Is it like this

In death's other kingdom

Waking alone

At the hour when we are

Trembling with tenderness

Lips that would kiss

Form prayers to broken stone

 T.S.E.

I'm supposed to be writing a paper - two in fact. But nothing doing. Too much schoolwork and my brain turns off and decides to read T.S.E. instead.  My cherished humans, how are we still in January? I find myself longing for sky sky sky, birdsound, and spring growings.
I'm supposedly reading Pound right now, but how can you really enter into him, when the first lines you read are: "say this to the Possum: a bang, not a wimper/with a bang, not a wimper". especially as he goes onto talk politics and Mussolini hanging by his heels....its impossible to find him compelling, with this still echoing in your ears. As very young writer of ten years old, I used to take those words of T.S.E. and hold them in my mouth, shape them, whisper them to myself - all with little idea of their meaning in a fuller sense than the sounds they were. All I could feel is that they were sound with meaning, shade with color, and that they talked. talked wildly! Half my age ago I already knew that to make sound talk was all I could ever want.


pic of Jeff Gun art

shudders of winter's fog, butterflies, and eternity today
to this sound

Saw a train catch the night on FIRE.

its snowing

listening to this

and dreaming about such luxeries as appartments and summer;

summer now means figure drawing, photography, printing and music...everything that keeps me alive...

the one consolation is that we're studying printing rights and typography in 17th century england in ENG 430 this term. 

pic from here

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

 - G. M. H.

A close family friend, a figure who stood on the front porch of my childhood memories, forever rolling a cigarette in his hands and laughing with my dad, has passed away this last week. I spent much of my time growing up in his house, curled on the couch watching the adults open bottles of wine, tell stories, and weave the life and faith I would take into my soul and make my own. And now watching him return to the earth, surrounded by candles and singing and tears and so much love, I feel that a bright flickering gift has been placed in my hands; they have wept and hugged me and let me be with them through all of life, the laughter and the death intermingled.

listen

 We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.
...
That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive.
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.

- Czeslaw Milosz 

 

HERE.

When he is king, they will clothe him in grave-sheets

Myrrh for embalming and wood for a crown

-Bethlehem Down

 all things winter

listen

& delve here (thank you to a dear friend for this) & here

I am so very tired. And the earth itself is so very dark and dimmed.

listen

things talking to me tonight:

the word "wyrd"
it means doom, destiny - and more. The wind in that 'w' whistles and whines down all the wooden rickety halls of time, houses of gods, hear it? and the y is a ÿ, a closed and weighty, earthy pull towards the d of end, death, destination. together they are all that is wild and wonderful about the ancient knowledge of man. that we carry our deaths in us, like rilke says. that it grows in us and we cherish it growing, so it becomes a great death, a death remembered, of meaning, and very much our own.
Something about the stark darkness and frigid cold of winter tears everything away so that I feel that wyrd and shake. It is frightening and deathly wonderful to touch it, a moment so present you wonder if you've ever really known anything real before. Except, you know you have because its familiar. Its all the shivering mystery of your wide-open childhood again.

stories
storytelling has been the human trove of identity for thousands upon thousands of years. It is partly what the winter is for. Find that book, that childhood voice echoing inside you, and return to the fabric of our past.
someone to listen to: Jay O'Callahan

pic from Abby Try Again

The falcon hath born my make away

we're nearing the days of mystery. and velvet and keen depth of wintry and wild.
for your soul: this and this

sleep well, wistful ones, and gather yourself for the coming midwinter. and the breath-taking moments of solemn magic.

feeling like this

and this

sometimes I wish we lived in black and white

the light is just so keen

photos above are completely this moment

and taken by the lovely sarah meadows - her newest exhibition is at PNCA right now

it wasn't safe to breath at all

For I could not have shaken the touch of your breath on my arm.
For it has stayed in me, as an epithet,
I am sorry the worst has arrived,
For I'm on the floor,
In the room where we made it that last touch of the night
- s.stevens.

listen.