The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,
St. Stephen’s Day was caught in the furze
The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves
It is time for games–I choose opacity over transparency. It is time for the hunting of the wren.
A living wren tied, knocked to stillness but still alive, tied to a stick and paraded for coins or other trinkets. An inexorable crush. A place between what one is and what one is supposed to be.
she/must learn not to subdue the fear
I am hiding this post in broad daylight. Or, more accurately, night. Good night. With enormous moon winged in flight…
or some such thing.
you are becoming gone
Sometimes I wish I too was dead inside. My depressions come in raging and furious and violent with sensation.
I see that I’m running a fever
I see that I’m afraid
One upon a time
The world’s carbon emissions increased by 5.9% in a single year
One upon a time
The permafrost started to melt and up came gases,methane, carbon dioxide. The gases emerged dancing delighted by their newfound freedom and hugged the globe hugged the heat of the sun tightly.
It is love
Once a fear pierced him
Once upon a time
18 years or 20 years of a life, on a single day, with typescript and a handful of dollars, shut the door on itself.
I am become
Now that my ladder’s gone
I imagine that when I am an old woman, if I get to that place–and sometimes I do in my mind
mountains; cliffs of fall
I’ll be alone. There are things we settle into in life and then they are over and we turn back, surprised, because we’d thought we were something other.
I grow backward
Now she’s done for
It is hard going to the door
I have written too much. I have been too transparent
cut so small in the wall where
the vision which echoes loneliness
The Bewick’s have visited me from the cold brush–do I think on them more because the hunt is on my mind? Or is it that they are more present right now, they and our thrushlike robins, in great flocks. The leaves have left space for me to see.
Oer his white banes, whan they are bare,
It will soon be time for the hunt.
The wind sall blaw for evermair
Bewick’s are safe from sticks or, at least, they aren’t the targets of Lá Fhéile Stiofán. Whatever the betrayal I do not believe the wren played a part. Nor do I believe the knife sticking out of your back is sent there by the hand of our now rising king.
should she smother it?
The wrens know what I am tending. My little seedling, I’m tending it as though it might, some day, yield an ear of corn, a piece of bitter fruit
I must lie down where all the ladders start
blossoms rank as breath
Quotes are by
Kashock, Christensen, Keats, Yeats, Stevens, Creeley, Plath
Soundtrack (for those on spotify) is at SPOTIFY