Yesterday I was too busy and preoccupied to post anything. Today I have:
Made a hedgehog house and café, away from the fence. The dogs scream at the poor thing as it tries to have a quiet meal under the plum tree. Watched a young deer leaping through the meadow, the heron circling looking for water. Written a letter to the tax people. Walked the dogs and preempted a violent meeting with Imelda (cat) twice. Made a hospital appointment. Watered all the things in pots with water from the well. Made a minestrone and the dogs’ dinner. Written a few poems. Revised a bit more of a manuscript. Watched in admiration the changing light in this warm autumnal breeze.
Here, for those who would like to use it, is a selection of words that I didn’t post yesterday. Quite a good one, I think.
There are strange things hiding in these strings of random words, the limping laugh and untidy cry, a venomous cure, clam oil, ruddy muscle (or mussel) and the insistence on milk. And there are whole tragedies, the irate uncle with a secret, who imbibes until his state reaches alert, and the attractive skier now a grey stiff. Ultra regret.
This is what I got, a cadralor, I think. I chose this Chagall because it’s bright and full of music and movement, but also ambiguity.
1. We are a barbarous race, build bonfires of all that is good and scrape up scraps of tawdry leavings, gewgaws and glitz, to venerate.
2. The peace breaks, a muttering in the air. Did the wind swing the bell, or does it toll in alarm at the change, a gale gusting from the ocean?
3. Bird-talk, a busy painting, a concert hall’s swollen sound, laughter that dive-dips, the colour of jay’s wings, the rhythm section of the chiff chaffs.
4. Speaking of God, I see him striding, the curé, as if he still evokes fear, seeing only the ghosts of the long-dead, who would have bowed at his passing.
5. There is something grandiose in snow-capped mountains, and secrets shared with a cat, a baby, someone who will never tell.
Because my first Oracle-inspired poem was such an odd one, and because Kerfe’s poem was also a strange one in the same way, I went back, using the new word set this time. She gave me a cadralor, less enigmatic, and one of her favourite paintings (by Odilon Redon) to illustrate it.
I had a dream
1. I had a dream blue lake violin music drifting like mist and in a pool your face smiling.
2. Salt clings to the skin a memory of childhood oceans sea caves echo with a fading song.
3. Death waits beneath every stone in the road each step takes us closer. Owls croon uncaring.
4. Spring shadows were cool as moon eggs summer hedges are red with the flutter of departing chicks.
5. If I had a thousand lives I would keep from each one a single petal and make one glorious flower.
I’m getting this in early because I won’t have time later. 100 random words from Oracle II. My poem is below. The Oracles work as a team.
Waiting for the rain
1. I hear the crash of dark waves and the intake of mussel breath. Lighthouse, coastguard, the beacon on the hill, sentinel from another time, watch the darkness. Fear, trepidation or curiosity hold our gaze, waiting to see what will drag itself into the world.
2. We challenge history, deny the truth, draw it out like chewing gum, wrap it around a stick and toss it in the fire. We have always done it, rewritten the facts, and it has always been to justify the flawed incubus of the present.
3. Some word associations feel uncomfortable like Satanic verses, yet we see them writ large in fiery letters every day, their net cast and drawn in, wriggling and squirming with the dark deformed things that should never have seen the light.
4. Quickening, the leap of joy that sometimes missteps and never leaves the crucible of potential. Not every wish is granted, not every shoot will blossom. The quick and the dead, all the same in the end, it’s just a question of time.
5. Cloud hangs low, damp smoke billowing, and we watch for stray lightning bolts, listen for thunder. Most of all we listen for rain, not the gentle foam hiss among dry leaves, but the purifying torrent. Night falls with the first drops amid the release of withheld breath.
I wanted to write a cadralor for the dverse prompt. I don’t think this is one really, and it needs more work, but it’s late. I’ll look at it again another time.
Taste of past places
1. We never ate out when I was growing up. No money for that kind of thing and where would we have gone? Only with you, always with you, to sit watching you, the sensual joy of watching enjoyment, indulgence, and on your skin, the candlelight.
2. Hilltop town encircled by vineyards, Giotto colours, background of ochre and eggshell blue sky. I never even imagined living there. Too close to perfection, even longing for a green-shuttered house of orange stone would have been a sin.
3. Shrieking brakes and voices raised, anger dying down as easily as it flared. Laughter and the roar of a scooter. The gutters were full of cigarette packets, Nazionali, And the streets always smelled of urine, and pizza bianca from the darkly enticing trattorie.
4. So many times we slipped in among the students and workers, the noisy, crowded places where food was cheap, and there was no menu. Always spaghetti with tomatoe sauce. Basil leaves. We were i ragazzi francesi not knowing enough Italian to put them straight.
5. Nights I smell things. The migraines do that. Perfume sometimes or odd, dead things. But I never smell pines and Nazionali, sun cream with sand in it, pizza bianca, Frascati and red Colli di Trasimeno. I never smell the past that was where we began.