Step Sideways Towards A Truth

I have always preferred Herodotus to Thucydides and Byron to Wordsworth.

That meant, that means, according to grad school criteria (don't you know), I am damned to frivolity, to the frivolous.

At least by association.

(Or, so they say.)

Terrible that I let old school judgments color my own thinking, my own self, now.
Hard to resist, I think.

My other response is to give in, to agree, via an essential insight:
ham-bone connected to the brain-bone.

Dream: Wave-Crash

Kelp-time. Slightly disturbing, disorienting dream last night (among many) about free diving off a rocky shoreline just down the coast. I was distracted and checking out a circular "tide pool" out near the impact zone. A surfer stopped to give me the heads-up the tide was changing, the swell was rising, and the waves were getting closer and closer, ready to take me out. I thanked him, wondered how I could have gotten so focused on the shellfish and such in the crater-like collection of rocks, and started checking my exits. The waves were indeed crashing closer and closer, and the dusk was falling hard. Where had the time gone? Suddenly I was cold to the bone and tired. I went to the shoreward side of the rocks, and there was a twelve-foot drop to water and rocks (a completely unrealistic effect, but it was a dream). I'd have to time my getaway dropping over that side. I'd need water on the rocks to cushion my fall, but I wouldn't want to be caught in the crater for a full-on wave strike. Suddenly, in a rush of thick, thick water and thick foam, I was over the edge and getting rolled deep. I came up gasping. A very odd dream, but the cold water, the salt, and the kelpiness pleases me, despite the rough handling.

Wistful

Mermaid w/Fin:
sculpture mix; green glazing.

Middle English Lyric: "Foweles in the Frith"

Foweles in the frith,
The fisses in the flod,
And I mon waxe wod.
Mulch sorw I walke with
For beste of bon and blod.

--anonymous

from Middle English Lyrics:
A Norton Critical Edition,
selected and edited by M.S. Luria and R. L. Hoffman,
W.W. Norton: New York,
1974.

Heaney's "Bone Dreams"

 BONE DREAMS

I

White bone found
on the grazing: 
the rough, porous 
language of touch

and its yellowing, ribbed 
impression in the grass —
¬a small ship-burial. 
As dead as stone,
flint-find, nugget
of chalk, 
I touch it again, 
I wind it in

the sling of mind
to pitch it at England
and follow its drop
to strange fields.

II

Bone-house:
a skeleton
in the tongue's 
old dungeons.

I push back
through dictions, 
Elizabethan canopies, 
Norman devices,

the erotic mayflowers 
of Provence 
and the ivied Latins
of churchmen

to the scop's 
twang, the iron 
flash of consonants 
cleaving the line.

In the coffered 
riches of grammar 
and declensions 
I found bān-hūs, 

its fire, benches, 
wattle and rafters, 
where the soul 
fluttered a while

in the roofspace.
There was a small crock 
for the brain, 
and a cauldron

of generation
swung at the centre: 
love-den, blood-holt, 
dream-bower.

IV

Come back past 
philology and kennings, 
re-enter memory 
where the bone's lair

is a love-nest
in the grass.
I hold my lady's head
like a crystal

and ossify myself
by gazing: I am screes 
on her escarpments, 
a chalk giant

carved upon her downs.
Soon my hands, on the sunken 
fosse of her spine, 
move towards the passes.

V

And we end up 
cradling each other 
between the lips 
of an earthwork.


As I estimate 
for pleasure 
her knuckles' paving,
the turning stiles

of the elbows,
the vallum of her brow
and the long wicket
of collar-bone,

I have begun to pace
the Hadrian's Wall
of her shoulder, 
dreaming of Maiden Castle.

VI

One morning in Devon
I found a dead mole
with the dew still beading it. 
I had thought the mole

a big-boned coulter
but there it was, 
small and cold
as the thick of a chisel.

I was told, ‘Blow,
blow back the fur on his head.
Those little points 
were the eyes.

And feel the shoulders.’
touched small distant: Pennines, 
a pelt of grass and grain
running south. 

--Seamus Heaney

Poem from Seamus Heaney's North, Faber & Faber, London & Boston: 1975.

The clay pieces: Works in progress.  Viking Coin ornament and Ship & Hammer: sculpture mix; green glaze, unfired.  (We shall see how these pieces look after their firing.)

Bookfish and Company

Heaney's "Viking Dublin: Trial Pieces"

VIKING DUBLIN: TRIAL PIECES

I

It could be a jaw-bone

or a rib or a portion cut

from something sturdier:

anyhow, a smaller outline

was incised, a cage

or trellis to conjure in.

Like a child's tongue

following the toils

of his calligraphy,

like an eel swallowed

in a basket of eels,

the line amazes itself

eluding the hand

that fed it,

a bill in flight,

a swimming nostril.

II

There are trial pieces,

the craft's mystery

improvised on bone:

foliage, bestiaries,

interlacings elaborate

as the netted routes

of ancestry and trade.

That have to be

magnified on display

so that the nostril

is a migrant prow

sniffing the Liffey,

swanning it up to the ford,

dissembling itself

in antler combs, bone pins,

coins, weights, scale-pans.

III

Like a long sword

sheathed in its moisting

burial clays,

the keel stuck fast

in the slip of the bank,

its clinker-built hull

spined and plosive

as Dublin.

And now we reach in

for shards of the vertebrae,

the ribs of hurdle,

the mother-wet caches--

and for this trial piece

incised by a child,

a longship, a buoyant

migrant line.

IV

That enters my longhand,

turns cursive, unscarfing

a zoomorphic wake,

a worm of thought

I follow into the mud.

I am Hamlet the Dane,

skull-handler, parablist,

smeller of rot

in the state, infused

with its poisons,

pinioned by ghosts

and affections,

murders and pieties,

coming to consciousness

by jumping in graves,

dithering, blathering.

V

Come fly with me,

come sniff the wind

with the expertise

of the Vikings--

neighborly, scoretaking

killers, haggers

and hagglers, gombeen-men,

hoarders of grudge and gain.

With a butcher's aplomb

they spread out your lungs

and made you warm wings

for your shoulders.

Old fathers, be with us.

Old cunning assessors

of feuds and of sites

for ambush or town.

VI

'Did you ever hear tell,'

said Jimmy Farrell,

'of the skulls they have

in the city of Dublin?

White skulls and black skulls

and yellow skulls, and some

with full teeth, and some

haven't only but one,'

and compounded history

in the pan of 'an old Dane,

maybe, was drowned

in the Flood.'

My words lick around

cobbled quays, go hunting

lightly as pampooties

over the skull-capped ground.

--Seamus Heaney,

from North, 1975.

Passage: "Trader" and Paying Attention

My own oracular devices: stones and shells.

Actually, I keep the bits of shell and stone in an old spice jar to shake out the rhythms for the songs on the radio in my truck as I drive; yes, I'm that guy. The abalone pendant I wear fairly often; I found the piece of shell under a rock on the bottom of a favorite cove. Both the maraca-jar and the necklace help me to focus.

The passage I keep thinking about from Charles de Lint's fine urban fantasy novel Trader:

"I guess it all depends on how you look at it," Bones says. "Now me, I figure all oracular devices are just a way for us to focus on what we already know but can't quite grab on to. It works the same as a ritual does in a church -- you get enough people focused on something, things happen. The way I see it is, it doesn't much matter what the device is. It's just got to be interesting enough so that your attention doesn't stray. Fellow reading the fortune, fellow having it read --same difference. They've both got to be paying attention.

"What you get's not the future so much as what's inside a person, which," he adds, "is pretty much the real reason they come to you. They're trying to sort through all this conversation that's running through their heads, but they get distracted. Me, what I'm doing with my hands, with the bones, it forces them to pay strict attention to me. The noise in their heads quiets down a little and they can hear themselves for a change. It's my voice, but they're doing the talking."

"So will you read my fortune?" I ask.

Bones looks regretful, but shakes his head.

"Why not? Let me tell you, I could use someone to make a little sense out of what's going through my head."

"You don't believe."

"But you just told me that it's just a matter of paying attention. I can do that."

"It's not the same."