dreams

February 8, 2018

I desired always to stretch the night and fill it fuller and fuller with dreams.

Virginia Woolf
The Waves

tell me of night

October 10, 2017

In the evening, when everything is tired and quiet, I sit with Walt Whitman by the rose beds and listen to what that lonely and beautiful spirit has to tell me of night, sleep, death, and the stars. This dusky, silent hour is his; and this is the time when I can best hear the beatings of that most tender and generous heart.

Elizabeth von Arnim
The Solitary Summer

The night belongs to women

October 1, 2017

Women should never fear the night. It is their domain. They are strongly linked to the moon, and during the night feminine energy flows strongest and the Goddess is in the air. The night belongs to women and moonlight is reflected from their souls…

Night

August 15, 2017

Slides under door jambs
pouring through windows
painting my room black.

This evening was spent
watching old movies.
Song and dance actors
looping through gay,
improbable plots.

All my plates are put away,
cups hanging on hooks.
The towel is still moist.

I blow out cinnamon candles
wafting the air with spice.
Listening now to dogs
barking at winds and
sputtering of heat.

Winter pummels skeletal
trees as the moon’s big
yellow eye haunts shadows.

Joan McNerney

Snowy Night

July 21, 2017

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.

Mary Oliver

Night

April 12, 2017

Drives evil

November 12, 2016

trees5

Roam not at night, for the sorcerers use all phases of the moon for their craft. Be you safe at home till the sun lights the sky and drives evil back to its lair again.

Brother Paolo Fredrico
Notes of a Servant of God (1693)

Halloween Cat…

October 30, 2016

HALLOWEEN

a-lonely-night

I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.

Ernest Hemingway
A Farewell to Arms

Eugène Berman - View in Perspective of a Perfect Sunset

Diary 2nd June

I might steal words from the mouth of Beckian Fritz Goldberg to describe last weekend: words seeming coy or used to shock! However, it’s her “extravagant, sensual fabulations of obsessive memory and the longing it inspires” that I most desire to plagiarise. Not the ice idly dropped “right where, right where” on her you know what – so, yes, something more than titillating erotica is required. Her poetry is suffused with longing – for an old lover, for the past, in particular a “cryptic” childhood partly idealised by wounded memory. Here there be both pleasure and pain. Unlike the plain catastrophe of my own childhood, Ms Goldberg evokes a lush musicality from out of her past…

“Furtively my father would slip a hand under the table and knock. I was three so I’d look around and look under the table wanting to know where it came from and how and that’s when father would drink my milk. I’d sit back up to a drained glass. What happened to my milk? My father would tell me it was the little girls who lived under the floor. They were hungry and wanted my milk. They might want my peas. I knew enough to sense it was a game, to half-believe there weren’t really girls living below us. But I had a vision of them anyway, all blonde with long straight hair, dressed in chambray smocks with frilled white aprons, reaching up, up toward my floor. Otherwise, they seemed to accept their world which must be dark and musty. They’d knock. A chicken wing would disappear.”
(From: My Descent by Beckian Fritz Goldberg)

Quite, quite beautiful, these milk and pea thieves – or, rather, the idea behind them! An “affirmation of the fantastical”. Imagination as damaged memory…

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Mark Rothko once said, “It is important to the human spirit to create art, to experience art, to be open to art. It allows the exultation of the heart and spirit.”

In visual art words are unimportant. The artwork is what it appears to be to the viewer and no more than that. The viewer, by definition, becomes an inherent part of the artwork and any meaning it possesses belongs to the viewer…
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So, last weekend?

A long weekend, yes, with the hours flowing over us like moth clouds. You in white. Me – seething within like a hungry wolf and running with the changing tides – organizing a BBQ for everyone, but wanting only to taste the endless salt flats of you…You who can teach me the sky once again…Ignoring the dead sound of champagne corks and the conversation like the sound of children talking to sunbeams…

Eventually night must fall and our guests depart. Then we will find ourselves hopelessly tangled in its wide-cast nets, in its oceanic depths. Lost in unfathomable majesty. In the delights of the flesh, entwined, a good dream at last.

Oh, to drown in this wine-dark sea of desire with you…

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Having to talk destroys the symphony of silence…