Whisper

7 October 2009

There’s a perfect arc of moistened concrete

beneath the storm door today, another autumnal whisper,

“summer is gone,” I’d not heard until this morning.

From now until May, possibly June,

the air on the world-side of that door will be cooler

than the air on the home-side.

The latter will rarely be warm enough, and the former

will only shed its moisture down the door for so long

before North Wind weaves of the water

her crystalline lacework over the glass;

hides the frosted grass from view.

Finding North Wind

It occured to me tonight to take a look back at where I was in my writing a year ago. I'm glad I did.

I was originally introduced to the writings of George MacDonald, and specifically to _At the Back of the North Wind_, by an online poetry buddy by the handle of Mahlonovich. Many thanks and much affection still go to him for bringing me face to face with my dear North Wind.

Many thanks also to George MacDonald for the gift of North Wind. She has come to mean something other to me than MacDonald may have originally intended. But that's the beauty of great literature, and an illustration of George MacDonald's singular ability to create a character whose impact is so striking, one cannot help but love her and own her meaning long after finishing the book.

FINDING NORTH WIND
17 November 2005, 8:59 PM
Edited 19 November 2006, 6:51 PM

I sat beside North Wind,
and she told me of the lands of magic
beyond the periphery of her sight.

She is full of paradox,
my dear North Wind,
for my vision is made clearer
by all she cannot see.

She comes to me as I sit
within this seeming-stagnant pool,
Yet in her presence all becomes
a living, breathing being;
bankless river ever flowing,
tripping over mossy rock and down
the sharp incline of mountain
toward emerald grass of valleys below.

I've never heard her chuckle
nor stifle a giggle,
for her laugh is thunder,
toppling the mountain whence she came.

Nor have I ever seen her
just a little cross: Beneath her rage
the very earth is set trembling.
She sets ablaze the firmament
with naught but her indignant gaze.

I've never seen a single tear
drop from her eye,
for when she weeps
the rushing river which is she
becomes a mighty torrent
overwhelming me.

I've never heard her whistle
but she ended in a song
which was as deep as it was long,
nor any smaller nor less strong
for having found its birth
within the breast of one
so small at once,
and yet again so very large!
To quantify such majesty
is far too great a task,
beyond my reach.

And quite pointless besides.

For once I had her pegged,
she simply would be off again,
tripping over hill and stone,
laughing,
weeping,
alone or in the company of princes.

It matters not to her.

She simply is,
and will not long abide
my notions of what is needful.

North Wind and some imagery taken from and inspired by George MacDonald's "At the Back of the North Wind."

For a Rooftop Dweller

5 December 2005, 10:15 AM

I am not dwelling on
I’m dealing with

The fact that you can’t see me
Only serves to prove the point

You have never dealt with

All your life you’ve fought not to
Struggled to move past
To get on with

And you wonder why
You can’t get around
Under
Over

You cannot dwell elsewhere
Until you climb down from it
Go inside and dwell
Sit a spell
Study the hearth
The halls
The pictures on the walls
The stains
Upon the well-worn carpet

And the very cold
Very bare floor

Be haunted by the mournful creak
Of rocking chair
The solitary moan of chimney
As North Wind makes her endless pass
Over the roof

Where you stubbornly sit and wonder
Why you are so cold

The stair

The stair is waiting for your steps
Longing for the day you come again
Let her carry you to places
You have been

Long forgotten

Darkened doorways
Consuming fright
Sweat-damp sheets
Extinguished light

Face the night
Accept your plight

Cease denying what has been
It need not come back ‘round again
Turn your back to the North Wind

Begin again