In 1916, W. B. Yeats wrote a dance play, “At the Hawk’s Well”, inspired by Japanese Noh theatre (to which he had been introduced by Ezra Pound) and Irish folklore.
The Japan Society recently had an exhibit of UK artist Simon Starling’s commemoration of the 100th anniversary of Yeats’ work, along with some of the art that inspired both him and Yeats.
I watched the beautiful video of the hawk dancing several times
and then I drew masks until my hand cramped up and my legs hurt from standing.
When I looked at the drawings, it struck me how humans have always struggled to understand and live their lives well. We are united in both sorrow and dignity, all cultures, throughout history, all over the earth.
I took a walk in the woods yesterday during a nice part of the day. I saw many uprooted trees and decided to draw one today at work.
White shadow reflected
through cast open portal.
Half circles connected by darkened light.
The time unexpected,
hours and minutes now mortal.
Computations: less than day, more than night.
Mirrored by stone and air,
reversed by the missed turning.
Witnessed by the journey: unbidden sight.
Bottomless and aware,
the catalyst is burning.
Attached to nothing. Gravity takes flight.
In response to Sue Vincent’s “Waiting” photo prompt this week, below.
I tend to fall back on the same poetic forms, so I’m going push myself more to sample a new one every now and then. Different numbers of syllables/lines/rhymes reflect words differently, and definitely sharpen the thought process. I couldn’t resist trying this one on account of the name: “kerf”. You can read about it here.
year of the rooster
tenth circle begins
chaos returned as crowing
drama and dissent
contain the fire, avoiding
eye contact with the Dark Side
The disruption of the Year of the Monkey gives way to more intensity….the cockiness of the Year of the Rooster. Most of the predictions I read online for 2017 were not too positive. They recommended keeping your head down, staying organized, and working hard.
And OK, that’s not really a rooster, it’s my interpretation of a basilisk. They do have the head of a cock, though, and wings on their serpent body.
Of course you know to have a mirror handy in case you run into one, so they can admire themselves to death. Or perhaps a pet weasel–the only creature immune to the basilisk’s deadly stare.
And the title?
“Confusion is a chicken with shattered eyes.”
That’s January 2017 in a nutshell.
A pharmaceutical rep just came in and brought me these three skulls. They are beautiful! They need to be soaked for a while and then cleaned with hydrogen peroxide. This was a lovely gift which really made my day.
I dreamed the neighborhood kids put all sorts of fairy structures around my house. They were dug into the ground in my dream. I really like the kids in my neighborhood and could actually imagine them doing this!
Clear crystal dew drops
cascade from weeping willows
filling the Koi pond
iridescent circles grow
a frog drinks the falling tears
earthbound sorrow, birds call souls
to return to air
Poets in order of stanza appearance: M. Zane McClellan, Merril D. Smith, Kerfe Roig
Poets for Peace is sponsoring a community renga to promote using words “to light the way” towards a better world. The last stanza of the poem, above, is my contribution this week, adding to the two previous weeks’ stanzas. You have until midnight each Friday to add your own thoughts to the chain, here.
Touched by tracings of
stars. Holding life as breath in
Spellbound. Network of charms whirled
through passage to safe harbors.
“The magic of childhood is the strangeness of childhood–the uniqueness that makes us see things that other people don’t see.”
“Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”
Drawing constellations in skies of dream,
landscaped as colors growing wild, extreme,
pulsing surrounding vibrations unseen,
in star-gathered moonlight, whispering beam
unconscious, unlimited, in between
Continuing my recent star theme…I actually did this awhile ago, but I’ve been tweaking the poem on and off. This is for Jane Dougherty’s last poetry challenge posted back in the end of September. The poetic form was her own invention: a single stanza of five lines of ten syllables each, and the five end of line words all rhyme. Here’s the artwork she provided:
I miss Jane’s prompts.