Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Monday, September 30, 2013

Innumerable Crows

327/ After a short walk, we turn back, take a different path home. From the fields a spiraling storm transforms to innumerable crows.

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Shifts to Ink

326/ Seabirds or ravens— two nurses, distanced, translate me to object: blood, urine, body fat. It all shifts to ink across paper.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

This Rain

325/ Even in this rain, developers level out the landscape, leaving a solitary maple, and one darkly vagrant bird.

Friday, September 27, 2013

A Divorced Couple

324/ A divorced couple: you can hear their argument swinging back and forth with accusations in public. Barbed words litter the cold air.

Thursday, September 26, 2013

A Crow Appears, Laughing

323/ Driving through downtown, windows fogged over, the world drowns, full white on white—until the moment a crow appears, laughing in mid-air.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Three Constants

321 / These three images remain constant elements: a crescent moon, thin-lipped on the night’s horizon; crows winging through a still life;
322 / and maples burning their dark illuminations through the silent neighborhood — the pen pulling out each icon with new purpose.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Surrounded by Flocks

320 / On the porch again, we trim my hair to the skull. I am surrounded by flocks of these last few days—small reminders of the past.

Monday, September 23, 2013

Waiting for the Moon

319 /—at night your eyes change, darkening deep as wild flights of ravens, moving in furious close circles, covens waiting for the moon

Sunday, September 22, 2013

Elijah in the Wilderness

318 /— to descend as crows over his sleeping body, an acknowledgement of his cause, the internal nightly wrestling with angels—

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Elijah in the Wastelands

317 / give me the fury of fallen angels, that force within Elijah struggling within the wastelands waiting for the Word of God —

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

three feathers

316/ another moment: three feathers tumble across the back porch — crimes of neighbor’s cat— but now, he sleeps as Buddha, in the sun’s lap

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Your Haunting

315 / unexpectedly, a slight rain starts, the same way your haunting descends on me, without warning— a sudden mist on this old crow.

Monday, September 16, 2013

Dark-Lit Satellites

314 / with vague intentions we drive to other cities, pass dark-lit satellites perched on the thin border of the star-deep horizon

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Lunar Eclipse Creeping

312 / from the front doorway, we watch the lunar eclipse creeping slow, a drunk old man in a crow-dark coat holding the whole of the moon

Friday, September 13, 2013

Calloused Fingers

311 / with calloused fingers, the spring full moon pulls open stalks of black iris, their heavy mouths bruised with the violent purple of ravens

Thursday, September 12, 2013

His Dark Wings Animated

311 / February first and already a dead crow appears in the road his dark wings animated with wind from passing autos.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Crow Tanka

310 / Every so often in the middle of the night my body startles awake—as an explosion of crows shuddering from trees.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Cut and Paste Poetry

In midst of the negative chaos from losing my computer for a few weeks of repair, I fortunately gained time for finalizing some writing projects. Case in point, for a number of months— or even longer to be honest—I stalled working on an idea which began merely as an association between two elements: a humpback whale and the Celtic Saint Brendan. In past posts, vague references were made to the existence of the work, but no real progress achieved itself until late August with the combined reading of poetry from the likes of Yannis Ritsos, Arthur Sze, and Galway Kinnell.

The resulting piece has been almost finalized as of this weekend— after a few hours of physically cutting and pasting the portions of the stanzas in a fresh order. Simply titled “Saint Brendan and the Whale,” the poem displays both realities of the mammal and the human, juggling perceptions between the two, motioning back and forth in an equal exchange of ideas.

The full story of the saint’s journey to the New World includes an encounter with a larger-than-life-whale, the animal’s presence confused as an actual island by Brendan’s followers. Only through a dream communication with God does Brendan realize the circumstance, so he himself is not as alarmed when his fellow voyagers discover the island is not an island. It is the saint’s calm acceptance of the situation which attracted my interest in the first place—he does not question the surreal notion of the facts before him: he simply concedes the Divine’s position and then moves forward into further adventures.

The notion of submission to a higher authority often follows most saint’s and martyr’s hagiographies. Similar to the European folktale formula with an extremely passive, moral protagonist who endures dramatic circumstances to prove a devotion and high code of ethics, Brendan endures severe levels of hardship to prove his loyalty to God. This devotion, tied to his curiosity of his Sixth Century C.E. world, provides much inspiration for creative writing.

The closing two stanzas of the full piece linger with a strong sense of irresolution. They purposely waver, hesitant. The intention lies in the motion of ocean tides themselves, that slight drag of waves which suggest a resulting stillness will develop sometime between high and low tides. Because little is known about the monk Brendan, aside from folkloric tales and speculations, the poem closes with only a suggestive scene: himself in his scriptorium, daydreaming over a text. This scene allows for a sense of transposition, a physical metamorphosis between the figure of the whale in his environment and the monk in his private cell along the Irish coast. In this fashion, readers draw their own conclusion and apply their own personal epiphany to the full work.

Dream of Crows

309/ What is left to say? A list perhaps: rain lingers on the evening’s hour. The cat curls within himself. I will dream of crows tonight.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Merely Waits

308/ Sometimes he merely waits. Other times: he becomes the fire. His one chair. The walls of ghosted limestone. The fall of fresh snow outside.

Saturday, September 7, 2013

Crossing the Frozen

307/ Crossing the frozen river deltas, shadows shift within the grey ice— they flicker as pale dragons following the cold current.

Friday, September 6, 2013

Soft Tread of Glaciers

306/ Sometimes at night he hears the soft tread of glaciers shifting across the landscape, cutting their way through the frozen ocean’s tundra—

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Dragon Birthmark


304/ There are times he will pull back his worn overshirt seeking the dragon birthmark on his pale torso— assurance of recent past.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Gathering the Garden Together || Fragments


01/ a locked gate to the garden

02/ a forgotten key, shaped as a raven’s wing, lies in the bottom drawer of a writing desk

03/ —the garden waits impatiently,

04/ a persistent flowering even in the folds of the body—spreading beyond borders of garden walls, the gestures of flirtation—

05/ or the territories of your body beside my own— in bed as ruined temples, the forest invading, slowly covering the convent’s garden paths,

06/ you become my garden, my early paradise of figs, pomegranates, a territory established with order, measured restriction, a gated orchard ripened,

07/ the garden of your body transformed

08/ to acreage of wilderness unclaimed, to the world as all field, your body shifting to garden, to a copse of trees, to a gravel path

09/ even the garden of your name exists within the realm of possibilities and obtainable goals

10/ the map of your body leads to unseen gardens, locked gateways, blocked passageways— and I grow confused

11/ the monks of a saint with an unpronounceable name often sit in their garden at vespers

12/ your mildest gesture echoes the spiritual silence of a holy book, closing in the prayer gardens of Cypress

13/ or the sound of a page turning over, a leaf drifting, the garden gate’s latch connecting

14/ There is a sense of completeness when the moon rises out of folds of ivy in an abandoned garden

15/ your shadow clings to the garden of my name


A New Temple


303/ Sputtering oil lamp. Crack of damp wood on the fire. Weak tea on the tongue—with wild dogs barking outside, he plots a new temple.