Winter Waters

walking by the lake blue-white in half-melte
distant scraping resolves to
sails further out, skaters with parasails
in just enough wind, metal on ice
wet gliding, steel shaving, memory of iceboats

several hours' drive further north
there are bear tracks in late snow
some kind of quiet god woken too early
to own his still-twilit domain
long summer evenings have not yet sprung
out of blue bogs, green cattails, moose brown

there's a river only half-awake
this blue hour of year, stone clatter
musical chime of cold flow on icicle
blue tears hung by spray on granite over shale ledge
this single river carving its shallow valley
scrapes dense kraton, tough sheets, resistant caprock

even further where loons will migrate later
hallow sea-edge open watered haloed green
white pack ice wind-sails into the corner bay
lead left half-open, ready someday for seals
where shallow river-mouth meets tidal swell

we write what we have, when it comes
on shore sand, on half-drowned leaf
brown with tannins and river rust
the land writes on my own waters
circulating sea-tide of red blood and bone shell
skull under skin just waiting its time to emerge

back south in more habitable home
late snow coats milkweed pods whiter
than white, late broken buds exploding with cotton
wild rice stalks clump like black bamboo
and the ring of open water mudding the shore shines

Blessed Solstice 2015

I wrote out this blessing on the eve of Winter Solstice 2015. It arose from my own thoughts and dreams, and experiences, over the past Yearwheel. It also a form of Gratitudes, which is what I write every year instead of New Year's Resolutions.

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Blessed Be!

Sweet winter solstice blessings to all.

May your forests be dark and fragrant with unsolved mysteries.

May your fields be blessed with gentle rains.

May the road rise to your journey with the grace of fish rising to taste the water's surface.

May the lights of all the physical fires, the fire in the atom spinning, be the lights in your eyes that find the path you follow open and inviting.

May your home be filled with feasts for all your senses.

May your nights be dark with dreams and crystalline sleep.

By sunlight, candlelight, starlight, and fire light,
Reflections of the Light Eternal.

It is finished in Beauty,
It is finished in Beauty,
It is finished in Beauty,
It is finished in Beauty.

Who created us all in the beginning,
Receive us all in the end.

So Mote It Be.

words from silence

sickle moon through pines setting
river of stars coursing
from fireplace hearth across skybowl
to moon river on lake

long silences
except from firecrackle and wind treerustle

build a fire
cast its glow across the meadow
stars flicker in grass
moon silvers treetops
fire grows and fades
dim eyes in the hedge
no voices but from hill echoes
there's no home here no home
but sojourner's wayside rest

no words rise
out of darkness starlit blessed
abandon all words
in favor of brush, quill, pen
abandon all desire of words
till words come of their own will
creeping at last to doorsill
to hesitantly knock
bright glints of moon
in their wild wild eyes

•

Poem written while camping in northern Minnesota, September 2015

while the light lasts

fire before me, lighting my way
fire behind me, warming me
waxing moon over my shoulder
misty silver mark on sky
through blackbranch trees
moon river on lake surface
small waves striking shore rocks
behind fierily trees
lightning strobe far to the west
past forest swamps and rivers
candles flicker in chill western breeze
we live to write while the light lasts

•

Written while camping on the shore of Lake Michigan, September 2015

night of power

first steps under heaven
river of stars eddies, swirls
constellations moving to new forms

first taste of water
deep black underground river of stars
sparkle tin cup brimful clear

first light the lake
blue through standing pine altars
of green, loon calling, calling

first morning of the world
sunlight on birchbark a whorl of time
the oldest land spirits step quietly

through pine stand altars green and grey

•

wildwinds
bring ancient woods
under a fierce minted moon

scattering silver spots
on a leaf-blown path

old old wind

•

this night of power:

wind high in trees
fire bright
stars wheeling
northern lights
shooting stars

By firelight, candlelight,
starlight, and sunlight,
Who created us all in the beginning,
receive us all in the end.

Letter to Orphée

Thinking of a lyre of wood and wire and earth,
an earth lyre, I think of an elemental music,
a music made of earth, metals and woods
and stones of earth, played by wind howling
outside the house this dim, blustery day. The clouds
last evening, and pale light this morning, look like snow coming,
not rain. Rushes of sound, wind blowing across
the housetop, reverberate down the chimney.
Orpheus picks up a strangely curved branch of fallen
wood off the forest floor, strings it with copper wires, and plays.
His lyre summons spirits of the air, voices hiding behind
wind and mist, his singing voice, his poetry, becomes the telling
of seasons, days turning the planet under stars.
An elemental voice describing a concerto of ever-changing forces
and spirals in the sky. Spiral wood beams struck by lightning
embrace a pale white stone from anywhere but here.
Perhaps an ancient sea. You cannot be unaware, Orpheus,
that time and change take us all, that these stones eroding
to dust and leaves in this interstellar wind were once
a shallow sea, or that the peak of our tallest mountain
is made of shells of sea creatures that died millions of years gone
to fall to deep ooze and be pressed into rock
by the pressures of what came after. My home
is a temple of standing stones. Red and gold sandstones
form a shelter around whose curves the wind howls. We work
these metal flakes, gold bright and soft copper green, into veins
of the lyre of Orpheus, seams in the wood, ore seams in the earth.
Its copper strings gleam with forged memory. Its curve
is a memory of birds nesting in the crook of an ancient bole,
a tree much older than any bird, once fallen forgotten
by the descendants of sparrows and robins who once it sheltered.
Birds nest in the hair, the ear, of Orpheus, and dictate their songs
to his receptive tongue, his voice which forgets nothing,
not even the oldest groan of the planet giving spontaneous birth to life.
It's tempting to believe that those who refuse to hear these spirits
singing have themselves no souls, but we must not judge, we must
leave room for revelation. Everything connects. Webs and orbs
and lyre-spiders who weave them. Atoms of everything, whirling
in apparent silence within these fossiled stones, glint and spark
in light cast by the voice of the son of dreaming. His torn limbs
cast upon waters and forest floor. Orphée retrieves his own bones
and sinew as he picks up another fallen treelimb to weave
a newer lyre. Look, will you not: gold leaves glow
in the last rays of afternoon, below this hillside meadow,
and behind that is the whirling sparkle of molecules dancing,
and behind that the velocity of a shining planet, an orb
hurling itself into silence. We are the cliffs we jump from.
Our naked flesh breaks the laketop shimmer as we fall,
we disappear forever into that water mirror, then placidity returns.
Low hum of oceans singing in the blood, wind in the copper wires
of a sacred city, a lyre strung above dark streets the moon guards.
A forest of shadows grows within oil slicks reflecting streetlights
and trash bins. But in time, deep time, this forest made of bricks
will be overeaten and digested by new forests, returned and ink-vined
along borders of papyrus leaves woven into sheets of sand
by the lyre's unending song. The lowest string on a harp
of air and ice, the lowest tone that, struck,
can shatter crystal mountains. Wind strokes
the highest strings into humming.
Orpheus takes breath, opens his mouth to sing again.
What comes forth
shapes wind-blown broken sandflakes
back into mirrors full of starlight.

thick dreams of travel

thick dreams of travel
wake you late
might as well get up

you hear words and music
scribing themselves somewhere
in the tan papyrus

of the back of the mind
where dreams scroll
and vast beasts lurk

lines and curlicues of
thrust and melody
get it down before

the tornado of everyday
morning visits robs
you of what you can recall

•


Capitol Reef National Park, UT
digital painting, 2013

A Summoning of Fireflies

A new short film.



A Summoning of Fireflies. 2013.

Video, sound & music by Arthur Durkee.

Music: "Summoning" by Arthur Durkee
AD: Animoog, softsynths, bass guitar, live recordings, effects.
All Rights Reserved.

In June, when I was out shooting footage of the wind in the grass, as dusk fell the fireflies began rising from the verge. They pulsed alongside the road ditches, in the trees, and over the fields.

I have spent several evenings this summer filming fireflies at dusk, gathering a lot of good material. This short film is the first in a series.

stars in grass alongside bright sky fade

cool of evening
walks alongside silence:
this waving grass

a good year for fireflies, now late at night off in distance
howling, maybe coyotes, over the fields and far away
along the river shore lights pulse green-gold on darker emerald
trees and grasses along the verge a knot of possibility
high summer wet warm wearying while cicadas mourn
singing long desperate howls in midafternoon sunblaze
nightsong distant lonely voices of desert dogs wandering
up alingside verdant river green liffull beneath a purpling dusk

in small blue above tall forest tops a crescent moon licks silver
light from azure blue indigo to carve a sickle caul across black night

Autumn Colors at Their Peak

A few days ago, taking a break from working on projects, I went out for a drive in the afternoon, just to change gears for awhile. That's always a good way to clear out the cobwebs in the head. I wound up driving out to one of my favorite local county parks, where the autumn colors in the trees were at their peak. A stunning display.




Autumn colors in the local park. No one about. A gentle breeze in this sheltered valley becomes a stiff and howling wind on the open farm fields outside.



Stillness in the valley, except for the trees bowing in the wind above the high hill. Stones of memory and silence, embracing entwining encompassing encapsulating. Where the river runs out to dry the stone begins. Wind becoming an ending, a beginning. Becoming light. Always into light.



Bluejay in a golden maple. Thin haze between blue sky and still=green lawn. Spruce bearing fruit that on second glance is little brown birds, and a female cardinal.



The road covered with glory. Leaves by the ditch brilliant with light.

In the Garden Grows the Heart

This spring I've been too distracted, too busy, occasionally too tied up in knots medically, even depressed, to give my garden much attention. Suffice to say that I have been challenged, unhappy, and mostly not having a good time. I haven't been physically sick—this is the first winter in almost twenty years that I have not been stricken with a cold or flu. I got through the entire winter with no illnesses, no walking pneumonia, nothing. That's new since the surgery.



I do love getting my hands in the dirt: it's very healing. But for one reason or another, I haven't had much time for gardening this year so far. That's okay, though, because over the past few years since I bought my house I've been planning and panting a garden that is mostly self-maintaining, mostly perennials, and can tolerate neglect.




The garden is designed so that some flowers are blooming, giving color and light to my home, from early spring through the first frost in autumn: there is always color, always fragrance. When the crocuses fade, the daffodils and tulips begin. At the end of the season, after the lilies have gone, the chrysanthemums reach their peak, sometimes lasting till All Hallows.



This year my crabapple tree was astounding. Just bursting with colors, and full of very happy bees.



In addition to the idea that something should always be in bloom, I planned my garden to inspire me photographically. I make new images every year. Even when I neglect my gardening duties, it mostly takes care of itself, and surprises me. This year the lilies have split again and in a month or so I will surrounded by literally dozens of lilies in several varieties and colors. Come July, the perfume will be overpowering in the evening, just as I desire.



This year the columbines have exploded, bursting out in huge bunches of blue, white and purple.




at sunset the bees
hover fitfully over stars:
blue columbine



The bleeding hearts lasted a full month, due to the initial warm days followed by weeks of cool and wet. The garden looks a little wild and dense this year—more English country garden than Japanese Zen garden—and the little dry sculptures I've made out of rocks gathered throughout my travels are mostly hidden by green growing things.

I admit it. This garden has taken me years to plan and assemble, but I love it. It's the talk of the neighbors, who complement the garden every time we meet on the street by the mailboxes, or just to chat.

Rural Roads: an afternoon's crop of photos and haiku

hard prairie winds
pull at the barn windows,
hawk overhead



gopher tracks in spring,
crossing from mud to creek,
leave dirt clods behind



white tree flowers
fast clouds, high winds:
snow on the road



the sky's more empty
without a falcon soaring
despite these clouds



trees as tall as barns
host swallow strings—
nesting time has come

Joshua Tree: Infrared 2

images from Joshua Tree National Park

Mid-afternoon and towards evening. Infrared photos of some of my favorite parts of the park.


Ocotillo grove






Chollo cactus fields




sunset at Hidden Valley

Joshua Tree: Infrared

Images from Joshua Tree National Park, CA, February 2012



Early morning, a hot day in mid-February in the California desert. Strong shadows with sharp edges in the morning light. Infrared brings out the high contrast between light and dark, creating abstract shapes. The rocks and plant forms are almost alien in this strange light.

Ocotillo Flowers

Ocotillo Flowers

At Joshua Tree National Park, where I camped for two nights, there had been a relatively wet fall, so many of the cacti were blooming this mild winter. The ocotillo grove, which is one my favorite spots in the Park, had several stands that were flowering. Long conical red flowers at the ends of the long cactus stalks, some of the stands covered in small green leaves. Ocotillo are dramatic, standing up to 20 feet high, stalks growing from a central taproot point. They bend to the prevailing wind over time, giving them a windswept look even when the day is calm.

I made this drawing on my iPad, with the ArtRage app, using one of the photos I made that afternoon as a reference image. Still, I like the more impressionistic result. I didn't try to be too realistic about the background, or the area around the ocotillo, suggesting more than depicting the surrounding dirt and stands of sage. Still, anyone who's been to the Southwest will recognize the colors, the sky, the desert scene, and the ocotillo.

I did this drawing in several layers, exploring the app's Layers feature for the first time. The cactus and its sun-shadow are foregrounded, while other layers were built up for the sky, the distant line of mountains, and the foreground dirt with its loose jumble of rocks. I used several different tools this time, two different kinds of brushes, pastels, a little airbrush, and the paint roller. I like broad strokes for this kind of drawing, and I think the paint roller made an interesting sky gradient, built up in several thicknesses on different layers. more subtle to create than the end result appears. This kind of drawing/painting painting is about underpainting, building up color in layers, so that subtle effects show through. It took me awhile, but I like the finished result.

The Range of Light

(Images from Yosemite National Park, CA, February 2012.)





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after sunset
moon and road
converge

in the blur of travel
the long ride home

Deer

in my backyard, fresh snow

Saguaro Moon

A classic image from the Southwest of my imagination. A place I will be in reality, just a few days from now.

This is a drawing, rather, a digital painting, I made on my iPad this afternoon, using a sophisticated painting app called ArtRage. I made this painting in about ten or twelve minutes, as I was waiting while the shop installed new tires on my truck, prior to my upcoming roadtrip.

I really like the ArtRage app, which is the most intuitive and flexible painting software I've encountered in years. It provides a wide range of adjustable drawing and painting tools, all customizable and adaptable, along with a range of paper textures, effects, and other illustrative processes. There is even the ability to use a reference photo as tracing paper, or a guide. One can work on several layers, too, so that transparencies can be built up non-destructively. i find myself able to paint and draw things easily and quickly, using a stylus, in this digital domain, that frankly I would not be able to do in the real world. (That's partly because I'm chemically sensitive, or rather allergic, to many traditional artistic materials, including aromatics like turpentine and other agents.)

For this digital painting, I mostly used a flat watercolor brush, paint tube and roller, and a sable brush, changing the color and settings for saturation, etc., several times during the painting. I found the tools easy to figure out, and using the stylus came naturally. I guess teaching myself to draw over the past years has had some benefits, after all.

Sun

the first sun
was the white eye of a grey day

the second sun
was blood on the road

thirds don't come
when you call your cadence

just leave the last sun
under the road's long sigh





boom of angel
eye presence in the lowered sky

continuous exaltation
where nothing is but what burns

long fall towards
ends neither remorse nor winnow

the final sun
was the red eye of departure