Two of my best friends Tom Kryss and ingrid Swanberg.

SHALL I CONTUNUE TO DO THIS?

I've been thinking about posting to this Blogger page again, which I haven't done since May.  I'd like some feedback if you think I

should.

DROP A LINE

DROP A LINE

A slight reflection noted as sound

Upon water, then an uplifting of wings

That slides into the shadows over some

Reeds.

The evening had just settled itself in

Gathering its collection of shadows,

Red-violets and wistful birds songs.

“You won’t be going there tonight.”, he said

Pointing toward the tallest stand of trees,

“There’s hungry animals out there. We can’t

Take a chance of losing anyone.”

*

But the moon will be out later.

The breeze is so gentle it feels made

Of dreaming and silk memories.

I pack my small bag and head for

The tall dark.  “I’ll try to find out

What’s just over that ridge and be

Back by morning, if I am able.”

No one says not to go but no one

Follows  At the edge of the light

I discover I am able to fly.

VISION TRADER

VISION TRADER

Before the shadows got too soft

There was a man who traded

In visions.  He was a surgeon

Of sorts who barely left a mark

When he excised a perfect golden

Octopus that could sing ancient

Greek boating songs or slice

A Valentine of brightly colored

Birds into a strange collection

Of coins much desired by the 

Herdsmen of the upper terrace.

He worked from dusk until dark

During the long Summer days

And during storms of any kind.

His voice was very musical.

Cats would be charmed by his

Soft whistles and his conjuring

Of small winged animals seen

Nowhere else in any moment.

Hs disappeared into the throat of

Spring when the child weavers

From the dark villages were

Bargaining with him over the souls

Horses had left with them.  That

And the lovely skins of animals

Found by the children at the bottom

Of the cliffs near the great waterfalls.

There are those who claim to know

Where he has gone, but whenever

A particular wash of golden light

Passes through this place, one

Can hear his tinkling laugh and

For a moment be unable to think.

Smoke rises from the ends of our

Fingers.  We are able to dazzle you

With words, the color of which

Is able to hook into our imagination

So completely we forget we have

The power of speech and find

Ourselves lost in the pure magic

Only seen in the best twilight markets. 

I EASE THE SPACE

I EASE THE SPACE

When the birds reach the place between 

The house and the garage, where the prayer

Flags hang, they turn sideways, so their bodies

Are vertical. There is not quite enough room to 

Pass any other way.  Why they don’t choose

The fly above the passageway confounds me.

Perhaps there is a kind of horizon there

We cannot see, that pushes them, flashing.

The boards of the thing are gone completely.

I ask you why the snows continue?

A malignancy of phantoms devours

The space that has been eased.

In the Catoptric shroud within which 

We dwell, time is stuffing memories

Into its pockets.  Always looking over

Its shoulder to see if we’ve noticed.

I ask you, before I can begin thinking,

What has happened to all horizons?

You begin ripping up even more boards.

The passages become narrower and narrower.

I can see the prayer flags in the distance.

We seem to be traveling extremely quickly.

It was reported that in one village

The enemy gathered all the men into one place

Then shot them in head in the presence of their wives.

One of the women had shouted

“Have you no respect for life at all?’, to them.

They shot her in the head rather than answer

Her question. The passage became even narrower.

I am looking up at the stars tonight.

I can see that there are many fresh stars.

They seem to crowd against one another

Until there is little room between them.

Somewhere in here we will have to turn

Our bodies vertically and lift ourselves

Above the fluttering prayer flags.

We have only seconds to decide when that is.

A PROPOSAL

A PROPOSAL

But I’m walking in the labyrinth 

And the labyrinth begins to wander

Away from me.  I have heard

About a ancient moon from Chaldea

That can decipher the climates

Of the heart and yet refuses

To do so until only the legend of its existence

Remains and even this is confined in a room

So silent it is said to exist only in a mirror.

I will go there and you may go with me

If you would like to see the

Kingdoms conquered, to learn to

Regret that the infinite can exist

In simple stories and uncountable

Rivers that flow through everything

We give meaning to every day

We forget or do not wish to name.

And there you may want to ask this same

Kind of question. Here is a personal souvenir. 

It is a footprint toward the center.

I no longer recall where

I acquired it and since I am going

Out to sea again, I have no use for it

At all.  Perhaps you will make something

Truly memorable of this day without

Getting lost in it.  It is not so easy to do. 

Ilona Comes With The Rain - Alvaro Mutis - from The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll

This page from Ilona Comes With The Rain is full of Mutis magic.

Life with Ilona was invariably lived on two levels, or rather in two simultaneous and parallel directions.  On the one hand, your feet were always on the ground, you were always intelligently but non obsessively alert to what each day offered in response to the routine questions of surviving.  on the other hand, imagination and unbounded fantasy suggested a spontaneous and unexpected sequence of scenarios that were always aimed at the radical subversion of every law ever written or established. .  This was a permanent, organic, rigorous subversion that never permitted travel on the beaten path, the road preferred by most people, the traditional patterns that offer protection to those whom Ilona, without emphasis or pride but without any concessions either, would call "the others."
Woe to any companion of hers who betrayed the slightest inclination to accommodate to those models.  Without hesitation she would cut all ties, all relations, all commitment to anyone who succumbed to such unpardonable weakness, and she would never again mention the person who had gone over to "the others," that is to say, who no longer existed.  For those of us who lived with her for a time, one glance ws enough to warn us that we were approaching the danger zone.  Abdul told a story that illustrates Ilona's principles very well.  once,  when they were traveling together, Abdul wanted to send a postcard to his associate in a venture in which all the advantages had been the partner's, to thank him for his hospitality in letting them use his house on the island of Khyros for the summer.  When he handed the card to Ilona so that she would sign it too, d
she looked him in the eye for an instant and went back to the bathroom, where she had been combing her hair.  She didn't say a word, but Abdul tore up the postcard and threw the pieces into the toilet.  Te matter was not mentioned until several months later, when I met them in Marseilles.  We were at the docks, eating lobster prepared with olive and garlic and accompanied by a modest Muscadet that was still reassuringly sprightly and direct.  Abdul related the incident in a cheerful, mocking tone.  Ilona laughed too, but when Bashur finished she sat looking at us like an angry Minerva, and her only comment was "This Lebanese was in very grave danger with his courtesy mal place.  He was risking his head."
   "I knew that right away," said Brasur, this time a little less cheerfully taking a long drink of wine to hide the fleeting panic caused by Ilona's words.