the six bells of spring

the first bell is silver,

and breathing darkness i think only of the long scythe of time.

edward redfield a brook in winter

the second bell is crimson,

and i think of a holiday night, with rockets

furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars.

james ensor fireworks

the third bell is saffron and slow,

and i behold a long sunset over the sea

with wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades.

henry moore sunset coast

the fourth bell is the colour of bronze,

i walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk:

muffled crackings run in the ice,

trees creak, birds fly.

j.e.h. macdonald early evening winter

the fifth bell is cold clear azure,

delicately tinged with green:

one golden star hangs melting in it,

and towards this, sleepily, i go.

childe hassam the evening star

the sixth bell is as if a pebble

had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . .

rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.

childe hassam detail from "the west wind, isle of shoals"

from improvisations on light and snow

conrad aiken

the far fields

the first hills i recall

are from my childhood

the pennines

and then also

snowdonia

as a city boy

they held tremendous magic for me

in my heart

they still do

~

i now live on a hill - the highest hill in the area.

walking to its southern edge provides generous views

of which this is likely my favourite.

yes, snow still covers much of this area!

the most distant hills are the height of land

behind which lies lake ontario

and the homes of my mum and my aunt

in the summer these fields will be filled with corn

the trees will be full and lush

and filled with birds

this lane

will be dusty and dry

for now

though,

everything is quiet

holding its breath

waiting

hope held in sleeping roots

winter solitude

and a strange peace gathered about my soul and shone,

as i sat reflecting there,

in a world so mystically fair,

so deathly silent--i so utterly alone.

archibald lampman excerpted from "winter solitude"

looking west

towards

the end

of winter

frost feathers

it's known that

in the most distant visible reaches

of the universe

you can see the progressive buildup of galaxies.

it's believed that a very long time ago

small objects accreted mass

to form bigger objects,

"like streams merging into tributaries and then into a bay."

when i

look at frost

on a fence

(a night's work)

it seems to me

no less significant

an accomplishment

than the formation of a galaxy-

i see

the tiniest

vaporous accretions

consolidating

into one fragile

feather

of frozen water

stretching across an infinitude of space

carefully spread

and strangely interconnected

on

the latticework

of my perception

i think, i dreamed

i think, i dreamed of falling leaves,

of wide forests and dark lakes,

of sad words' echo -

however, i could not understand their meaning.

kaukolanraitti ridge at sunset albert edelfelt

i think, i dreamed of falling stars,

of the weeping entreaty of pale eyes,

of a smile's echo -

however, i could not understand its meaning.

oswald von glehn boreas and orithyia

like falling leaves, like falling stars,

so i saw myself eternally coming and going,

a dream's immortal echo -

however, i could not understand its meaning.

john anster fitzgerald titania and the changeling child

words excerpted from "three dreams" georg trakl

soft like the moon

perhaps it is because

i am an august birth

that i feel compelled

to look for

summer's faded remnants -

to find evidence

that the world i was born into

is somehow contained

in these

dark fingertip trees

scratching at

empty pale blue skies.

i feel real joy

in the splashes

of moss on their trunks

and the rain-rinsed

blue of lichen

on the rocks at their base.

it's so much like

the wish

i feel in the deepest way

at times

to once again feel

my father's presence

in this world.

i slow down.

i stop.

i think

and feel

him

here in me

and

around me.

soft

like the moon

in the mid-winter twilight.

gaze in thine own heart

there are days of self-doubt -

the wondering

at a day -

where was i in all of that?

what did i leave behind

that made this world

a better place?

i think that

everything has a purpose.

no matter how insignificant.

the mystery is in unpacking the purpose,

figuring out just

what it's value is

and then of course

slotting that purpose,

that knowing,

into something that makes sense

in the course of your visit here.

days like this,

i love the words of yeats.

~

beloved, gaze in thine own heart,

the holy tree is growing there;

george inness summer, montclair

from joy the holy branches start,

and all the trembling flowers they bear.

the changing colours of its fruit

have dowered the stars with merry light;

a rose from armida's garden marie spartali stillman

the surety of its hidden root

has planted quiet in the night;

the shaking of its leafy head

has given the waves their melody,

and made my lips and music wed,

murmuring a wizard song for thee.

william butler yeats

sweet space

the early morning light

dances in that sweet space

between tangerine

and pale strawberry.

it fills the air

touching the undersides

of the clouds

then

tumbles through the trees

leaving tell-tale

splashes

of pale pink

and blood-orange

on their sleeping limbs

then gently settles

to the earth

where it caresses

its winter snowskin

into a semblance

of warmth.

looking at blackbirds

boy and crow akseli gallen-kallela

early one morning

i walked

through

a light snow falling

millions

of

little white feathers

above me

i saw two crows

sitting on a branch

looking into each other's eyes.

i watched them

looking at each other

for some time.

i thought the moment would break.

but the snowflakes fell

and a slight breeze came

and went

the three of us

remained

locked in this

strange triangle

i turned to leave

and even as i looked back

they were still lost

given over

to their love

~

a few days after this event

i was wandering through the writing of wallace stevens

and came across his work "thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird."

i've selected these six meditations from the original thirteen.

the link at the bottom will direct you to a site that has the full thirteen

if you'd like to read them.

~

i

among twenty snowy mountains,

the only moving thing

was the eye of the black bird

ii

i was of three minds,

like a tree

in which there are three blackbirds

iv

a man and a woman

are one.

a man and a woman and a blackbird

are one

v

i do not know which to prefer,

the beauty of inflections

or the beauty of innuendoes,

the blackbird whistling

or just after

xii

the river is moving.

the blackbird must be flying

xiii

it was evening all afternoon.

it was snowing

and it was going to snow

the blackbird sat

in the cedar-limbs

from thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird wallace stevens

late winter

winter . . .

a day of fog and melting snow

in the woods a silvered silence

the yellow flags of leaves still waving

tree trunks like candles reaching skywards

. . .

in a time long before this one

the haiku master issa saw this and wrote . . .

"i see them now . . . how they were ... bare winter trees"

inside a similar moment the japanese haiku master ikkyu wrote;

"the world before my eyes is wan and wasted,

just like me.

the earth is decrepit,

the sky stormy,

all the grass withered.

no spring breeze even at this late date,

just winter clouds swallowing up my tiny reed hut."

even closer to the ground

the tall grasses of summer

bow down under the weight of the winter snows

issa wrote . . . "the mountain hermit's fire is rising... winter rain. "

i love to connect

my world

with the worlds of people

long past

and yet entirely present

the hope

this is what i know:

this fragile neural tracery

carries the sputtering arcs

of spring's promise

as surely

as i carry the hope

open water

with a gentler winter

the river has open water

water

that holds the memories

of clouds and trees

in its

slowly

drifting

body

detritus

when i think of the little bits of me

that i have scattered without care

across the landscape of my passing

i am left wondering

whether any took flower

or filled a silence

occupied an uncomfortable space

or if perhaps they lie there still

beautiful little moments

tree fall

"its roots are bristling in the air

like some mad earth-god's spiny hair;

the loud south-wester's swell and yell

smote it at midnight, and it fell."

thomas hardy (excerpted from the tree: an old man's story)

i was walking along a snowy trail

a few kilometres south of here.

it was absolutely silent

but for the creaking of the trees

the leaners

you know

the ones that have fallen

but not completely fallen -

making a soft wooden kind of

sound

that feels brown

and grainy

and old.

~

i came 'round a bend

in the trail

and saw this fallen tree

bark hanging in tattered strips

from its fractured body

and i felt such empathy.

but then too

i felt

the loop of its life.

skybound

and then

earthbound.

beauty

like ribbons

draped over

its folded

and bent body

a doorway

standing by the side

of the sea

i watch

seven geese

silently flying

east to west

stagger stitched

like black thread

on the mottled grey cloth

of a snow cloud sky.

i stand and watch them.

seven

my favourite number.

and i know a door has opened.

but to what?

three swans glide across

the winter bay

hovering

on the suddenly stilled water

and the air has that

sudden weight

that accompanies

the closing of heavy curtains

and i know

the same door

has closed.

guttersnipe

the boy moves in short shuffling steps.

in the tiny arc of his shoulders,

a resigned weariness

reflecting years of searching the pavement

with his eyes.

if you could convince him to lift his head,

you would be drawn to those eyes,

pale as winter moss.

in their hollowness

would be revealed a sense of life

as something

that has yet to be convinced

of his rightful place in it.

as evening spreads across the street,

hard-edged forms soften.

the boy could easily miss the small matchbox in the gutter.

but he doesn't.

passing through a pale yellow slice of of light,

he sees its rectangular outline.

closer still,

the cluster of pale red matchheads.

shuffling to the edge of the curb,

he crouches down

low to the cobbled roadway,

stretches out one small arm

and wraps his thin grey fingers around the cardboard prism.

the boy stands up slowly,

as he pushes the box inside his shirt

alongside the piece of bread,

the half-eaten apple,

the crumpled paper bag,

and the small green glass bottle.

it’s almost time to find a place to sleep for the night.

detail from little cobbler’s shop childe hassam

to read more variations on this meme then visit magpie's tales.

waveworn

i came across

this gorgeous piece of wood.

- a tree at some point in its life -

watching the sea

from between

two large boulders

on the shore.

waveworn.

winter in a moment, in its fullness

in a little place,

in a brief moment

winter looks like this.

dry wisps of yellowed winter grass.

a cold, thin breeze.

snow rustling like sugar.

the great sufi poet rumi saw winter in its fullness . . .

winter is a time for death.

do you think death is a bad thing?

then you still haven't got it.

you've lived countless lives and died

countless deaths in an endless process of evolution.

each death has brought you more life.

without, death, there is no rebirth.

the ultimate death is nothing to do with the body.

it is the death of your self as separate from God.

you are standing at the edge of his ocean of love.

plunge below the surf of separation.

dive into the mystical depth.

dissolve yourself into that sea.

like a moth around a candle, be irresistibly drawn

to the light until you are engulfed by flames in an inferno of communion.

the lover chooses the fire because he knows

the secret: "the honey is worth the sting."

rumi

a slow return

the waves -

crashed

to my right

small

and

insistent

i think

they sensed my presence

because they

left very little space

as i inched along

the shingle beach

in fact they grew louder

larger

reaching for my feet

cold water fingers found their way

inside my boots

~

in my ears the grinding

of small rounded pebbles

in my eyes

an icy promontory

a frozen bearded sea-lion

looking out to sea

icicles even

slowly returning

to the sea

they had just left

nice work, jack!

my little buddy jack

dropped by in the night!

i heard his spiky little paintbrush

scratching etching

on the bedroom window.

a tiny

triple zero

paintbrush

fractalizing

little water crystals

into spiked ferns -

splendiferizing the view!

hey, nice work jack!