I don’t ask the moon for what she cannot give, enough her silver gleam on fields and streams, the night-shadowed things that vanish in dawn’s rose-petal glow. I know the universe’s music and light go beyond the who and when, circling through time’s beginning and its end– but if I stop to sit– even when the wind urges me to go— I’ll watch the clouds wing across the sky– egret white and heron grey– and here, I’ll dream of you.
My poetic collaboration with the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.
My dreams–a language-storm of do, or not, I try to recall
and wonder who are you— and which is me— all is enigma and mystery,
like a portrait-sitter lost in time sublime or shaded, half-smile, three-quarter face a hint of her wishes, or the artist’s embrace
of unconscious desire, inspiration in symbols of her worth, still in last laugh– she gazes into the future,
can she imagine how she’ll be carted through wars, another spoil, a wall-hung prize, monster-cherished–
the attraction of beauty to the beast— opposites, and circles of the sun and moon–
with light comes shadow, honeyed joy and bitter sorrow alternate—the universe’s tessellated patterns
as time moves on. . .
Now, little bird silent-sitter, waiting to strike– living dinosaur, a portrait, too.
We finally have a beautiful day after days of oppressive heat, humid, and storms.
I just finished The Night Portrait, a novel by Laura Morelli. I enjoyed both the writing and the story. It takes place in the fifteenth century as Leonardo da Vinci is painting Cecilia Gallerani, then the young mistress of Ludovico Sforza, and during WWII as the Nazis and confiscated art, and the Monuments Men are trying to find the stolen art.
We watched an Icelandic series on Netflix called Katla. If you like dark brooding Scandi-noir mixed with a bit of the supernatural, you’ll like it. It reminded me a little bit of the German series Dark. It’s about a town, now nearly deserted because an underwater volcano has started erupting, and mysterious things begin happening. . .We were really intrigued by it and finished the series in a few nights.
We also watched the first episode of season 4 of Unforgotten (PBS). I’m excited that it’s back on.
Does the fiddler recall the shadows or sun? Dreams of a sweet peach sky, or the languid light of in-between almost, ~and if~ you ache for sea and diamond night, feel it in the chill wind’s tongue licking your cheek, and the whisper of its ancient song across a thousand miles and worlds.
My poem from the magnetic poetry Oracle. She obviously knows what is going on everywhere, and most of the words came from her. The photo is from my walk this morning. It is cooler today after the thunderstorms yesterday, and we might get more today.
This is when the world takes wing in the turning of summer from our spring when everything becomes lush and greenest green the grass and leaves
sigh in gentle breeze and rustle in the storms as cotton ball clouds flower to take new forms and azure sky turns charcoal-hued until another day spins by
another day older, children fly out the door calling good-bye— chicks and goslings grow so fast, you hold the thoughts to make them last.
And so, now the days grow slowly darker, imperceptible at first, no marker for the shadows cast, till autumn comes and winter’s darkness cast
but in shadowed darkness the light never disappears— despite our worries and our fears, we make another turn round our glowing star– do we measure it in miles or hours—the journey how far?
Seasons of love, freedom, and glory, we celebrate each story in the turning from spring to summer when the world, despite everything, yet sings
in robin trill and mockingbird song all night long, and all night long the dreams drift from sea to shore, where in the past our children played
and in some world, I think perhaps still do.
Saturday was Juneteenth. President Biden signed the law making it a federal holiday on Thursday. Fourteen Republicans voted against it. I found this post from several years ago by Henry Louis Gates on the history and relevance of Juneteenth.
Yesterday was Father’s Day. My husband Zoomed with older child as they worked on a woodworking project together. He’ll get together with younger child later this week. It was also the summer solstice, and it was a hot, but beautiful day. I got my husband this Father’s Day t-shirt to add to his collection of nerdy shirts, and we tasted two of the three red wines we still had left from my wine-tasting box. It looks like you have to click on some of the photos to see them properly.
Our anniversary is later in the week, and that’s the time of year we used to take our children to Ocean City, NJ for a summer vacation.
“When a name for a color is absent from a language, it is usually blue. When a name for a color is indefinite, it is usually green. Ancient Hebrew, Welsh, Vietnamese, and, until recently, Japanese, lack a word for blue… The Icelandic word for blue and black is the same, one word that fits sea, lava, and raven.
It has been shown that the words for colors enter evolving languages in this order, nearly universally: black, white, and red, then yellow and green (in either order), with green covering blue until blue comes into itself. . .
Within every color lies a story, and stories are the binding agent of culture.” –Ellen Meloy, quoted on Brainpickings
I celebrate color, all the hues of dawning light to grey or blue, the color of the sky, the gulls that flew before the morning moon to sparkle bright– I celebrate delight
in things we name from time and before— the universe of letters, we’re each a book—and more– composed of fiery stars and stellar song. And all along from there to here and back again, there is light— I celebrate its flight
from stars, bird-winged it soars, beating hearts twinkling, illuminating the night, and each day through shadows, there is a glow, a gate, a portal through which time circles, not black or white— I celebrate the spotlight
the lens through which I see. My faulty illusions— still part of me. And everywhere I go, I see Crow— who sees much more. So, while we count, label, and navigate, some things remain unseen. But I dream and write— I celebrate me, color, language, light.
My older child has been a fellow at the Atiq Maker Kollel for the past fifteen weeks. Yesterday they did a Zoom celebration of their art projects. You can find out more about their project here. In a discussion by one of the other participants, there was a mention of the world being created from letters and language, and even our bodies composed of language. I had read the Brainpickings article earlier in the week, which made me think of color and language, and the naming of things.
Memorial Day seems much more than a week ago, but we went to a Lobster and Chardonnay event at a local winery that afternoon. This past weekend, we tasted some of the wine (only got through the whites) from a blind tasting box—a Mother’s Day gift from our children.
Last night we watched the Kennedy Center Honors, which we both enjoyed. The honorees were Debbie Allen, Joan Baez, Dick van Dyke, Midori, and Garth Brooks. I couldn’t name a Garth Brooks song, but I even enjoyed his segment because he was so moved by the performers. Because of Covid restrictions, the TV program combined clips of filmed indoor and outdoor performances instead of the usual formal theater production. Some of the dance numbers worked very well that way.
“Remember you are all people and all people are you. Remember you are this universe and this universe is you.” –from Jo Harjo, “Remember”
Today we remember— the ones who lie buried, the ones lost at sea,
But do you remember before memory? How the world came to be?
From stars, all the oceans, and then soon the trees,
You remember this, yes? Ancestral memory
of long before when, and where soft voices go, to live on, maybe
pretend. We should remember in every war fought, each side will plea–
saying God’s on our side, and we’re in the right, the land of the free.
But after every battle, there’s a hole, a wound left in a town and family–
all those who died. There may be pride, or anguish or a question of degree—was it necessary?
So, remember the sun still there behind the clouds, and the moon, humming fiercely
listen now. Listen to Crow, the creator, who foretells what will be,
preserve what you can, fight if you must for beauty and truth, disagree
with the haters and authoritarian dupes, help the world to better be–
remember her laugh, remember childhood giggles and purring cat– hear all the songs in your memory,
and let the world’s wonder wander through– remember you are all and all are you.
It’s Memorial Day here in the U.S. It’s also a three-day weekend. When vice-president Kamala Harris mentioned that in a tweet, conservative hypocrites who willingly overlooked every horror the former twice-impeached resident of the White House ever did or uttered acted outraged. Meanwhile, they are doing all they can to suppress democratic rights, such as the freedom to vote. I prefer real democracy to mindless flag waving.
Meanwhile, no thanks to the former administration, people in the U.S. are getting vaccinated, and many places have lifted all or nearly all Covid restrictions. I’m not entirely comfortable with it yet, but I have met with friends. The weather has been all over the place–from summer heat, where turned on the a/c to cold enough to turn the heat back on. It was good weather to bake and cook.
Merril’s Movie Club: We watched The Father. One review I read described the movie as “a Rashomon of dementia.” The movie is from the viewpoint of a man whose mind is going. It is difficult to tell what is real, and the movie is purposefully confusing, brilliant, and harrowing. There is also a wonderful opera soundtrack. Anthony Hopkins deserved his Oscar, and Olivia Coleman was excellent, as was the entire cast. Meanwhile, we’re onto Season 2 of Dexter. We might need to take a break with something a bit lighter. 🤣
There’s a story in the birth of stars, and in their ending, too,
bangs, flashes, ashes, wind, the stellar songs carried within–
these are tales we tell of all the seasons, the birdwing flaps of storm and breeze
the reasons why the sky is blue, but dawns with rosy laughter,
and tips a glass of wine at dusk for spirit souls to savor
as owl feathers brush the canvas, there!
The moon sighs and sings a lullaby of hope, peace, and observation
be wary, beware and listen–
to the messages Crow brings; watch for what secrets the river carries
as it flows.
History knows– it is repeated in the curves of time,
where the light of stars, shimmer and gleam in every color,
in endless combinations merged, every story ever told—and those never heard.
We’re still in a pandemic, and I still have not gone anywhere, but spring is coming! It was still icy at the beginning of last week, but now the snow and ice is gone.The sunshine and beauty of nature has definitely lifted my spirits—and I’m scheduled for my first vaccine. I’m not sure why I received a notice to schedule an appointment, but my husband did not; however, I’m not going to argue.
Merril’s Movie Club: We paid for a movie this week—still less money than going out—and it was so worth it. I like to tell you about movies you’ve never heard of, and probably never will see, but if you get a chance, do see this one, Night of the Kings. It’s set in a prison, La MACA, located in the jungle of the Ivory Coast. The prison is ruled by the prisoners, and the leader, Blackbeard, is dying, and others are ready to take over. To buy himself some time, he declares a new arrival to the prison must tell them a story. As the “Roman” spins his tales, you see some of it unfold—a battle between a queen and king and the story of an outlaw hero—but the inmates also serve as a sort of Greek chorus and act out portions of the story. It’s really magical, allegories and real-life prison. I rented from filmforum.org. (I also made a small donation, and they sent a very nice note.) This is really a Merril movie, and I would definitely watch it again. We also watched Capitani (Netflix), a mystery series that stands out because it’s from Luxembourg. We had to look up the languages spoken there: French, German, and Luxembourgish. The show has familiar elements—the outsider detective in a small town—but it also has a few twists. It’s very bingeable because each episode is about a half hour. We watched the entire series in a few days, and it looks like there will be a second season.
Also, Purim was last week. I baked lot and lots of Hamantaschen, and I still have filling left, so I’m baking some more today. Stay safe and well, Everyone!
Today the gray has strayed, and sunlight deepens– a color called cold water blue– unfrosted are the ripples where gulls and geese sway and gather on the shifting sand to sleep and talk and play.
Today there is no fog, nothing obscured in the grayish gloom, or hidden in ash-tipped cloud-rooms— today is clear, the sun is bright
though not with summer heat, or spring’s promise not even pastel frosted pink—but think of what today may bring
joy, despair, most anything– one day, one night, one vote, one note of kindness can make a change, so
today I’ll take blue water and sky. And the hour in between dusk and night, dawn and day, the color of jays, stones, and glass robin’s eggs and midnight sky–ask when the moon sings a silver lullaby and forms a halo ‘round her face,
what is that place? And can we go? Perhaps, in dreams. I don’t know,
But today I’ll take the blue of peace and ripples that go on forever, one making another, another making one, lines merging in changing colors, sometimes grey, but today it’s blue and sun.
I went down a rabbit hole of blue yesterday reading Brainpickings and then following the links . And then today, the river was blue instead of the gray or tinted-pink it’s been. I haven’t been anywhere or done anything special in weeks, so I can only muse about this. I am happy that there were no big violent mobs yesterday, though I’m still anxious. I hope all goes well on Wednesday for the inauguration.
I have cooked and baked though.
Merril’s Movie Club: We watched One Night in Miami (Amazon Prime). It’s an excellent movie based on a play by Kemp Powers, who adapted it for the screen, and directed by Regina King, in her movie directorial debut. It concerns a meeting in 1964 between Malcolm X, Cassius Clay, Sam Cooke and Jim Brown right after Clay won the heavyweight title. The main, crucial moments of the movie take place in Malcolm X’s motel room where the men discuss, argue, explain, and try to make sense of their private-public lives. It feels like a real “room where it happened” historical moment. The movie is fictional, although the meeting did take place. The movie seems particularly timely right now.
Seek the stillness in the storm, as grey consumes, delight in light, within cold blue, find warmer hues
aglow in candle flames; await the glimpse of golden glimmer; delight in company–and dinner– watch the shimmer
of sun on water; and if time flows, listen for its shadow-wings that soar and circle back, to bring song from stars, soul-stirring
heart-burnished flickers. Rejoice in blood-pounding, and surf-tossed waves; a symphony blend of love, life, light begin and end, the past returns, and over again
in the passage of indigo night to rose-tipped sky find all is right, in the lullaby of the moon, the gentle sigh
of wind recalling earth-yearning, and the constant turning to find the songs and all the light, burning.
Last Thursday marked the start of Hanukkah. In this pandemic year, we could not be with family, but still we celebrated. I bought my sisters, daughters, and myself a bracelet that says “kvetch.” It seems appropriate.
As we move closer to the winter solstice, the sun sets earlier and earlier, but our weather has been crazy. We’ve had storms and sunshine, and the temperature was in the 60s F yesterday. We met my sister-niece to exchange gifts and walk on Forbidden Drive along the Wissahickon. We met younger daughter and her husband at William Heritage Winery for an early birthday celebration. Right now, there’s a steady rain. We’re supposed to get snow on Wednesday.
I watch purple shadows dance, lingering with cool kisses in the air as the sun shines pink-petaled on blue– listen, sky and water say, and the music is in my head as if honeyed light is fiddle and voice, recalling dreams, and the way the moon sings through a storm. Remember this, blushing clouds, the soft secret smiles of the universe, sailing into after. The wild magic surrounds you. Embrace it.
Today’s message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle–she, of course, sees me walking by the river.