Sometimes I look at images like this and imagine that if I had a place like this to live then everything would be peachy. It is the fairy-tale I carry in my head when sleep is minimal or things are menial. It is a little brain oasis when things are cloudy. One thing I have noticed with the Pixie, is the loss of time to muse, to ponder, and invite images into ones head without any attempt at coherence. Everything is in multitasking overdrive, so when there is a quiet moment, I buzz with all the things done, all the things to do.Yesterday, running late for play group, and then running late again for a babysitter to come over and give me some writing time, running to try and get a little more than my nightly four hours sleep, I just decided to stop and slow down. The local pharmacy became a playground of packages and rides in plastic tubs, the clock shop was a festival of cuckoo chimes, the bookseller gave me her shameful confession of her love of all things Twilight. And I breathed and remembered Borges and his poem on Shinto and how things are always the richer for 'modest divinities'.
SHINTO
When misfortune confounds us
in an instant we are saved
by the humblest actions
of memory or attention:
the taste of fruit, the taste of water,
that face returned to us in dream,
the first jasmine flowers of November,
the infinite yearning of the compass,
a book we thought forever lost,
the pulsing of a hexameter,
the little key that opens a house,
the smell of sandalwood or library,
the ancient name of a street,
the colourations of a map,
an unforeseen etymology,
the smoothness of a filed fingernail,
the date that we were searching for,
counting the twelve dark bell-strokes,
a sudden physical pain.
in an instant we are saved
by the humblest actions
of memory or attention:
the taste of fruit, the taste of water,
that face returned to us in dream,
the first jasmine flowers of November,
the infinite yearning of the compass,
a book we thought forever lost,
the pulsing of a hexameter,
the little key that opens a house,
the smell of sandalwood or library,
the ancient name of a street,
the colourations of a map,
an unforeseen etymology,
the smoothness of a filed fingernail,
the date that we were searching for,
counting the twelve dark bell-strokes,
a sudden physical pain.
Eight million the deities of Shinto
who travel the earth, secretly.
Those modest divinities touch us,
touch us, and pass on by.
who travel the earth, secretly.
Those modest divinities touch us,
touch us, and pass on by.
4 comments:
It is a dreamy landscape, your fairytale house, but for some reason, perhaps because of all the flooding we've had of late here in Australia, it left me feeling a tad anxious, as if the place also held something sinister. Too much water, perhaps.
It won't take long before you have more space in your mind and life again I expect. When I think back to the days when my girls were little I think it all went by so fast, but that's only now in retrospect.
At the time it sometimes seemed to take forever, just to find a few hours of peace. But of course, I would not trade it for the world.
Two fabulous poems, both new to me, in successive entries - Thank you!
Must admit my first thought on the picture of the dream house was "I bet they have a damp problem...".
How are you GG? I haven't visited for so long - too flat out, too busy poeming... but have got back into prose again and suddenly I have to revisit my prose friends on the net - and oh how lovely to re-make your acquaintance. I like the way you encapsulate longing in images - this house sure is pretty. As for time, peaceful contemplative time... it does seem impossible with little ones, but I think I felt I had to be so engaged with them all the time and wished I'd made space where I could contemplate while they shimmied around. I saw a couple reading the newspaper one day while their kids played and in the playground, and I thought 'why aren't they playing with the kids?' and raced one of mine up the slide. Crazy in hindsight. My Mum did teach me to read while they were in the bath - half an eye, of course, on their little heads...
Bak sn. Mary x
Hi Elizabeth - I too would not trade it for the world
Imogen - you are right the damp problem, I just got caught up in a French fantasy- better than the reality
Mary - lovely to hear from you - the gifts of being present are powerful. In a local cafe, I see two little boys forlornly look around while their parents ignore them, bring on the crayons or a comic I say, at least it would be done together...hope your prose coming along
Post a Comment