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elegy under a winter sun: to be the uncountable stars again
1.
i suppose it would happen,
leaning in
to what it means to live
alive in the world
to live truly open,i suppose it would happen
that i would wonder
where you were in the world
where you areand how it happened that
our way together
was lost.2.
when we forget ourselves
for a while –
forget the me, forget the us,
forget who we are as a species,
do we forget the how to’s of living –
the harvest and plant and caress and spin.
do we forget how to live –when we forget
ourselves
for a while
and wake on a morning
in a half foreign body and wonder
where we are
where we were all those mornings
when light first touched leaf –do our hands forget the how to of loving –
how love of here becomes action
becomes living
alive3.
it is hard to remember
contracted contraction
sitting morning desk with scarf and gloves
and windows misted to the world,
it is hard to remember those summer nights,
the expansive singing
of all that lives naming the stars
and the spaces between –its hard to remember who we are
contracted as we are
by the overwhelming what now-ness of the world,
overwhelming breath held-ness
don’t look/don’t look away-ness of the worldit is hard to remember
contractions as we arebut we are all this night rain, big sky, wings wheeled
translucent across the clearing, dance-stamping
splashing ankle knee thigh deep in golden water
as the tide rushes the estaury cold and salt,
clamour valley, tall tree reaching for breath and light
all this, all thiswe are all of this are we not
in the dark between points
of the southern cross stretched
bright on this winter sky,
in the dark in the space between
are uncountable starsand lifting our faces
warm breath to the night
we remember it is the dust of
stars that grows our bones
earthbound
it is the warmth of stars
that animates our formwe are
we carry
we become
all of this.
For Brendan’s wonderful weekly challenge Woe My Spurs: Desperate Elegies
at Desperate Poets. Read his essay here – https://desperatepoets.com/2023/07/17/elegy-for-my-spurs/
Part of the title is lifted from Larry Levis poem ELEGY WITH AN ANGEL AT ITS GATE
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language
are there words
for this light –
words for the way
these trunks twist crevice
for lichen and moss.
is there a name for shadows
strewn forest floor
like windfall petals,when i sit here
really here on this leaf litter floor,
are there words for the forest
that rises and sways through me,
plays me wood string resonant
among the trees.16 April 2023
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synapse
in the space
between
here and now,
in the space
between two hands
held together in prayer,
in the space
between me and i,
the stars lean close
in an expansive sky
remembering –remembering
in the the silence between
that in our bones
in our cells
in the fractal minuteness
of our being
we too
once were
stars.18 April 2023
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Imminence
we knew it would rain
waking almost morning
opening the door
stepping out half dark
hoping for the last of night cool
on my skin, but instead
the world breathed warm
alive with mist
too close for starswe knew it would rain
when day came and mist
pulled thin across the sky
until the sun singed
the unravelling edges
of the world and we
waded through the morning heat
water bucket, hay,
ducklings to the pond –
all of life seeking shelter
and shade and cool
until the doing was done
and we could slip silent into forest
among the quiet and dappling,
among the unstirring leaves.we knew it would rain
mid afternoon
when the sky tilted a breeze
ocean pushed and
rushing through the valleys –
opening doors and windows
to let it rush through
across warm wood –
if not cooling then stirring at least.we knew it would rain
early evening drinking tea
at the long table watching
the sky gather on the horizon –
darken , clot
purple and heavy and close –said quick before the rain
and sat some more and finished our tea.by the time we put the beet on to soak
the first drops were falling,
evaporating on contact
but falling fallingnow we rushed –
my youngest and i
alone for a bit,
divvying up the tasks
between us,
calling goats in,
hurrying mother hens and horses,
covering bales.
closing doors and gates
under a sky that has now broken
in two and is pouring rain –
blessed rain in sheets thick and warm
full in our faces –
until drenched and drenched againwe meet up mid rush
only to laugh at the thunder crack sky
and each other soaked skinless
dripping hair plastered down our backs
stuck to our cheeks
entangled with petal and leaf.mud smeared feet stemming the flow
of silt water ankle deep down the drive –
pulling up stepping stones from rain gulleys
with rain running rivulets down spines
trying to shape the flow, guiding water
away from the house to contour ponds
and overflows and soak awaysand all the while the rain that fell
and falls and falls
calls us to be here
alive and bellowing skin prayers –
our voices nothing to the song of frogs,
the silence of wings
and the rain that came
that comes
giving life.inside we strip off wet clothes for dry
twist hair up in towels
loud laugh mop floors and wring and mop again
where our coming and going had created
inadvertant floodsmake supper, chatter, eat
blood flowing strong rivers in our veins
the stream, become river, in the valley roaring too.night will come quiet
with long soaking rain,
gentle now
like a sigh.
Fir Brendan at Earthweal’s weekly challenge: A COMMONS FOR ALL. Read more about it here.
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late work
i want a home
that is a hole
in the ground
cool clay walls
frogskin soft
to hide from heat
and fire and loss –(are we losing
our minds
because we think
all is
already lost)i
i want a home
that is a hole
in the ground
but not a gravenot a grave- i want want
light and air to breathe
and winter sun
like a tree
i want a
i want#reloading #pause #wait
#want #thinkingaboutthis
#soforgetful
#forgotteni dont know if we know
what hot really is –
sitting in the shade
wilted leaves
waiting
for the heat to passand oh god
and gods and
the writhing masses
of living lived living –
what are we going to dobecause of course
and of course
only our doing
our living
only our what the fuck
are we doing
can save us
and of course what we are not
doing (too/to)(shhhh shhh
don’t look
don’t notice
don’t act.here it is shiny, new
have it want it
all the moving pictures
laugh now
this is all you need
shhhhh)this morning i ate the plum
leaning against the doorframe
as i do, looking out
at the billowing green growth
clamouring leaning falling
as it does in summer.ate the plum – home grown
juices barely contained in its
taut crimson skin –
running down fingers and wrist,
all of of us
leaning billowing falling
in summer.none of this is verifiable –
phone out of charge
out of reach of our
other lived reality
across platforms in this
world within worlds
virtually not here at all
anymore – and if i was
the tree that fell – and
no one took the photo,
posted , would i could
i have fallen
at all#treesofinstagram
#stillhere #wherearewe
#howdowelove6pm and the sky is still blue
the sun still dries the washing on the line –
we are sitting outside in the shade
where it is cool, a toad falls
lazily into the pond – surfaces
its breath rippling dark waterbreathless
the world turns
and we
alive in our skins
turn with it turn with it
turn#didithappen #werewehereallalong
#howdowelive #alivelate work is carrying water
for the goats – weight resting
in curl of fingers
bucket in each hand
cool where it bumps my legit is is the sound of the gate latch
catching – holding for the night
while the goats sigh,
loud chewing their hay.#theend #isitending
#endtimes
For Brendan at Earthweal’s weekly challenge:Late work with Jorie Graham. Read it here
https://earthweal.com/2023/01/16/late-work-with-jorie-graham/
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sustained
almost summer now
and days stretch, longer
evenings gold and thick with
life open like a window in time –sunstained by berries
rasp and young, goose and straw
i find myself, last light, in the garden
with wattle and string in hand,
scissors precarious in pocket,(and it is hard not to be in love here
with this soil this place this earth
with these gods of here
whose names i have never known –
gods who stir and sigh
at the edge of our
living and dying
here
it is hard not to be in love
here)building trellis and temple
for the tomatoes that grow
elbow to finger tip by the day –
for the purple beans that
are reaching beyond their
cross-weave poles into the guava
and onto the shaggy sod-roof
of the hen house,purple black sap pods
hang in handfuls
ready for the picking,
firm sticks for jalapeno and brinjal
while the sky seeps into the hilland as the toad stirs
from its leaf home shallow dug
under the chamomile
for its night toadingi say my thanks close the gate
go inside to cook the beans
chop the greens
eatthis always was
this might always be
this is
For Brendan at Earthweal’s weekly challenge: TENDING A DIFFICULT GARDEN
https://earthweal.com/2022/11/21/tending-a-difficult-garden/
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speaking with feral tongues
speaking with feral tongues
1.
“earth my body
water my blood”2.
what songs are these
that scald our lips
and leave our tongues
hot sand and grit numb
in our mouths.what songs are these
hissed in bellow anger
that drives us beating
beating palm to stretch skin
under a silence of cleared sky
where no sky had been seen
before.songs of stump and limb
and sever and ache.and when the tears come
as come they will
when the anger that burned
is cooled by the rain.when the tears come
and we sing the lament
of every tree that fell –
until there is no more
in us left to singwho then will plant the trees –
who then will have breath enough
to sing the saplings to the sky.3.
what shifts in the mind of man
between seeing breathing
recognising beauty and
want lust greed – i must have it
own it
consume it.did they arrive here southern
south coast of africa away
away – so far away
did they arrive here green jewel
mist morning glittering lakes and
trees and trees and trees,
stand a moment among a choir
of voices unheard and say
how great is our god of the sky
that he has made a world this beautiful –or were they afraid
afraid of this thrumming wildness
this green and loud with birdsong world –
(tame it chain it own it)
did he open his eyes on this strange shore
and say mine mine all of it mine.did we see no more
than a storehouse for plundering –
selling the wealth of the world
limb by limb on boats across the ocean.
selling our earth and our future.4.
“earth my body,
water my blood”5.
this forested here lived human inhabited
for ten thousand years before,
was farmed seasonal nomadic
pastoralist for good
three thousand of that
and still the trees stood,
the elephant roamed,
the antelope grazed
the forest edge in morning lightbetween the 1760 arrival
of first settlers from europe
to these deep forest slopes
and the forest protection act of 1940
the forest was decimated destroyed
logged to depletion
the elephant sport hunted
to functional extinction.
a world harvested like a cornfield
as if it took a season to grow.and even that protection
was not enough
more timber more land
more people and towns and agriculture
more infrastructure
more habitat loss.and who are we to sing this lament,
who am i daughter of the moon
daughter of the forest
daughter of a daughter
of a colonial bastard somewhere
who am i to sing this lament.and i can say not in my name –
not in my name do you rape and burn and fell –
not in my name –
but here i am driving highway
town to town – fetching my daughter
daughter of the river forest
daughter of the moon.
fetching my daughter from school
built buildings mainroad mall mcdonalds
school where the forest stood
where the elephants sang
where others lived on quiet feet
before.6.
there are remnants
bits of deep forest,
an elephant or two,
old trees that got away
one close by – an old giant
a living monument to what was
(and perhaps one day might be)
with boardwalks and information plaques
age height girth
she towers above the canopy and
i know she is she for the berries
she scatters in hope,
we go there sometimes
cross the ferned stream lean over the railing
to place our hands on that immense lichen moss trunk.
feel the seasons and years and centuries
move through her slowly
know we are in the presence
of all that is holy.7.
what songs are these
that scald our lips
and leave our tongues
hot sand and grit numb
in our mouths.what songs are these
hissed in bellow anger
that drives us beating
beating palm to stretch skin
under a silence of cleared sky
where no sky had been seen
before.songs of stump and limb
and sever and ache.and when the tears come
as come they will
when the anger that burned
is cooled by the rain.when the tears come
and we sing the lament
of every tree that was felled –
until there is no more
in us left to singwho then will plant the trees –
who then will have breath enough
to sing the saplings to the sky.8.
i sing a song of mothers
the song of mornings
the song of scars that heal
and seed banks held quiet
in waiting soil.
of mphephu and bitou
that cover bare earth
like a gauze like a bandage
like a shroud for the dead
to soothe protect cool the soil
grow the seeds –
the song of keurboom and halleria
budlleja and rhus –
pioneer trees that sprout and sapling
and weave a low canopy
where the old trees the slow trees
the timber giants can grow
slow in the light
in a forest of becoming
and becoming9.
“earth my body,
water my blood”
For Sherry at Earthweal’s weekly challenge: THE TONGUES OF FALLING TREES
https://earthweal.com/2022/11/14/the-tongues-of-falling-trees/
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morning walk : learning the snake dance
this morning, most mornings
first light, while the kettle warms
i take the short dew-walk
barefeet through the garden
up the drive to the goathouse
to open the door for the day,
release the two hens with
their twenty two chicks between them
let the goats out among the trees
scoop scraps around the bales
for the rabbitsafter tea there will be feeding
and watering and attending
but for now – first light
this is enough.some mornings
are more wild than others –
when i returned to the goathouse
an adder was resting
in the soft threshold sun
maybe the length of my arm
potent patterned beautiful
perhaps she had slept
the night among the bales.puff adders are territorial
they choose a place and live there –
a goathouse is not a good home
for a puff adder –
too many goats
too many dogs
too many early mornings late nights
barefeet in the twilight –
too many patterns and
spaces among the bales.we do not kill here,
we live alongside –
night adder and boomslang
and herald and more,
but puff adders are slow to move
quick to strike
and sometimes lethal.
she had to find another home.gumbooted and elder-staffed
i watched her, peaceful
she slept a slow river
in the sun-warm dust.
watched she did not slip away
among the bales while
my daughter phoned the snake catcher
they have release permits
for puff adders in wild places.slowly she became
aware of my presence –
tasted the air with her dark adder tongue
pulled her tail a little closer –
settled in the sun once more.the snake catchers, all four of them,
were unavailable.some mornings
are a little more wild than others
and some things need to be done
whether we want to do them or noti watched, cautious as a cat
watched her scale ripple and silent
as she folded along a log,
rested her adder head
on her broad scaled back
and watched – time passed
while we watched each other
and i wished my tongue could speak her –
explain my actions
on this quiet morning in spring –
but the space between stretched
silent as skins pinned up to dry.i meant her no harm,
but when my intention
shifted from watching to capture
she saw me for the danger i was
and darted towards the goathouse,
to shelter.i intercepted
tried to lift her with the three pronged elder staff –
but she turned muscle coil and movement –
swimming light through the prongs.and so our dance began –
her leading me following
slowly slowly moving her
from the goats who watched
slow chewing behind the fence –
she darting and hiding –
invisible among tree root and leaf litter –
quiet among the undergrowth –
watching and being watched
until eventually flicked into the open road
where i could half lift
half herd her into the plastic box
laid leaf littered and waiting –
tip it upright
click on the lid –
done
adrenaline surge laughter – done.i would rather not capture
her patterned coiled beauty –
rather not move her away away
potent patterned coiled
but she lives too close to wild
to unspeak our mutual danger.she is the wild silence
the dream-time dancer,
the old medicine
shedding life and death,
the watching and the watched
potent patterned coiled.
For Brendan at Earthweal’s weekly challenge: A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE.
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sunday morning among the trees
birds are scattering song
from high branches this morning,
like berries for the faithful
it falls light and unanswerable,falls trill and pulse and
wing purr melody,
falls sweet like
well-tongued prayers
on the lips of the holy.it calls us to deer paths and mud paths
and roots among the moss paths,
calls us to the silent ways of fallen leaf –
calls us home on pilgrims feet.
Linking to Earthweal’s open link weekend #142
https://earthweal.com/2022/11/04/earthweal-open-link-weekend-142-2/
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first words
a first song
a clapping game
on a father’s knee –
lindi-ann is no good
chop her up for fire wood
when she’s dead
we’ll bake her head
into ginger bread.-
words shape us
when our tongues
are still learning
to shape the world.there were days in between
perhaps years, when nasturtium leaves
were tall shade on damp spring mornings
their parasols shining wordless
veining cathedral glass
against the blueness of sky
while our hands learned gesture
please
want
good bye –
learned here is the church
here is the steeple
open thumb doors
where are the people.one potato two potato three potato four
when we moved from that place
from our suburban house across the road
from the school where my brother
went before me
where i used to listen for the bell
violet fingered high in the
branches of the mulberry tree singing
nameless ballads of me and now and leaf
between mouthfuls of mulberry
and muttered incantations to
branches out of reachwhen we moved from
that yellow bagged purple jacarandered
house in the suburbs i tied
a burst blue balloon around the
smooth barked branch
of my friend the guava tree,
to remind me of the place
so that one day i might return
and see that blue balloon
and remember it was all true
the world that i had sung
was real.illogical
i knowand there were years,
days, lives between
when words and poets
swallowed me jonah whole
only to be spat out again to
see the world anew
and i waited by that shore,
drew the sound the sea made
with my toes in the sand,
tried to build song birds
out of found bones and broken wings,
drank salt mist from cupped hands
and waited
hoping to meet that whale once more
and once more
and once more,sometimes
waiting is not living.
sometimes
knee deep in the world
the words come to find us.
illogical
i knowbut suppose, like now
when warmth of spring
has gathered grey cloud
after a mornings weeding and
tying taller by the hour tomatoes,
and the rain falls sudden and hard
and the heat and the smell of it
rises damp thirst quenched from the soil,
and these words, all the words
become a blue balloon
tied to a smooth bark branch
marking a place where
the world sang true.
For Joy Ann Jones at Earthweal’s weekly challenge: FIRST POEMS, DOOR TO THE WILDER EYE.
https://earthweal.com/2022/10/31/first-poems-door-to-the-wilder-eye/
