Season of loss

Last month we lost a young member of our family of close friends. He was only thirty years old. Pneumonia took him suddenly. Sage, we will miss you.

DARKNESS FALLS EARLY

How do we remember joy
When hurt is deep?

So deep it lives with the leviathans.
With the scattered remains of ships.

The keening of whales
In the snores of our houseguest
Keeps me awake. I cannot dream.

Waiting in the line
At the supermarket,
It goes through my mind
This is the price we pay for loving.

Would we still give our hearts
If we had to pay in advance?
The first hour of pain
Would change our minds.
But we love by instinct
We can’t seem to help it.
There is no answer.

I believe in the Creator of rainbows, of waterfalls
I believe in the Creator of small birds and starlight.
In the Creator of springs and streams
Of quick-moving rivers
Of wind in the treetops
Of mud
Of green hillsides
Of slow black cows,
Their sides swaying, minding the path.

I hold fast to these things,
This fragile gospel
As the road bends sharp before me.

copyright Cathy Larson Sky 12/12/2009

WHEN LIFE IS HARSH,

I want Christmas/I want the red and green, color of blood, color of pine.
I want silver haired ladies in Frosty the Snowman, skating scene sweaters.
I want mulled spiced wine and cheese balls, presents stacked in a crazy pile;
I want elves, piquant and bell-capped, or round and apple-bellied, and
Angels -- ornate Victorians or home mades of clothespins and cotton balls.
I want the lift in my heart when I see, turning up the drive, the tree lights beckon from the window.

I want the feeling of Benny’s Hardware/new tire smell wafting from the bicycle rack/cello-gleam of dolly packages, housing bunting babies, or nymphs with curly poly-thread wigs/pink or swimming-pool blue ponies with shimmering manes and tails.

I want my arms around a wriggling, impatient toddler, dressed in snap-up peejays, her breath sweet upon my neck as I carry her on my hip to the sink, where I wipe sticky candy mess from pudgy soft fingers, the chocolate of foiled Santas from her tender mouth, from her cheeks flushed crimson from sugar, and waiting, and not having to wait any more and

Christmas early morning
Christmas lustrous night
Christmas, her shining bobbing orbs and winking lights
Tracing the snowy yard
Breathing up into a lapis sky
Where a scattering of tiny rhinestones,
The wake of angels’ wings,
Blink joy in the cold stillness.

Copyright Cathy Larson Sky 11/17/2009

DISCLAIMER

Recently my husband, Patrick, pointed readers of the Chiff and Fipple, an Irish music discussion page, to my blog. He did this out of enthusiasm for my writing. I am not just a musician but also a writer. Along with the novels, poetry, and stories I have written over the past 30 years, I've often penned articles about Irish music in newspapers and in journals. However, this blog is just about whatever is in my head at the time I feel moved to write. I am sorry for those who expected, understandably, to find a blog about Irish music. You will find a link to the Irish Traditional Music Archive in Dublin to the left; also a link for Tarot readers and mystics, and some author biographies. It's a potpourri.

I didn't ask Pat to put my blog on the Chiff and Fipple. If I'd known he was doing so, I would have stopped him, sweet as he was to recommend my work online. It was like standing up in a pub and and recommending a church down the street.

FICTIONAL TWITTER BETWEEN CHARLES DICKENS AND MARK TWAIN

CD: Saw 5 or 6 li’l bros begging tday near my aptmt.

MT: That sucks, dude. What is world comin 2?

CD: It makes U, like, want 2 do sumthing. :0(

MT: Could be a book, bro. :0)

CD: Yeah well tell that 2 my publisher.

MT: What up there?

CD: My numbers are lo.

MT: U trust him?

CD: No way.

MT: Hey man, don’t give up.

CD: Same to U. BTW how’s your fam?

MT: Not great, man.

CD: ????

MT: Totally my fault, dude.

CD: ????

MT: Messed up, bigtime. Got hustled.

CD: Oh man. How bad?

MT: You don’t wanna no.

CD: That bad?

MT: Worse. Like, ruined.

CD: Need a gig?

MT: Scribe type?

CD: No, man. Stand up.

MT: Like, in stage?

CD: Yeah. It means $$$$. Bigtime.

MT: You’re shitting me.

CD: No way. Can U get over here?

MT: There?

CD: I could get U a couple gigs.

MT: Awesome! When?

CD: Let me no when U can come over.

MT: I’m on it!

CD: Gotta run. Namaste, bro.

MT: Later, man. Thanx.

.

MY MOVIE GEMS

My husband and I left Spruce Pine and drove to the metropolis of Asheville to view the new Harry Potter last week. Did I enjoy it? I don’t know. By the time the twenty minutes of previews were over, I was shell-shocked and couldn’t concentrate on the feature film. The dozen previewed films included end-of-the-world horrors (New York falling into the sea), screaming, machine gun fire, crumbling and crashing buildings, all at ear-splitting volume. Psychopaths, drug dealers, murderers and corrupt cops stalked one another through puddles of blood. Then came cartoon creatures, supposedly comic relief, whose main charms were belching and farting as well as sassy and low-conscious backtalk. It’s enough to make you believe in conspiracy theories. When I am at my most paranoid, I wonder if the media powers-that-be purposely set out to desensitize American moviegoers to fear and terror and bloodshed. That these things are considered entertainment is scary to me, too close for comfort to the Roman taste for gladiator gore. As for the potty humor – that’s not really my idea of speaking to the inner child. Lewis Carroll did a much more admirable job of that with his Alice, using literature.

Here are ten films I ordered through Netflix (many of them dealing with war), that are gentle, wise, character-driven, and full of insight and hope about the human condition:

Housewife, 49: an ordinary British wife and mother undergoes personal growth during WWII

Kiki’s Delivery Service (Japanimation): a young girl finds friendship and meaning in a lonely world

Grey Gardens (the film version, not the documentary): Streep and Barrymore are exquisite, especially if you have seen the documentary.

The Station Agent: friendship arrives in the strangest packages

Kinamand (Danish): humility, unexpected transformation

I’ve Loved You So Long (French): mystery surrounds a reunion between estranged sisters. Subtle, beautiful, evocative

Last Chance Harvey: virtuoso performances by Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson. Brilliant acting, I don’t care if the critics gave low points to the love story.

The Cats of Mirikitani (Documentary): a Japanese American street artist is befriended by his documentarienne.

Paradise Road: an all-star female cast, a transcendent WWII story

Goodnight, Mister Tom (Brit): a crusty village character takes in a lad from London’s bombing district

Moon Rant

May in the mountains was monsoon season. We have gone from two years of drought to drenching, soaking rain. The grass reaches knee level in two days. Fecundity has reached a new level. I’m glad that I am no longer a breeder because all this green moisture feels like the genesis of a new tribe stirring in the universal womb.

What harm? We need a new tribe, a bunch of folks who aren’t out to play king of the mountain or to argue over who can have the bombs, the biggest and baddest of toys. There has to be a better way to use our time here on earth. The newbies will know.

For one thing, the new tribe will honor wrinkles as marks of wisdom and find them beautiful. They will scratch their heads in confusion when they find ancestral skeletons with squishy blobs of non biodegradable material wrapped among the gnarled dried muscles of the face and ribs and slug-shaped plastic where lips once were.

I want to apologize to the future folk. I’m not sure what went wrong with my American tribe, why they got so silly and vain. Maybe we basked too long in the benefits of the sweat of our forebears and forgot to grow up. Bad guys got in there while we were building MacMansions and trying to have tighter abs.

Somebody tell us what to do. Help, not enough life boats to go around. Rich and richer first, then we’ll see what we can do about the men, women and children.

I’m ranting but can’t help it. Pluto and Uranus are having a field day while Saturn and Jupiter duke it out over who’s in charge. The June moon is full and hovers in a cloudy werewolf sky. Ah-oooo.

POEM FOR A RAINBOW

Divine spectrum

Arch of light

Bowed from mountain to mountain

You answer the rumble of thunder

And the wild mad rain

With Amen, Amen

In the green scented twilight

Under skies soft gray with tears

Your beauty is a fragile chord

Subtly, gently changing

With the shift of light and hue

Lilac and watered lapis

Lime and palest gold

What I could do with such music

I could fly

Stay, stay

Bright vision --

My heart's cry

While moments and moments

Wink past

The heartbeats

The seconds

Bear us away

On the tide.

copyright Cathy Larson Sky 2009
photograph by Brit Kaufman