My message this morning from the Oracle. I woke once again to clouds, but the sun is shining now.
spring winters deep beneath the riverpath– a dark season thicker than dusk
did you fall moonwandering into the long night?
or were you too bird-rooted and windwild to see? that earth also breathes light– full of treesong, growing in-between
The art is from NaPoWriMo 2018, when all my accompanying artwork was inspired by painter Joan Mitchell. I haven’t thought that far ahead this year; this April, I’ll just be visiting the archives for art I think.
A current of remembering simmers beneath the surface, on the edges, seeking awareness. Everything I do is stitched with its color. But I see only its reflection, outlined on the other side of the mirror. My core, my being, is threaded, waiting, but my mind is lost.
Holes fill my reasoning. My synapses are confused, the connections severed. As the navigable landscape grows ever smaller, all my maps lose their meaning. Transformations multiply, and life becomes unrecognizable.
The world now exudes a silent numbness, a freezing intensified by the coldness of wintered minds. We refuse to enter into a relationship with what is real lest we become reshaped by its mystery, its extremes, into awakening, opening. We cling to our tiny virtual selves, unable to see beyond its confines.
Where is history located? I search the fraying patterns for a place to begin mending.
The phrase from W.S. Merwin provided by Lisa for this week’s dVerse prosery, Everything I do is stitched with its color, fit well into the earthweal prompt, where Brendan asked us to respond to an interview with poet Jorie Graham about how her writing has come to be intertwined with environmental concerns. He also provided a poem from Merwin as inspiration.
shadows edge flush along the side of day, post sentries that abide within the holes where secrets hide
when sun falls sudden into night colors retreat to black and white, orbiting like a satellite, a rippled undulating tide
unlike a dream which speaks in signs, eidola plot their own decline– they vanish in between the lines, a hushed wake of penumbral glide
Grace at dVerse introduced us to a new poetry form: Zéjel. In my recent cleaning mode, I discovered the strange embroidery pictured above, and decided to compose a verse to accompany it.
I stitched this piece as an assignment for a class I took about 15 years ago–we were trying out new stitches. I can’t remember what inspired this design, nor can I figure out now how I produced some of these stitches. I may have kept notes about it, but I haven’t discovered them yet. But I have many boxes still to go through…
I found this poetic form to be a challenge, and I’m not sure I’m done tweaking what I wrote. But I do think its strangeness is a good match for the art.
these names that have lost their origins names that have lost their sounds that have lost their meanings lost meanings without references without words words that once rolled off the tongue rolled off the tongue immense with meaning with meaning now lost now untranslatable immense and untranslatable these names without meaning
these names belonging nowhere belonging nowhere to no one to no one at all invisible undernourished undernourished and withered into invisibility without a way a way to put sounds together sounds that together form words words that become names these names that are lost
these names without scripts without scripts or context without the context of language a language of mirrors mirrors now empty mirrors that yield no answers answers to questions questions without context how and what and where and why are they lost and where did they go who knows the names the names the names the names that have lost their meaning
always digging deeper– roots that grow below, restore– listening through decay beyond stillness,
a place that is neither dark nor light, yet full, aware, gathered germinating into witness,
distilled light casting words that linger as counterpart– revealing mysteries in all that is
held on the wings of birds, circulated through the heart, absorbed into the spiraling axis
It’s poet’s choice of form at Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, and how could I resist a syllabic form called “kerf”? I meant this also to be for the earthweal challenge this week, earthcraft, but obviously did not finish it in time.
1 Did you know? Was it you who sent Crow? Black wings swallowed by the sky—
2 I had time and seasons rising to meet me like trembling in my bones,
3 like Icarus ascending on beautiful foolish arms.
4 Crow and I are not one– but we are together in this cosmos, on this earth.
5 I do not know myself and yet I know of the intersections of that unknown self with the call to attention that is Crow.
6 My mind is busy with trivial things. The shadow of a cry spills everything out empty waiting for the return of listening, watching.
7 O ragged soul— why do you take flight? Do you not see the trees? They are returning from the dead again and again.
8 I know many words and the images that accompany them. But I know too that Crow lives deeper and wider than what I know.
9 Diving diving diving diving. There is no bottom no top no inside or out.
10 At the sight of Crow resounding the light the layers reveal their chorded songs.
11 I walk these streets in oblivion, trying to escape the fear of the known by making up stories that rearrange my life.
12 I hear my fate turn turn turn— how many crows?
13 Always standing in the doorway like Janus—neither and both– cursed and charmed— Crow laughs—he knows I have a dream to fly.
Brendan at earthweal asks us this week to think about the nature of poetry. I first encountered Wallace Stevens and “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” in high school and it remains my poetic touchpoint more than 50 years later. But equally important to my connection with poetry was music–first, traditional folk music, and then the whole crop of singer-songwriters that emerged from the folk revival. I love Joni Mitchell’s “Blue”, but “Hejira” has always resonated with me most of all. The form of this poem is based on Stevens, but the spirit and italicized words are taken from Joni and from my own encounters with Crow, a master shaman.
I have not been posting much, and will probably be mostly absent for the next month or 6 weeks–I’m moving (again). But this is good news! I will have a dedicated work space once again, and a real kitchen. I knew the last 2 moves were temporary, but I thought both moves before that would be the last one–so I’m making no predictions. But I’m planning to be there for awhile.
There is no drama in most moments, but the accumulation becomes a story. One day you wake up, or you think you wake up. But something burns—you can smell it in the air. Ashes of yesterday are falling from the sky. You thought the past was dead, but it has only rearranged itself into today, or is it already tomorrow?
And what happened yesterday anyway?
I went out to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head. I walked and walked and walked until I came to a pool of water, still and deep. I sat beside it, watching my reflection smolder, waiting for something to be revealed. The light scattered on the liquid surface held me and gave me a different life, turned me inside out.
Now I am only flames, or was that yesterday? Which side am I on?
For the dVerse Prosery prompt from Kim, some inspiration from Yeats: ‘I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head’.
The art is from a series of constellation poems I did for Pure Haiku. Freya’s current theme is Unfurling–you can submit until February 28.
memory fails to stop enduring grief daily farewell face death alone
In 2015, when this post originally appeared, the New York Times published a chart explaining some of the ways civilians have died in the Syrian War. A little research online shows that in modern warfare it is estimated that 85-90% of all casualties are civilians (June 2014 American Journal of Public Health). War also wreaks havoc on the environment, leading to more death.
A Hard Rain
has fallen shadowed by endless endings, ghosts both multiplied and lost
Some estimates of civilians killed in recent and ongoing conflicts: Sudan-Darfur 200,000 Iraq 170,000 Syria 200, 000 Congo 60,000 Afghanistan 45,000 Pakistan 35,000 Mexico 50,000 Libya 30,000 Chechnya 100,000 Eritrea-Ethiopia 70,000 Sierra Leone 70,000
These numbers have only increased since 2015.
There are not enough tears to encompass all this sorrow.
Bjorn at dVerse asked us to write poems of war. I decided to repost some of my headline haiku embroideries–I did a number of them from 2015-2017 when war was in the headlines every day. Now we’ve moved on to other things, but lest we forget, civilians and soldiers are still losing both their lives and homes every single day all over the world
Silence weeps and eyes refuse sight. No questions can be posed, nor answers given. Light is erased. Dust and blood.
In the mirror I am only a face– a fleeting facade, disembodied, always incomplete.
I recognize it, but I do not feel attached– I dislike the lines, the dark circles, the sagging jowls.
Our interactions are conditional, brief. My face is interesting in the way of all faces,
but not memorable or distinct—brown hair brown eyes behind glasses– averagely past its prime– I could be anyone.
I see the years in my hands and I celebrate them. Why is my aging face a source of shame?
Our bodies are merely ephemera—transitory, waiting to be discarded—waiting to release our spirits to the wind.
This is some more old work I never posted because I was moving. It was inspired by two prompts: The Kick-About prompt of Joseph Cornell’s “Romantic Museum”, which was part of an exhibition dedicated to portraits of women, and the dVerse prompt from Sarah asking for self-portraits. As I said to Phil when I submitted my response to the Kick-About: what woman do I know better than myself?
The hand holding a needle in Cornell’s work, above immediately attracted my attention. I wanted to do something on newspaper, but I couldn’t collage (my first choice) as my glue was packed. My needles and floss were not, however, and this also seemed appropriate to Cornell’s work.
I was pleased to find a newspaper page with a photo of hands. I drew my own, and also my face, and stitched and wrote my reflections based on the drawings. It’s not quite finished, but maybe that’s the correct response too.
linking to dVerse Open Link Night, hosted by Grace
K. 