Autumn. I fall into disrepair. The sky still covers me, but my shadow dissolves into the remains of the golden ocean that heretofore eddied and flowed at my feet. My skin lies ragged, unfilled.
I was crowned, once, with dark discordant ornaments. They sit on other thrones now, unrepentant pretenders, still calling the sun, the wind–the land itself–to task.
A crow flies over
a graveyard—blackness on stone–
change hangs in the air
When I saw Frank Tassone’s Haikai Challenge about scarecrows, I was intrigued. I can’t think of Scarecrow without thinking of Robert Okaji’s wise sage. So whatever I did would be colored by what Robert has written. I also decided to use the words from Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, synonyms for ghost and hollow, as many of them seemed to fit on Scarecrow too.
As to Crow–he’s always around here somewhere.
Once again, different light makes the metallic paint change like the weather and the seasons…and this is another artwork inspired by Joan Mitchell being inspired by Van Gogh. Circles within circles.
Also linked to dVerse Open Link Night.
I thought I saw blue jays, but red feathers and whistles turned them into cardinals. I thought I saw cardinals, but the starlings stole their song. I thought I saw starlings, but they grew huge and then they laughed in a raucous crow chorus.
Which bird? you ask, which
bird?—sparrows, tiny sparrows–
wings to wish upon
This is based on a fragment of a dream that came back to me with the birds in the morning. All five birds mentioned are often both heard and seen outside my windows and doors (and, apparently, also in my dreams).
“Curse not the king, no, not even in thy thoughts, and curse not the rich in thy bedchamber; for a bird of the air shall carry thy voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.” –Ecclesiastes 10:20
Black is for nothing
waiting—shadow bird, mirrored
particles of air
of skies that open
wings, hold inside the absent
voice that shatters all
which is, which becomes,
which hath grown darkness—veiled words
Nothing is waiting,
nothing sings but the silence.
All is black on black,
formless, flying on
feathers’ breath, and all shall be
now and forever
nothing nothing no
thing nothing nothing nothing
nothing nothing no
cries no conjuring–
every thing zeros falls in
to black as black is–
Frank Tassone’s Haikai Challenge this week is “Raven”. I have many a crow poem and many pieces of crow art in some form of completion, and this is a poem I’ve been worrying for awhile. I changed its form recently from a series of shadormas to haikus. I think the shorter stanzas are better. But it’s still a work in progress.
Yesterday I was walking on 153rd Street, which borders Trinity Cemetery, and I heard some crows–then many many crows–looking up, a murder, circling and calling against the blue sky. I haven’t seen that in the city before. And I thought, well, I have artwork for that too.
What it signified I don’t yet know.
wondering why then suddenly where
diving divining reflecting sky scrying
and the tree and the meaning of be
the birth in the sky and the void in the flow
rising in greyness
the mystery flying
letting and leaving the tree now receiving
carries that no one can see
the sky grey the tree
For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt above. I can no more resist a crow than the moon.
Also linking to open link night on dVerse.
skywriting black against blue
clouds and trees dancing
Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above, gave me a chance to try an idea I’ve been thinking about for awhile. A few years ago I did a cross-stitch poem on paper, and I was intrigued by the pattern that appeared on the back. This seemed the perfect opportunity to see what would happen if I tried it over some watercolor collaged together.
I think I may have overdone it with the stitching, but I can always pull some out; the holes in the paper will make a subtle and interesting pattern too. I’ll look at it for awhile and think about it.
Here’s the poem side, with part of the haiku and some patterns (I wanted to try those out as well).
They end their flight
one by one–
crows at dusk
Shape-shifting in the gap,
the border of the map a light
of shadowing, not quite
prepared to reunite the tide
with ebb and flow implied
by intervals inside of time,
the pause between the line,
the missing paradigm unfilled,
the end of something. Stilled.
I’m a bit late with my February grid, but I thought it complemented Sue Vincent’s “Low Tide” prompt this week, so I did my own poem in response to both Buson and the photo (above).
Once again, I tried a new poetry form; this one is Vietnamese. It’s called Luc Bat, and you can read about it here.
Crowman, are you stalking me?
call to attention
harsh, always interrupting.
Do you want me to look up?
I’m telling stories,
remaking the recent past.
But that part’s invisible…
or do you hear it?
and are you laughing at me?
OK—I’m leaving that world.
I’m here now, present.
I’m unfolding those regrets.
Are you happy now?
Dedicated to my local crow, whose distinctive voice never fails to bring me back to real time.
Brush and ink on rice paper.