Stevie Smith

Black March

I have a friend
At the end
Of the world.
His name is a breath

Of fresh air.
He is dressed in
Grey chiffon. At least
I think it is chiffon.
It has a
Peculiar look, like smoke.

It wraps him round
It blows out of place
It conceals him
I have not seen his face.

But I have seen his eyes, they are
As pretty and bright
As raindrops on black twigs
In March, and heard him say:

I am a breath
Of fresh air for you, a change
By and by.

Black March I call him
Because of his eyes
Being like March raindrops
On black twigs.

(Such a pretty time when the sky
Behind black twigs can be seen
Stretched out in one
Uninterrupted
Cambridge blue as cold as snow.)

But this friend
Whatever new names I give him
Is an old friend. He says:

Whatever names you give me
I am
A breath of fresh air,
A change for you.

Stevie Smith

Pig and farm report

 

I took that photo in the morning thinking we’re going to have a storm and that night the wind came up and kept coming up 68 miles per hour I (cowered) in bed watching the young madrona outside my bedroom window bend screeching all the way to the ground then bounce back up then bend down again lashing the deck I could feel my house straining against its moorings as the trees moaned and whirled then a terrific crack as half a hardwood tree snapped off and hit the wall nearest my bed then a huge ripping noise that turned out to be an entire western hemlock unearthing itself and falling on the roof of the two story house at the end of my road all 120 feet of that tree my power went out at 10 pm then on then off then on then off again six times clearly a tree or branch bouncing on a power line then I saw the flashes of light coming out of the ground I thought at first it was lightning but it turned out to be power lines down all over the island on the roads dancing sparking and hissing wild and dangerous all the transformers on the island blew at once all this time Hal was in my bed pacing back and forth until he finally hid under my covers Wolfie and Jupiter were probably under a bed which honestly is where I should have been 

In the morning I pulled on my boots and put a warm sweater on over my nightgown and walked outside to assess the damage (some to my trees none to my house or windows or car) I pulled some giant tree limbs out of the street that would have blocked cars then drove around to see what roads were closed (most of them) I bought some iced coffee at a coffee stand with cash and stopped at the bait & tackle to shoot the shit and buy more water and junk food an island hub of sorts some people had two feet of water in their houses all the grocery stores were closed no cash registers 

Good thing I was a Camp Fire Girl because I was prepared I was ready I had everything I needed including bread and peanut butter and let me tell you I’ve existed on bread and peanut butter food of the gods

I got lucky

Power came back on just as the orange monster was being impeached a second time and that’s all I have to say about him I am finished and finished 

I am so grateful for electricity and running water and this house this solid amazing little house and the wild trees and deep water that surround it

I apologize for all of this being boring but I wanted to mark the day or close to the day of the storm and I lost energy half way through this post because I have a fever and may have caught a cold running around in the early morning wind in my jammies

101°

fever lexicon 1. pistol in my hand pointing down 2. green slippery grass 3. ormolu lamp 4. gold leaf thin 5. tequila 6. lobster on the veranda 7. bibs like giant infants 8. a bad idea flying into that fog  9. without headlamps

 cat & plush

striped cat
glare
green glance 
tiger cut
said          I do
skirt the cold
winter
tiger patterned
st. happy 

winterman's
tiger          look
small dots 
on my dress
bands
of cold green
& white
cat
knives the dark
polka
dot dress 
black & broke
I wear green 
disgusted
broken window
watch-cap &
beethoven full 
glare cold dress 
heat my calves  
the wee plush 
peony
a cat 
two children
times peony 
green dress
my hands          tail
lick the star 
of every beethoven

And angels bake the bread

And angels bake the bread 

The morning her veterinarian woke in her bed he fed her spaghetti smashed the noodles into her mouth lit a candy cigarette after sauce on her white coverlet the vinegar-bleached sheets. There wasn't a fight. She simply wished him empty of music. He was not allowed to tell her how his feet burned how bright steam rose from the dog's bowl. He held her head under water and sang Mahler Saint John has let his little lamb go to the butcher Herod. They watched TV at night drowning. It felt like progress. Life was good under the ginger bell the animal hospital's glowing blue cross.

Sending out tendrils through the stars

Darklings, I have missed you and now I am finding my way back to written language to writing to poetry after my return to reading in such great gulping swallows and healing myself of the hunger that that particular loss opened in me. Here is my hand seeking in a dark room if you wish to take it. I miss you all but have followed your voices now bringing mine back in. Hello. Hello from the island. Hello.

Francis Ponge

Oh Louvre of language, which may become a home, after the end of the race—perhaps for the other guests, some monkeys for example, or some bird, or some superior being, like the crustacean that substitutes itself for the mollusk in the periwinkle shell. And then, in the twilight of the animals, the wind and the tiny grains of sand slowly penetrate it, while on dry land it still shines and erodes, becoming brilliant as it crumbles, oh sterile immaterial dust, oh brilliant residue, although endlessly tumbled and crushed between cutting blades of the air and the sea. At last! No one is there, nothing can reform the sand, not even glass, and it’s all over.