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

night's lights

i have to believe

that every ray of light

is carefully painted

into the very big

and the very small spaces

because each carries

something

so much greater than itself

a suggestion

of the care

that everything feels for itself

as from the void – a blue fountain

of light splashed forth.

our heads raised up to the mountain –

and it has fled north,

scattered above the black distance

in golden hues,

and here, again, an arch, a spiral,

a sphere, a swirl,

in green, yellow, fire-red, sky-blue –

night's lights go on...

and, having stirred for no reason,

wither from view.

alexander blok october 1913

the shape leaves

i awoke this morning to a falling of small snow

like drifting white vapour

and i got to thinking of a summer's day seeds

sometimes hovering

sometimes clustering

and then a sudden sidewards tack

on a thread of moving air

then continuing their journey

slowly downwards

and settling in the soil

in the weft and warp of their lives,

how they get there isn't as important as getting there

they can wait

if not now

then another time

if not there

then another place

~

i greatly admire the music of richard skelton.

his music has some of the characteristics of leaves and snow and seeds

as it wends and werns its way through paths that

sometimes find resolution

and more often lead to

a thought

that emerges from an obscured detail of the previous passage

~

the shape leaves

landings

to listen to additional soundclouds of richard's work then go here.

temple bells

sometimes water is flung through the air

as a wave crashes ashore

it forms into small rivulets

that trickle down the back of great boulders

and gathers

in the hollows of those great boulders

to sing its songs and tell its stories

before returning to the sea

some of my favourite songs

are held

in that wave-born ice

the song of the icicles

that drip onto the back of my hand

the song of the pebbles

that press warmly against my outspread palm

afterglow

candles

hold the moment

on winter evenings

dimming the light

softening the edges

drawing everything

that much closer

close enough

to gather the little clues

and fold them together

you see

to see

by the light of a candle

you have to want to see

a thousand waves

the sky is cloudless

there is no wind

a thousand waves

gather

in the stillness

of the shoreline ice

the hostage

across the great spaces

defined

by time and distance

- and most especially

the undefined space

between

who i am

and who i wish to be -

i see myself

so often

as a hostage

of my own design

-

i am endlessly yearning

...insects hum of autumn by the gold brim of the well;

a thin frost glistens like little mirrors on my cold mat;

the high lantern flickers; and. deeper grows my longing.

i lift the shade and, with many a sigh, gaze upon the moon,

single as a flower, centred from the clouds.

above, i see the blueness and deepness of sky.

below, i see the greenness and the restlessness of water....

heaven is high, earth wide;

can i dream through the gateway, over the mountain?

endless longing

breaks my heart

li bai

edmund blair leighton the hostage

we return

i set my foot gently

inside the great holy place

cold as marble skies

lost in soft

pure smooth as pale alabaster

sheets of snow

and with my heart

pouring out all the prayers i can think of

i listen hard

and the only answer

i can see

is a piece of the moon

cold and crystaline

nestled in the dried fingers

of a sleeping plant

and in that cold dry embrace

i can feel

the love of all things

for everything

for surely

they know

that one will return

as a nurturing raindrop

the other

as the flower

drinking the raindrop

into its body

lost in dream - leaving the station

on this the first day of this year

well into my fifty fourth circuit of the sun

i'm not so much wistful as wondering

-

i'm recognizing

intimately

the very real demands

and expectations

that perception

and self-perception

places on those

who

like myself

choose to ignore

the vagaries of

numbers

and chronology

and move on regardless

of the exterior crumblings and decay

marked most obviously

by thinning, greying hair

an unwillingness to participate in experiences

that might hasten my departure from this place of existence

and most especially

my increasing inclination

to seek out and favour

the timeless fractal moment

as a signpost

pointing to the one great moment

in which i appear simply

as a quantum accretion

expressed as "steven"

in short

as i arrive

two thirds of the way

along my journey

i am beginning to see

the responsibility

of my responsibilities

the reality of my realities

the possibility of my possibilities

imagine

after all that time

and of course

stepping back

i am left in wonder

at my emerging place

in this incredible world

-

i am also in wonder of

and so deeply grateful for

the emotive and spiritual window

that flew by recently

provided by amy lowell

for with some small tweaking and manipulation

of her poem

"petals"

i opened the door to a deeper layer of this world for myself

and here also

for you

the end lost in dream,

we scatter the leaves of our opening rose

ever beyond into infinite ways

amy, i am in awe!

~

to close then

this is a piece of music that surfaced in my own experiencing

twenty years ago today

i was in an apartment

with leaded windows

running with little droplets of water.

on the table

white wine and a stick of bread

olives, cheeses

pastries from a polish bakery.

books piled everywhere.

the music came out of little speakers

and even now

as then

it makes me think of a great train

wheels spinning and then catching

as it leaves the station

music by

not drowning waving

my love

steven