I have often talked myself
out of the moment I have
wanted to be in losing time
and eternity and all the implications
in-between wanting no words
but only the spontaneity
of the right act with no forethought
to capture anything and no
other thought than to be held
No wonder we're a little lower
than the Angels who know how
to move in silence and get things
done; no wonder when we do
we whisper,"Paradise.”
-Byron Hoot
I hear a crow, think,
“Carrion.” Have to
reconsider that which
feeds is not always
from a cornucopia.
Inherently I think some-
thing dead nearby;
inherently I feel my
eyes narrow to see.
I know what feeds
does not always appeal
to me and for an instant
I see me circling.
-Byron Hoot
Awakening is an improvisational act.
The unity of dreams is contrasted to
the unity of Nature the eyes first take
in. The improv is tricky for me; I often
forget how I have chosen and how this
place has chosen to be home for me
and how long it has taken me to say
the word “home” with any meaning.
Each morning there is that sense of where
am I. The sliding images of inner and
outer scenes dance with me, one step here,
one step there. The rhythm of shadows beat
everywhere. And then I remember I’m
improvising all the time not only upon
awakening. And home is now, where I am,
where I dance at dawn, where I hear and
see, where I walk in dream as if the ground
is underneath my feet, where every moment
is a crossroad, each step sliding in a direction
unknown and I whisper the word “home’
in exile longing.
"Want a miracle? Plant a seed.” Panteha
-Byron Hoot
Although the air shimmers in the hot June sun,
there is coolness in the wide bend of the Cahaba,
where the river widens, slows, flattens, and bursts
into a shallow glistening sea of white Cahaba Lilies
as I float silently by in my ancient canoe.
Submerged in crystal clear water, Cahaba Lily bulbs explode
from bedrock island clusters of green reeds into spider shaped flowers.
Each flower is an exploding star which blooms only for a day,
flashing, flashing, flashing, flashing in the sun.
An old man and young boy sit invisible in shadows on an
old tree trunk extending over the river. In silent concentration
they hold silver wire snares over the water; trying to catch redhorse
sucker fish schooling along the bank. Motionless, then jerking
and yelling they throw the slimy grey suckers into a large metal bucket.
It seems strange to see men fishing from a tree without poles.
Redhorse fish still live in the Cahaba feeding
on small snails, a good indicator for good water quality.
At Hargrove Shoals you can see thousands of snails
on the rock bottom, some places so thick
you can't walk without the crunch of stepping on them.
The river runs fierce just down the hill from the old square limestone
Coosa county jail with its eight barred windows and gray steel door.
I can hear the runaway slaves singing “He's the lily of the valley.
Oh my Lord ! King Jesus in the chariot rides, Oh my Lord!
With four white horses side by side.”
I paddle my canoe upstream toward the fisherman trying not to
interrupt their harvesting of fish. We talk about the declining
numbers of fish and fresh water mussels, the danger of new dams,
bank erosion and sewage pollution. We invisibly embrace
our shared love of the river together.
Laugh if you like, but now I am dreaming I’m on the Ganges
which is flowing from Vishnu’s toe; I’m on a boat to heaven,
Bhagiratha is praying for my rebirth; I am riding on Shiva’s hair,
bathing in her waters. I am in another world.
(stanza break)
The shadows lengthen and the air cools as I drift
among the clusters of lilies. I awaken to a fluttering of flashing
iridescent dragon fly wings, iridescent greens and blues vibrating in thin air,
slim as a pencil, a solitary glider, clear sugar crystal wings,
a fairy calling me into these island clusters of reeds and flowers.
Her flight path leaves sparkling fireworks
in it’s wake. There is something beautiful in
the way she experiences the world.
There must be a dead pioneer who knew me
buried somewhere under the water.
How crazy I am to follow a fly, into the lilies,
into the underworld, into a watery labyrinth of shadows.
It’s no good choosing a middle path;
we have to risk damnation; we must follow
the white light of the dying lily.
-W Roger Carlisle
The rooster calls
breaking the fragile stillness of a Sunday morning,
roof top dogs echo his cry,
clanging church bells fade in the distance,
dawn has come too early
we roll back into a restless slumber
Our night of lovemaking fades into the
cacophony in the streets.
Blinded by God's Holy light,
memories of the night's dark dance
fly away with the crows and grackles.
Something has happened
in the dreaming and the loving of the night.
We try to grasp the new relation between us,
to preserve the memory and time
when we became the we,
holding a new essence we cannot understand.
The moon retreats
We clutch our shared spirit,
it carries us through the day.
-W Roger Carlisle
The snow is almost gone but for patches
So let it be,
forget the twilight,
skim the clouds,
lower your body.
A piece of leaf falls,
drifts--
lifted by the cold sea water
in the boundless night.
Stars over the horizon,
too dull however,
to illuminate the dawn.
The legendary lighthouse
hides on the foggy cliff,
its sight shivers.
Wind sighs
over and over
with its hoarse throat.
Sands hard to hold
finally gone with wind
back to the vast…
Min Katherine Liu
Virginia Tech
WVArts Solitude
Summer 2019
2019
年7月31日
漂
就这样吧，
把暮光忘记，
把浮云掠去，
把身体放低。
一片叶子落下，
被冰凉的海水托住，
在漫漫黑夜里
漂--
天边有星，
却黯淡，
照不清黎明。
传说中的灯塔，
躲在迷雾后的悬崖上，
目光颤栗。
风嘶哑着喉咙，
一遍遍地
叹息。
握不住的沙，
终究要随风散去，
归于无垠……
of yesterday and tomorrow
where what has been will not
Habibi,
I am bone weary –
But dogged determination is the only way
I know. I am weighted, holding gifts:
In one hand a full bucket of fresh qualla
And in the other a basketful of lapis lazuli –
Right and left, left and right
Each one representing the other.
Everything is washed with that cold
Comfortless dense white light of a dark
Winter mountain day
And my burden has broken me physically.
I stand in the mud shivering
Feeling like a character in a Beckett novel:
Less human perhaps than a constantly thinking tree,
Observing and rooting deeper and deeper and deeper,
Increasingly aware that this perseverance
Is probably all in vain.
Petrified, my many names becoming no name.
No one cares about the contents
Of my ever-ticking, tocking, loudly thinking mind.
I no longer have the will to ask
For peace as I literally creak and split
With time and weather and fatigue,
Shattered at last by my unappreciated,
Unrewarded steadfastness.
This must be what Daphne felt like,
Except I was neither runner nor chaser –
Though I wait, exhausted unto death
By my own pointless patience and listening
For silence within my reverberating head.
And if there is no release back
Into human form, at least maybe
People may tie windchimes
On all my branches
So that when they pass by
They will pause a moment to mark
What is left of this existence with the
Smallest of fleeting wonder.
-Sabne Raznik
http://www.facebook.com/sabneraznik
