random thoughts

divided states of embarrassment

sleeping stories (quiet)

stepping stones

 The knowledge that results from recognition, then, is not the same kind as the discovery of something new: it arises rather from a renewed reckoning with a potentiality that lies within oneself.

3, Uncanny and Improbable Events, Amitav Ghosh

 silence

softer  stories

in places

quieter

not absolute

humor

listed as

existing as 

other spaces

less intense

walk above the douro - list 2:30pm

Bear’s breeches 

Greek mustard 

Sow thistle

thrush

Swift

Finocchio

Cow parsley

Bindweed 

Pampas

Red clover

Baahing  sheep 

Sleeping crane 

Oak

Ivy

Fern 

Returning blackberry 

Nightshade 

Jay

Gull

Pegs

(next week peaches)

Roots and vines

Grasses

(Gooseberries)

Nasturtium 

Fig

Morning glories

So blue you know

you're going to

paint the sea again

 barking in the dark

gecko

dog

bird

heard after

fireworks

and before dawn

1

patience, worn round like a worry stone

listening  tethered

to withstand elemental antipathies -

the seven sins against empathy

 

Common Vervain

Greek Mustard

Willow-leaf Hebe

Holcus lanatus (Yorkshire Fog)

 

 cow's tooth in a cow's hoof

peixa

As telhas de terraço não são boas em locais
As telhas do terraço subiram em sítios.

As telhas do terraço subiram de tenda e as suas juntas racharam.

 

Isto não é bom para o 7º andar nem para mim. Tentei uma pequena reparação, mas não está a funcionar. Há também um pequeno buraco a ser remendado no exterior. Pode ajudar-me a arranjá-los pela associação do condomínio, por favor? Não quero que os pequenos problemas se tornem grandes, e caros para a associação.

second sleep

meets

longing for

anxiety about

interrupted by a buzz

because

a mosquito

doesn't care where your mind goes

knows just blood lust

and you?

your second sleep creeps

soundlessly around the insect

settles into

the bed

perhaps even

given time

your head

clear day

but for one soft place 

where a small squall races to shore

The sea now so very blue you know night comes.

Waves lighter, under a white horizon. 

Tidal shadows, and nimbostratus.

One mentha cervina has become seven. These are puzzling plants, endangered yet strangely prolific, native to watery places in dry Alentejo. They can grow even underwater in winter. This history means they'll remain outside, on the roof terrace, in the rain. 

I imagine the air, circling mentha cervina in December, an aroma of strong spearmint tea flooding the wet wind.

 swifts speak

chattering in the wind

narratives on wings

things discussed

and an afterward

written by request

for pipistrelles

 

 Read Jebb

5th Ismian Ode

Theia and gold, with gems

it's light we seek

shining in riverbeds, earth

like an immortal,

without decay

 I could make images from the mind

there are so many there

piles of them lying to be sorted

like a resale shop's back room

 

instead

I'm led to tear up what's been made

a concertina reassembles, divides

is scrubbed of too much paper

too little thought

 

what lies beneath a failed book?

 

Look. Too much of everything.

 

looking through the rain

at the sea 

I imagine the next long wave to reach shore

or

more slivered light, silver,

beyond

the vanished horizon.

 Understanding the beginning to

end

then this in-between

 

I've seen

where nets met light, earth

Say women gave birth 

to mending,

to sending messages

in fish and clay

when woven meant

receiving thoughts

sent by shuttle,  awl and stylus

when fire consecrated words on urns and plates

or foraging sticks

struck by lightening

turned branches into thoughts

acacia

boddhi

oak 

ash

gave tongue lashings

grew needy

whining pines

seeded

shopping lists in hollow balls

from the first,

writing, reading 

was as round as

beginning to end

for Chuck S.

It's a merlin up here

clearing the sky

I'm thankful for her,

for the present,

where no gull's eyes

stare expectantly 

at the old arthritic dog.

"The antidote to perfectionism is repair."

Repairing room, the mind.

A kind of sanatorium where the words I want to write down pull me up before I drown.

Not always, not in every situation.

No perfection in thought.

There ought to be but isn't much you can do about that, but repair is one of them.

After rejection, clean up the blood,  flood your body with love, knit together, stronger.

The longer you wait for the right moment, the more you delay your happiness.

I'm not about optimistic forgiveness. I believe in humanity's recidivism. 

But our actual individual strength? Restorative. 

Despite the odds.