Starfish
April 13, 2006
April 12, 2006
April 11, 2006
April 10, 2006
What Dreams Are These...
I had this dream…
Music filling the air, liquid and hot… she turns her head to hear it fully, capturing the notes into strings that she can identify. A slight smile on her lips.
And when she turns, the light captures her shadow; pulling it away from her skin to reveal the upturn of her breast, the ripe pillow of her nipple. In her navel is a star, in the dark curl of her hair, dew captures the moon in tiny shards.
The music captures her, turning her back to me… she arcs up, graceful as a sparrow, pausing in mid air. She falls, cleaving the air and vanishes into the darkness.
My heart is pounding. There is sweat beading in between my breasts. I feel afraid and curious.
I will myself back asleep.
What was the music she heard? I hear it too, but not enough to know what it is, a ghost of a song. Why is she naked? Her skin lit blue by the night.
It is a strange dream and I wonder what she means. Or is it just the spring night, teasing me with the sound of rain.
G.
Music filling the air, liquid and hot… she turns her head to hear it fully, capturing the notes into strings that she can identify. A slight smile on her lips.
And when she turns, the light captures her shadow; pulling it away from her skin to reveal the upturn of her breast, the ripe pillow of her nipple. In her navel is a star, in the dark curl of her hair, dew captures the moon in tiny shards.
The music captures her, turning her back to me… she arcs up, graceful as a sparrow, pausing in mid air. She falls, cleaving the air and vanishes into the darkness.
My heart is pounding. There is sweat beading in between my breasts. I feel afraid and curious.
I will myself back asleep.
What was the music she heard? I hear it too, but not enough to know what it is, a ghost of a song. Why is she naked? Her skin lit blue by the night.
It is a strange dream and I wonder what she means. Or is it just the spring night, teasing me with the sound of rain.
G.
April 06, 2006
Unfurling Tendrils...
Tonight I went running down the backside of my little mountain… the same trail they closed in a February storm due to the dangerous wind-fall. For so long this trail had been the same, cold earth… limp ferns.
When I came around the old gnarled maple the waxy scent of salmonberries gave way to the sharp acid of skunk cabbage.
The creek is running again.
And high above the trilliums blooming rise the cedars, still beautiful.
This spring unfurling always catches me slightly off guard. How sudden and quick. Spring is a woman come undone, shaking her hair out she is exuberant in her chartreuse dress dotted with daffodils.
The kind of woman all the boys want to take under the fresh pink blossoms, the kind of woman others envy for her natural beauty.
There will not be many more runs like this one… soon I will have to find new paths. New and wonderful details. But still, there is this mountain trail. There is the cedar and the salmonberry. There is the dog at the fourth house on the right and the old man who waters his garden every evening. Not gone, just altered.
Pressed here. For remembrance.
G.
When I came around the old gnarled maple the waxy scent of salmonberries gave way to the sharp acid of skunk cabbage.
The creek is running again.
And high above the trilliums blooming rise the cedars, still beautiful.
This spring unfurling always catches me slightly off guard. How sudden and quick. Spring is a woman come undone, shaking her hair out she is exuberant in her chartreuse dress dotted with daffodils.
The kind of woman all the boys want to take under the fresh pink blossoms, the kind of woman others envy for her natural beauty.
There will not be many more runs like this one… soon I will have to find new paths. New and wonderful details. But still, there is this mountain trail. There is the cedar and the salmonberry. There is the dog at the fourth house on the right and the old man who waters his garden every evening. Not gone, just altered.
Pressed here. For remembrance.
G.
April 04, 2006
Other Windows
Carrots ~ Lorna CROZIER
Carrots are fucking
the earth. A permanent
erection , they push deeper
into the damp and dark.
All summer long
they try so hard to please.
Was it food for you,
Was it good?
Perhaps because the earth won’t answer
they keep on trying.
While you stroll through the garden
thinking carrot cake,
carrots and onions in beef stew,
carrot pudding with caramel sauce,
they are fucking their brains out
in the hottest part of the afternoon.
Carrots are fucking
the earth. A permanent
erection , they push deeper
into the damp and dark.
All summer long
they try so hard to please.
Was it food for you,
Was it good?
Perhaps because the earth won’t answer
they keep on trying.
While you stroll through the garden
thinking carrot cake,
carrots and onions in beef stew,
carrot pudding with caramel sauce,
they are fucking their brains out
in the hottest part of the afternoon.
April 03, 2006
Whispers....
Have you ever watched the autumn rush of spawning salmon, their fight against the current; through falls and shallow creek beds, through mountain canyons and under highway bridges? Steady they move, part memory, instinct… another part so primal it is in their very tissue. Red. Gashes of red and in this primal passion they push forward.
The current fights me. Minutes. Days. Weeks. I swim up my river, through the forest of second growth words seeking the dense cedar silence of the old growth. I am hunting for the deepest pool, the clearest and most protected. I want to bury my future in those protective roots growing on it’s banks.
I want to come home.
And Jeff and I are doing that. Building something in the evergreens. Building a future so new it is merely a pinecone waiting for a June fire to set the seeds free.
Forgive my neglect. We have been busy. Today we did something completely monumental for both of us; something that I hope is just the beginning of a wonderful, fruitful life together….
We removed the subjects on the purchase of our house. Half way. We are half way to making it ours.
And we both agree that one of the bedroom walls will be red.
G.
The current fights me. Minutes. Days. Weeks. I swim up my river, through the forest of second growth words seeking the dense cedar silence of the old growth. I am hunting for the deepest pool, the clearest and most protected. I want to bury my future in those protective roots growing on it’s banks.
I want to come home.
And Jeff and I are doing that. Building something in the evergreens. Building a future so new it is merely a pinecone waiting for a June fire to set the seeds free.
Forgive my neglect. We have been busy. Today we did something completely monumental for both of us; something that I hope is just the beginning of a wonderful, fruitful life together….
We removed the subjects on the purchase of our house. Half way. We are half way to making it ours.
And we both agree that one of the bedroom walls will be red.
G.
March 16, 2006
Whispers...
Have you noticed a change in the night?
It’s no longer only the singing of the cedar trees I hear but now a chorus of frogs has started their mating songs. I had heard the morning robins but somehow I had missed them. We all do that; hear something without really hearing it. But there they were under the full moon, crooning away.
Then there is the scent of the rain. Distinctive west coast spring. Smelling of green and dirt. Of pine trees and wet pavement.
I may have to go hunting spring down. Pin her to the pages of this cyber world to share with those who have not yet smelled the trail of her perfume.
G.
It’s no longer only the singing of the cedar trees I hear but now a chorus of frogs has started their mating songs. I had heard the morning robins but somehow I had missed them. We all do that; hear something without really hearing it. But there they were under the full moon, crooning away.
Then there is the scent of the rain. Distinctive west coast spring. Smelling of green and dirt. Of pine trees and wet pavement.
I may have to go hunting spring down. Pin her to the pages of this cyber world to share with those who have not yet smelled the trail of her perfume.
G.
March 02, 2006
Other Windows...
How to Speak Poetry~by Leonard Cohen
Take the word butterfly. To use this word it is not necessary to make the voice weigh less than an ounce or equip it with small dusty wings. It is not necessary to invent a sunny day or a field of daffodils. It is not necessary to be in love, or to be in love with butterflies. The word butterfly is not a real butterfly. There is the word and there is the butterfly. If you confuse these two items people have the right to laugh at you. Do not make so much of the word. Are you trying to suggest that you love butterflies more perfectly than anyone else, or really understand their nature? The word butterfly is merely data. It is not an opportunity for you tohover, soar, befriend flowers, symbolize beauty and frailty, or in any way impersonate a butterfly.
Do not act out words. Never act out words. Never try to leave the floor when you talk about flying. Never close your eyes and jerk your head to one side when you talk about death. Do not fix your burning eyes on me when you speak about love.
If you want to impress me when you speak about love put your hand in your pocket or under your dress and play with yourself. If ambition and the hunger for applause have driven you to speak about love you should learn how to do it without disgracing yourself or the material.
What is the expression which the age demands? The age demands no expression whatever. We have seen photographs of bereaved Asian mothers. We are not interested in the agony of your fumbled organs. There is nothing you can show on your face that can match the horror of this time. Do not even try. You will only hold yourself up to the scorn of those who have felt things deeply.
We have seen newsreels of humans in the extremities of pain and dislocation. Everyone knows you are eating well and are even being paid to stand up there. You are playing to people who have experienced a catastrophe. This should make you very quiet.
Speak the words, convey the data, step aside. Everyone knows you are in pain. You cannot tell the audience everything you know about love in every line of love you speak. Step aside and they will know what you know because you know it already. You have nothing to teach them. You are not more beautiful than they are. You are not wiser. Do not shout at them. Do not force a dry entry. That is bad sex. If you show the lines of your genitals, then deliverwhat you promise. And remember that people do not really want an acrobat in bed.
What is our need? To be close to the natural man, to be close to the natural woman. Do not pretend that you are a beloved singer with a vast loyal audience which has followed the ups and downs of your life to this very moment. The bombs, flame-throwers, and all the shit habe destroyed more than just the trees and villages. They have also destroyed the stage. Did you think that your profession would escape the general destruction? There is no more stage. There are no more footlights.
You are among the people. Then be modest. Speak the words, convey the data, step aside. Be by yourself. Be in your own room. Do not put yourself on.
This is an interior landscape. It is inside. It is private. Respect the privacy of the material. These pieces were written in silence. The courage of the play is to speak them. The discipline of the play is not to violate them. Let the audience feel your love of privacy even though there is no privacy. Be good whores.
The poem is not a slogan. It cannot advertise you. It cannot promote your reputation for sensitivity. You are not a stud. You are not a killer lady. All this junk about the gangsters of love. You are students of discipline. Do not act out the words. The words die when you act them out, they wither, and we are left with nothing but your ambition.
Speak the words with the exact precision with which you would check out a laundry list. Do not become emotional about the lace blouse. Do not get a hard-on when you say panties. Do not get all shivery just because of the towel. The sheets should not provoke a dreamy expression about the eyes. There is no need to weep into the handkerchief. The socks are not there to remind you of strange and distant voyages. It is just your laundry. It is just your clothes. Don't peep through them. Just wear them.
The poem is nothing but information. It is the Consitution of the inner country. If you declaim it and blow it up with noble intentions then you are no better than the politicians whom you despise. You are just someone waving a flag and making the cheapest kind of appeal to a kind of emotional patriotism. Think of the words as science, not as art. They are a report. You are speaking before a meeting of the Explorers' Club of the National Geographic Society. These people know all the risks of mountain climbing. They honour you by taking this for granted. If you rub their faces in it that is an insult to their hospitality. Tell them about the height of the mountain, the equipment you used, be specific about the surfaces and the time it took to scale it. Do not work the audience for gasps and sighs. If you are worthy of gasps and sighs it will not be from your appreciation of the event but from theirs. It will be in the statistics and not the trembling of the voice or the cutting of the air with your hands. It will be in the data and the quiet organization of your presence.
Avoid the flourish. Do not be afraid to be weak. Do not be ashamed to be tired. You look good when you're tired. You look like you could go on forever.
Now come into my arms. You are the image of my beauty
Take the word butterfly. To use this word it is not necessary to make the voice weigh less than an ounce or equip it with small dusty wings. It is not necessary to invent a sunny day or a field of daffodils. It is not necessary to be in love, or to be in love with butterflies. The word butterfly is not a real butterfly. There is the word and there is the butterfly. If you confuse these two items people have the right to laugh at you. Do not make so much of the word. Are you trying to suggest that you love butterflies more perfectly than anyone else, or really understand their nature? The word butterfly is merely data. It is not an opportunity for you tohover, soar, befriend flowers, symbolize beauty and frailty, or in any way impersonate a butterfly.
Do not act out words. Never act out words. Never try to leave the floor when you talk about flying. Never close your eyes and jerk your head to one side when you talk about death. Do not fix your burning eyes on me when you speak about love.
If you want to impress me when you speak about love put your hand in your pocket or under your dress and play with yourself. If ambition and the hunger for applause have driven you to speak about love you should learn how to do it without disgracing yourself or the material.
What is the expression which the age demands? The age demands no expression whatever. We have seen photographs of bereaved Asian mothers. We are not interested in the agony of your fumbled organs. There is nothing you can show on your face that can match the horror of this time. Do not even try. You will only hold yourself up to the scorn of those who have felt things deeply.
We have seen newsreels of humans in the extremities of pain and dislocation. Everyone knows you are eating well and are even being paid to stand up there. You are playing to people who have experienced a catastrophe. This should make you very quiet.
Speak the words, convey the data, step aside. Everyone knows you are in pain. You cannot tell the audience everything you know about love in every line of love you speak. Step aside and they will know what you know because you know it already. You have nothing to teach them. You are not more beautiful than they are. You are not wiser. Do not shout at them. Do not force a dry entry. That is bad sex. If you show the lines of your genitals, then deliverwhat you promise. And remember that people do not really want an acrobat in bed.
What is our need? To be close to the natural man, to be close to the natural woman. Do not pretend that you are a beloved singer with a vast loyal audience which has followed the ups and downs of your life to this very moment. The bombs, flame-throwers, and all the shit habe destroyed more than just the trees and villages. They have also destroyed the stage. Did you think that your profession would escape the general destruction? There is no more stage. There are no more footlights.
You are among the people. Then be modest. Speak the words, convey the data, step aside. Be by yourself. Be in your own room. Do not put yourself on.
This is an interior landscape. It is inside. It is private. Respect the privacy of the material. These pieces were written in silence. The courage of the play is to speak them. The discipline of the play is not to violate them. Let the audience feel your love of privacy even though there is no privacy. Be good whores.
The poem is not a slogan. It cannot advertise you. It cannot promote your reputation for sensitivity. You are not a stud. You are not a killer lady. All this junk about the gangsters of love. You are students of discipline. Do not act out the words. The words die when you act them out, they wither, and we are left with nothing but your ambition.
Speak the words with the exact precision with which you would check out a laundry list. Do not become emotional about the lace blouse. Do not get a hard-on when you say panties. Do not get all shivery just because of the towel. The sheets should not provoke a dreamy expression about the eyes. There is no need to weep into the handkerchief. The socks are not there to remind you of strange and distant voyages. It is just your laundry. It is just your clothes. Don't peep through them. Just wear them.
The poem is nothing but information. It is the Consitution of the inner country. If you declaim it and blow it up with noble intentions then you are no better than the politicians whom you despise. You are just someone waving a flag and making the cheapest kind of appeal to a kind of emotional patriotism. Think of the words as science, not as art. They are a report. You are speaking before a meeting of the Explorers' Club of the National Geographic Society. These people know all the risks of mountain climbing. They honour you by taking this for granted. If you rub their faces in it that is an insult to their hospitality. Tell them about the height of the mountain, the equipment you used, be specific about the surfaces and the time it took to scale it. Do not work the audience for gasps and sighs. If you are worthy of gasps and sighs it will not be from your appreciation of the event but from theirs. It will be in the statistics and not the trembling of the voice or the cutting of the air with your hands. It will be in the data and the quiet organization of your presence.
Avoid the flourish. Do not be afraid to be weak. Do not be ashamed to be tired. You look good when you're tired. You look like you could go on forever.
Now come into my arms. You are the image of my beauty
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