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Tuesday, 19 January 2010

Primeval


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File:Minutensprunguhr.gif




The rain it raineth every day. As if with particular intent.

Then there are the nights. So long. Here in the rainforest.

The rain accumulates in the sagging declivity that was once a gutter. And seeps. Sometimes a cascade. Sometimes a torrent. Sometimes drop... by... drop.

Life on earth. These are heaven's gifts. What is that sodden smell? The odour of a clogged drain? The redolent memorial of a weeping cloud, marooned on the celestial shelves past its sell-by date?

The earth is a woman, dreamed by the shipwrecked ancient on his lost island, prostrate on the soggy ground, inhaling the moist humus, letting the dark fragrance soak into his soul, which she permits him to do because she is not selective, she will bless the evil with the good, she is life, and will come where she was not invited and whether the timing is right or wrong.

And the timing always is what it is. The clock is always ticking. Time moves. But goes nowhere. Advances, falls back, starts again. Tick by tick. Drop by drop. Water will wear down a stone, given long enough.

A heart is not made of stone, but may turn stony. Or soggy. Makes no difference to that weeping cloud, which will go on weeping. Makes no difference to that moist and fragrant earth, which will go on giving up its dark fruits.

The night goes on. In the rainforest.




File:Losophosoria.jpg





Animation zur Demonstration einer Minutensprunguhr: photo by Hk kng, 2009
Losophosoria quadripinnata ferns in Valdivian temperate rainforest, southern Chile: photo by Dentren, 2006

9 comments:

STEPHEN RATCLIFFE said...

And yes, "The rain it raineth . . .The night goes on" in these parallel universes we seem to be inhabiting (now that I'm back from New York). . . .

1.18

grey whiteness of cloud against invisible
ridge, silver of rain drop on green leaf
in foreground, sound of wave in channel

of perception, from contact
between sensation and

precision, only by repeated
nature, in themselves

blackness of clouds reflected in channel,
shadowed grey of wave breaking across it

TC said...

Steve,

Welcome home, that was quick. Missed you! Beautiful poem, clearing the channels of perception (as Blake almost said, and perhaps would have, had he made his garden in the shadow of the Groin sign).

Rain cannonading down, here, sluicing through the eaves, thunder and lightning, "the works"...

STEPHEN RATCLIFFE said...

yes, sluicing down here too, the eucalyptus trees plus ocean making a ROAR (started up again at four or so, still going strong (stronger?) --

1.20

grey whiteness of cloud against invisible
ridge, motion of shadowed black branches
in foreground, sound of wave in channel

follows from that, physical
interpretation of act

imaginary angle, the motion
denoted, of the field

grey-white cloud against top of ridge,
silver of drop splashing into channel

TC said...

Steve,

I feel you, like they say. Parallel universes.

the motion
denoted, of the field

grey-white cloud against top of ridge,
silver of drop splashing into channel

The motion of the field here also, grey to white to silver to steel blue, noted and denoted, everything shifting, then shifting again... rocked.

Yesterday's and today's storms came in at about the same early morning hour. Eerie déja vu feeling from earlier El Niño years. Our first Bolinas winter, out by the reef ('68-'69), had a bit of this feel. (Woke up in the dark, heard gurgles, put out hand, felt waters rising beside the bed.) The epic events of '82 (which we experienced in canyon above Santa Barbara) and '98 (here) also came back to me.

the motion
denoted, of the field


Yesterday a.m., a cascade crashing down through ruined roof into dining room, then standing up top amid flapping debris of battered roof tarps, looking out toward the bay, as monsoon rain pelted down and lightning strikes crackled and a mass of steam appeared to be rising off the water as from a vast pot on the boil, I couldn't help thinking once again, this feels... strangely familiar.

Today's blew in like a freight train about 4:30 a.m. and pretty much repeated yesterday's event, if indeed it was not stronger.

We are in micro climate carved out by the notch of the Bridge (we're perpendicular to the opening of the span), everything is sucked in and streams through the notch, lifts and drops ("motion denoted"), so get rainfall totals often doubling those registered a quarter mile to either north or south.

So, enough already.

We're in consternation over how we are going to go on living here. (Alternative options: zero, however.)

The clock is ticking...

zevstar said...

the wind has control of time
restrains or extends the pain
or the rain through the roof

what help can the stranger
the neighbor be?

aditya said...

Reading you Mr. Clark always brings up memories of the little of what I had thought. The least of the little of what I could manage on the paper.


"And the timing always is what it is. The clock is always ticking. Time moves. But goes nowhere. Advances, falls back, starts again. Tick by tick."


"Chasing time, I realized it is not the batteries what control the ticking. For the clocks never slow down. "

The title btw is really nice.

TC said...

If the wind has control of time, and the wind keeps blowing, chasing time will never allow us to catch up with it.

We come to this race with time ill-equipped. Batteries not included.

leigh tuplin said...

Perpetual-like, a tactile energy throughout this leaves the senses and mind widened. Wonderful!

TC said...

Thank you Leigh,

This one doesn't seem to see much, but kind of crawls or creeps along,trying to learn a language it doesn't yet know, feeling for the ground.