not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013




  1. sometimes i wonder if words wait to be claimed. the word spirit was claimed and is forevermore united with my lover's mouth, a poem he wrote many years ago, not for me but for something much deeper and much more enduring.

    The Real Woman in Sunlight by James Owens

    That day the river lay beautifully
    like a woman on her lover’s bed,
    as if a woman’s flanks could shine
    the way sunlight caressed the water,

    and she and I -- the real woman,
    not the river -- climbed from the water
    dripping, to eat bread and fruit
    and lie on moss beneath the trees,

    trying to take as much of the sky
    as possible into our eyes. Spirit --
    it seemed the bread in our hands
    might verge into spirit, so lucid

    was the air holding us, and the trees
    were finally emblems of spirit
    from the cool earth to the upper twigs
    mixing with sky. The shine of a bee’s wings

    as it crawled unstinging over the woman’s
    belly became the shine
    of spirit going abroad,
    embodied there in sunlight

    and in the sun’s meeting with water
    and skin. Who would not want a vision
    of the world where this
    would be enough for the woman,

    a sufficient way of speaking about life,
    or of the spirit speaking for itself
    in the bee exploring her belly,
    dipping around the rim of her navel

    and flying from between her breasts?
    Imagine that sort of world --
    imagine that we watched the bee
    and turned hungry toward each other.

    1. i have always, deeply, almost religiously, loved this poem.
      thank you for bringing it together with this overwhelming photograph.

    2. and in a way, as though a threaded loop, i first heard this poem through you, on james's older site, addressed to a:))))) that you receive it religiously is very important. and right)))


  2. Magnificently illustrated that intangible spirit
    floating in space, a dream.

  3. this bird photograph was such a surprise to me. this bird, despite it looking otherwise, was a crow, but there were so many others. i was up a logging road, out and into the forest. out of the car at a swamp i noticed many birds circling a trailhead. i had run through there a week or so before and the birds had fled then and so i went back to investigate. i knelt in the bushes on the side of the road and heard crows and vultures overhead beat their wings. just feet above me! i heard them do this! i was mesmerized by their heat. there were discarded moose legs at the trailhead that they had been eating from. they had claimed the carrion and wanted me to be sure of it. when the birds weren't circling, trying to determine what kind of threat i was, they were resting in the foliage hidden and calling to one another across the treetops. crows sounded like gorillas! (this is true!) i have never heard such sounds, but did after this hear a different crow on a hilltop making another sound i could never have anticipated. perhaps all of this seems to speak against spirit, but it can not. spirit is built through body.


  4. The photo did me in yesterday (as did James's poem), and I had nothing to say (i.e., everything to say, so nothing comes). Now your second comment helps me say something! i.e., the body makes it possible to say something .... as the crows and vultures understand.

    I want to be in that experience. A privilege to witness in that intimacy. Thank you for living and telling it. (I think you know I adore turkey vultures, maybe as you do crows.)

    1. yes, ruth! what an intimacy, to be that close to birds, to be allowed inside their globe of being! and their being was so body, eating the carrion, responding to that feast! it was all so beautiful, so raw and important. crouched in the ditch i almost felt as though i didn't exist.



  5. Fantastic photo. I think it is the best I see in the last times.

    · hugs

    · CR · & · LMA ·


"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))