Ain't Google nifty?

"Changing Places in the Fire"

The wind in the trees

arrives all night at a word.

And the man who can’t sleep

and the man who can’t wake up

are the same man.

A memory of the ocean

torments the trees, a homesickness.

And the man who watches shadows of windblown leaves

and branches on the curtains,

the man who believes

a single page of the falling leaves restored

may be carried back to the living,

can’t tell God’s blind hand from God’s seeing hand.

The wind, stranded in the branches,

like a memory of fire

tells the oldest stories of Death

disguised as a traveller, or overlooked familiar,

friend we shunned for less

faithful playmates.

And the man who’s afraid of the dark

and the man who loves the dark

are the same man.

A man who’s afraid to die,

he would piece the tree back together,

each part numbered and labelled:

branch, leaf, breath, cry, glance.

A man who’s afraid to live,

he thinks to himself: Postpone all morning bells.

The ore lies awake inside the rock, a dream

of origin pealing.

The bread that rises in a house that fails,

a man weeping.

The happy grain who elects the oven,

a man laughing.

And it isn’t until the wind pauses

that he thinks he knows what it says.

It isn’t until the man dismantles

wind, trees, listening, does he know

there is wind, there are trees, and no listening

but a dream of listening, a dream

with infinite moving parts,

hems, pleats, train cars, recurring stairs,

an imperfect past, a rumoured present,

figures multiplied inside a mirror.

It isn’t until he begins to wish

to sing

the whole flower

of his breathing, does he recognise

himself, a blossom mortally wounded on the stem.

—      Li-Young Lee (Behind My Eyes, 2008)

Bookshelfie

This is me being Internet trendy.  The bookshelf belongs to the library of a certain think-tank.

Library picks

Clockwise, from the left:  Flying Home and Other Stories, Ralph Ellison (1996); What Is Found There: Notebooks on Poetry and Politcs, Adrienne Rich (1993); The Jazz Poetry Anthology (1991); Coming Through Slaughter, Michael Ondaatje (1976); Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro (2005)

Currently reading...

The Book Thief, Markus Zusak (2005)

"When she came to write her story, she would wonder exactly when the books and the words started not just to mean something, but everything."

Last night, whilst

Last night, whilst casually reading:

I happened across the passage of the .jpg excerpt I've had stored on my phone for ages:

I think I must have Google-searched quotations and phrases from the story after I had seen the film some years ago.  Generally, I prefer to read the book first.  However, when I happened upon the movie I hadn't known it was based on a novel (Ishiguro 2005).  A good forty-five minutes into the film and I instinctively knew that the picture was too good to not have literary origins.  Google confirmed my suspicions and the rest, as they say, is history.

Freewrite throwback

How big is my brave: Deciduous

Link: A Poem

ITCH Magazine: A Journal of Creative Expression (Issue #12 Taboos) published another one of my poems.

A leap of honesty

Link: A Letter

The incredible lightness of self-preservation...

It's like yoga for your sanity.