Humble, first shoots, and maybe a thought about resurrecting that which is seemingly dead. The prairie has been of this habit since the days of the glaciers, humans a bit more to this moment. To set aside the gloom, the chill, the colorless for a consideration of simple wonder is appropriate.
Wind, or any fluid, is seasonally apt to mostly come from the same direction, what was upwind blows down into disheveled recirculated patterns, whirlpools, eddies; vaguely recognizable piles and levees. Recognizable, that is, to repeat observers of small areas where gravity has interceded, downwind from an obstruction, settled in morning frost.
Refugee leaves lie in slightly altered re-compositions, remixed in the eddies that settle on the lee-side of trees and buildings; among them bits of commercial wrappers, colorful leavings of human habits.
Maybe frustration and annoyance at the abundance of political “discourse” in the tent has the anarchists outside in a disruptive mood. The winds have delivered from distant unraked acres forests, woodlands, unplowed stalks broken by ice and snow the gifts of the wind … leaves. Maybe to be kicked (with foolish but optimistic grace?) into new configurations. Incorporated piles of shredded leaves, brown, dusty bits of oaks and corn, (once verdant green, luxurious golds, and red-browns) now lifeless pales; momentary objects of a reflexive emotive’s frustrated attentions.
In the scattering, the re-coalescing and repeated gatherings the dried leaves will always abide by the winds and return to what they always have done, and probably always will do. Even into that – the artistics kick.
It’s March, moody, mumbling, left-over darkness; March, not really prairie winter, but a surly disheveled February without the layer of usable often beautiful snow.
It is the month for a crotchety wind god.
There are days (measured better by hours than days) when a bit of warmth blows out of the south and the remembrance of Spring and roses and a whiff of delicate green breath pauses our glum-poets chill. That best might come (probably will come, but when oh when).
Ah, let hope bring a once vanquished wind goddess to momentarily step forward spreading charmed exhalation upon the leadened gloom.
Artists, this time of year, sit in garrets (if they can find one) or, more commonly, off in some corner table considering the splotched patterns of spilled coffee as the wind blows against the wall, just inches away .
It is March, the glum, gloom, precursor to Spring The Delightful and the most appropriate time for the poetic imagination (unfortunately often in the most prosaic pathetic pseudo-journalistic rant form).
Behind the cages of curled-up circus animals here at the tent and slightly upwind into the corners; the wail of the wind, grey of the sky, and general earthiness has encouraged poetic rants from those emotives who have wintered-over here.
While the jesters play with their jester’s sticks, taunting the winds and the windy-wise ones there are voices coming from the corners. “But, I didn’t…(followed by indecipherable words) came several times. “But, I didn’t…”. But, I didn’t…” (“didn’t” what, or to what end is not clear).
You have probably heard many similar expressions, repetitive, loud, hammered with an unceasing mechanical rhythm; but these are presently unadorned by electronic amplification and overwhelmed by the prairie wind and animal snoring.
It might be some marvelous insight predicted by how the coffee got spilt.
And so it goes, artistic inspiration. Oh, and the answer to last weeks riddle from Yorick?
Another love poem from Yorick, in the form of a riddle.
The answer will be here next week, it concerns some utilitarian matter that Yorick finds worthy of a love poem.
Its’ that season … the hopes of an approaching wonderful spring bluntly contradicted by the hopeless austerity of what remains of winter. Among the emotives this leads to considerations of earthly oblivion and rewards of an afterlife, typically this is done in theatrical (if somewhat artless) pageantry. An audience climbing up or pushing down over bleachers; apparent steps to a private small prestigious heaven made to their liking, and a merciless shove aided by gravity, sending lessers to perdition. As if assigning folks for eternity is an audience participation event.
He and She are somewhat puzzled by the art historic character of the rush up and the push down. Souls, wandering timeless souls, still hankering and hanging around for some divine attention; or, preferably, gaining superiority over those who seem to have the receipt for the Divinity’s best earthly thoughts and prayers.
Oblivion is like a hired circus ride, ( you pay up front for the product, but…no expiration date ). Odiferous hell-fire and brimstone belch where emotives gather, slumping many into the expansive realm of hell. Meanwhile the incense of ethereal Elysian fields wafts in the tent top. Or so it seems.
There was a day, known to Yorick (when fleshed) when he partook in the separating weaknesses of souls on the hoof.
Now a well-aged jester, and verily, the stock of envy, malice, and vanity persists, ’tis the season of engaged absurdity.
Would an audience of emotives do… different things (considering oblivion); if they are pointed-out?
There are activities of the artistic kind taking place here in the old circus tent placed on the discarded farmlot housing our metaphorical reunion of real and fictional emotives but, due to the sparse snow and chill-wind, there is little evidence. Maybe a congress of of talkers: all that is external, save the weather, seems quiet.
One should think, or say, something about the experiences transpiring within. The tent is no city of sin and legend ( although some have come from those ) but, we can reasonably presume, a repository of anachronistic declamations await expounding; poetry rants in short spurts (maybe) extended now due to the weather.
Anarchists: lives lead as emotives opposed to the great corporate singularity, can be drawn together if only as an audience, briefly gathered in winter to hear … words.
Implying the dignity of poetry; some word sets (supposedly) lead to truth, but truth is hardened when touched by words (this is where error comes). Words become the marketable lies ( the dapper flinty costumes ) which clothe that which was bodily experienced as flexible and livable.
Some words are in fact not words, but deeds, apparently causing effects. Maybe that is what the audience in the tent would have, extortions. And so the image of words, a carefully mishappened repository of myriad thoughts floating in the lives of the emotives, fuels their deeds: as they would in any assembly of trivial affairs greatly exaggerated.
Last weeks riddle answer – cartoon bubbles – what else would you think? Don’t you love ’em.
They carry the snippy-snippet word load, the work of thoughts from olden days, the morning pulp-print news and funnies. The bargain discounts, news, and obituaries all yellowed into past-time; but thankfully the cartoon bubbles hold ponderings and blunt statements, new for your perusal. And occasionally a bit of real humor.
But they lack the graceful, lyrical, thought carriers of Yorick’s times – banderoles – glorious gold and silken word captures in Latin, Greek, and oligarchy French (never sniveling crude and vulgar jokes). But alas (“alas” is a wonderful word for exasperating times don’t you think [?] … alas), but alas, we can’t read or understand Latin, Greek, and Frenchy-fied words.
So maybe there were some unseemly lines, some dash-out bits of adolescent smart-aleck.
But now it is best, into the foreseeable future, to put the snideness in a cartoon bubble.
On a different note. Yorick, five hundred years since love-poems would lead to a romantic consummation, still likes the form and applies it to riddles concerning commonplace things. Please enjoy the following and revisit next week to see if you have ascertained the right answer.
A few hours here and there, relief from the bitter cold; some mercy, that is if mercy can be considered a character of monstrous surges of arctic winds. He and She, descriptively warm or cold, “… depending upon …”; but at the moment – thankful, there is a bit of a thaw.
A respite, a gift, a thaw deducted from the limits of winter and the unruly continuity of bickering in closed quarters. A thaw appears for a moment in bickering winds, in the bickering among the gathered, and in the constant bickering for a moments meaning each has ascribed to the activities named “mine”.
Thaws last hour to hour at this time of year, and seldom past the sunshine. He and She, most likely, will retreat from the ice flows and await the spring mud; planning to begin again.