All posts tagged: prose

cormorant, celestia.

diary 10/02/19: 1- cormorant. celestia. a neighbour’s budding magnolia. fuzz, tepal, whorl. waiting for april, all of them. or early may. well. i am too. petals falling to the pavement on a springtime day. i close the rusty garden gate. it swings shut behind me. 2- the steps to the beach are steep and mossy. approach cautiously. solsbro. seaway. 3- i’m the sort of person that sees signs everywhere. spirit, salt, sailor. a compass on the pavement. sacred, sacred, sacred, and why shouldn’t i believe in magic? 4- the Grand Hotel is grey and ghostly with its tearooms and towers and spiral staircases. disused, mostly. i’ve a fondness for near-forgotten, or faded places. there’s a rainbow over the railway bridge. stories untold. 5- i make it to the beach, and the wind is sweeping seaweed like it’s tumbling russian thistle and i’m watching waves crashing and exploring little rock-pools, i’m looking for crabs, sea glass, oyster shells too (a pearl or a chest or a leviathan or two) but there are three men, better prepared …

superluminal

01/27/19 the magazine i’ve been reading suggests that i choose between: option 1. cyclical chiral accretion, contraction, cohesion. option 2. entanglement, error-correcting code. option 3. i don’t suppose i could ever really know.   if my mother hadn’t had four children, she’s always said that she would’ve liked to have become an astronomer. my father’s guitars, my mother’s love of the stars, telescopes and cups of tea. and then, somewhere in the middle, there’s me.  kansas city’s auyon mukharji is singing silk and sticky spun sugar, clay and cast iron. a gale blows over, and then breaks, the birdfeeder, slams heavy wooden doors shut, lessens for a little while and then strengthens again. somewhat similarly, my thoughts go speeding. sunday morning superluminality, but i did have birthday cake for breakfast. victoria sponge, two iced and caffeinated coffees, clementine juice.

hyacinthine

approaching daybreak, and once again the snow that was falling has turned to rain and my hyacinth heart bursts from flower to flame, petals as blood, it is always the same.       i’ve been reading about cladonia cristatella, and white-striped parasol scilla. in less than a month, i am going to be 28. i’ll either take myself to paris on a train, or else i’ll drive to see hopefully thousands of snowdrops, again, there’s a special walk you can do around the gardens of a grand old house near to where my father’s studio used to be, they’ve dozens and dozens of different breeds. things that don’t help me fall asleep: the silmarillion, valerian tea, worrying.

preston sands

it’s rather a windy mid-january day, and i am in torbay, wandering about the rolling cliffside gardens of a fading 19th century mansion. celandine, winter heliotrope, snowdrops, snapdragon, there are several wooden benches too, for sitting down and admiring the view, and there’s a particularly ornate, but switched off, water fountain, weather-worn ancient sea gods and sirens, still proud, but paint peeling. there’s even a crocus or two, though they’re not yet in full bloom. all about me, dew drops are clinging to every blade, and over the ocean, clouds and sunbeams alternate, shadows stretching and contracting. the sunlight fades, illuminates, and fades again, and on the horizon, there’s the distant, but eventual, promise of rain. i find my way to paignton’s preston sands, where stephanie tells me that each seventh wave is the strongest. there are strandline seashells of every sort, washed up onto shore. whelk, whorled, silver striped and slipper limpets, all caught in the rippling ribbons and ridges of shale and shingle saltation, sea-polished cobble and perfectly spherical pebbles aplenty.  a black …

coral and pearl / 2019

trembling girl, cut from coral and pearl delicate, like harp strings, and hummingbirds or the first winter snowdrops, pale petals unfurled how determined they rise from the frost-covered earth. you have made yourself home, out of canyon and cove you have crowned yourself queen, in california gold time tosses, like blossoms, us each to its fragrant wind but you’re wrapped in a light that can never be dimmed.     *     new years eve, torquay. there are three flowers on the table. two white freesias, silk-petalled and splashed gold, scented citrus-sweet, and there’s a single nerine, too, or guernsey lily, the place they first grew originally. named after the nereids, the sea nymphs that would protect sailors and their ships, in the language of flowers, nerines represent vulnerability. freesias, trust. each bloom or bud sits in its very own ginger beer bottle, labels half peeled off. fever tree, iron & wine’s fever dream spinning about in my head. an almost astonishingly pretty girl/goddess, in a pale grey lace dress, is sitting by the …

december diaries

* december 24th. it’s christmas eve, finally. there are silver star sequins, chestnut peelings, all over the floor, the turkey is swimming in a bath with star anise, the children are adorable, extremely excited, but sleeping now, and i’m trying to decide whether the word synodic is acceptable for use in a song. probably not, but i’ve tuned the top two strings of my guitar down a touch, and it’s as if an entirely new world has opened up, E A D G A D. these december days, so far, have been soft-focused in fog, muted by mist, there’s been frustratingly little frost this month, and no snow, but most mornings are silver soft, raindrops, pared back beauty, slow and sleepy. and, i’ve been feeling as if i’ve love spilling out of me, more even than usual, more than i know what to do with, and that touches everything, life-affirming, but in a delicate way. i think i’m too much of a romantic. i’ll have to work on this.  * i hardly sleep, and when i do, more often than not, i find my way, eventually, to a silver tossing sea. sometimes, it swallows me. once …

aureate

opalescent glass bead raindrops shatter as they hit the surface of the water, mirror still, aureate, as autumn’s chill spills over this seaside town all sheets of gold between slate cloud what is it that you think you’ve found? the sun sets down his radiant crown.

dust ladders.

touch deep time. this desert night is silver-tinged, and silent. you climb dust ladders into the light and i am early morning freeway speeding, west through the mojave. just a beaming string of refulgent headlights piercing two inky infinities. we are all suspended somewhere in-between.