I Am Waiting

 I Am Waiting

I am waiting,

patiently,

for someone to pen

a prelude

to ’The Prelude’

I struggle in my bed,

wondering,

will there ever be a sequel

to ‘La Chanson de Roland’?

‘Metamorphoses’?

‘Beowulf’?

No!

the time of

dream and myth

has outrun us.

I can’t even sense

a song in the sod

for another

‘Leaves of Grass’.

But, like Ferlinghetti,

I will wait,

patiently,

foolishly,

for a rebirth of wonder.

Thorn from the Stone

Thorn from the stone

Some years ago, when wolves ran wild and curdled the air with their ghostly howls, our garden was in a much wilder state and the occasional appearance of an elf, dryad, or mountain oread was not particularly rare. Only when they would suddenly dance out from the deep shade of a weeping Birch or willow did they elicit much of a surprize. Unicorns were much less common, and when one of those elegant, noble beasts wandered into our ken we would pause our activities and use the moment as an excuse to pour another glass of mead, or, in the middle of summer, a lighter ambrosial liquid. By remaining silent, motionless, and emulating the pose and posture of any of several Greek Gods they would pass among us without trepidation or apprehension. Then, one day, several years ago, a particularly large unicorn snorted and pawed its way down a newly created pathway we had hacked through the heart of a very old grove of willows. We were transfixed, mesmerized, for on the back of this uncommon animal sat what looked like Antonius Block! I kept my head and my gaze to the ground; tried to bury my sanity in the larch bark mulch I had been spreading around the Meconopsis. I thought I might be dreaming, or had imbibed a glass too many of Cabernet. But when I forced myself to look up he was still there, sipping something from a horn-like vessel. Several moments passed. I feel, now, we were both attempting to find an avenue or boulevard of communication.

But, I’ve gone on too long, let me move quickly to the crux of the issue. Laughing like a happy banshee this unicorn mounted apparition took his double-edged basket-hilted sword and thrust in into a granite boulder beside the path. And, laughing hysterically he rode off proclaiming: only one with a pure heart will ever be able to remove the thorn from the stone.

Many have tried; the blade remains, though not basket hilted.

A Devastation of Hawks, not an Exaltation of Larks

A Devastation of Hawks, not an Exaltation of Larks

We live in the country so hawks are not a particular rarity, and this year we have two nesting pairs of Red-tailed Hawks (Buteo jamaicensis) raising their young in our Douglas firs. At first they were a curiosity, even though their aggressive behavior occasionally became alarming, even threatening. More than once I’ve ducked my head in reaction to a low-flying, noisy pass over. If you have never seen a hawk up close and personal you probably have little idea of the size of their talons, or their raptor beak. Their vocalization also leaves much to be desired. Their communication is harsh, shrill, there is nothing melodic or pleasant about it.

A few days ago, talking to my neighbors, we realized that a great change had taken place over the past couple of months. Virtually all other birds the area were absent. Most of the year I am awakened, just before sunrise, by a chorus of birdsongs. It’s a musical moment comprised of several different voices though I admit I cannot name the species by their call. Their chatter usually lasted the better part of an hour and then slowly faded away. I imagine them flying off to work for the day, collecting seeds, insects, nesting material etc. Seems we can now look forward to a ‘Silent Spring’, ’Silent Summer’ etc. and I can’t blame the unnatural hush on DDT.

We have a lot of raspberries and normally resign ourselves to loosing a small percentage of the harvest to birds - but not this year. I have not seen a bird anywhere near the heavily laden canes. And the bird feeder has become a delicatessen for the occasional squirrel. Humingbirds, which normally take two hands to count, are now a rare occurrence, even around the red, tubular flowers of various Penstemon such as barbatus, cardinalis, eatonii. In previous years, while weeding or deadheading the pentstemons, I’ve had Rufous or Anna’s Humingbirds hoover within two feet of my face while we each go about our business. This year they are almost as rare as hens’ teeth.

And, to add insult to injury, our population of gophers, moles, voles, shrews and other garden marauders seem unfazed by the presence of a few hawks (lost two cantaloupe vines to gophers overnight yesterday, and bush beans the night before.)

So, is the presence of the red-tailed Hawks a positive thing? For me an emphatic NO. I enjoyed their occasional presence in the past much more, just like some people.

Paul Bowles - The Garden

The Doors of Reflection

The Doors of Reflection

or

Bonsai, as a possible indicator of a persons conceived, pre-conceived, or ill-conceived perceptions.

After too many knee-bruising, back-straining hours in the garden I eventually forced my body to the back porch where I shed my tool belt and opened a fresh bottle of cabernet. I sat down, weary beyond belief. Perhaps I really am approaching eighty.

But, unable to sit and relax for more than twenty-four seconds (I’ve timed it, several times) I decided to trim/clean/evaluate the few bonsai plants I still have. (I lost most of them a few years ago in an unpredictable, unseasonal freeze and vowed never to stroll that path again.) But, habits, good or bad, don’t fade easily.

So, what about the bonsai plants, and the doors of reflection?

As I sat, nipping a branch here; pinching a leaf tip there, my thoughts drifted to something I have thought about for many years. Not compulsively of course, but just one of the occasional random thought that worm their way, uninvited, into ones consciousness at odd moments when the world has nothing better to offer.

I’m not an artist, but have, over my lifetime, sketched a number of ‘portraits’ of friends and personal heroes. For the most part they eventually resembled no one I would recognize. All became generic characters despite my effort. But, that is irrelevant. The thing I did notice about all of them was that I drew them either face-on, or with their heads facing to the left. Not one among them ever faced to the right,

Why? I questioned. Is it the result of being right handed? Do left-handed artists sketch, paint, render their human, or animal subjects facing right? Or is it purely happenstance?

Or, is my conception pre-conceived, ill-conceived? Perhaps there is no pattern to be determined. All is arbitrary.

When I find a morsel  of undigested time I might go through my art library, especially the various auction catalogues which condense a lot of art over the centuries into a manageable form, and see, as regards portraits, which profile is most common.

Then, as a follow up, try to determine which artists were considered left or right handed and compare the results.

All my bonsai plants are pruned with a left leaning inclination.

Off to look at catalogues.