Thursday, February 24, 2011

More Shadows


And so I have moved on from honey to shadow. And when it comes to shadow, only one book comes to my mind. I read Marilynne Robinson's Housekeeping half a decade ago, & have no solid memories of the book. I do have a vague recollection that it was filled with shadows & reflections & isolation. But no more so than every day life is, merely more than books usually are.

Here are a few passages I rediscovered today dealing with shadows in a more theoretical way, though mostly what I recall is her ability to describe shadowy scenes.

"I hated waiting. If I had one particular complaint, it was that my life seemed composed entirely of expectation. I expected - an arrival, an explanation, an apology. There never had been one, a fact I could have accepted, were it not true that, just when I got used to the limits and dimensions of one moment, I was expelled into the next and made to wonder again if any shapes hid in its shadows. That most moments were substantially the same did not detract at all from the possibility that the next moment might be utterly different. And so the ordinary demanded unblinking attention. Any tedious hour might be the last of its kind."

And...

"To crave and to have are as like as a thing and its shadow. For when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it, and when is the taste refracted into so many hues and savors of ripeness and earth, and when do our senses know any thing so utterly as when we lack it? And here again is a foreshadowing -- the world will be made whole. For to wish for a hand on one's hair is all but to feel it. So whatever we may lose, very craving gives it back to us again."

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Eleven Shadow Shows




Not-to-be-missed. Also, not to be consumed in one sitting. When you get a spare five-ten minutes try one or two.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

To Starting Over

My words could palm the moment and walk-

away. But they don’t. They sit

patient on the scrap, soaking

deeper in. Embedding. Surveying

the lay of the land. They peek

coquettishly over the edge, wink

& glimmer momentarily, try

to catch you unaware.

A mountain in the landscape, waits

for your flag. And that flag yearns

for your coat of arms. And your arms

yearn for the stretch & strain of weary

climb. And all of this

my words would have you

know.

My words would like nothing

more than you,

kind stranger, to bend

and scoop them up. To peruse

& take to your breast &

to your heart. To scratch them

out & improve upon them. In

the ways that you know, the secret-

you-ways.

When you reach finished

with them, they ask nothing more.

Crumple the page & misremember

or disregard. You owe them

nothing. We have hardly

met. Our secret hands brushed

briefly. Your mountains are your own

to find.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Rough Winter Poetry





Rough Winter Poetry


I sent my words off to a friend yesterday, & he is still inclined
to talk to me.

Though the tea is steep & the fire is wisdom-wide. We bank
& bunker beneath a roof.

We snuggle & sip & stir.

Stir deeply & slowly & always
with a whisper of honeyed cream.

We stir when it needs it. We stir when we like
circles. We stir when our boots go on & the road is
snow behind & beneath & before us.

It snowed before there were
us. It snows now.

Time is a bay leaf in a bowlful of borscht, waiting
to burst on a spoon's journey
to our tongues.

Shared dreams are
of Vancouver. A name unnoticed
& unrealized by us for so
many years.

We've had our share
of dreams, under
the covers, far from the snow.

We've made out in a snow
bank when love was
young.

We've made it
over a snow hill in our beige
car tonight.

If only I had his way
with words. I would sing to you more
sweetly. I would sing to you like kettle
corn popping.

Ripping at the kernel.

Chomping at my
bit these days. My tongue sore
& scalded by hot
cocoa.

My lips chapping on the outside
of my words.

Splitting in the middle, every other winter
it seems.

But this winter there is balm. This winter
there is milk & honey lotion. This winter there is
your warm palm pressed against the cold
steering wheel & later
my face.

As if, in the if, of if my heart were to break, there would be
you peering into the microwave prepared
to not only enjoy it but also to make me glad
it did.

Broken, from so much
warm-driftiness in such a drafty-dark
world.

A cold stone
put into an oven that is already up
to temp.

Your temples spell the spilling
of my words.

Daydreamed worlds become holy
from my musky mouth upon
your ears.

It has been so long since I brewed
this tea. It has been so long
silence grew within me.

So long silence,
now. Go the ways of longing
for my lover's aura & kiss.
Just so. I felt
the evening draw
its curtains just now.

I felt the sheepskin
on my shins. I felt the love
seat surrounding us. I felt how just
then we said everything in one laugh.

How the yogurt melts into
the beets. How the fresh dill fanned
its feathers round my fingers an hour
ago.

This borscht is full of fringe & lace & root.

With these bellies full we go on more.

The pull of the impolite
wind can't take
the woolen mittens away.

Tonight the wind is
full of crisp. Tonight
the fire will crack
the logs. Tonight there
will be an opening.

Tonight we spill.