers
those tribute to finality - to eternity
and then i looked at myself here
chicken scratching for my immortality
in the church they light the candles
and the wax rolls down like tears
there's the hope and the hopelessness
i've witnessed thirty years
we're only particles of change i know, i know
orbiting around the sun
but how can I have that point of view
when Im always bound and tied to someone
white flags of winter chimneys
waving truce against the moon
in the mirrors of a modern bank
from the window of a hotel room

i'm traveling in some vehicle
i'm sitting in some cafe
a defector from the petty wars
until love sucks me back that way."

i worked in downtown toronto one summer a very long time ago and

the male figure skater in this video used to unknowingly cross paths with me as

we each went out to buy french bread and pate for lunch.

he's an incredibly talented man. toller cranston.

i am simply

recognizing

the incomparable beauty

of this entanglement

set against

the extraordinary beauty

of a river

that has flowed

since the last ice age

i can't say no

to the possibility of anything

they push

these trees

and these clouds

and these eyes

faced

with the brief insight

that holds still

just long enough

to remind me

that these edges

these precipices

of insight and understanding -

well they push

so like

stepping stones

across rivers

so like the small worn down path

that weaves

through the fields of waving grass

so like the worn handholds

in the cliff-face

they push

by their simple existence

music cathedral verdell primeaux and johnny mike

so much

the sand in the hourglass

grows finer as it runs out

on its descent

and yet

it is still sand

in this i locate my self

in this

-{}-

this place

i call home

and which i fill

with all that i know and have known

and then

with

what i imagine

in my most fervent wishing

and hoping

and sometimes with the blessing

of a dream

i open the containment of this place

as subtly as air or water or flame

open the terms of this material world

into otherness

and thisness

-{}-

and i am thankful to wake

each morning

if only to know that the possibility of grace

and the almost unbearably beautiful and perfect presence

of love

can arrive

in the most unlikely guises

and under the most extraordinary

terms -

some as simple

and some as complex

as life itself

-[]-

the world is nothing but the birth of the beloved

without desire to see herself we ourselves would not exist

each instant sings a song about living god knows why

absurd and meaningless awareness of insanity and wisdom

claiming knowledge is wrong and gain through worship impossible

our world and our faith are the dregs of unknowing

wherever the beloved has walked and shown us

the dust of her footprints are all we can hold

we have named the beloved and know we are loved

the back of heaven is bent to greet us

from "the joy of the drop" 37 poems by ghalib

-[]-

music by robert fripp from "love cannot bear"

which is available here

well, yes and this also . . . .

i know myself well

and then also

i am astonished

at the person who arrives

so unexpectedly

and looks back at me

from the mirror

the place of advantage

i stood in this place and saw this

and wondered at my fortune

my incredible fortune

to have the privilege of standing

and seeing this vastness

and experiencing inside myself

an echo of the same vastness

the little freeze

is it too

late and too unfinished

to be the fractured ice

story of a season

passed in name

and yet entirely present

my body is

the small laced frenzy of molecules align themselves as colour and form,

the unique characteristics of which define the resultant object's role

in the visible universe

my body is no more than this and no less

finding my place

it's unimaginable

that i should find my place

again and again

and somehow

only begin to know that place

so well

and so thoroughly

after leaving it

and seeing it

in relief against the background

of all the possibilities

that were pushed aside

in my haste to arrive

and my reluctance to leave