Oh, how I miss the white stuff. No, George, the other white stuff.
Anyway, in the milieu of yours truly:
Overcast smothers sunny.
Cold beats heat.
Winter flings spring.
Memory slays reality.
Sometimes.
I've never been one of those yahoos jumping around on their green brown grass, screaming "yay! the earth blossoms once more!" to the indifferent cosmos above. If you are one of those yahoos, my condolences. This kook likes it the other way (summer, in actuality, is the great bane of my existence, and if I could make it autumn all year round, I would). Flora are cool though.
But one thing I'm convinced we do have in common from time to time is l'angoisse de la page blanche. Thus, some more verse in an attempt to fill the blogging void and to celebrate something -- just not your vile warm weather. So gather 'round the dormant hearth, stick some flowers in your hair and dance the ceremonial dance of the hippies -- a shudder! Pourquoi ?
The unholy conjuration from the infernal depths of my notebooks seen below!
A horror hungry for new victims on which to inflict poetical misery and woe!
What, you thought I'd blather on about politics again for show?
Hell. No.
After that introduction, it's best to let this official NATO training video show you what to do upon encountering such a grim beast:
For those willing to brave my typically overwrought and melancholic verse, read on:
Winter walk
What shadow passes by, plucked from long years,
the illusive crucible. Colors dull
in the evening air as tired fingers
of worn breath wrap around, tear out the heart.
Hours bleed remembrance throughout each street,
an old picture of the snow in my hand.
White palette of December, brazen cold
here in the throat, every word in vain.
A tongue stricken with weary repentance
wears an uneasy crown. The livid sky
draws frigid arrows down, biting shafts
unsated. Scores of shivering wounds rise
to sculpt the murder of light’s dwindling glow –
sympathy laid waste, entombed is the day.
My steps painted with a nocturnal mark,
perfumed hymns of our forgotten kingdom
blossom through the ice. Beautiful poison
courses within cathedral heights; the stone
ebbs away. Ruins of idolatry,
conjuring flurries of your witchery,
imprison this soul in memorials.
Friday, April 25, 2008
70° is too goddamn hot.
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19 comments:
I like the dark. I like my office to be dark when I work. It seems mysterious. I wish my friends would stop calling me a succubus. Shit, I'm going to melt in the Languedoc.
\Ruins of idolatry,
conjuring flurries of your witchery,
imprison this soul in memorials.
Masterful!
I have SAD. I'm sure you know that means seasonal affective disorder. So by the time the day is at it's longest, I supposedly do best, but start to morn the daily shrink of light. Each season is work. Lazy I am. Each season has it's actual monetary cost. I like the dark, too, but know I need the light to fend off the soul's own darkness, so...... I think I'll publish a poem today, too. Maybe.
I love this line: ...entombed is the day.
I'm not much for dark poetry, but something about the line captured my attention.
Beautiful!
Salut,
Marjorie
I'm a winter/cold weather person too. I like all of the seasons but I'm just more attuned to fall and winter. I've been a much happier camper since I moved from California to northern Washington 3-1/2 years ago.
Northern Calif. used to get these unseasonal heat waves in March or November. As much as I hated the heat, the most maddening part was listening to all these idiots chirping "ah, it's so nice out."
70 is TOO GODDAM HOT!!!!!
What!!????? Are you NUTZ!
//Oh, how I miss the white stuff.//
Shit&Whiskers!!! I think you are suffering from more than
"l'angoisse de la page blanche." !!
I mean, yowza&all...., a little snow is pretty for about two days!!
After that, C'mon!!!
Ever try to using a snowblower while drinking beer? Ha!
But I can ride the lawnmower and drink beer!
I have never slipped on the sidewalk getting my mail in July, either!!!!
I never have to get my car jump-started in August!!
...and try grilling bratwurst outside in January....
(well, I do it, but the fun factor is real low)
...or screwing outdoors in March!
(well I tried that once, too, and gees, more than the fun factor was low)
'White palette of December'
well c'mon up this weekend...they are talking snow in APRIL.....
Now, don't get me wrong....it is a nifty, spifferino-keen-kool poem 'n all.....
and as far as being a decent dude&such....
you are right there with hitting all the green lights on Main St.
and I think you are getting to the point of BEING the cat's ass&stuff when it comes to whipping up the adverbs and adjectives and stuffing them into a cool sandwich......
....but anyone who weeps for winter's waning....gees, I'm gonna go to Nunly's and pray for you and then go have some beers with the beasts!
Have a good friday, my friend!;)
fot, so do I. The dark part, no one calls me a succubus, thankfully. I have a pal who lives in Provence, and despite her groovy weirdness, unfortunately loves the fact that it's often sunny there. That would be hell.
spartacus, thanks!
utah savage, there has to be some light as a contrast, to highlight the darkness. I don't think I have SAD, but I can't stand the heat and hour after hour of blinding sun, it's simply physically uncomfortable. I don't burn up, so at least I don't have to resort to drinking the red stuff. As for the poem, I hope you do/have.
marjorie, merci, but that's about all you'll find in this corner of the internets. Unless Bush and Co. get locked up, then it's smiling verses for years and years. ;-)
tom, I could easily dig the weather up there. It's really the heat waves as you said. 70 is doable, but when it starts going above 80, 85, ugh.
Don't get me started on those jokers. "It's such a lovely day isn't it?" Go Cheney yourself.
okjimm, snowblowers are for chumps! Shovels and some elbow grease! That way, if drunk, one won't accidentally grind up the feet of passers by. And in January, I don't end up dripping wet with sweat just by existing! You'll never convince me on the superiority of the warm weather over the cold. Unless there are gobs and gobs of wheelbarrows and armored trucks all loaded with some Euros. No, make it Pounds. The exchange rate is brutal. I could buy my own weather machine like a comic book villain and make it snow all the time! MUAHAHAHAAHAHAHA!
Evil.....you are evil. But OK.
I like winter clothes. Boots, tailored jackets, sweaters, jeans....
I like the transitional seasons best--spring and fall. Summer's too hot, and winter's too cold.
Nice verse, my man.
swb, do ratty sweatjackets count as winter clothing?
dguzman, I like the cold, obviously, and there are 'practical' problems associated with TOO much cold, but I figure since this isn't the Yukon, it ain't so bad. And thanks.
I'm a fan of Spring and Fall. Highs between 70° - 80°. :-)
My creative-home body-writer-thinker self loves those gray days. I love the quality of light through my studio apartment windows, the way it makes me feel. Too much sun and heat is oppressive for me as well. I do enjoy some sunny low 70s days though. But autumn is my absolute favorite. I feel so incredibly awake and connected in autumn. Truly, I live for autumn.
It would be really difficult for me to live someplace eternally sunny. Ugh. Purgatory. I think my rather shared feelings on summer led me to plan my Paris trip for July, as contradictory as that sounds. Somehow I think being away and being there in summer will be better. I don't know, even the heat there at that time of year doesn't feel oppressive to me now.
tomcat, 80°? You're quite mad!
b, that atmosphere always strikes me as far more ethereal, far more conducive to writing than the blinding light of a typical summer day.
As for choosing July for Paris, the temp usually tops out near 80°, doesn't it? Certainly not as bad as it can get here, or in the south of France!
Plutôt l'angoisse de l'écran blanc...
Indeed. And I forgot to mention my favorite part of this post, your Winter Walk poem. Love it.
The darker the better. I like my verse as I like my beer; cold, dark and bitter.
"My steps painted with a nocturnal mark,
perfumed hymns of our forgotten kingdom
blossom through the ice."
Perfect Randal.
When I lived in So California I craved the snow, gray, and dark winters. When I was in Chicago I longed for the ease of movement available in California. Now that is 85 degrees I am nostalgic for the snow.
Your poem is the perfect antidote to all the oppressive sunshine. Merci!
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