After the bang, burning
sound and light from indefinite drift
expanding red and blueshifts
now blanketed, we sit
I shiver
at your touch, burning
heat and cold, turning
sound and light
the stardust trapped within
our cells, a microcosm—
Yes! I see it now.
A quadrille for my dVerse prompt today. The prompt word is shiver. Join us!
Without moving, we travel far
time and space collapse
as we traipse—everywhere—
from chair and couch
and as the virus rages,
we turn the pages,
hungering for new plots and changes,
a denouement, and all comes clear
order restored, till the world veers
again, and we can only go forward
into what remains to be seen.
other plagues brought serfdom down
and gathered nations in a league—
attempts made, bells rung,
but mostly heroes go unsung
and lies coming tripping off a tongue
gaining currency as far-flung they’re spread
bad news and dread
sell more stories, but check the optics
and we’ll see. Perhaps your story holds a key,
turn the lock, and make our ratings soar
till wiped away by war.
But the lies circle round, and some believe
the tales the sad sacks or the haters weave–
they choose to believe–
but we? We grieve
we grieve we grieve
(well, those of us who see it.)
Yet, every dawn is a new beginning
and hope wings to the clouds,
the moon will shine when I am gone,
and waves like a teasing lover
will still kiss the shore,
to dart away,
as far-flung ancient light
dances across the sky, always, and forevermore.
We still haven’t gone anywhere because of Omicron. Though we bought a few theater series, and there’s a play soon. . .so perhaps, since everyone is required to show proof of vaccination and to remain masked.
And in other news, an authoritarian minority is taking over our government. 2+2=5
We did have a much-needed, lovely family Zoom on Friday night.
We streamed, A Hero, Asghar Farhadi’s new film. I’ve liked his previous movies, A Separation and A Salesman, so I was eager to see this one, which is available on Amazon Prime now. Like his other movies, situations are not black and white, and no one is totally good or bad. Rahim is in prison for debt, and while on a two-day leave, he tries to make arrangements with his creditor so he can make a payment and be released, but one lie leads to another, and nothing goes as expected. . . It did give us a lot to talk about, and it also gave us glimpses of Iranian life and culture (and prison system). Another excellent film.
We’re watching the final season of the wonderful show The Expanse, also on Amazon Prime. It’s a very complex show—sort of a grittier, less idealistic version of Star Trek, except it’s about human empires and colonization in space, not aliens. Imagine Rome or the British Empire with rebelling colonies, but in space it’s Earth, Mars, and “the Belters,” as well as various other factions and pirates. It’s not a cartoonish sci-fi show. Characters and situations are not black and white here either. As Capt. Holden says of his world-weary crew, we’ve all done things we regret. (Yet we still root for them and their ship, the Rocinante.)
I’m hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, so I’ll be back later today! Cold weather comfort food below. Enjoy!
If beneath the blue and honeyed light,
we dream of love, and watch
milk-lather waves in tumbling play,
then we can recall those dreams
when shadows scream
and mind-aches sway
our thoughts—
there’s evil about
and cold winds blow, my love,
but there! They sweep the sky
of storms, and blanketed against the air,
we wait for sun-dazzled caramel rays
to cast aside the haunted winter-breath
and with summer-warmth overlay.
The Oracle kept giving me “shadow,” today, and it made me think of the Lady of Shallott,
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.”
And aren’t we all?
My poem, “Versions and Visions” was published in the most recent issue of Visual Verse.
You can see the image and read my poem here.
I’m sharing this with dVerse Open Link Night—live today at 3:00 PM, EST.
I’ve recorded it, as well.
“The world was filling with ghosts. We were a haunted country in a haunted world.”
–Louise Erdrich, The Sentence“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
–William Shakespeare, from Macbeth (spoken by Macbeth after Lady Macbeth’s death)
Apparitions slip
between worlds, linger like words–
the spoken and unsaid–each
waiting to be seen, heard,
read and remembered, infinite
combinations, in
every language, past, future
meld in the timeless sea where
yesterday’s twinkling light
haunts and comforts. Does tomorrow
on the horizon
give a straight-lined smile? Or false
the glimmer of hope? Sound and
fury—nothing or all?
Candles burn bright, yet mimic stars.
The light comes again
reverberations, colored
by space-time meandering
carrying messages
in microscopic dust missives.
Now, winter’s blanket
lays etched with sharp lettering–
yet beneath, cursive tendrils
wait to write new stories
spirits and words hover, beckon
with endless stories,
whole books, unfinished chapters
brief verses, epic sagas,
chronicles and reports.
The universe shouts and whispers.
I decided to try a wayra again. It forces me to think and choose words in a different way.
We’re bouncing from very cold to warm for January to cold. We had snow last night, but it’s been washed away by the rain, and there’s a wind advisory for later in the day into tomorrow.
It’s soup and blanket weather. I made clam chowder (without bacon) last night, and vegetarian onion soup earlier in the week, served with oven french fries.
Merril’s Movie, Books, TV. . .
I couldn’t quite stay up to finish Louise Erdrich’s new novel, The Sentence, last night, but it’s wonderful—words and books, tribal lore, ghosts, and social commentary.
We watched A Perfect Ending (Amazon Prime), a psychological thriller with Polish actor Tomasz Kot as an architect delayed by a young woman in an airport. It definitely kept me interested till the end. And since I forgot to cancel Apple TV, we also watched The Tragedy of Macbeth, a new adaptation by Joel Coen. Purists may not like the streamlined version, but it’s excellent, filmed in a stark black and white where shadows loom and the Weird Women become birds. The supernatural elements of the play really come through in this version. Denzel Washington plays Macbeth and Frances McDormand is Lady Macbeth. She’s so good.
The book and movies share connections of ghosts, regrets, deaths/murders, and memory.
We’ll be watching the finale of Yellow Jackets tonight, a show that I’ve really enjoyed. (I wasn’t sure I would from the opening scenes.) And I suppose there’s a connection here, too.
In early morning hush,
the moon sings farewell,
gelid murmured notes
through white cat-paw clouds
if you listen, recall
light recalls time recalls light,
the ancient ships of night seas
ask when
ask what
you want
from the whispers and pulses
of mother music from earth and sky,
the fiddle, flute, and drums of
wind-beats and tree rustle,
the cardinal chirps and crow caws,
black on red on blue and green, every color
a promise, a warning
of what is and what was.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.
Ingrid at Experiments in Fiction is hosting a Global Assembly on Climate Change. Read more about it here.
“People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it’s quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment.
A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors.”
–Markus Zusak, The Book Thief
Follow the shadows
through dreams colored with deep-time
longing. The seeds nested, specks
of hope, driven by time—
unleashed cycles, harmonic notes
star-born melodies
heard without, but held within
blood, skin, and organs—dust of
ancient incandescence
infinite shades of light from yesterday
merge with tomorrow
harmony and dissonance,
my parents speak in dream-time
enrooted in my mind
and heart, we are united
as midnight blue shifts
to violet, then golden
blaze, an ageless song of light
captured, remembered as
it passes, every color
in time, of time, time-
charged, time-changed by shifts of chance,
a crash, a brief encounter,
a prism of color
light reborn, transformed, transcendent.
I didn’t go anywhere this week or do anything special, but the changing temperatures and weather have made for some incredible skies. Influenced by Jane Dougherty, I decided to try a wayra chain today for my musings.
Merril’s Movie/TV/Book Club:
We saw The Hand of God (Netflix), Italian director Paolo Sorrentino’s autobiographical coming-of-age movie. The movie is set in Naples and full of quirky characters, as well as some surreal images, combining warmth, fate, tragedy—and soccer—in a poignant cinematic memoir.
We watched Anxious People (Netflix), a Swedish series written by Fredrik Bachman based on his novel. (He also wrote A Man Called Ove.) This limited series of 6 short, bingeable episodes (we watched it in two nights) is quirky, but heartwarming. My husband and I both enjoyed how the story was revealed over time. You would see something like a man’s bandaged nose, but not find out how it happened until another episode. The story concerns a failed bank robbery/hostage situation with a father-son pair of police officers who are not used to dealing with such crimes. It’s more Nordic charm than Nordic noir.
I read Lauren Groff’s Matrix, a novel based on the twelfth-century Marie de France. Little is known about her, so Groff is free to invent her life, which she does, in this beautifully written book.
Waiting
On a long wander, cold-breathed,
I think every spring’s a poet born
as from rain a rose—
yet, if we recall the red petals’ fall
in sun turns and moon cycles,
and after dusk’s berry-glow and bird-light flickers,
the deep song of ancient souls
carried on wind-fiddles–
now wait for light whispers
and the caramel breath of dawn,
a honeyed smile that lingers on treetops
and beneath, the lichen rocks
and moss blankets,
seeds rest,
knowing when to bloom.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. It’s cold here today.
In Paris, we walked–through Montmartre, perhaps–
where people carried baguettes under their arms,
like my mother’s purse. Look, my parents said,
there, the Seine, the Mona Lisa, the Eiffel Tower—
and they glanced through guidebooks and at maps
for lost love, and Paris’s hidden charms
rekindled their passion for only a moment instead.
As the bells tolled the new year, the passing hours
my older sister read, and fed us scraps–
the story of the Danish prince; no harm
in telling this story of ghosts, the dead
return, my mom still sits amongst the flowers.
For dVerse, an attempt at Rimas Dissolutas.
New Year’s Eve Day is foggy and warm. My husband and I eat Chinese food for dinner, our decades-old tradition. We drink champagne while we talk to our children and their spouses on Zoom. Our son-in-law’s parents join us, and it’s good to see them, too, after so long. We light the Shabbos candles and speak of what we’re grateful for—that we’re together, healthy, and that our pets are with us, too. This is what we celebrate—life going on, light in the darkness. Later, we say goodbye to 2021. Though 2022 seems scarcely better, who know what the future brings? The sun and moon still rise and set.
And there is champagne.
fog-obscured
river a mystery—
beckoning
For dVerse. Earlier today, I couldn’t get WP to work, and now there’s no problem. Oh, there are definitely WP gremlins!
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 
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