Stories and poems

"The metaphoric image of 'orphan lines' is a contrivance of the detached onlooker to whom the verbal art of continuous correspondences remains aesthetically alien. Orphan lines in poetry of pervasive parallels are a contradiction in terms, since whatever the status of a line, all its structure and functions are indissolubly interlaced with the near and distant verbal environment, and the task of linguistic analysis is to disclose the levels of this coaction. When seen from the inside of the parallelistic system, the supposed orphanhood, like any other componential status, turns into a network of multifarious compelling affinities.'
Roman JAKOBSON, "Grammatical Parallelism and its Russian Facet", Language, 42/2, 1966, pp. 399-429, p. 428-429

Monday, January 2, 2017

Turning in

Solstice and the beginning of the roman calendar year is a dark time meant for turning inwards. We all enjoy this to differing extents. This year I've been able to do it at home, near the fire, in the forest, on a dirt road, in a closed room, in silence, with support and regular warm meals. It hasn't always been so and my winter grieving this year has been more bearable than most.

I didn't post anything at all in 2016. I think the whole year was, in some ways, a turning inwards, but also a turning outwards in ways that didn't involve thinking about lines of words to present to a public. I was seeing and experiencing things more urgently and directly. I don't think I was alone in this. 

I do want to share more writing this year. I have lots to say that I learned from the trees, they need more human language users these days to speak for them, and I need to practice this form of expression, which sometimes feels so strange and difficult. It's crucial for our survival that we realize how connected we are to the land we live on, to other creatures, and to each other. I think our words, though often divisive, can help with this. 

Everything is happening inside, which is also what is happening outside. I'm becoming more and more familiar with my cycles which are also the outer cycles I am a part of. We've put new names on things, but at this time there is still a baby born to a goddess which is a new light bearing gifts. There are still many languages to learn that aren't our own, and that place that is always mysterious, that we can always turn to for contemplation and for ressources, to re-source (se ressourcer the French say). It's infinite inspiration. 

Dark Moon

This is my dark moon, and yours too, a chance 
to learn all you ever wanted
from the mountains of your heart
and the ridges of your soul.

You can be dark too,
and Time doesn’t know
the straight path down to your toes.

It picks its way among the bones,
whitewashed in moonlight
from the month before.

A month which dried them out
as, staring at the sky,
desert eyes and bright,
they shattered in their last attempt
to fix the progress of the mind.

Stay in this new place with me,
this sacred space, made of stardust,
and wait for the dawn
that will come on the wings
of locusts.

Sit and stir your pot for now
as we wait for the sun
that doesn’t come.

We recognize our devotion
to the present path,
our faith, even when
no light has ever shone
on these dark shores.

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