:: :: :: :: terrible dragon: slaying the world one poem at a time :: :: :: ::
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
The scripture of their dark raptures
Crow on the fence, rain will go hence. Crow on the ground, rain will come down. ~Anonymous
What Crows Know
They recite the names of storms yet to be borne. Kinfolk of sky, they read spaces between clouds and summon the scripture of their dark raptures. Threshwater, Oblivionyx, Negridamien, Blackanthra.
By croak and hiccough come wingless wind and runted rain. The underbellow subtext simmers amphibious before the dying of the day, throttles what seeks shadow and margin yet untaken.
Huddled on a branch of bent song, they conspire to congress, sip obsidian nepenthe, distribute the baubled spoils of a twilight strewn glimmering across the new fainted weave of evening, corvus corax notwithstanding.
This they know too well. The slow descent of colorlessness, of things bereft of what makes them what they are when the night retreats and the sun has its way with all that would dare pass brazenly beneath it.
Ravenlore and magpie are known to them. Starling and stealthward feline that would navigate by a wheel of spilled light above them when the moon is late and Polaris is impaled to the evernether of the cricketed abyss beyond.
And they know you. Do not think that while at your window they disregard such offered pause. They know as you do what business you are about and settle for your suspensions while they in turn study the angle of your gaze from theirs.
Give them this. They will leave gifts of cobbled corncob, plastic hairpins, cat’s eye marble, and the necessary tools of their small tinkerings. They will astonish you with their cleverness. What crows know, you may never claim.
For as they know the names of storms yet unvisited, they know also the secret names of God. They were there when the divisions were made. They were witness to all that did and did not happen. And they know precisely with whom to take up all of that with.
What has been taken from them, they will not reacquire. What they have taken, they will not return. What crows know so the children of tantrummed skies know as well. This is their understanding. Be forewarned. None of this has anything to do with you.
Summer and the sun assists the sky in retrieving everything it ever gave across the passing of two seasons. Mountains lose their wisdom and what distinguished them above all other geocracies in what the sky conferred through hope and hard weather, granted for their suffering in standing so close to such reckless blessings of high oblivion.
Snow is lost at last and only those summits whose torments are eternal are allowed to keep their ascended mantels. It is the way of risen things. Now comes the scourges and sorrows of living without water, arid striations seen millennia away, footless impasses that warn the wary traveler to seek flatter spheres of wander.
We will hold these hoarless ranges to the fury of our gaze, keep vigil in remembrance of what we left to the tracks we lost when quest mattered to the motion of our moving bones, before the sun sipped them all up through the sore straws of our muscles, when fire held the driftless gospels of our deepest believing. Some of us never come back. We know this.
We know also that some of us never go. Whether forth into realms made brittle by the very marrow of our fear, or down into dreaded glaciations that would seek to make chalices of our sacrificed breath. In this manner does ice carve caverns within us all. This might be confused as shelter or faith, a womb in the rock that would nourish within us something too easily taken by sun, sky, season, snow.
wisdom is worth all we lose to attain it. ~aucassin verdé
i wonder if the artist ever lives his life-—he is so busy recreating it. only as i write do i realize myself. i don't know what that does to life. ~anne sexton
you must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. in my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: the stupid and the envious. the stupid will like you in five years time. the envious, never.~john wilmot, 2nd earl of rochester
art arises when the secret vision of the artist and the manifestation of nature agree to find new shapes. ~kahlil gibran
creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. art is knowing which ones to keep. ~scott adams
those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either. ~golda meir
i said to my soul, be still,
and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope
for the wrong thing.
wait without love,
for love would be love
of the wrong thing.
there is yet faith;
but the faith and the love
and the hope are all
in the waiting.
wait without thought,
for you are not ready for thought.
so the darkness shall be the light,
and the stillness the dancing.