Meantime

I don’t have much in terms of an update, but in the meantime I wrote this. Not at all my usual kind of fiction, but I guess strange times produce strange stories…

“in a clear and cloudless sky, a pale white moon beams down. onto the world and the people in it, some twisted into sheets and deep asleep, others modern witches fanning themselves on balconies and talking softly, if they have the luxury of being two unable to sleep. onto the houses, lighting imperfect corners and old roof tiles just so that they become beautiful again. onto empty streets lined with resting cars. onto prowling cats and scuttling rats. and onto plants and shrubs, giving buds the energy they need to bloom the coming morning, when the sun will take credit for the flowers they become. the moon knows this, but just smiles a peaceful smile. all she wants is to spread a little happiness.

some time ago, a particular rose bush came to her attention, slender with curved branches and soft-looking dark green leaves. she noticed it standing in a lonely corner and wondered why it didn’t bloom. it’s true the corner was a little dark and drafty, but the plant looked strong enough. she leaned a little closer and tried to give it some more attention, but try as she might, she couldn’t make any buds appear. it was as if a veil had wrapped itself around the rose bush, cutting it off from all the good things in the world. the sun was getting quite impatient and sent only very feeble rays its way. be kind, the moon advised, seeing the rose bush shrink even more in the sun’s presence. but why? the sun demanded. why waste my energy? there’s nothing nice about it: too thin branches that any child can snap, and lately it’s been growing nasty thorns, can’t you see? thorns are tolerated when there are roses. but there’s no reason to put up with them if there isn’t any beauty on display. he ranted and raved for a while longer, not noticing the rose bush wrap its branches around itself to hide its face.

the moon said nothing but did what she could every night, patiently treating the roots, leaves and branches, and whispering love into its ears. slowly the rose bush started to trust her, and from time to time gave her a shy smile. very faint and only a fraction of a second, nothing the sun would have noticed, but for the moon it was enough. she continued her special treatment and waited until she was full and strong. her light that month was spectacular, so bright hedgehogs could cross streets as if in daylight, without fear. when she was at her peak, she focused all her strength on the little plant there in its lonely corner. you will bloom today, she said. but right away the plant shrank back in fear. you don’t understand me after all, it cried.

in a clear and cloudless sky, the pale white moon beamed down. you will bloom, she repeated gently. because even though you can’t bloom for everyone to see, you can do it in your mind. because tonight, i will give you something you will never lose again. she closed her eyes and sent all the energy she had into the little plant that night. people the next day would talk about what a strange night it had been, that there was something different but they didn’t know what it was. the sun too thought for a moment that there was something different, then shrugged his shoulders and went to work.

and the rose bush? it looked the same as ever. to the sun at least, and to any people passing it. and they felt all kinds of different things: pity, irritation. they wrote it off because it would never be like the other rose bushes. and the rose bush itself knew it too. but since that night, it didn’t mind at all. because it bloomed on the inside, basking in the moon’s loving kindness. and its flowers were the most beautiful the world had ever seen.”

Melon Collie

I’ve been rereading the classics. As ever, I’m fond of poems from the Heian period (8th-12th century Japan). They’re delicate, yet straightforward and true. Here’s one I noticed this time round, and have been stuck on for the past few days (Bear with my translation):

are the heavens
some kind of memento of the one I love?
what else
would make me look up at the sky
whenever I think of her?

–Sakai no Hitozane

I Love This Poem

…and was reminded of it today, somehow. Apologies if you’ve read it a thousand times already. Then again, so have I.

I gather up
each sound
you left behind
and stretch them
on our bed
each nite
I breathe you
and become high.

Sonia Sanchez, Poem no 3

Haiku

The last book I read (see previous post) got me thinking a lot about haiku. I thought I’d post a few I like.

Here are two by Basho and Issa, two Japanese master poets of the 17th and 18th century. I’ll put the English translations because, as far as I know, no Japanese people read my blog (boohoo).

Frozen in the night
the water jar cracks
–wakes me
(Basho)

Don’t worry, spiders,
I keep house
casually
(Issa)

And here are two English contemporary ones. I have no idea who wrote them, but I love them all the same.

Watching my daughter
watching her daughter
washing her doll’s white socks

I went to the zoo
but all they had was a dog
–it was a Shitzu

Snow

–By Maxence Fermine

“‘Poetry is not a profession. It is a way of passing the time. Poems are like water. Like this river.’
Yuko lowered his gaze to the quiet, flowing water. Then he turned towards his father and said:
‘That is just what I want to do. To learn to watch the passing of time.’”

“She was a tightrope walker, and her whole life followed a line. A line that lead straight ahead.”

“Because to write is to feel your way step by step along a thread of beauty. For the poet, like the tightrope walker, must go forward word by word, page after page, along the path of a book. [...] The difficulty for the poet is to stay on the rope that is writing, to live every moment without losing sight of his dream, and to never come down, not even for a second, from the rope of the imagination.”