Tuesday, January 31, 2012

the living word

Here is the river of darkness where I stand and I peer down where the ghosts are and they seem to be speaking the words that I have spoken in poems and prose.  I am not sure. The words are always floating up and making a bubble of sound that seems to come –from voices that are stored there.

The river of darkness floats a body or two every day.  A poet has a net of her own called her soul.  You expect nothing there but the bones.

An eye may stare back out of that netting.
A lost finger.  A baby thumb. The brittle clump of hair.
And whatever else you find there.

A poem is a way to see.
A poem is a  way to make peace with the end.
A poem is a way to love the world and to receive love in return.



If you write poems all you are doing is going to the river of darkness and making this place known to your soul.
So that when it is time for the great darkness to arrive---and usurp the body and mind—then the soul recognizes the place where she must enter –and she will go. There will be no fear. She has written poems about this destination –and it is clear –that this is the home where ---all souls of non-believers are sent.

And no fires of hell for the poets—we tried to make our souls shine.

And the one who creates everything---believes –we did the best that we could ---and though we did not believe in him---we gave up our lives so that the living word –could sing

pin this on


Ebony Jewel-wing damselfly

A pair of beads make up the eyes
and triggers for the limbs

posed to leap
yet handicapped (missing parts)

Strong rope to ---
blatant –hold it back?

No –it’s the abdomen
that rockets back from where--

the wings are clapping---
in self-praise

and why not?
These jewels are rare and

form a glittering broach----
that---I’d wear --- on an overcoat.

**
This photograph was so pretty I had to go look up more information.
This website gives pared down information—I used the ID of “Ebony Jewel-wing damselfly” as the search words.



This next site had more detail:


Damselflies (Zygoptera) comprise the more morphologically diverse suborder of odonates. In North America and particularly in Florida they have similar characteristics, which are: eyes separated by more than the width of a single eye, abdomen much longer than wings, very slim body structure and a simple fluttering flight. Damselflies can often be quite spectacular in color such as the ebony jewelwing damselfly, Calopteryx maculata, found throughout the eastern United States and Florida wherever there are slow flowing, shaded wooded streams.
**
Then there was even more information here:


Two physical features identify most members of the order Odonata - extremely large eyes (in proportion to its head) and a long, slender abdomen. An insect with these characteristics is more than likely a dragonfly or damselfly.
Odonates are predacious as naiads and adults. Dragonflies and damselflies have tiny antennae, so vision is their primary means of navigating and capturing prey. Odonates can rotate their heads nearly 360 degrees, giving them an almost limitless field of view.
Large mandibles chew prey quickly and easily, an important feature since these insects tend to eat on the move. The thorax is tilted, positioning the legs just below the mandibles where they function as a prey-catching basket. Gnats and mosquitoes are easily scooped up, and the labium quickly snaps forward to grab the prey, moving it into the mouth in a split second.
Several differences in wing structure separate the Odonates from other insect groups. Members of the order Odonata are considered "primitive winged," with wings that cannot be folded. Unlike more evolved insect groups, such as the Hymenoptera, dragonflies and damselflies operate each wing independently. This gives Odonates the interesting abilities to hover, fly backward, and take off vertically, similar to a helicopter.
Odonate eggs are laid in water, where they hatch into wingless naiads. The naiads have gills, and will molt up to 15 times, depending on the species. Some naiads remain in their aquatic environment for as long as two years before reaching adulthood. The final molt produces functioning wings, and the adult dragonfly or damselfly can hunt over water or land.
**
I had no idea that there were so many variations on the theme of dragonflies. I don’t think I’ve seen damselflies about the forest and river—I seem to encounter mostly dragonflies.
They sound quite alien, horrific creatures—able to rotate their heads and eat on the run with the ability to track prey easily ---flight being such an easy matter for them in any direction.

I like to have a photograph send me off on a superficial inquiry of this sort.
I mean I can’t say I have a large comprehension of damselflies and dragonflies—but at least I have made the acquaintanceship of damselflies now.

it is not me

Occasionally, when you write you can see the voice you have made in your writing.

The voice--that I have created on the blog is that of a nice, loving mother and wife and this voice--- is rather amazing to me because she is so damn normal, kind, wise..etc.

Readers believe this nice voice in the writing means that I am like this person that emotes in the blog.
They are wrong.
If they met me they would see a mousy woman who is inclined to go for the jugular where her sons' welfare is concerned but otherwise is a recluse.
I am not nice.
I do not like to yap uselessly with people.
I fail in parenting.
My husband often dislikes me (no cooking, cleaning and caring—the three C’s of a wife are all F’s in my case).
My sons avoid me (I had to stay out of the school system until it was unavoidable).
My siblings find me assertive (a nice way of saying I am bossy and besides they have bad memories of reciting “The song of Hiawatha” on trips to the beach in Kuwait).
I have no friends.
I have the Muse but we are not yet intimate.
I have a sense  of humor but it is only with reference to men.
I like cats but I do not have one after my orange tabby—Simon—a giant heart of a cat ---passed on to the great sod in the back yard of my parents’ house.
The door to heaven is closed to evil immoral women like me –who do what the hell they want to do and don’t care what anyone thinks—because this is my life and I will live it the way I see fit.

And yet, the voice is so pleasing.
The voice is demure.
The voice is reassuring and motherly.
And yet mothers can kill.
Beware.
The voice on the blog is fictional and sweetened and tender.

It is not me.

I am more dangerous.

discoveries


Late at night it is easy to coast and pretend you have done enough writing.
I have done my quota of words for the day but this was fast writing and I did not read. In fact, I did nothing useful in terms of thinking through another writer’s dendrites and synapses. I had enough troubles going through my own mind’s thickets and trying to cleave a path for me to find my way home.

This is the way it is sometimes and I get into a funk because I am not reading ten million pages of print. Sometimes you just run into reading burnout and you have to fidget in writing pieces for no good reason other than you are avoiding the hard work of cutting a trail through the jungle of Sylvia Plath’s mind.

Sometimes it is so much less effort to muddle through the boreal forest in your own mind than to enter the tropical jungle of another poet and be eaten by a tiger resident there.

In other words,  I am tired of reading books.
I do not want to do the work.
But I am still required to put words down and eat them.
So here I am –for the last week---shooting words out of the brain –in machine gun fashion---interested in some superficial way—in what would happen in print---- when the soldier firing the gun—who was half dead with fatigue from walking around a track at the YMCA—wrote day and night.  I was surprised to find----that the mind—is indeed ---an idiot-machine ------and can fire out bullets of print to the world ---and maim that body.

The mind is capable of writing even when the body is half dead—the right knee is a twist of pretzel and the right foot seems to be swelling up to the size of a cantaloupe.  It is all good.

The discoveries one makes as one attempts to force both body and mind into submission –are all good.

I have now determined that –on my death bed—I will probably be capable of writing a distinguished piece of scientific research on the mental status of an individual approaching the great darkness. 

Who knows? I may even come back after expiring and repeat the poems from the river of darkness and cube the stories of the dead in the solid forms of writing—using a ghostly transference device –called the soul.

January 31, 2012 writing notes


The one thing you have to learn as you write your requisite ten years of apprenticeship practice in order to become the Muse’s lover—is that this is all the work of the devil.

You are not to be an angel.

In other words, your job as a poet—is not to be compliant, submissive and agreeable.
These types of poets are hellishly boring to read and you do not want to be of their kin.

When you write –you should always be questioning dogma.  What is dogma? Anything anyone tells you and they think you should believe and agree with.  Dogma means being doggy and friendly and man’s best friend.
You are to avoid this stance in the world.
You are no puppy, no agreeable hunting pal and certainly not someone who would roll over on her back and have her tummy rubbed.  Life isn’t worth these types of agreements and humiliations.

When anyone gives you information—you are to determine if the information is valid or if it is biased towards one stance or if it is outright false.

This means you won’t be a nice person to be around.
I mean some people have learned to disagree --in an elegant fashion----with liars and cheats at all levels of government and society --without creating Hiroshima---but I can’t figure out how they do it.

I am not agreeable when I disagree.
I tend to tell folks to can the bullshit and plug the lies.
But this makes for rather uncomfortable social situations and so if you can learn to be disagreeable while forking out manure from the barn of mankind and using the manure to make peonies –I am all admiration.

Being  a poet—requires that you separate manure and lies from the real goods—the truth and proving to yourself that you have been detached and cold and scientific about the process.

Of course, I tend to get all emotional and bad tempered about my material.
You should try to avoid this.
Poetry requires blood but it also requires a surgeon with the scalpel she can use to cut with rather than a sledgehammer to take the patient out of his troubles.

What am I trying to say in this post?

You have to be brave.
You have to say the truth even if this is hard to do and may piss folks off.
If you don’t do this work—then you are part of the lie.
No matter what anyone tells you in the world—telling and upholding lies---is a lie in itself.
This may be rather romantic and unrealistic a stance to take in our litigious society but if government and its institutions such as Alberta Education—and its less than compliant affiliate--Edmonton Public School district---if these fond places of hope and democracy do not expose the lie and uphold the law—well then—citizens are basically screwed.

I think we are screwed.
But at least we have poets like myself around to expose the lie and say –watch out—they are covering up lies here and why? Because they lack courage. They lack insight into the lack of ethics this exposes to their citizens.  They are basically saying –for example –in my son’s case—it is fine for school districts  to allow their employees to break the law without public accountability –because –well –they are above the law and public scrutiny.

This is wrong.
I don’t care what anyone tells me.
If someone in a public institution breaks the law, they must be held accountable and the results of that disciplinary action must be made clear to the public –because we deserve to know that people were held accountable for wrongdoing.

When poets write—or for that matter—any writer—writes—they must ignore what anyone else tells them –which in my case—was that –your son is getting services now –why make waves?

When poets write—or for that matter—any writer –writes—they must write from deep inside their souls and say what they really think and I think this stance by Edmonton Public Schools to pretend that nothing wrong happened in my son’s case---is bad administrative practice.

It is bad practice because it promulgates the lie as not the lie –but a truth that if taken to court—would be blatantly proven to be the lie.

In any case—what I am trying to say in this piece—is that folks will influence your writing in subtle and not so subtle ways.  Listen to them. Then ignore everything they tell you and you make up your own mind. Don’t obey anyone else except the inner voice.

The inner voice of the soul—tells you what the outer voice of your writing will be like.

You are to be truthful.
You are to write the way you must write.



And to hell with everyone else.

last 30 laps done for the day

The last thirty laps were hard to do because the right knee and foot don’t want to walk. But I forced the issue and so the whole 100 laps were done. It may have not been a good idea but oh, well—that’s life. It’s done. I’m going to do the income splitting of the laps between morning and evening periods so that my right knee can somehow work through the wobbliness. 
I went to yoga after the walk which helped a tiny bit with the knee problem.

Right now the sea of flesh feels rather tentative but I imagine in six months time –when I am hiking this will all seem like good preparation for the real horrors of zigzagging up a steep mountain pass. Younger boy did not go again. He gave the pretext that he was devoted to his homework .Since it is a rare day in hell that he is devoted to any form of schoolwork I was too shocked to disagree and left in happy anticipation of elevations in his scholastic performance at the next report card session. 

The day has gone by as has many days before it with the journals still on the floor. This is the reason why so many writers with stuff to write –never actually make a book—it is because they have a deluge of paper to get through and they never get through the paper to actually transfer this information into a book. In other words they are damn lazy.  Like me.

I’d rather slap the words on the bulletin board of the Internet than strive for unlikely fame and big bucks on the Wall Street of print.


In fact, I’d rather hike and write poems as I walk.

the next poet I will work on

I have to go to the YMCA soon. I am just waiting for the boys to finish their homework before I drop of older boy at the City of Edmonton recreation center and the go with younger boy to the YMCA since we are infectious family particles as far as older boy is concerned and he does not want us messing up his  image.

Sigh.
It is hard to have such a perfectionist as an older son but I can’t really blame him.
Looking at the way my image is –I can’t blame him for adopting containment measures of the strictest kind. I am wearing a black pair of gym pants that survived the recent clothes purge, a maternity top from ancient times that is thankfully roomy and black and  a black scarf around my neck (for mourning). My feet hurt. Younger boy will be insufferable around the track and so I have advised him to have music to insulate him from me; I will have my music on loud so that I can pretend I am alone doing the last 30 laps of need.

My day seems to vanish in a sort of snow melt that we had today.  At least the laundry is off the bed and we have five washed towels to keep us going until tomorrow’s wash. I feel that I am losing the war with the dirty laundry. Sometimes I have to go buy new socks/ underwear and towels for the boys and one man so that they don’t realize how far behind I am in the laundry business.

When younger boy has dragged himself around the track –we will go and pick up the older boy and then I will sit in front of “small memories” by José Saramago –that I have been re-reading for aeons and maybe I will be able to slowly work through two pages before my attention is diverted by another book. I haven’t found another poet whose works I want to work through like the poems that I have ravished in Emily Dickinson’s boudoir but who knows?  Maybe once I empty the floor of all my journals (still to be packed away)—once I have a library of books where I can tell where books are—that I am searching for—once the world inside the hermit’s cave is perfect—maybe I will have found the next poet I will work on in detail.  If not, I will just go to the Whitemud Crossing library and pick a poet there. At least I will be able to find the poet there.

Maybe I will work on Federico Garcia Lorca. 

The only problem with Lorca, is that I haven’t  a clue what he is rattling on about although I dearly love his diversions in imagery  and the beauty of his lines-what will I grip in my teeth and tear into in a post? There is divinity and there is worship but this is boring stuff.  I can’t simply gush. I want to get something I understand out of the deal and the clockworks and oranges and hibiscus flowers in the poems of Lorca are tangible evidences of fertility in imagination but I can’t make these facts into prose.

I will have to look for a poet.
One that isn’t too wishy washy.
One that likes drawing in her poetry.
And one that will not be flabby in successive pieces.

I think I will work on Sylvia Plath.
I love her imagery and though she is excitable –oh well—so am I and if I get bored I can always go to Yeats and hope for the best.

The secondhand book--that I have got of her poems –“Sylvia Plath Collected Poems”  edited with an introduction by Ted Hughes—is dated June 12/82.
It is addressed to someone I can’t figure out (illegible). The note is sweet:

Dear----

    Please accept this
small gift on the occasion
of your graduation from York.
I’m not sure how much
you like poetry but this
is some of the most beautiful
contemporary poetry around.
I hope you enjoy it!
               

***


Then the signature (also illegible).

This is some of the fun of secondhand books –you get a world of information about the previous owner. Obviously this ungrateful recipient was not a lover of poetry –or else why would he/she give away this beautiful pleasing book? Dimwit. The book looks unloved and untouched. Well no matter--I will love and touch it to death.

I have to go now. The boys have miraculously finished their homework in ten minutes flat and we have to do some sort of motion in a foreign place.

gold

Now the sun has put her broad rump of gold on the houses around the marsh. On the way home from picking up older boy from grandma’s house—the trees along the University Farm were draped in gold silks of the most indescribably beautiful tawny colors, the bales of round bullock hay that were stacked in their long rows were golden and flashy wires rolled and the fields were heaps of manure. I love the farm area of the University which was once all empty fields but is slowly and perniciously being converted to useless infrastructure projects by the University. Its too bad. The farm is a treasure and in the city –with its dearth of green spaces—is a precious resource for the communities in the area.  A working research area with farm animals and other goodies of crops—is something every child should be privy to growing up and if the farm could just stay undeveloped—Edmonton children could have the fertile proximity of a farm setting in their barren city.

The gold rump of the sun is lower now.  And the sun I saw on the low rivers of snow on the roads coming back was following the retreating armies of white and whacking to clear them from those lands. One side of the road was plaintively empty of soldiers and on the other –shadowy areas of the road there was a full battalion of snowy warriors slogging it out with the sun knives.

It is sad to see the snow disappearing but I am sure we will be wrapped like parcels in ice soon and there will be ice buckets in the marsh wells in our community. The dogwood are shaking their red fur free of the snow that is now glinting only on the cattail edges.  The firs are triangulating the area—and the rose bushes are primed with a nailed and spiked trail to burst the bubbles of snow tires.

Here is the small landscape I study every day.  I have not gone to the other landscape that I love-the forest—because I have been utterly exhausted by the walking.  But soon—the weather will describe spring. I will take the walking poles and limp outside with my shattered right knee and discontented feet that are scarred entities that do not feel anything like feet any more but rather like small blocks of concrete. But no matter—I will trudge through the thickets of weeds and collapsing wood branches and watch the untidy grasses braid their hair into plaits—I will fling the last motes of light into the shadows and peel back the moss and lichen fringes from the aspen and poplar.  A raven will be one black post on the fir tree beds.  I will collect the sounds of the squirrels. I will supply the chickadees with black and white sunflower seeds from my garden. It is the beginning of the boreal forest breaking out of its jail house and escaping into the freedom of green. I will go to the forest and become reacquainted with the first days of Eden. It was like this always.  The sun –a fat rump of gold on the land. The snow breaking the fast of winter. The clouds forming a slow tidal wave of gray across the long beach of the skies.  Everywhere the world is shoving out of stasis to make hay of the world and then out that gold hay –the splinters of new growth that is the only requirement of each of us.

privileged territory

All the stories we tell ourselves to keep ourselves going --on and on---in this wake --that is life----are some sort of magic wand that we use to put things in order when we understand we are on shifting sand and the moon is a collapsing piece of pus. The doors house snakes. The walls are falling hearts and even –so are men. And when we go into the sea-the shells there talk about factories and quotas of sea travelers who never complete their journeys. We are to see the world as a skeleton that is being flayed of flesh that it owned once—and yet it is ghostly flesh now that is going and we are ghosts –as well—on the way to the sea.

Even when the magic wand of our stories work and we put up the bars against the gibbering voices at the gate—when we say that it isn’t real—that thing we see beyond the mountains that leaps out of clouds and ravishes the world with fire—and the dragons of trees bite out the rivers, seas and lakes—well—this can’t be true—in some childish part of our minds—we know we saw these things—one time when small –and yet we bottled up the images—all.

Here the door is shut to chaos. The house if filled with music—is still unnaturally still. The windows lift the normal and then—the ground drops to the sea—and the web of ceiling slips a spider that leaps and egg baskets of spiderlings shake. Your mind is portal to the space where nothing is the same.  And  all you do is leave chaos outside the writing door and enter the chaos that sits inside and do not slink cowardly there but hold the wand of story in your hand—and spray the interior with your thoughts and out of chaos—the story will tame the wilderness and lay low—the grasses that had risen high and totter the vines that were going to strangulate you---you walk inside your head –and you never are the same again—it’s a privileged territory.

resting place

While I was picking up younger boy from school I noticed that the flat iron of the sun was ironing the laundry of snow and that the wash water was on the streets.  Wash days are here again.

The trees were prickly about the whole business of the sun busying herself with the sheets of snow and packing up the batting of fluff on the streets.  They looked disarmed without their shields of snow and their pins and needles of ice stuck in their wooden armaments. 

Meanwhile, inside the house the laundry reaches supplicating arms and legs towards the bedroom ceiling. They form untidy bodies on the bed.  I have no clean towels yet. The towels have been stuck in our dryer that does not work and all day they have been heated up and are still not dry.

I will have to buy a new washer and dryer along with a new car.
Soon.

Dust is everywhere.  I haven’t tidied up the bedroom yet. I am beginning to feel like a hermit. This may be because I am one.

I did not do anything today.
I had a flat iron day and watched the world.

The sun remembers her housewifely duties while I try to ignore mine.
A long wide shadow that resembles my house creeps diligently to the white sunlight on the soccer field.
A child is snug with a mother against the back of a fir tree while their minor dog---- that resembles a peanut with limbs----walks about excitedly –as if he had just been born and was happy about the matter.

Dogs are suspiciously happy about everything and this is why I do not own a dog.

Far away the downtown section of Edmonton that I know only through secondhand book stores seems to grin in the bright light –as if relieved to be stripped of mist cover and spectacles of dark and the power lines are long loping trapeze artist concoctions that seem to depend on the clouds for support.

I want to write a few words before I go pick up older boy who will be mooching food at his grandmother’s house soon (grandfather is still in Bangladesh) and who will not arrive there for another few minutes and so I will splatter lines in the feathery spray –I usually reserve for painting walls.

The land outside my writing place is very calm with the light and it feels almost as if the land has recovered from some long illness of cold –which felt –at least to this sufferer—almost permanent.  The wounds of the cold are everywhere –and the reversals of the agony have left watery marks on the streets and the puddles are gathering themselves in crowds in my garden where the leaves are speaking to the wet below with small droplets from their pouring tips.

I write nonsense but since life is an end game of the most exotic sort—I do not deprive myself of these sorts of minor entertainments that merely prepare me for the losses of the assets of heart, soul and mind at the end.

Quick to go is the option that is open to some and the rest of us sit in the chairs of extended care places worshiping the body as it bends, contorts and defies gravity. The pendulum swings always towards degeneration and the mind falters in its bed of straw and lows to the moon. When the mind finally collapses all the intricate courtesies we indulge in –depart us –and we are wrapped and clothed and diapered like infants at birth –but are at the death-edge—where we are haloed in white hair, wrinkled skin and the loose folds of emaciation and reserve.

All we strive for is the iron of sun as it lays us in the sheets  of snow and puts us to bed in the dirt where the triumphant grasses send their roots of white through  the strands of white that we own at death—and the bones of white that we give up the flesh for.

How to be so willing to do this work of going toward the flat iron of sun and the bed of dirt?  I see the sun roost its feathery gold body on the land—the pale grasses streak out of the snow—and the horrid red teeth of the dogwood and see the bones and hair under the glowing fields. It is not so difficult to slowly move towards this resting place.

sad songs

When I am not writing ---I am listening to sad songs. I especially like this song by Linda Ronstadt (You won’t matter anymore)


A sad song is so good for getting all the tears out and Linda is so slow in this song that it makes the heartbreak even more acute.

I don’t know why folks like happy songs—they unnerve me---while a good breaking aching song revives me.
A sad song has muscle. While a happy song is all flab.
Who wants to hear about how a woman had a great life?
We want to hear about disease, challenges, horror and death. We are preparing ourselves for these matters in our lives—we need no preparation for joy for it is a drench when it so briefly comes and we are dry again and ready for the avalanche of misery again.

I see a sad song as immunization against pathogens.
Here is the needle full of inactivated bacteria or viruses—and there is the future immunity against horror.
I use the vaccine daily. The only difficulty is that I might sit here listening to the sad songs all afternoon instead of pumping air in the flat tires of the writing bicycle. 

I have read nothing. I have been in the music all afternoon. Laundry (sadly enough) is piled up. We have run out of towels.
This is bad news in a house where older boy washing his beautiful teenage body every two hours.
Sigh.
I’d better go wash clothes and towels before picking up younger and older boy from their scholastic penitentiaries.

the cattails are saying


The morning laps were hard and I wasn’t able to push through the 70 lap limit as my right knee and foot now seem to be conspiring together to avoid the expansion of the limit to 100 laps and so I will have to drag younger boy out of incubation before the computer and put him on the track this evening at the YMCA for the remaining 30 laps.

I don’t know how I will detach him from his barnacle clutch to the hull of the computer frame but I will chisel him off somehow.

The cattails are saying---- that it is soon--- to be—the new season of spring—and this is confirmed by the new light that shifts winter to the new frame.


A soft pearly light shape shifts the landscape outside the writing room. The marsh is a bustle of a lady’s skirt of red dogwood.  The clouds have vanished to make the longest paint brush smear of discontent.  The houses are long streaks of snow roof and there are some snow packed in the jaws of the cattails that gulp—the white –like teeth that have been broken—that seem to understand –that this is all they can do.

The cattails are shimmering gold in their flesh and remind of grainy gold parasites in the hard pictures of microscopic slides and they pack tight—the vestibules of muscles of the muscular landscape. The willows are black. They have forgotten their original sense. When they wake up each morning –their bodies are white and when the light fades—their bodies return to disquiet.

A long line of caftan trees are floating on the soccer field. The breast hill is reduced. The frocks of the firs are skimpy now. The rocks are all dancing –as the winter departs. And even some brown leaves dare to show their breeze.  A lingering warmth has convinced me it is not premature—to look for growth - --and hope for the spurs of the small riders of buds to come charging on the trees—in some shape. The world is changing –and the light is misty now.

Rubbed out roads are frequent. The ski tracks on the grasses emote. And friendly are the pine cones that send forth their small hard notes. A meeting is taking place—between the gray skies and the mud on the rest of this estate.

While Winter is wiping his boots and deciding on his next steps---the world is breaking in half its ice wafer and downing the pieces with water—that it drinks down greedily—for the land is thirsty and this—it can’t hide. The world is dappled. The world is making a mixture of old and renewed.

Although the light isn’t perfect—there is sufficient to see—the mist over the skyscrapers and the metallic poles and power wires ---that form gigantic trees—over everyone. I watch the mist eat the place—and hope it will come back some day. The hollow tubes that cover—each building for a rest—are perfect like the stammer of gown that covers the marsh basket with snow.


A singing is rising –from all the snow flakes—that make it certain –they will die. The land is ravished with icicles and blank trees.  But soon all the muttering of ice on the wood---will be tamped down for a summer where there will be roses and thorns.  A tree will shake its mane of green.  A small child of a bush will awake. And when I go to the garden again—the peonies will be stepping out in their ball gowns of pink to show—the coming out ceremonies are constant.  


A hill of water---a dimple of sky---the sun is a bruise—and the whole city dies.  When the land is awakening—miracles and losses –are commonplace.  Today the light ran away so that the snow would be sure to get the hint—and the trees rushed their sharp dendrites to make synapses with mist—so that the mind of the sky would know—that spring is coming and the hurry will be for –not mist or tree nerves—but the spring ribbons –and banners—to soon be unfurled.



first imaginings

Everything on this blog is first imaginings.
I do not do the work of revision because each day –revision is being done automatically in new writing.

The new writing revises the crappy writing of the previous days and this continues until the writer dies for each new line is superior in some minute fashion from any previous line she has written.

Revision of each post on the blog is impossible.  I do not have time for revision and do not want to revise something ten times to make it palatable. This is a fast writing blog and those who come here are diners who do not want more than what I have to offer—the small dishes of a Canadian family bent on making an interesting life although dullness reigns in everything this family does.

We still have first imaginings that we will have an interesting life.
And I still have first imaginings that I will make an interesting piece of writing each time I begin a post.

But I do not revise.

I live and I write first time and then I go on to the next day’s life and writing.
There is no point looking back.

Keep going.