Friday, July 29, 2016

my back to the sea

Moreover too, Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue, Ready to snort their streams.
--John Keats


On my way home, the road veered left, insinuating itself into a gradual "S" - curve.

I glanced up.  Above the bosky outline of the foothills, a pair of gargantuan wings hovered, on either side of the hazy head of a great white cloud-dragon. As if the clouds had lent their edges in order to shape a fleeting tribute to the storm-shapers.

Facing the mountains, I felt the sky rush around me in a familiar warm whirlpool of greeting. As for the dolphins, they began to sing again: a high and delicious keening, as blue as the future memory of the sea breathing.

I wanted to write about how impossible this all is. 

For so many years, I have been fascinated by the mountains, while turning my back to the sea. My eyes and thoughts were entrained on the ever-changing hillsides, the trees encamped at their feet, and the leaves dancing all summer long in the fickle breeze. As a child, I clambered to their craggy, moss-covered summits, scuttled down like a wild goat, then glanced back up at them again to make sure they were still there.

But through the years, in fits and starts, wave upon wave, the tides have risen. At first it was just my feet that began to feel a tugging sensation, as if they were constantly waterlogged. Later, I met Leviathan, and pods of whales diving, and mermaids gliding through the kelp-forests, nodding cryptically. More than once, I have encountered the hissing water-dragons, fresh from the valley of 10,000 smokes: they sprayed fire and steam unceremoniously into my face.

Now, no matter where I am, if I unbend, the sea comes to me.








Monday, July 25, 2016

Moon and Apple - Rolf Jacobsen



Moon and Apple


When the apple tree blooms,
the moon comes often like a blossom,
paler than any of them,
shining over the tree.

It is the ghost of the summer,
the white sister of the blossoms who returns
to drop in on us,
and radiate peace with her hands
so that you shouldn't feel too bad when the hard times come.
For the Earth itself is a blossom, she says,
on the star tree,
pale with luminous
ocean leaves.

by Rolf Jacobsen

(English version by Robert Bly)




The mountains held up the sky like pillars, releasing plumes of pebbles, streams and silt as far as my girlish eyes could follow, and w...

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