Before me the world is clarified by a luminosity that consolidates all presence into chords of stillness. What song would this landscape sing?
Just a little green– color disappears into the air, glimmers in still lines across the meadow.
Like the color when the spring is born— the quiet is dizzying, embracing. All is solitary, complete. Waiting. For what?
The nights when the Northern lights perform— the hour is transfixed inside a secret whisper of pulsing breath. An alternate world, muted, mysterious, not quite real.
And sometimes there’ll be sorrow—shrouded in uncertainty, time has lost its focus. The land is primordial, inscribed with a narrative that has no translation into any language we are capable of understanding.
Just a little green—a vessel immersed in air, from the bottom up
earthwalkers– exchanging wonder there will be
italicized lines are from Joni Mitchell’s song Little Green
Merril supplied five paintings as ekphrastic summer inspiration at dVerse this week. I chose Carl Zimmerman’s painting, above. Since I’m late, I’m posting on OLN, hosted by Bjorn.
Also linking to earthweal, where Sherry supplied the prompt of dreaming in green. A good color to dream in.
I did have the NaPoWriMo prompt in mind today when I visited the Oracle. At least in terms of a song. My things are mostly in boxes, not drawers, at the moment–this is my third move in the last 18 months so it’s all junk now. I was also thinking how much I would like to just take an entire day and do nothing but sleep. Which led me to James and Joni. And the Oracle obliged.
all I want is to sleep beneath a still sky– a shadow of whispered light on water moondreaming the wind
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.
Crow calls to me from above–
“Crowman are you stalking me?”
There he is—on that roof.
Call to attention–
harsh, always interrupting
the pause between the lines.
“Do you want me to look up?”
He extends the invitation again and again.
“I’m telling stories,” shape-shifting in the interlude–
“remaking the recent past.”
how to release and how to begin–
but that part’s invisible,
stark with intention.
“…or do you hear it?” unseen voices echo across the gap,
“and are you laughing at me?”
an interior bathed in blue–
“OK—I’m leaving that world—” memories circle round and round–
“I’m here now, present.” thoughts hang in the air–
“I’m unfolding those regrets.”
Crow flies over my shadow.
“Are you happy now?” the clash of silence, unbound
Crow has been following me around for about 15 years now. I notice birds all the time, but I don’t always know what they are saying to me. I have a tendency to space out, especially when walking. Crow’s message has always been clear: get outside yourself, pay attention.
A message that’s more important than ever. For Earthweal, messages from the wild, hosted by Sherry, a revision of one of my many poems about Crow.
Times Square is empty, like the weather—grey now, the colors drained like the empty subway cars, residing hidden in tenements, written in the isolation of morning coffee. The Sunday newspaper remains undelivered (again) as even that thread of connection frays into feral cats in dark corners and the shadows of crows haunting the hometown I never knew.
All of this is imaginary, of course—flora and fauna are absent from this enclosed space, except as chimera, impoverished by the boredom of my own company, the same jeans and shirt waiting to be worn like the trackless days. No Significant Other to keep me in, and an invisible barrier blocking me from leaving. Outside my window a graffiti of exclamation points greets me each day behind the passing cars and on clear evenings I say “Goodnight Moon”, remembering bedtimes with small bodies close and sleepy and warm.
But the lines have been drawn, and as Joni reminds me, the seasons still go round and round. We’re always captive on the carousel of time.
growing new wings
The NaPoWriMo prompt today was “to fill out, in five minutes or less, the following “Almanac Questionnaire.” Then, use your responses as to basis for a poem.” You can see the questionnaire here.