death & the maiden | as the thornbird returns

death & the maiden may we peel back our sleeping wintery layers like snakeskins, like the silk chrysalis, / like clothing cast off during love. lisa colt — prayer

my dearest reader, March is at once the lion and the butterfly.

I am growing kinder, I think; and I am growing calmer, too. I forgive myself. the girlskin that hangs off the clothesrack is old — so are the feathers. I emerge at last from my cocoon, all tender. still; this is not to say that I am free of ache. quite contrary — now more than ever something howls in me, begging for the hands to unravel it. I think that I shall grant its' plea.

INDEX one................for march's flowers two.........first quarter : friday 1–8 three...second quarter : saturday 9–16 four......third quarter : sunday 17–24 five.......last quarter : monday 25-31 six.......a letter to vincent van gogh seven.................shelf selections eight.....odds & ends & ill-fit things

for march's flowers

Boy Tuesday kisses the wolves of my joints; says, o lady, you are most blessed among angels, among women, among all of

us phantoms. in turn I kiss his lips, his temples, the back of his closed eyelids ——— so dear he is to me, so dear to this erring, night-thieved heart;

tulip-bird, I say, red-breasted son of Aurora ——— I am loved no more than you, no more than any other child that clings to Mother's

skirts, enshied by the beauty of our old gods.

Boy Tuesday laughs, presses white blooms across the pleating of my hair; and yet o lady, says he, you are most loved

among the Dark's songbirds.

first quarter one : I must admit that I am fearful; beginning a new month is always hard, as I have learned to expect of things an extraordinarily quick decay. still, I remain optimistic; I feel as though I must, if I am to live. † two : following February’s awful burnout, my footsteps are quite ginger; yet nonetheless I walk forward. I am learning slowness, as I said I ought to; taking the days at a snail-crawl, one after the other. today I am stricken by a rather romantic mood — loneliness is a most exquisite muse! poetry flows, ceaseless. † three : preoccupied, today; or plagued, I should perhaps say. thoughts of “useful” and “usefulness” are pervasive; this because I have been rereading Vincent’s letters, and was again made angry at how his suffering was glorified and glamorized by the consumerist culture of today. make no mistake, I do believe in meritocracy; however, I also believe that the way it is understood by the masses is perilous. † four : the weather was lovely today, which gladdened me; before the month began, I chose the fourth to be my baba, as is custom. our folklore sees the first nine days of March as being ursitoare, indicative of how the year will be for the person that has chosen them. my omen is most auspicious — dare I hope? † five : melancholy overtakes me — a pitfall of the season, I suppose. at least the weather is still lovely: early morn wings the skies with a light mountain rain; by midday, its’ fall is sweetened to a gentle lull. † six : ill today; food poisoning, I suspect, though I am not quite sure what has caused it. I try to channel my misery into a more ennobled endeavor, and so the day’s poetry takes the direction of a hymnal. † seven : by evening my condition is much improved, courtesy of rest moreso than medicine; the body is very particular about how it deals with poisons, and mine cannot seem to quiet down until it has ridden itself of all threats. I was unable to sleep at all yesterday, and so today I indulged with due deliberation. † eight : “I am dead and I need tenderness”, as Zbigniew Herbert said. I console myself by conjuring images of the beloved — but it is not quite enough, and now anew melancholy envelops the downcast arching of my shoulders. I sink; I sink and I pray of the dark to revive me.

second quarter nine : thoughts of love birth thoughts of worship, and so today I ponder upon its’ nature: many think it to mean blind submission, the unquestioning belief found in the ecclesiastically inclined; quite contrary, to me worship is the apex of all understanding — to accept something in full awareness of its’ horror. † ten : still quite contemplative; perhaps mother was right. I do live inside my own skull, and every action pertaining to the physical is merely an extension of that fancy — and yet how else am I supposed to live? † eleven : the more I see of man the less I want anything to do with society, polite or otherwise. I would hardly call myself nostalgic for ‘the good old days’, seeing as how there have never been such days in the first place — but good God is this is all a touch too much. the vacancy of soul, the vapid airs...I shiver in revulsion. perhaps I should resign myself wholly to a life of hermitage, and be quite done with it all. † twelve : a little worn, today, moreso in body than in spirit. there is a curious pressure to the atmosphere, which is by nightfall broken with rain; I convalesce indoors, indulging in poetry and dried persimmons. † thirteen : gardenwork, today, by which I mean that our balcony is steadily becoming a jungle. and the ferns were in dire need of a trim. I like being among the plants; green souls, every last one of them, wellmatched to my need for peace. a part of me begins to reconsider its’ long-thought-of postmortem plans; I would not mind much being buried, if it would mean that I could grow into a shaded patch of land. † fourteen : rain again; I hope ever so dearly that April will be at least half as generous with her weather. † fifteen : pleasantly surprised by a gift of authentic Turkish delight: lemon, mint, rose, each flavor of most exquisite potency. I do not have that much of a sweet tooth — I never really have, if one only discounts my passion for cocoa powder-laden Belgian truffles — but this is, indeed, a weakness of mine. † sixteen : I pore today over old masters; those of the visual arts, for a change — and despite my Romantic misgivings, I struggle to name it my most favorite period in painting. I am much more drawn to Art Nouveau and Art Deco, the gardens of which are populated by the likes of Mucha and Erté, respectively.

third quarter seventeen : quite idle, today. spring is settling into the bones of my town; almost all of the trees have leaved, though many still lack their inflorescence. I take a walk and, hidden out of view, toe at the grass; there is no doubt in my mind that my health would be much improved if I could be barefoot at all times. † eighteen : sacrilege and more sacrilege — which I believe at this point apt to describe me entirely, beyond the mere surface level of my poetic endeavors. I am overfull always of longing, yet today I find such yearnings accented, raised an inch farther up towards the ever-elusive realm of Art. † nineteen : I begin penning a play about nothing; which at a hear may sound pretentious, or perhaps perditious, as ‘nothing’ is paramount among the themes of philosophy, and quite difficult to work with coherently — but ah, I have divagated; the play is, more accurately, an enjoyable exercise in nothingness. † twenty : mother whispers me away early in the day; or perhaps it is best said that we whisper each other. early spring is a season undecided, meteorologically speaking, so while we are not yet quite ready to give up our winter boots, we decide new shoes shan’t hurt, either. I settle on a pair of highsole loafers. † twenty-one : a quiet day. I take to my thought diary, pacify myself with small hand-tasks. the hyacinths I had pressed at the beginning of March fill me with tears; I flow a little crooked, a river out of its’ banks. † twenty-two : the rain returns, again, again — o, how joyous! I doubt I shall ever tire of it. † twenty-three : one thing which I expect shall never cease to fascinate me is how haunted the world is by echoes; today, I am thinking specifically of the hero-king myth, which we see incarnated in all cultures.

“He is not a man,” I write elsewhere, speaking of King Arthur; “he is a desire. He satisfies the need for a hero ‘of the people’, one […] capable of unifying all under one banner.” Romania has such an Eternal King in the figure of Vlad III, which explains quite a bit about us (including our general hatred for Dracula). † twenty-four : three quarters of the month have passed already, and I am mournful of it; March is by far one of my most favorite months, and it has been kind to me always, all things considered.

last quarter twenty-five : I sleep most of the day away — and at this point, it becomes clear to me that this is no longer exhaustion. my depression bares its’ teeth, lunging for the throat without the bother of an introduction. well, no matter; I shall take what rest I can get, when I can get it, and all else be damned. † twenty-six : the rain returns during the night, kissing the early-blooming flowers off of the trees. I watch as the river swells with white, washing the petals out of our valley, taking their pearl deeper south. it is profoundly cathartic; I have missed moments like these, when the world is dark in daylight. † twenty-seven : an all in all a rather uneventful day; I receive some terrific news, but that’s about it. more worryingly, there is a foreboding undercurrent to my state of mind; I fear I am again emptying of myself. † twenty-eight : my fears prove to be prophetic — at least partly. I am in the waning ebb of my lunarity, listless and lacking in inspiration. the stress of these past few months has at last caught up to me: I break out on the palms and behind the ears, my psoriasis returned with a vice. no matter. I will prevail; no obstacle measures up to me anymore, not even my own self. I will surmount this, as I have before, as I will every time it shall rear its’ head and roar, wanton for my heart-blood. † twenty-nine : a strange mood seizes me — I wake at first dawn, possessed by an unusual alacrity. most of my day is spent writing; and whilst the results are excellent, I daren’t call this wan phase overcome just yet. this is a fever that I am sickening with, a pyrrhic and iniquitous paroxysm. † thirty : today I am fallen prey to a sweet drowsiness, and although my anxieties linger about me in the guise of veiled censer-bearers, I distract myself from their heavy-handed song — indulging instead in an array of odd or otherwise eerie movies, including titles such as the acclaimed Sayat Nova and lesserknown The Silenced (the 2015 production, not to be confused with the 2011 Dogani, also a Korean film). † thirty-one : for all the strangeness of March’s arms, he is a lover I am most mournful to must bid adieu to. alas; I leave our time behind with king thoughts, for I know that he shall return to me sooner than the conscious might expect. as for you, my dearest Reader, I leave you with love and with light — as well as these misquoted verses from Wordsworth: “While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, / Make all one band of paramours, / Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, / Art sole [...] thyself in thy enjoyment.”

my love———

There are no almonds here, I am afraid; but there is lilac, and there are quince, and pears, and apple — and the earliest bloomer of all fruit trees, the cherry-plum, which has already donned its’ white dress. You would have liked my town, I do think; little to it but forest and fields, curled snug into one another. You needn’t even walk its’ streets to feel it throb under your feet, green and alive.

Vincent—my love, my heart. I do not quite know how to word this.

The sadness did last; but it did not win. It is true that the world of thereafter wherein I bide my days has transfigured your pain, aestheticizing it to no more than mere commodity — but it is also true that your story has echoed with it. I speak a lot about them; echoes, that is, the imprints of a ripple.

And my love, you have left us with so many of them — with so many kind tableaux, with so many kind words. This July, a hundred and twenty-nine years will have passed since the day you walked into the light, no doubt followed by countless flowers — and still the echoes of you comfort and soothe so many hearts, mine reddest among them. In a strange way, I suppose you could say that I have fallen for you, as one falls for a distant friend, as one admires a mentor.

Vincent—my love, my heart. With utmost sincerity, I thank you.

I have learned a lot from you; chiefly how to remain kind despite my despair, that even in the darkest depths of it I must remain kind to myself. It is my hope that our shadows may meet in a world gentler than the ones we were born into; somewhere where the grass is tall and proud, somewhere the wheat sways heavy under the August sun. Somewhere where we are free of our pain.

Ah; but then, you are already there, are you not? Wait for me — not under the cypress, as that would be too sad; rather under the walnut, on a quiet, sunny hillside. Wait for me. I will come to you with song and spring branches.

yours always, Lia

shelf selections

I the blackbird Among birds the black-cowled Fold and unfold my wings Perform the rites in my field Vasko Popa, The Blackbird’s Song The work of Vasile “Vasko” Popa has fascinated me ever since my literature teacher acquainted me with Earth Erect in highschool; the use of simple language interwoven with distinctly Slavic folklore, itself a blend of secular and sacred, is very near to me. The above translation may be found in Anne Pennington’s Collected Poems of.

THE WILD HEART, domesticated by a half-blind stab into the lung.

Paul Celan, The Wild Heart Paul Celan likely requires no introduction — he is a master as beloved in the West as he is in his native East. I am partial to his Last Poems; the above citation comes from the ENG/DEU bilingual edition.

For once Egg had nothing to say. [...] Lantern bugs moved slowly through the trees, their little lights like so many drifting stars.

George R. R. Martin, Tales of Dunk & Egg: The Sworn Sword Although I do enjoy A Song of Ice And Fire, it is the prequel materials Martin has written for the series that I most adore: the Tales of Dunk and Egg, currently a three-part work, are a wonderful mix of folktale and pseudo-historic fiction, chronicling the youth of Aegon V — more specifically, his squireship under Ser Duncan the Tall.

[...] I knelt in the darkness, and traced a quincunx on the ground with the point of my dagger: the fivefold cross, symbol of the universe and of the wisdom contained therein. I put myself in the centre of the pattern, and started singing, softly, slowly — Aliette de Bodard, Servant of the Underworld Aliette de Bodard’s striking trilogy, Obsidian and Blood, is set against the backdrop of the Mexica Empire: here, gods walk among living men, and death is just another part of day to day life. De Bodard has a strong grasp on Aztec mythology, and enough sensibility to treat ritualistic practices without the usual Western condescension.

Bright red, too, was the color of blood sacrifice, as well as a symbol of the very sin for which the sacrifice was supposed to atone. [...] Red had other connotations that concerned wealth, war, and erotic love; [...] the quintessential act of shame and self-betrayal, the blush.

Amy Butler Greenfield, A Perfect Red Greenfield is a gifted writer: A Perfect Red is more than the history of a pigment, the famous Cochineal dye — it is the history of a craft and its masters. The reader is acquainted with the trade, and then furthermore intimated the complex socioeconomic climates which dictated its evolution from ancient to colonial to modern times.

[…] the new tsar, Fedor, ordered that Avvakum [...] be burned alive in 1682 […]. In the following years, tens of thousands of Old Believers all over Russia, inspired by the example of Avvakum, perished in gari, mass self-immolations. No writer could have ever dreamed of such grandiose and terrifying fiery memorials.

Solomon Volkov, Romanov Riches Though Volkov’s book is meant to be a chronicle of how Russian art evolved and flourished under the rule of the Romanov dynasty, it is also so much more than that; this, perhaps, because the artistic conscious in Russia — and the East of Europe, for that matter — has always been tied closely to three things: folklore, religion, and power.

odds & ends

in my childhood, I heard this tale: once upon a time, so long ago that Time itself has forgotten all about it, a fearsome ogre thieved the sun and moon from the vault of heaven, damning the world to eternal darkness; and just as all hope seemed lost, a young peasant boy by the name of Mărțișor — ‘Little March’ — gave his life to free light...ișor — ‘Little March’ — gave his life to free light... there are many similar stories explaining why the string on the talismans we offer and wear throughout March are red and white (for blood and for snow), but this is the one I like best; perhaps because I quite enjoy the idea of a folk hero of our own, one that so clearly embodies deathless hope.

Subcarpațișor — ‘Little March’ — gave his life to free light...i is one of my most favorite Romanian musical projects; for their anniversary last December, they debuted Zori şi Asfințitit, a genre-defying work of art. Lend it an ear!

a closing fragment

I hear them now, o Lord; the crickets, the doves, your priests without high abodes; so sweetly they sing — so sweetly they give praise, tear after tear torn of Love. o Lord — the land hymns your return, the dead in communion with the living, all breathing your first Name.