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    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    did you mark your time by sun or by the age of radiationef.

    ...Created 2012-04-08 03:53:55

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    From the Barada river to the Citadelle, walking through Damascus.

    The Barada takes a yearning,
    these Ghoutan plains are quiet,

    growing, the yawn of sand and
    why we wait, here,

    in the shaken murmurs of grass
    as shrikes lift like

    hearts above the City.
    She said:

    'I had a bird garden. I was a bird gardener.'

    We never knew
    what to think.

    By Damascus the rain sets in,
    deep as the sky --

    a wall is stone and the mark,
    Saul the Wandered.

    'We fell to the ground. We heard the light.
    We were the anointed.'

    Yes, Lord, and how it waits,
    between seven old walls and one new. Within a split

    for an arrow as straight as the street,
    as straight as His Words fallen upon me.

    am I
    the Gorge Lord

    am I
    Holy Lord

    am I
    Grace Lord

    am I
    the Rabwe

    No, there is no grace,

    shrikes lifting and the
    depths of blood.

    I heard her say; 'Al Sham'

    and like light from above
    a bell tolled.

    The Barada courses
    as You do in me, Lord;

    as You do in me.
    I saw them pray on

    their knees and ask
    'Make me the Oasis.

    Make me the Oasis.'

    Is this life, Lord,

    this thing I heard
    them call


    ...Created 2011-12-24 04:55:57

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    ...Created 2011-12-18 10:28:41

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    ...Created 2011-12-18 10:26:03

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    ...Created 2011-12-18 10:22:44

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    Meditations at Lagunitas
    Robert Hass

    All the new thinking is about loss.
    In this it resembles all the old thinking.
    The idea, for example, that each particular erases
    the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
    faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
    of that black birch is, by his presence,
    some tragic falling off from a first world
    of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
    because there is in this world no one thing
    to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
    a word is elegy to what it signifies.
    We talked about it late last night and in the voice
    of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
    almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
    talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
    pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
    I made love to and I remembered how, holding
    her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
    I felt a violent wonder at her presence
    like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
    with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
    muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
    called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
    Longing, we say, because desire is full
    of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
    But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
    the thing her father said that hurt her, what
    she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
    as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
    Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
    saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.

    ...Created 2011-12-18 06:37:30

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    untitled: thoughts in the morning

    i. usual deep rustle of morning & neighbours-upstairs who tap-tap across boards
    & laugh mellow to sun. day bright, cloud-clear &

    white as the way skin
    falls to water.



    say sin as though the word forgot itself one hundred
    years ago but does still speak of

    a sky stretched like the tundra swan over dawn. agape
    and fierce [this is the love we all hold in our ribcages, misplaced
    as the iii. arctic fox come summer,

    his fur heat-stripped to long, rust-brown, thinly-
    sparse hairs].

    & snow.

    iv. i was watching snow shift under
    paw as the fox-pup slipped
    through green

    into bird-claw
    and up up


    up screech-screeching his mama [silenced]. v.
    so we try.


    and white bears big as walruses. hunger. outside birds

    like robins nestled in roof and a winter cry.
    flip-flipping wing, grasses murmuring, upstairs the tread
    and laugh.

    Poland is above my living room. i hear them through
    nights with a voice which means

    home, home [we have never felt
    so much like a polar bear taking to sea

    as now].

    vii. it is the polski swing of speech and the spanish woman burbling
    into her phone out the window all day

    as the robins crackle on tile [erithacus rubecula].

    tundra swan moving over ice-thick sea, plumage chilled
    white as white as white



    ...Created 2011-11-05 03:26:20

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    Untitled 15.

    say heron and the sky is full of them


    ...Created 2011-10-04 04:57:05

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    Orkney / This Life
    Andrew Greig

    It is big sky and its changes,
    the sea all round and the waters within.
    It is the way sea and sky
    work off each other constantly,
    like people meeting in Alfred Street,
    each face coming away with a hint
    of the other's face pressed in it.
    It is the way a week-long gale
    ends and folk emerge to hear
    a single bird cry way high up.

    It is the way you lean to me
    and the way I lean to you, as if
    we are each other's prevailing;
    how we connect along our shores,
    the way we are tidal islands
    joined for hours then inaccessible,
    I'll go for that, and smile when I
    pick sand off myself in the shower.
    The way I am an inland loch to you
    when a clatter of white whoops and rises...

    It is the way Scotland looks to the South,
    the way we enter friends' houses
    to leave what we came with, or flick
    the kettle's switch and wait.
    This is where I want to live,
    close to where the heart gives out,
    ruined, perfected, an empty arch against the sky
    where birds fly through instead of prayers
    while in Hoy Sound the fern's engines thrum
    this life this life this life

    ...Created 2011-09-10 07:52:33

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual


    White lavender fallen under rain.

    ...Created 2011-09-10 05:48:16

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.




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