Timelessness

For those who have ever been delightfully lost in looking, who have willingly drifted into a timeless place when surrounded by beauty, this excerpt from Vladimir Nabokov's riveting Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited will recapture that feeling:

I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness -- in a landscape selected at random -- is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants. This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern -- to the contrapuntal genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humoring a lucky mortal.

-- Vladimir Nabokov

The photograph of the Renwal doll was taken at the pond at the top of my street this spring. Click on image to enlarge. The paragraph is from Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited by Vladimir Nabokov, page 139, Vintage International, 1989. It was originally published, in different form, by Harper & Bros., New York , in 1951.

Dream Altitude: Beckian Fritz Goldberg

Strange, unsettling poem from a strange, unsettling -- and riveting -- book: "Retro Lullaby" from Never Be the Horse by Beckian Fritz Goldberg. (And it's a poem-match for this photograph! Sometimes the perfect poem just flutters to your finger like a lovesick homing pigeon.)

Here's an excerpt from "Retro Lullaby":

After all, my sister said I was a strange child, an
automaton.
My mother said if they talked idly in February
of going somewhere in June, I'd wake in June,
my suitcase packed.

Terrible she said to have a child who never forgot a thing.

But now, of course, I've slipped
my mind forever in some infeasible way, flown

stiff as a toy in my dream altitude and I remember
wondering even in my elation if I'd drop
suddenly and if I did

I don't remember. But if I did, I'd say,
It's ok, you can be my angel. You can be
my human kite.

I relish the simile, "stiff as a toy in my dream altitude." Dream altitude! Later in the poem, Beckian Fritz Goldberg comes to the conclusion that "... childhood stinks big in our lives as death." In this case, the smell is of "moist hay," a scent that brings back the past, that inflates her "postcard of a little stranger," so that "her stupid white hands will come up like two / white pages from the bottom of a lake ...." It's magic the way a simple fragrance can transport us to the past, give us back our lace-trimmed ankle socks and braids.

One of my favorite pieces from the collection is the title poem, "Never Be the Horse," in which a mysterious horse is crossing the ocean, standing in a hull, trying "to dream on the smell of damp oatseed." The full line the title comes from is "Never be the horse God talks to." I love the final two lines: "Months later, a rock rose and then low furzy branches. / Then in each ankle a bell clapped for the mud."

How can you resist a book that contains poems with titles like "With a Ravenous Spike," "Flowering Adam," and "The Tongue of the Sphinx?"

Never Be the Horse won the 1998 Akron Poetry Prize and was published by The University of Akron Press in 1999. The photograph of the Renwal doll was taken 5/23/09 in my yard.

Forsythia Glow

Winter-scarred but pollen-dusted, he marches into forsythia light. Petals caress his shoulders like quivering fingertips.

At least that's how I see it, thanks to my neighbor's lush front yard bushes. They were aglow on Thursday.

For a bit more forsythia gold, visit my flash fiction piece on Wigleaf:

"One-Handed Prayer"

And here's a final yellow note from Theodore Roethke, poet extraordinaire:

Deep in their roots,
All flowers keep the light.

-- Theodore Roethke

The Roethke quote is from page 319, The Harper Book of Quotations, edited by Robert I. Fitzhenry, HarperPerennial, 1993. The photo was taken 4/30/09, in my neighbor's yard.

Dark Feet Dangling

I love her precarious perch, her split shadow, her dark feet dangling over the next step, pointing the way. She is stalled, fighting vertigo -- pondering -- still believing in an easier descent.

Here are the final stanzas from Denise Levertov's poem, "Broken Pact," from Evening Train:

But mind and heart continue
their eager conversation,
they argue, they share epiphanies,
sometimes all night they raise
antiphonal laments.

Face and body have betrayed them,

they are alone together,
unsure how to proceed.

-- Denise Levertov

The poem can be read in its entirety on page 29. The photo was taken in my yard this spring. Metal sculpture by Thea Kluge. Click on image to enlarge.

March Light

I found this intriguing passage, discussing ways to heighten creativity, in a yellowed paperback, Self-Renewal: The Individual and the Innovative Society:

When Alexander the Great visited Diogenes and asked whether he could do anything for the famed teacher, Diogenes replied, "Only stand out of my light."

The photograph was taken in my yard a few days ago. (Click on image to enlarge.) The quote was found on page 42. The March light is glorious. Stand back.

Gathering the Glowing World

October. She lets the leaves drift loose from her scalp, surrounding herself with gold. Inside her mind, a perfect silence grows where rustling thoughts had clung. She gathers the glowing world in its thirsty well.

Okay, okay -- I know -- enough already with the Renwal dolls. I can't help myself. I carried her in my pocket late yesterday afternoon while walking with a neighbor on our road. The photo opportunity suddenly materialized at the top of the hill, gold everywhere. Click on image to enlarge.

One-Handed Prayer

I recently discovered wigleaf, an intriguing online magazine of “very short fictions,” all works under 1,000 words. Since I love writing prose poetry and flash fiction, I decided to submit work to the editor, Scott Garson. Today wigleaf posted my accepted story, “One-Handed Prayer,” as well as an author “postcard.” As an extra feature, Scott asks contributors to write a postcard to the readers of the magazine. The entertaining premise is that the readers are the ones who are far away, and the postcard-writing author is writing to them from home. If you feel inspired, do visit the Web site by clicking on wigleaf. There are many stories, postcards, and photographs to explore. Thanks to Scott for the editing suggestions.

Here's the first line of "One-Handed Prayer":

When he lifted the shag rug, he found a hand, palm down, flat as a rose pressed in a bible.

The photo of Renwal dolls was taken 6/30/08. Click on image to enlarge.

Never Talk Back to the Water

The deepest water employs a more serious tone. It uses a guttural form of interrogation. As you move through its body, it questions your presence. Holding your hair in its cold hands, it examines your face. Keep your lips sealed. Although it has the magic to turn you weightless, to keep your thumping heart suspended, unburdened as a fish -- beware. Its true desire is to steal your breath, to swallow you whole. Never talk back to the water. Mind your manners, keep your thoughts to yourself. Always remember the grassy shore. Float.

Excerpt from "Never Talk Back to the Water," a prose poem from Stirring the Mirror. The photo was taken 5/7/08.