soulcraft

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for ages I’ve wanted to put this poem on one of my blogs, but can’t rightly recall at this moment whether I’ve actually done so. at the risk of duplication, I’ll put it here now.  this excerpt of a longer poem is remarkable to me simply for what it is, what it says and the way it says it. but it’s all the more remarkable for having been written by a ten-year-old, long ago in 1922.

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I shall be coming back to you
From seas, rivers, sunny meadows,
       glens that hold secrets:
I shall come back with my hands full
Of light and flowers…
I shall bring back things I have picked up,
Traveling this road or the other,
Things found by the sea or in the pinewood.
There will be a pine-cone in my pocket,
Grains of pink sand between my fingers.
I shall tell you of a golden pheasant’s
       feather…
Will you know me?
 
______________________________

from I Shall Come Back by hilda conkling

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read…   scealta liatha…     shadowpoems

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2013 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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the properties of soil

satyrday 12 march 2011….   turners pervs

and a greenfield satyr as well, yesterday… we know him as Matthew.                                       

just meandering again. it’s almost the ides. but I and mine were wasted before the fifteenth, so what are the ides to me.

am in, as periodically happens, an intensification of the chronic, monopolar depression. haven’t felt like doing much new writing, and so what. there’s plenty of old writing to organize. haven’t felt like doing much of anything.

am on Twitter, since last summer, and have very mixed feelings about the whole thing. some of my followers are engaging, both their tweets and their interests. some are much less so. I now have some foreigners in my mix: germans and dutch and aussies and turks and greeks. this makes me feel a little teensy bit like a less ugly amerikan. some animal people and autism people and atheist people and science and book people are among my little group. I have a doctor, and a dentist, and a veterinarian. some come from the lunatic fringe to follow me, and I block them. haven’t I had enough lunatics destroying everything that mattered to me? don’t misapprehend: compared to just about everyone else on Twitter, I have almost no followers, and follow almost none. but even the small number I have is beginning to be hard to manage. because I’m a weirdo who actually likes to read the tweets of most of my followers, and perhaps retweet or reply to them. and you really need to keep your gang manageable if you want to do that.

today there was a tweet from one of my autism people, called Andrea. she put up a quote I’d never seen before, and it is absolute truth, and I wanted to have it somewhere on my website:

 

                 People are like dirt. They can either nourish you
                 and help you grow, or they can stunt your growth
                 and make you wilt and die.
                                                                              ~~~  plato

 

as if it weren’t already abundantly clear, many of the humans of my years decided to stunt and wilt and kill me, rather than nourish. I’ve always liked Plato.

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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.

 

 

Goblin days

Page One hundred eight

Thursday 28 October 2010       tesseracts in Turners

Oh long ago, somewhere in the mists of primeval something, I gave birth on Sunday 28 October 1979 to a female infant. The only such creature I’ve ever produced. I did not give birth without a whole sideshow of western medical assistance, I’m sorry to say, and even that circus nearly failed to do its job correctly. Enough to say in this spot that I don’t have particularly joyful memories of this birth.

So let’s go to later, which is my focus in this post. Later meaning one year later, and the four years that followed that one. Because this child had a birthday so close to Halloween, I, the Halloween-loving mother, couldn’t resist making the yearly birthday party a Halloween party too. I had felt in my life the lack of festive enough birthday parties. In saying this I don’t mean to paint my own mother as a shirker. She had three kids with three birthdays every year, and she was a person who was not terribly domestic in some things. We had small parties with a few kids, some pin the tail on the donkey and drop the clothespins into the milk bottle, cake and ice cream, and that’s enough. They weren’t horrible parties, by any means, but something particular in Asperger’s-creative-sensitive me had always felt let down somehow, felt that birthday parties should be a bigger deal.

                                                                    

So what did I do for my little one’s parties? I went berserk, of course. I was poor and couldn’t hire clowns and jugglers and storytellers, but I made the biggest frigging bash I could with the little bit of money I had, and with help from relatives and parents of little guests.

I’d start in September, or even late August, buying things. Napkins, tablecloth, candy bags, plates and cups all matching, all in the same Halloween theme. Then balloons. And party favors. And ingredients for the treats to be made. And candy. And sewing the costume for a couple of years. Guest list. Halloweeny invitations.

The guest list was always a long one: relatives, neighbors, and others whom we knew out in the world. Thirty, forty people always, because most of the adults stayed for the party. I meant it that way, as a family party. Almost every adult would bring something to add to the food supply. These events went on for three, four, five hours before the last guest departed. It was a feeding frenzy that seemed to be appreciated by all. There were no planned games: after the gift opening and cake and ice cream, the kids were turned out into the yard to run around, play on the swings and big wheels and whatever, and then my father would hitch his large barrow to his riding mower and give all the kids “tractor rides” around the neighborhood. There was much picture-taking, much shrieking and laughter, great costumes, a little crying, and lots of sugar-highs. All kids went home with little Halloween bags full of more sugar.

When each of these five parties for the first five birthdays was over, I was exhausted and sick and broke. But satisfied, in a way that’s hard to describe. Satisfied that there was plenty of food and plenty of balloons and plenty of play and plenty of presents. Satisfied that I’d extended myself to make my kid’s birthday a very special bash of a day. Satisfied that, though I was a single mother and had little money, my parents and I together could make a big event of this fatherless child’s birthday.

Last year the fatherless child’s father, who denied being her father till the day he died, committed suicide. His parents had recently died as well, and now my daughter, this child who never got one hug or one present or one kind word from her father, will inherit a hefty check from her father’s family’s assets. Once in a very great while, what goes around comes around. She’ll have something from her father at last, something that will help her out in her life. Something I never had the finances to give: a big check. And she got the phone call informing her of all this from his family’s lawyer on October 14 last year, two weeks before her birthday. All unknowing, her father at last gave her a birthday present.

And the parties? If we had continued to live there with my parents, I’d have gone on giving those Halloween bashes until child said she wanted something different. Nevermind exhaustion and sickness and expense. There weren’t too many times in the year when I could do something really shining like that. And I find that as the years have passed, every October I think of those parties and miss them. Miss the time when I could make a shining day for my kid. Miss the costumes and tractor rides and happy shrieking. Miss my father. Miss his house.

She’s 31 today, and I have less money than ever, can’t spend on the birthday the way I did in those days. I console myself with the memory of the five big bashes long ago in the temporal, autumnal mists.

(part of the book Being Toward Death)

~~~~~~~~~~~  website ~~~~~~~~~~~~                                                                            

Frohen Geburtstag

 

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 (poem and crow from greeting card; doll at www.signals.com)

 

embers

Page Ninety-eight

Wednesday 8 September 2010                 

Turners degrades

They’re here again, the embers. September, November, December. I burn.  ~~  A fellow burner from long ago wanders into mind. One whose colors seem to reach from the canvas to touch us:

                                        And when no hope was left inside
                                        on that starry, starry night,
                                        you took your life, as lovers often do.
                                        But I could have told you, Vincent,
                                        this world was never met for one
                                        as beautiful as you.

 

                                                    ~~  don mclean

So grossly undervalued while he lived, Vincent’s paintings are now counted among the world’s greatest treasures. Yet another diabolical example of:

           “… the uncanny grotesqueness of the irrational world of chance.”

                                                    ~~  carl jung

Peter Barriman, great singer and writer of contemporary folk songs, has put Jung’s statement in very different terms, but meaning the exact same thing:

                            Fate is king, and fate’s a putz.

 

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maybe think on it

Page Ninety-five

Wednesday 1 Sept 2010          Turners turns

“Everything in the unconscious seeks outward manifestation, and the personality too desires to evolve out of its unconscious conditions and to experience itself as a whole.”

                                                                            ~~  carl jung

 wisdom                              “Property is theft.”

                                                                           ~~  karl marx

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~~~~~~~  (yoda at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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adventure in the style of a recluse

Page Sixty-three

Tuesday 16 March 2010 Turners

Such are the kinds of adventures my animals and I would have together, or at times I would be alone…  Adventures on the quiet, that didn’t cost any money, that rarely involved other humans. Things most people take for granted, I guess. Snowflakes changing as they fell, from large as quarters to smaller than dimes… Pileated woodpeckers being in sight (and sound) the moment we stepped out the door… One day near the end of us, a whippoorwill right on the ground in the morning, making it’s unique call at an unbelievable volume. The only whippoorwill I have ever seen and heard in the flesh. Scores of such things were our adventures, and would send my soul soaring as high as if I’d won a million dollars. That’s no exaggeration. Things that most people either take for granted or don’t even notice at all have been, for years, the things that excite and exhilarate me the most. And most of all when some of my animals were with me at the time.

And poetry — to read it or to write it — is still extremely hard. But this tiny gem, again from Robert Frost, sounds me many echoes of our adventures.

       DUST OF SNOW

       The way a crow
       Shook down on me
       The dust of snow
       From a hemlock tree
       Has given my heart
       A change of mood
       And saved some part
        Of a day I had rued.

 

 click  this one to read more about adventure.

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 (s.shane crow at www.gaelsong.com)