Sunday, May 7, 2017

Like Long Dark Cats Stretching, or: Born Eighty-One Years Ago

Loud, please. More here. About him here. Look, please.
High Egoslavian Holy Day tomorrow. May is Egoslavia's birthdayiest.
Bleggalgaze: I need reminding once a year.


May Swenson

I want the fluffy stuff to keep coming down.
I’m looking into the garden from the third floor.
I wait for it to settle on brownstone windowsills,
on fire escapes, their narrow iron stairs.
Thin-as-tissue bits fall and rise on spirals of air
like meandering moths, and never reach the ground.
At last, dead vines on the trellis in the sooty
backyard begin to whiten. There sprouts a mat
of white grass. Tips of pickets on the fence
get mittens. Chimney tops in the opposite block
have their hoods and copings furred. The fluffy
stuff catches in crotches of the old ailanthus
whose limbs, like long dark cats stretching
on their backs, expose white bellies.
What began gauzy, lazy, scarce, falls willingly now.
I want it to race straight down, big, heavy, thick,
blind-white flakes rushing down so plentiful, so
opaque and dense that I can’t see through the curtains.


  1. Apparently Joanna Brouk had been resting in relative peace — that is, in the familial setting — for quite some time following her period of sonic output. I'm wholly unfamiliar with her written work, but The Space Between echoes a more natural cascade of the initial triad of the Ambient series that featured the anatomical cast of Robert Wyatt, Harold Budd, & Laraaji, particularly paralleling the latter two (Plateaux of Mirror and Days of Radiance), as well as gracefully foreshadowing Thursday Afternoon. It will be sure to bring the birdsong to the window for time yet to come.

  2. With her use of saron, it also resonates a little Neroli. I forgot to mention, as well, how sublime Earthgirl's work from yesterday is.

  3. swenson's poem reminds me of my only memorable haiku

    white nights are bright nights
    snowflakes slant through street lights and
    muffle my footsteps