the bridge to night, hushed and wakeful, asks me questions– the words cast spells,
hushed and wakeful, delicate and cobwebbed, into ice—a sudden snow
asks me questions, but I remain cloistered– self-contained, undreamed—
the words cast spells– maps sailing silent unknown boundless seas
Boughton, George Henry; The Lady of the Snows; Walker Art Gallery
I started to construct a quadrille for dVerse, using the word ice given to us by Mish, and words from the Random Generator which Merril posted on Sunday. When I saw Colleen’s Ekphrastic prompt, above, it gave me a focus for what I had begun. I used the trimeric form.
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.
not the sea
of memory—not
the rising
moon sun star–
not the release of endings
or calculations
that forecast
the turning tides—not
the rhythm
that over
takes the heartbeat—not the
speculations of
dividing
time—not certainty–
only the path
to the far
horizon–vast, unbordered–
on the other side
When I saw Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above, I wanted to try to capture it with an idea I’ve been thinking about for awhile. Of course the time required turned out to be way beyond a week, so once again I’m posting an in-process stitching project.
If there’s a deadly sin, it’s power. It’s wanting to be more, by making others less—less than less. It’s controlling with physical force, psychological terror, subjugation. And if you don’t possess the genetic make-up to manipulate others directly, you make it up with a knife, a whip, a chain, fear, lies, starvation, locks, poverty, cages, technology, homelessness, isolation, guns, an army, explosives, drugs, religion, words, the law, bombs, lack of medical care, money, corporations, willful ignorance.
There is no end to the expressions of superiority and omnipotence.
Aren’t we rich? Barren
land, rivers of blood flowing–
empty to the core.
As Dylan observed, “all the money you made will never buy back your soul.”
I’ve posted so many times on gun violence, I’ve stopped counting. The last time was on June 1 of this year.
Every day 88 people die by gun violence in the United States.
Silence weeps
and eyes refuse sight.
No questions
can be posed,
nor answers given. Light is
erased. Dust and blood.
What is the color of mourning?
morning
of empty spaces, and Where?
wear
black, but it has no reply.
Why?
just questions and sorrow.
Tomorrow
will remain unfilled,
killed,
killed. More shots from another gun.
When?
Again.
As Dylan knew, you can’t separate a gun mentality from a war mentality.
Who are we?
It’s haibun Monday on dVerse. Frank asked us to talk about peace to commemorate Hiroshima. I’m not feeling it right now.
K. 