poem for mars

let Us stick to the facts
where things
are as certain as standing
on waves
of sand
entombing
feet
and legs
and torso.
swallowing Us.
surrounding Us.

this is no tomb.
only winter
387 sols long in the tooth. We rattle
with frost quakes; sudden cold
sheltered in place
and frozen
still.
quiet as photographs.

We wait for the wall of sand to drop
out of Our skies
and for sun
to activate Our solar panels
and the radio signals and the end of the night
and this is no tomb.
only winter.

in the meantime
let Us count the objects of exploration:
there are 14 in all. over nine metric tons of experiments crafted
in dream and imagination. hard
ware
stranded.
except 24 terabytes of data escape each day.

in the meantime,
let Us make a map of all the places We may go,
and rocks We may meet
and things We may say
once the sand and the winter subside.

A few stitched together writing prompts from pw.org and this video served as inspiration.

575: ugly sacred (Nepal, March 2018)

Kathmandu, Nepal
March 2018

Beneath tika and
wax, I am recreated
in your need for me.

575: strangled beneath the banyan tree (Nepal, March 2018)

Pokhara, Nepal
March 2018

Watch long enough and
you will trade your bones for bark
and your hair for roots.

575: standing among giants (Nepal, March 2018)

Machapuchare, Nepal
March 2018

Mountains pierce the sky.
Clouds clot over fallen snow,
as white as penance.

We went to Nepal almost two years ago now. This photo was taken during our descent from Annapurna Base Camp, looking across to the distinct silhouette of Machapuchare, which stands at 22,943 feet. It is said to be the home of Lord Shiva (Hindu), and due to its holiness is off limits to climbing, though we talked with locals who claimed to have climbed it and have flown drones over it.

I’d like to think there are some things that are out of our reach, and sacred, but know this is a naive sentiment. Maybe we can still experience awe at the grandness in nature, in the face of the things that are bigger than we are.

protocols for being human: go to the limits of your longing

Andean Eagle,
Quindio, Colombia

On New Year’s Eve, the following lines were sent to me by two different people, who do not know each other, within hours of each message.

“Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.”

It comes from a longer poem called “Go to the Limits of Your Longing”, by Rainer Maria Rilke. I flirted with his writing during my undergraduate degree, but soon after lost the thread to more frivolous pursuits. 

It’s strange that this particular poem has returned to me now, in the shadow of death. 

When we were preparing for C’s funeral services, since there wasn’t enough time to put together a photo board I volunteered to assemble a slide show of already scanned photos. They were mostly from C’s childhood. 

She has this beautiful shining face. Solemness lingers in her gaze, like she already knows too much about the world, but there is also a spark. She is new, and hopeful, and full of dreams.

This version of C— is different than the version I knew, which struck me in such a powerful way. It made me think about where we start, and where we end. It made me think about all the time we waste, willfully and sometimes unintentionally. Have we gone to the limits of our longing?

I am decades into this life, and I feel like I’m just now cracking through my shell. I am just now rendering my dreams out of an impressionistic haze. I want to flare up like a flame, and just keep going. 

Go to the Limits of Your Longing

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like a flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

Book of Hours, I 59

Rainer Maria Rilke

575: the filling in

Snails in the gap

We gather wounds, then
small gifts of memories, like
thread, to stitch us closed.

575: the setting in

Setting Sun, Rising Mountain

Darkness sits like veils
drawn across the body. Bare.
Waiting. But the light–

575: how to count

Storm over Maribor

one marble column
for the one-third who blackened,
like storm clouds, bursting.

This is the plague column in Maribor, Slovenia. The plague infected Europe first in the 1300s, with the second pandemic lasting (according to the great wikipedia) for approximately 300 years between the 14th to 17th centuries. Maribor suffered great loss when the disease rampaged the city in the late 1600s. This is not the original column, but both versions were intended to commemorate those who died.

It turns out plague columns are quite common. You might have even encountered them before on your last trip through Vienna, Venice or The Czech Republic.

For more about the bubonic plague, I highly recommend this podcast.

phyllotaxis :: the golden spiral

sunflower at Loo Loo Farms ©JL Colomb

 

the headdresses of
Arles stand tall on temples. gold
guards of happiness.

underground sketches

2012 May 14-Milano, a photo by InkSpot’s Blot on Flickr.

people gather in the courtyard,
notes scatter on stone, they chit chat
a bubbling rhythm, sound bouncing off columns,
as they wait.
and the musicians come, sitting in the sun in black
coats and pants, sweat
shimmering and horns scaling
as they wait.
he is there, sifting through sheets of
notes turning lines into jungle gyms.
soft
white hair plays the same way.
in the courtyard, in the sun he stands
raises his hands
and they wait