Glacier Bay

We took a trip to Alaska last month, and one of the stops was Glacier Bay National Park. It was awe-inspiring and beautiful, and the spirit of the place was very evident (even to a cement head like me).  Maybe it’s because everything is so new there- I tend to think of “natural wonders” as being impossibly ancient, but the fjords of the bay formed very recently- since the peak of the Little Ice Age in the 1700s, as a matter of fact.  There was something very raw and brash and youthful about the place.

Johns Hopkins Glacier

Crack! and rumble as we face the
Wall of ice; a woman behind me
Murmurs “white thunder”, and lightning
Ices my spine. More chunks tumble
And splash as the delayed crash follows.
Hard to find a scale to size it
Until the eye, the mind grasps
That those tiny curved dark dots
Are harbor seals, five hundred pounds
Or more, hauled out on the floes
(Oblivious to the plummet of blocks
Bigger than them). Blue glow
Shimmers in the serried spikes along the
Glacier top, and all is quiet for an
Intake of breath while our ship pivots.
Then a span of the ice-face fails
Its hold, spouts and plumes at first,
Then it all merges as the wall dissolves
At one point, fountaining high before
The roll of sound reaches us. A wave
Heaves up, spreads, touches the hull,
Rocks us gently, massive, implacable,
Before passing down the bay towards the sea.

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Happy New Year!

Hail to the home-fires at the turn of the year,
To meetings and greetings, friends and good cheer;
To joy in the darkness and love in the light,
To family at table and peace in the night.
Our dogs are asleep and the cats, too (below),
And outside the grey wind fingers traces of snow.
As the slow-growing Sun gives up the short day,
And the last hours of this month tick swiftly away-
Though this last year was troubled, it’s true,
I wish you good fortune and health in the new!

Love and bright blessings to you and yours!

Magnetic Poetry

We collect fridge magnets.  Not obsessively, but occasionally… they make great compact keepsakes to bring back from our voyages, and some artists use them as a convenient medium for small pieces.

At out cabin, we have a sampling of the usual mix, plus several different “magnetic poetry” collections- including Shakespearean words and a selection of phrases from The Onion.  This has led to many odd sentences and slogans spread across the doors of the refrigerator there.

This weekend, however, something different happened.  There were three magnets- one with a Brigid symbol, one with a picture of Her, and one with a Celtic cross.  I moved them so that there was a little space cradled between them, and challenged myself to come up with something appropriate from the remaining words.  I did… and then, after pondering the result, She told me to write the rest of the poem:

My Lady’s fire can make drunk
The coolness of this world- only pour out
And see: Her well contains the flame,
Her forge flows with the inspiring drink
Of poets. Petal upon petal, Her flowered
Aspects unfold from either, both, other;
And as hearth flicker and struck spark
Flash across the earth, springs burst forth
From every hidden hollow; water, blaze,
And the hand of Art all strive, all proclaim
The power of Her name to a waiting land.

(The part up to and including “And see” are from the magnets…)

Cousin Bat

Those who know me know that I like (am mildly obsessed with) bats.  There are many reasons, not the least is that they are an Important Animal to me spiritually – I’m not going to use any more specific terminology because I don’t want to make any claims that I don’t have backup for.

They also, unsurprisingly, flitter into my poetry:

Cousin Bat

What are the ways to sing praise of the night-flyer?
Not hard: emerging at sunfall’s call, they dive,
Flickering through light-cones, prey-hunting, or
Skim swift past our heads, sure of course, seeking
To feed on pests, unwanted crawlers; or they sip,
Hovering daintily, at secret flowers, night blooms,
Blessing each with pollen from the last; or they spread
Seeds, a worthy outcome of fruit-greed: jungles
Regrow from their dung. Cunningly concealed by day,
Carrier away when the sun is gone, so loved by Nature
They arose twice, independent; soaring a six-foot span
Or hiding thumb-small in river caves; solo slumbering in leaves
Or spiraling in their millions to flow against the moon-
Wondering words as many as all their wings would not be enough.

Always there, waiting

Sometimes I sit down to write a poem, sometimes a poem sits me down to write it, and sometimes someone sparks one off of me.  Thanks, T., for a question you may not have known you asked:

Always there, waiting

Time and tide may not wait, but
The sea herself is patient. All gods
Within her, too; their realm is first,
Fuller; deeper than dry land is tall.
Each drop of rain tastes of the abyss,
Each downflowing trickle of stream
Is a tendril, like seaweed, calling-
Siren and Whale and Admiral,
Or Earth-shaking trident-wielder,
Or nine-daughtered Ship-slayer,
Or mist-cloaked Trickster,
Or oh so many Others-
They all sing in the salt flow
In our veins, and choose or not
We are always, helpless, listening.

— 7/16/17

Sometimes we’re living in science fiction. Sometimes it’s more like a Borges story.

[I used to publish my non-devotional poetry on my LiveJournal account, but their recent TOS changes make me unwilling to do so.  Until I figure out whether I’m going to bother with Dreamwidth for anything other than reading others’ journals, I’m going to post it here when I feel so moved.  Honestly, since I dedicate all my poetry to Brigid, none of it is actually non-devotional…]

Inspired by this article from Atlas Obscura, I give you:

Uncharted

In some wind of internet terrain,
A program waits, patient, bits
Ticking over.  The glass turns, algorithms wake-
Random bumps appear, are eroded;
Meticulous calculations churn for
Ninety seconds (geologic ages in server time),
And maps emerge- mountains looming over valleys,
Coastlines carved in with bays and capes,
Islands jewel-scattered across oceans.
All this done in hand-drawn style,
Fantasy-labeled with names hinting of
History and deep language, fit for the
Endpapers of novels.  An atlas
Building itself from water and topography
Every hour- and the rivers always reach the sea.

She also rules hearth and home

I dream of the bones, risen ghosts
Flitting fitful from longer poems,
And wake to a more concrete set
Of tasks, still given by Her.
The heart-deep fires She commands
Are also hearth-warmers, and do not
Light themselves.  So, to, inspiration
Leads to a stropped blade, then the sting
Of onions chopped to sizzle, and lay
The ground for alchemy of oil and spice,
Meat and sauce. Her candle burns in the glass,
Casting a blessing glow on the pot
Bubbling slow, transforming, as water
Soap and scrubbing set right the aftermath.
Now only to wait, stir and taste, and let
The spell of sustenance unfold in time.

  • 1/22/17

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