chasing shadows again











Slightly.

I just keep falling off the face of the Internet.

I am still narrowing down which projects to play with and hope to have an update there soon.

I went to New Orleans with Carlos-the-Jackal and he bought me a delightful book For Neruda, For Chile which is a collection of poems written following the deaths of Pablo Neruda and Salvador Allende and the overthrowing of the government of Chile in 1973.  It seems to be a book that is hard to find (I of course walked into the store and there it was, humming softly and expectantly) and it is full of some poems best described as haunting – in the sense of both longing beauty and bloody apparitions.  I have not read all of the poems yet.  I cannot read them more than a few at a time.  They leave the sound of guns and the scent of blood and the soft, warm dampness of soil on a fresh grave in their wake.  War and death invade, twined in light and darkness and a slow cascade of syllables.  Pablo Neruda is the only poet I have begun a poem for, and finding this book prompts me to finish it.

Also – please go to see this post by Neil Gaiman.  Not because he writes glorious, glorious books (which he does).  Not because his blog is lovely to read, especially as we settle into fall and there can be mulled cider with it (which is true).  But because he has taken a stunning picture, and you should see it (it is set as the background for my laptop right now, so that I may continue to stare at it at will).



No really. It is totally written in response to part of one of our conversations, just to be obnoxious.


donkeys 01
by ~greenleaf-stock on deviantART

We will watch the sky like burros who walk in the rain
taking leisurely steps and not seeking cover
we will turn our heads up to catch rain on our tongues
and remark upon how this must be the best time to be alive

We will watch the sky like burros who slosh through the mud
laughing at the squelching mud sounds as the earth tries to devour our hooves
we will turn our heads up to watch humming thrumming dragonflies
and remark upon how this must be the best time to be alive

We will watch the sky like burros who trek through the sun
scuffing up clouds of dust with our determined hooves
we will turn our heads up to find shapes in the drifting clouds
and remark upon how this must be the best time to be alive

We will watch the sky like burros who drowse beneath the moon
making wishes with huffing breaths on dandelions
we will turn our heads up to search for shooting stars
and remark upon how this must be the best time to be alive



{October 28, 2008}   ~untitled~

when dusk steals out over the city
creeping whisper-soft like the brush of unseen whiskers
painting the drowsy canals with darkness
I will come out with the lovers and the beggars and the cats
to stalk through the streets

murmurs and blushes
ancient eyes and the frayed hems of old coats
silken fur and endless mystery
will seep through my skin like ink

I will not watch what they are writing
but trace my way through the sinking buildings and swaying boats
with all the indifference of the moonlight on the water

in this twilight city
there will be hours to search out messages written and waiting
lurking in the half-heard conversations
the invitations into the unknown that are but a twitch of a tail
a shadow half-glimpsed
forever remembered



Sun-Painted Compass

Sun-Painted Compass

brushed across the canvas of my skin
shuddering with my heart
is our story
traced out in lines of fate and destiny
trailing over my palm
left like a map to distant places
going and coming and dividing and returning
until the whole story could not be written on one canvas
but in our skins overlaid
and then deeper
falling in tangled twists of color and light and darkness
writhing off of our skin and into the night sky
connecting stars and planets into new ever-shifting constellations
a love painted in presense and absence
light and shadow
with our blood and the colors of the bleeding sun
so woven into our fortunes
what has been spilling into what is come
I trace the curves of Nazca Lines and spiral-carved labyrinths
and wonder if you are speaking to me
promising that our dance nearer and father – forward and back
traces out something only visible from heights we have not yet reached

I mailed your letter this morning.

Chaco Canyon

Monkey!



{October 25, 2007}   Poetry TAG: I get line #5

Poetry Tag Poem

The sound shook his bones
like a cymbal
crashing fast against his soul,
a soul detached from mind and body,
shivering in the dark

I found this poem fragment at K. M. Ryan’s.

Please play with us! Pick up the poem and take us on a walk through dreams, or follow our dreamwalk forward and back!

How this works:

It’s a game of poetry tag. Be the first to post TAG in the comments. Then take these lines and add one, in a post on your own blog, along with these instructions. Whoever adds the nineteenth line then takes the poem to Poets Who Blog at http://poetswhoblog.blogspot.com/ and puts the whole poem in the comment section there. Each person who plays need to also mention what site you were at when you found the poem so that other bloggers can follow the breadcrumbs back to this poem. You can play more than once but not twice in a row.



when I
come back from the edge
of the world I
will bring for you
maps
seeds to grow
stars; there will be
wonders where I am going –
where you cannot
follow
guard me
against serpents
rising up like dragons
from the sea.

they will not be able
to frighten
anymore; not me –
watching them unfurl
like exotic poisoned flowers
on storm-swept decks
I will remember
not fear; but
the immortality of souls.

swallowed whole
or not
their tongues
searing flame
will trail over my skin
no more than a caress –
my love
your love
our love
will save me.

the words you
gave me
whispered in the dark
have become
armor.

Although Poetry Thursday is ended. 😦 Their site will remain up as an archive until January 2008. If you’ve been meaning to go poking through there but haven’t found the time (like me! I am a bum!), do make it soon.

Anyway, that poem is for Carlos-the-Jackal. (Carlos-the-Jackal is my favorite of your nicknames that I remember. If you want another one here, you may have it.) If he does not know why, I will be forced to bat at him when I visit this winter. (As both a hint and a message – thank you again for the book.) I felt like playing with line breaks and punctuation. Carlos-the-Jackal always did like it when I tried new things. I’ll try in Word too, where I can play more with the spacing of lines horizontally. WordPress gremlins eat my spaces! (If I manage, I will bring it when I come home. Or perhaps entrust it to the mail.)



et cetera