fervor and faith

Page one hundred fifteen

Friday 31 December 2010….      turners tricks

 

              We twa hae run among the braes
                    and bracht the garlands hame,
                         but seas atween us hae roared and swelled
                               sin’  auld lang syne.

                                                                  ~~  rab burns

 

               “Tis not only while beauty and youth are thine own,
                      and thy face undisturbed by a tear,
                           that the fervor and faith of a soul should be known,
                                 to which time would but make thee more dear.
               For the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
                    and as truly loves on to the close.
                          As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets,
                               the same look which she turned when he rose.

                                                                ~~  thomas moore

 

                My haert is saer, I dare not  tell.
                      My haert is saer for somebody.
                            I would walk a winter’s necht,
                                for the sake o’ somebody.
               Ochon, for somebody.  Oh hae, for somebody.
               I would dare what would I know,
               for the sake o’ somebody.

                                                                ~~  also rab burns?

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read…   Scealta liatha…   Shadowpoems

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

 

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reveries of snow and ice

Page One hundred fourteen

tuesday 28 december 2010…    turners flails

This new winter is eight days old today, and on this very early day of the new winter we have our first snow, having begun on Sunday and continued into yesterday.  Words and pictures and sounds come into the memory today, things from that life that was my own. And among these things, part of a winter poem written in my late teens, and part of a song written in my forties.

 

When in winter I no longer reach the ground;
when the snow lies dense and heavy,
muffling all the harshness out of sound,
I pad about on silent winter feet,
depositing my prints in crooked chains
along the street.
In the day’s light that shines short                                                                                               
and then is gone,
I recall the heats of summer,
stifling in the games I never won.
Analogies of winter soothe, I know.
The wounds of seasons past are
drained and dry dead brambles

under dense and heavy snow.


 

I will be winter’s queen.
I’ll remember snows I’ve seen.
Etchings on the wind-blown white.
Frosted ice-face after night.

 

On snow the moon’s light glides and grows,
birds stand bright, and bravely.
Sun rejoices into blindness:
winter wants to save me.

 

I will be winter’s queen:
snowdrift singing deep and clean;
wade the waves of crystal rain;
wander wonder once again.

 
 
I practice ice, I reach for chill,
the cold, blank face of power;
waiting for the sun to face me
in an honest hour.

 

Well, in my teenage years, there was still the future spreading out in front like unseeable acres of possibility, and it was easy, then, to believe the wounds could be bandaged in white gauze and never raise their voices again. But later, in the thirties and forties and onward, when the future was growing steadily smaller and wounds were piling on top of wounds like snowstorms, resiliency dwindled and post-traumatic stress disorder swelled. And as to the song… today, and many times before today, I’ve had grim occasion to realize that then, in the 1990’s, I didn’t practice ice nearly enough, I didn’t reach nearly enough for chill; I didn’t succeed in freezing out human beings from my life. Not then, not ever. And in my case, with my particular make-up and my particular self, freezing them out was the only thing, lacking money, that would have protected me from much of their venom.

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read…   All my stars…    Mugsy’s book

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2012 byanne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

the tintinnabulation of the bells

Page One hundred thirteen

thursday 16 december 2010…     turnered

 
Two things I once loved:  Poe’s poem The Bells; and the Ukrainian Carol of the Bells                         
Another thing I loved:  bells
And a fourth:  my lovebird Tuuschi
 
We listened every holiday season to Poe’s poem set to various melodies by various musicians. We listened to various choirs singing the Ukrainian carol. We listened, and I sang, and Tuushi, along with the other birds, chirped away.
 
When I was a little girl, back in the stone age, every year at Christmastime, Ed Sullivan would have bell-ringers on his show. Musical handbells. I was enchanted by these bells, how each one was a different note, how co-ordinated with each other the ringers had to be, etc. But after the Sullivan show was gone, the only time I ever heard handbells again was a rare performance on Public Radio at the holidays.
 
So there we are in 2007, my animals and I. Catalogs are coming in the mail, it is the fall, Shirley Temple is my new case manager at the DMH, and I believe in her (oh fool). I have already bought the harp and the tin whistle from these catalogs, and then I buy something I’m not even sure what to call: eight pipes lying on a wooden rack, tuned pentatonically, and you play them with mallets. I buy it. But right before that one, there are the BELLS. Eight bells, one octave, each in a horrendously bright color, meant as a children’s toy. But they are the only damned handbells I’ve seen since I was a kid, so I buy them. “The jingling and the tinkling of the bells…”
 
Why was I buying all these instruments? Because another thing I loved was fooling around with instruments, even though I don’t play well. And because, when Shirley Temple found us a place to go, I would have fun with these things, and with at least SOME of my animals. And because, if Shirley failed (which I didn’t really believe in), I would play some music for my animals before we were destroyed.
 
You can’t play much on one octave with no sharps and flats, but I mastered Joy to the World, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (music by Mozart), and a couple of other things on the bells.
 
Tuuschi, the effervescent, crippled-from-birth lovebird, had a copper bell of his own in his cage. And when the handbells arrived and were played, he decided that these were quite the thing, and, as animals often do, he made up a game and taught it to me. He started ringing his own bell every time I STOPPED playing mine. After a few times of this, I said: What do you want? Another bell? So I went and got a bell, rang it in front of his cage, saying: this is an A, and it’s turquoise.
 
Every single day he had to have a bell. He would ring his little copper one incessantly until I brought him a colored bell. I always told him the note and the color, and he would gaze at those bells with sheer rapture on his face, not moving a muscle until I stopped ringing.
 
Another thing that often happens:  you have your OWN reason for doing something, but after you’ve done it, a different, more meaningful reason appears that you didn’t even know about. I didn’t buy those bells for ME. I bought them for Tuuschi. And we never had a Christmas again. Hell, we never even had another St. Patrick’s day. Valentine’s Day 2008 was the last holiday we ever had.
 
How did Tuuschi end after he was stolen from me? I was told that the unholy priest adopted him out to someone here in town, but I was never told to whom, and I was never allowed to visit him, and I’ve never been told when and where he died. May the ocean’s dogs devour them all: Shirley Temple, the unholy priest, the adopters, and everyone in town who knows about my bird and will not tell me. Christians all. Damnable, lying, sneaking followers of christ.
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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

another christmas carol

Page One hundred twelve
monday 6 dec 2010…   turners tightfists                                                                               

 

It’s very early; not yet 5:30 a.m. I’m listening to one of the Public Radio shows that my animals and I listened to for years. It goes on for two hours: I won’t be able to stand it that long without them. I never can.

This is the wandering blog, the one I’ve singled out for that concept.  And yet wandering, of the body and of the heart and of the memory, is there in every blog I’ve made since April of 2008. Haunting – ghostish, wraithy – came up new this year in this blog.  Haunting is what I very often do, and haunted is what I mostly am. The ghost of Christmases past, and only the past, because that is the only temporal place where my own life now lives. Where fourteen stolen, executed friends now wait for me, who waited for me for years and more years, every time I went out the door. No words describe better who I am since the day I saw them for the last time than ghost, wanderer, haunted.

Today is the sixth day that I’ll wander these streets in search of our Christmases in this poisonous town. Twenty-two of them. I’ll listen to journal cassettes of a very few of those Decembers. I’ll try to feel us. Sometimes it happens, sometimes not. This is the only deep and real thing now when Solstice and Yule appear on the calendar again: to feel us. Gifts are bought and wrapped for two human beings, only two. Gifts are bought for the guinea pig princess. A few decorations exist, but no tree. No more trees. No more the daily playing of the season’s music, which for us was a daffy, elcectic stew of baroque and renaissance and folk and classical and all the old standards. Silent Night in how many languages? Oíche chiúin.

Will I ever fry bacon again? So far I can’t. In 1999 I started a new yearly tradition of bacon on Christmas morning. Bacon for me and for cats and for dogs. We lived at 59 L Street then, Nookie’s insane asylum for drunks and druggies, he himself having been a member of that sterling club. Will I ever listen on the 24th and 25th to The Nine Lessons and Carols, sung by boys in England? So far I haven’t. Those nine stolen, lethally injected cats will never bat ornaments off the tree again and roll them under the furniture. Those three stolen birds will never chirp at the top of their little voices to their own particular favorites in our Yuletide musical canon. The stolen dogs, those two who remained, one half of what had been my pack, will never drool over the bacon and beef and lamb and turkey and pork again, or have their Christmas walks with me again, or lie down beside me for the Christmas day nap. So I wander around past the places we once lived and the places we once walked and wait to feel us, a ghost and an exile who can never step into those yards again, walk through those doors and take a look at those rooms we shared again. Barred, and barren, and a baleful little wraith.

Oíche chiúin. Yes, the nights are silent. Christmas Eve and Christmas night and Solstice, and all the nights of the year. There is an ocean of silence, a jabbing abyss of absent sounds that were part of my nights for fifty-five years: snoring dogs and breathing cats and nocturnal trips to the food dishes or the water bowls. A bird suddenly waking up and speaking in the dark. And breath, breath, breath: beside me, above me, around me: my friends, my children, breathing and sleeping in innocent peace. There is a huge chasm, a great ghostly vacuum. There is, having been brought about by the viciousness of unholy christian human beings, an endless string of lonely and grieving and murderous silent nights.

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read…    Being toward death…    Stolen stars

~~~~  website ~~~~~   Share ~~~~~~~~~~

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.