Month: March 2016

Magnolia | edge of evening

Pause

Poetry makes language care because it renders everything intimate. This intimacy is the result of the poem’s labor, the result of the bringing-together-into-intimacy of every act and noun and event and perspective to which the poem refers. There is often nothing more substantial to place against the cruelty and indifference of the world than this caring. And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos by John Berger We’re at B’s parents’ house in France, on Easter break, on pause. Our Easters here are usually a taste of summer — often, juxtaposed against winter, more perfect than summer itself. But this year, with its early-Easter, its non-winter winter, it’s rained most of the time we’ve been here. Different weather, different rhythms; but still: reading, resting, thinking about what comes next. It’s been a year since we were here. They’ve all grown so much. On the days when the boys have been able to play outside, it’s been as though the future is now and B & I can both sit and read/play guitar. Then, on days when we’re all …

Bluets by Maggie Nelson | edge of evening

Rereading: Bluets

1. Suppose I were to begin by saying that I had fallen in love with a color. Suppose I were to speak this as though it were a confession; suppose I shredded my napkin as we spoke. It began slowly. An appreciation, an affinity. Then, one day, it became more serious. Then (looking into an empty teacup, its bottom stained with thin brown excrement coiled into the shape of a seahorse) it became somehow personal. Bluets by Maggie Nelson Rereading as a way to recover a lost state, to return to the cloud of feeling the book first evoked. I suppose that you re-readers must have made this discovery long ago. But, it’s not without its risks. Who hasn’t experienced the book that changes during one’s absence and upon reacquaintance isn’t at all the colour, shape, texture or density that memory would suggest? Or — more insidious, more disconcerting — the book that contains the underlinings and margin notes of an imbecile in one’s own neat hand. 130. We cannot read the darkness. We cannot read it. It …

Hellebore | edge of evening

The turn

We had that first weekend when the weather finally turns, the earth creaking on its axis, and instantaneously the possibility of spring fills the air. Old friends came to stay and, though it normally rains here whenever anyone visits, this time the sun shone and it was, most definitely, spring. B & the children visited the farm shop to buy lamb and were also invited to admire the newborn lambs bothering their unfazed mothers in the field. T counted the births listed on the whiteboard — quads, triplets, twins and singletons: 112 lambs born in the past ten days. This morning I’m restless, the weekend worn off. The four hours without children shrinking and expanding as I fidget with the different ways I could fill them. The Year 6 children from school are cycling along the road outside my window, taking their cycling proficiency. I tried to explain to a French neighbour who came over for coffee yesterday what they’re doing out there. It sounded slightly crazy as our road is a dead end & there is …

Patrin by Theresa Kishkan | edge of evening

Patrin

He walked me home that evening, and came in to see the quilt. I took it off my bed, into the small living room, and over cups of Earl Grey tea, we looked at each square. I showed him the work I’d done, the new binding sewn over the old, and I showed him how the tiny veins of the leaves in faded gold thread led to brighter gold in protected areas. He told me the names of the leaves in Czech — dubová, the oak; lipa, the linden (though we have a familiar, an affectionate, name for it too, he said; we call it lipky); buková, the beech; and javorovy, the maple. He looked thoughtfully at the squares, the patterns of the leaves within them, and they grey sashing — not straight, as one would expect, but meandering at times, so the the block it led to might have an oblong of linen patched between the leaves and the sashing. Do you know something? It was not posed as a question but as a discovery. I think …