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Winter Reading

Yes, I know I've posted this before; I'm posting it again because it's today's featured photo at New West Network! It's also one of my favorites.

Have some time on your hands? I recommend the Carnival of the Feminists V, at scribblingwoman ~ this should keep you well occupied for quite awhile.

Then, for an uplifting holiday story, go to Body and Soul. I had planned to post a note about donating today, but this is -- unsurprisingly -- no longer necessary. But you might want to contribute anyway, or donate for goodies, or just tell her that you value her work.

Finally, go visit Echidne. Just because a little balance is always good at this time of year.

Winter Monday

A waft of garlic seeps
into this sunroom from
my neighbor's kitchen.
Chickadees and nuthatches
flit up and down

up and down from the limbs
of the lilac tree. Sun spots
dingy snow. The budgies
watch from their cage
without longing.

Winter & Writing

Against the disease of writing one must take special precautions, for it is a dangerous and a contagious disease.  ~ Peter Abelard, in a letter to Heloise

From PNWA Quote of the Day

Feather & Snow

the people are blank papyrus
upon which god writes her poems
the people are poems of grace
the poems are a blaze in the snow

the snow grows higher & higher
all the windows are covered
there are winding paths to the doors
but they are hidden under the snow

the people are walking poems
their limbs are covered in language
these bodies are eloquent prayers
burning paths through the snow

this woman, this man, they are poetry
this child is god's own song
these poems are grace made flesh
written in verse in the snow

Frost

Reading for a Cold Afternoon

A review of Erin Noteboom's Seal up the Thunder, at prairiefire. Not as good as reading the book, which is a marvelous gift, but still:

Petition, dramatic monologue, Psalm, sonnet, call and response, riddle, gloss, free verse, and benediction--Erin Noteboom plunders biblical and modern lyrical styles for this original, joyous book. By turns mournful, oracular, incantatory, and funny, she is never smug or preachy. Rather, Seal up the Thunder is remarkable poetry on scripture, which recalls the sinuous, odd lyrics of Pier Giorgio Di Cicco. . .

Ron Silliman notices that most of his commenters are men, and many persons of both genders respond. I notice that I rarely comment there myself -- or on other poetics blogs. I do read them fairly often, and do some thinking about the ideas they discuss. But I find, generally, that I am less interested in poetics than in poems, and far less confident of my thinking than the men who comment.

From bhikku, 18th november 2005

Thoreau's Journal: 27-Nov-1857

Crawlspace, from Eeksy-Peeksy

This most excellent canopy, the air

I must have more energy . . .
. . . because I've washed my teapot

Aftershock

& we end, again, with Erin, because I'm in love with this piece: Manna

Oh, yes -- and a note to Sour Duck: I think that stumbling into their blogs cursing and exclaiming how well they write is a fine way to make blog buddies.

Snapshot 23 November 02005

Night Fog

As the air becomes visible
all that we think of as real
blurs and fades, recedes
into greyness. There is only

this moment, one step
in any direction. Frost
delicate and cold on every
branch and leaf -- deathly

ornament. Morning brings
a thin and stingy snow
sifting the fog away. Three
crows fly past, calling their

rough greeting. A pale cat
slips between the iron bars
of the fence. I am surrounded
by dim mountains, like huge

sleeping beasts. Just over
that invisible horizon: December.
Winter dark. An earthworm
is frozen to stones on the path.

Foggy Sunday

It's an odd and foggy day, both inside and out. I've been sleeping restlessly, so doubled my nighttime meds last night, and woke at 1:00 this afternoon. In retrospect, not a good idea. Sometimes my dogs are too patient.

We have been held in this grey fist for two days now. Local airports are closed, and our friendly newsfolk warn of dangerous roads. Fog is so . . . evocative. Mysterious.

Many years ago I worked nights, and walked across the bridge both late and early. This time of year was my favorite; on nights like this one, the bridge seemed to float in nothingness. At the center, it was like being alone in a thick but lovely universe. Sound and light would bend in unexpected ways. Sometimes the ducks seemed to be muttering right next to my ear; sometimes the river seemed to vanish entirely.

So it's an evening to curl up with a good website. Tonight I recommend Issue 3 of the Carnival of Feminists at Sour Duck.

Horoscope [old poem]

The full moon rolls in the southern sky;
it is time to practice your craft.

You will wander through ruins, your hair
unkempt, your face a long sea voyage.

Cut down to the ground the bleeding
heart; let roses go to hips.

October will kindle the vines.
Colchicum will open its lavender mouth.

Weekend Reading

Today's featured image at New West

Go welcome Small Bow!

God Interview Number Fifteen - an inner world tour

Gleaning - one perfect moment

"Does the self really exist?"   - Whiskey River explores this in a series of posts

Somehow, during my partial absence from the web, I missed the inauguration of the Carnival of Feminists. Here is Carnival One; here is Carnival Two. Here is the Call for Nominations for Carnival Three. Discovered via scribblingwoman, who will host on December 21st.

New Puritanism - umm, no.

A walk to the park - a really fabulous photograph

How to fix it when polls show that the people think you don't tell the truth? Why, duck and cover with a few more easily controverted, um, inoperative statements.

rock 'n' roller - another favorite photo

Anne's Holiday gift ideas -- it's never too early to start dreaming . . .