summer_jackel

So, I am writing a novel! I'm not engaging with NaPo as a writing exercise, because I am perhaps 3/4 of the way done with said novel.

I will soon have 'The Lives of St. Valerai: Rosegarden' available as a google document in as much of its extremely unfinished, messy, rough drafted glory as exists. For the nonce, I leave the scene I've been working on for the last couple of days. I was going through it and realized that it contains the book in a nutshell, and is probably a decent indicator for whether a reader will find the thing interesting. If you like, this, there's 548 pages and counting (sob) more of it.

( Honest dogs )

I extracted
the tiniest slug from the tiniest sundew,
using a broken off redwood needle:
this was all that small. The little plant,
not yet unclenched for spring,
would fit upon my pinkie-nail.

The slug was perfect, pewter-grey
but slimy, with sensitive eye-stalks.
I appreciated it for a moment,
wondered at its perspective and put it elsewhere.
Not in the ducks' pen, and without
otherwise harming it.

This morning, I startled a large raven
who had landed in my chicken coop. I assume
to share a beakfull of scraps, but maybe just to socialize:
I do not presume to know the intent of ravens
and I have seen her perched casually beside the chickens,
eating nothing.
She was huge and glossy, shining black against the glowing
wet green, the misty air.
Bigger than the chickens, pointier, glancing over at me
lifting with the precise swish of heavy wings.

Hello, neighbor.
I didn't mean to startle you.
You can be here. We are both here.

I have transformed
five hundred pounds of rock
into a little garden bench
where I can watch my flowers
and my ducks.

A sea duck moves
on top of the water
a glint of alertness,
a movement of bill, and
she is gone. There is
only vastness, huge and green.

Rain touching maple, fern, my
upturned face
sweet unrelenting force, tenderly
continue the cycle
welcome light

In the quiet
the sun has been down for some time.
There are infinities in shade of fresh,
expectant green.

Darkness, sweetness:
Inside, warmth, music, drinks;
Outside, ducks sleep, but with
alertness
they quack, if I come outside.

Resting duck, quiet in the darkness
bill under wing
bright eye yet alert to any sound.

Joy can be expressed
through the awareness of two ducks floating
webs in water
bills in water

(Hi Livejournal! You can totally see how not ready I am for this right now. I have been writing a lot, though, so there will be more writing things soon!)

We will begin with
two ducks
hen and drake
dabbling on still water.
This is sufficient; it is
a good beginning.

She realized she had lost
something of herself along the way

(as we all do, as we all do----
there is nothing that is not eaten,
there is nothing that is not worn
ask the insect and the cordyseps)

and, looking for it, sadly, a little frantic
a little lost
realized
the corpses buried in the garden came to flower
after all
their fragrant nodding blossoms rising all around her
bright and soft and humid---
what you found, they sing
look what you've planted
look what you've found.

And hey, looks like I made it through another year of this exercise, only slipping up by getting in late once. I feel as though I should mention that the bit about the corpses and the garden in this one is an homage to/riffing off of T.S. Eliot. Thanks for reading!

There, on the rock
two salamanders;
in a shimmy of strong tail
the first is gone
and then the other.

Little sheepdog, press your snout
against my leg, intently.
Where did you go? Why didn't you take me?

Eilenor sang---

Oh you who sing out with wanting
proudly following your hunting dogs
into the bracken and the wild onion
with its purple blossoms,
into the morning air;
extend your hand to catch my heart then,
as it follows,
capering all around you like another dog---
you need no arrow, you need no word.

yesterday's poem is late (oops)---I slipped!

There are bones in the earth.
This soft soil gives up its husks,
and the stream will flow for some while yet
as the dry hills crawl with wildflowers.

Cats
Cats, I would like to know
why
I found the remains
of a soft and fleshy
yellowish brown potato bug
upon the floor just now.
I would prefer---
Cats, cats
Perhaps it is better
not to know.

Run with us:
run long-snouted, long-legged, effortless;
we do not need our history, our future; those are yours
we know only
this morning
this spring breath
these bodies
we run, we run
and you:
you run with us,
now

Praise the forest's little slimy things.
Baby banana slugs nibbling tender sorrel
wet from last night's rain, fungus
fruiting joyfully.
The salamader pups resting in the stream
are getting larger.

Night falls full of little noises:
distant children, the cat purring
ducks quacking as they settle.

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
						1
2	3	4	5	6	7	8
9	10	11	12	13	14	15
16	17	18	19	20	21	22
23	24	25	26	27	28	29
30	31

Entries tagged with running dog

66. Honest dogs

gardening

raven

transformation

sea duck

rainstorm

April evening

darkness, sweetness

resting duck

expression

Opening

closing song (loss/renewal)

more salamanders

little sheepdog

her lover, hunting

California fire ecology

cats

hound song

(no subject)

night, ducks

Profile

July 2017

Syndicate

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags