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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