February 5, 2024
A quick painting of the bush outside my window where I do my painting.
Then I started looking through the sketchbook and decided to post some of these old drawings. They are colored pencil on black paper.
These are all from 2019 or so, right before the world shut down in fear of a very nasty virus.
Sun is out in Northern NJ and I hope everyone has a good week. Nina
Imbolc (Thursday Doors on Friday)
Some say you are three–
not as maiden mother crone–
but poet healer
wise woman of craft. Imbolc
is your season—between, but
always moving toward the light.
The world is keening
in the depth of this winter.
We light our candles–
over and over it seems–
to remember the passing
of time, people and places.
The sky is grey, dark.
Too many nights have elapsed
since I’ve seen the moon.
But it is still there, waiting–
like all the winter sparrows
singing in the leafless trees.
Again, I’ve chosen a couple random doors from my collection. The triple goddess moon symbol above the top door is unusual–at least I’ve never seen one before–but what a wonderful guardian for a door!
I’m not sure who the woman is above this door, but why not Brigid? The beautiful circles are also a perfect accompaniment to the seasons’ turning.
My poem was written for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday prompt, with kigo words Imbolc, depth of winter, and winter sparrows. Imbolc is a holiday that marks the midway point between winter and spring, and it is associated with the goddess/saint Brigid. You can read more about it here.
Even inside the unending greyness of the days, I can see that the light is returning. And all year long, even in the depth of winter, the streets are filled with sparrow trees.
And there are always more doors to find at Thursday Doors, hosted by Dan Antion.
February 2024
Often in the early months of the year the cold air finds its way through the cracks around my windows. Sometimes I hold up against the chill, other times I curl up underneath the covers, leaning into warmth. My half-dreams meander, unsupervised. I pause inside them trying to locate some kind of story, but everything slips through my mind’s gaps.
What to do but stand at the crossroads, waiting, counting breaths as if they were sleep? Eventually the rhythm absorbs me into its circle, arriving and departing with no need of direction.
yielding to winter
wind exhales in minor keys–
trees echo, reply
The birdlings appear again in their February iteration. Even on the darkest coldest day the cosmos shines.
My haibun is for Frank’s prompt at dVerse to use the word breath, and for the What’s Going On prompt to talk about our day(s). Our building got a new boiler recently and the heat finally worked–for a few weeks. Now it’s back to the way it’s been every winter since I’ve lived here, as if the old one never left…
The Kick-About #98
This week’s work considers the art of Fernando Botero.
2024 Update
I’m a bit late to wish everyone a happy new year. This poster I made for my husband’s little party at work is cute, no? He liked it.
The only other stuff I’ve done are these clamshells with graphics courtesy of The Fishwife (canned fish). Hope I’m allowed to cut up their packaging to use.
Another one.
I’ve been playing the guitar a lot and am thinking of posting one of my recordings of myself. Kind of showoffy? I will run it by Kerfe.
A beautiful wasp nest that fell out of our copper beech. It’s three levels and I intended to draw it. Left it outside and now it’s a soggy mess.
Best wishes to all!
Nina
Grey Days (Thursday Doors)
scaffolding
and bare branches—grey
sky, drizzle–
the city
drowses in a seemingly
endless winter nap
I’m having a lot of trouble getting anything accomplished this week–every day is a series of dead ends–so I’ve just gathered a few doors that relate to the shadorma I did for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday with kigo words bare branches and winter nap. The doorway to the black building in the top photo is a little more cheerful than the weather.
I’ve been watching the renovation of this church for quite awhile. The entire facade was covered until recently, so I had no idea what it looked like. I can see the roof from my bedroom window, and when I noticed the pyramids appearing I went to investigate.
Clearly there’s still a lot of work to be done…
The building next to the church is partially covered with scaffolding, but at least I could get a good photo of its door.
I like the pillars and the detailing between the windows above.
And here’s a song for the way the season feels to me right now.
Don’t forget to look for more doors at Thursday Doors, hosted by Dan Antion.
Egyptian Roof Garden (Thursday Doors)
The sky is alive–I consider
the opening, the threshold
with no door—what is
in, what is out, where do I
begin? Does my body still
contain me? I feel
strange, as if I am not
actually there—here?—as
if I am threaded with
ephemeral currents, netted
in this floating airscape that
does not seem to be
located anywhere at all.
I fall together. I am a part
of something. Is it cosmic? I am
not certain. In this still place I have
no need to respond to the unasked.
I visited the Egyptian-inspired Roof Garden Commission, by Lauren Halsey, at the Metropolitan Museum, last May. It was a perfect day.
Halsey stated that she wished the installation to feel like “a spiritual portal to the Mothership, the stars”–and it definitely did.
Although based on Egyptian architecture, Halsey’s structure references her family, friends, and neighborhood of South Central Los Angeles in the faces and hieroglyphic ornamentation on the pillars and walls.
Halsey is very interested in world-building, and wants to create welcoming community spaces for the neighborhood where she grew up, spaces that reflect the energy and imagination of the people she knows. This temple serves as a prototype for one she hopes to build in LA.
You can see an interview with Halsey at the Roof Garden, here.
My poem is a jamb-jitsu, David’s prompt this week for W3.
And there are always more doors to see at Thursday Doors, hosted by Dan Antion.
ephemeral
This week, the Kick-About considers the ephemerality of life.
Symbols (Thursday Doors)
The context shifts into symbols.
The world you have so carefully constructed
enters the void and turns over,
inside out, dancing
a wild spiral that casts
the shadow of your your missing pieces
into the middle of your darkest night.
You have no names for what has been released.
The outline of a talisman shimmers,
inscribed into your core.
Inscribed into your core,
the outline of a talisman shimmers.
You have no names for what has been released
into the middle of your darkest night.
The shadow of all your missing pieces–
a wild spiral that casts
inside out, dancing–
enters the void and turns over
the world you have so carefully constructed.
The context shifts into symbols.
I went to the Cooper Hewitt last week to see the Dorothy Liebes weaving exhibit, but was first enchanted by the door to the Symbols exhibit on the first floor, and then totally overwhelmed by the Es Devlin exhibit upstairs.
I did not know about her work, much of which involves staging–of music shows, plays and operas, and environments that invite public participation–and seeing the mock-ups and evolving ideas displayed was very inspiring. Devlin likes playing with light and layers, and develops her ideas in conjunction with the artists involved.
Aboli asked us to write a Reverse Poem for her W3 prompt this week, something that can be read either forwards or backwards. Kind of like going through a door.
I liked the Liebes exhibit too.
And you can always find more doors at Thursday Doors, hosted by Dan Antion.
Puffleg Hummingbird (Draw a Bird Day)
My first dream was to fly. I pretended to soar and dive in ever more expansive motions, reflecting the shimmer of ocean waves, my invisible wings an iridescent mirror for the open sky.
I wanted to go beyond myself, my ordinary existence. But there’s so much here and now that I haven’t even tried to see or know or understand or be. My dreams have started to pull back, to circle down, grounded in the earth that bears me. Like a bird, I am returning to the land.
time releases in
spiral seasons—hovering,
gossamered with light
Puffleg hummingbirds inhabit the cloud forest in South America, a mountain ecosystem of moist woodland and mosses with low cloud cover between 3000-8000 feet above sea level,
These birds get their name from their dense, usually white, leg puffs. Like all hummingbirds, their plumage contains many iridescent variations of color, and they use their long beaks to feed on the nectar of native flowers.
There are nine recognized species of pufflegs endemic to the Andes. Three are critically endangered, and one, the turquoise-throated puffleg, is thought to be extinct.
In the 1970s, cloud forest made up 11% of global woodlands; now it is down to 1%. One of the most biodiverse ecosystems on the planet, it has been depleted by both deforestation and climate change.
I’ve written about both endangered cloud forest birds and endangered hummingbirds before. The list is growing longer every day.
My haibun was composed for Frank Tassone’s Haikai Challenge II #1: First Dream. A welcome return!
method two madness 
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