death & the maiden | a worry of wings

death & the maiden and something miraculous will come / close to the darkness and ruin something no one, no one has ever known anna akhmatova — everything

my dearest reader, December is a month of elegies. here, I hold vigil over my own inviolable corpse: this is a month of death as much as it is one of birth, by virtue of my many anniversaries — each one more funerary than the last. there are no mourners here, no veils; not even koliva. in this thinned space, there is room for only God and I. we talk a lot, this month, and what we find might just be peace.

INDEX one........an ode to december's feasts two.......first quarter : saturday 1–8 three.....second quarter : sunday 9–16 four......third quarter : monday 17–23 five.......last quarter : monday 24-31 six.........letter to lianna schreiber seven.....odds & ends & ill-fit things

an ode to december's feasts

chalice against chalice, lip against lip — this is how the long night dies, held close in loving arms, by drunk gods deeply dawn-kissed; and we are burning, with and within it, seized by a sort of strange rebirth — sparrows are spreading their thin wings to shield the soft of roses from the snows, and a mad priestess calls upon what is immortal to grow flesh and learn the bitter honey held by fire, to die just once and know its' dark joys. to feel as bones give way to roots, and One is then within the breath of All made sacrosanct, more than a body, more than bright — to divine mouths, we death-bound make for winefruit; let us rejoice our sweetness, o! let us praise our blood.

first quarter one : I start the month off on a good foot, I think — dawn finds me cleaning, and if that is not the way most proper to celebrate our national day, I do not know what is. worker’s spirit, and all that. regardless, my contemplative mood still haunts me. I think back to a year ago and, strangely, I miss it. † two : today, restorative slumber; I rise late in the afternoon and, for the first time in a while, it feels as though my bones have settled back into proper place. I hope this depressive episode is past. † three : I pull off an all-nighter, mostly on accident. a project I have had in the works on a conceptual level for a while now finally materializes — loving vincent is drafted in one clean go. although it must sit on the back burner overnight for my head to be clear enough to perform final revisions, I am quite happy with the first slate as it is. this pleases me; I hope I have done the man and his art proper justice. † four : a slow day, outside of my daily poetry endeavors and the aforementioned chapbook revisions. this is a good thing, I think — it is imperative to pause every so often and just breathe. I tend to forget that. † five : sick again — my cold returns from wherever it was it had sunken. I gorge on tea and rest. † six : my mother gifts me a small crate of quince; I am in heaven. though it is not my most favorite fruit, it is easily my first pick where flavor is concerned — its’ perfume is intoxicating, and its’ taste once cooked surpasses all descriptors, even “divine”. I waste no time in making kompot; comfort food for ailing days, at just the right time. as soon as I am better, I shall make jam. † seven : further homemaking activities, today. I bake some bastardized pizza (using a basic leavened bread recipe for the dough) and patch up indoor clothing. I cannot help but think of of my grandnana. I never got to meet her in person, but from my mother’s stories, I know we would have gotten along well. † eight : another day of deep, restorative sleep — my contemplative mood returns, although this time without the usual malevolence. unformed thoughts I have had for a while now cohere and grow flesh.

second quarter nine : I begin penning an essay — stylistically, it is situated somewhere on the border between a stream of consciousness and a whispered confession. the dark is generally my one and only confidante, but there are certain anxieties which ask of me to shout them. the topic here is interpersonal interaction and the inescapable reality of separation which arises from therein; I doubt I make much sense. † ten : today I release loving vincent; it feels strange, doing so. I normally publish chapbooks on either the fifteenth or thirtieth day of any given month, yet somehow doing so here would seem misplaced, erroneous even. it is the strangest sort of catharsis, letting go of something which had, until not too long ago, inhabited the void of me; it is downright terrifying to let it haunt the other void — the outer one, the world itself. mostly, it is intensely exhilarating. I also manage to edit the essay mentioned prior. † eleven : I grow restless the minute I perceive myself as being without activity; ergo I do the natural thing and attempt to come up with a tentative timeline for my future writing endeavors. I conclude that my anxieties have backfired on me — I now have too much on my plate. alas. art is an act of consumption, and here at least I am nothing if not voracious, ever-wanting. † twelve : ...that being said, my body is much feebler than my mind. I let time pass by without me. I rest. † thirteen : I hit the shops today, not looking for anything in particular — except a tea mug, which I do get for dirt cheap at the Chinese store. dark glass, thinner than that used in pharmaceutical bottles, but made of the same stock material; I am enamoured with it. I also score a lovely mohair dress at the SH. † fourteen : a while ago I tried my hand at erasure poetry, an attempt which ended in utter failure, largely because I chose to work with a preexistent poem; today, I try again using nonfiction. spectacular results. † fifteen : I am such an unbearably lonely creature. more than ever I now realize that. tonight, I myself become a funeral face — and shielded within the dark underside of it, I embrace myself fully. † sixteen : still sinking, but perhaps something beautiful shall blossom from this.

third quarter seventeen : of late, I have been thinking — and talking — a lot about the idea of cyclicality; the world is echoes, all of us one mouth singing the same song. I used to despair over my recurring lows, but now I begin to see in them something useful. I burn out quickly because I consistently smoke myself thin, and as miserable as they are, I do depend on these episodes to force me to shut down and recuperate. † eighteen : in the spirit of slowing down, today I disconnect. spend some time in the physical plane, allow myself to just be, as ominous as existence is by virtue of its’ very definition. I have cake — something with cinnamon and apple, something which packs a bite. I deeply enjoy spicy things and how alive they make me feel. I buy myself an early birthday present — two silver rings with an antique look and finish. † nineteen : I sleep sixteen hours uninterrupted; this is what I mean when I say “restorative sleep”, at once an easily recognizable sign of my revolving-door depression and something I achingly need. I am going to piece myself back together in January, but for now I must allow myself this state of unbind. † twenty : four great loves I have in life: dark not-quite-gods, watermelons, a certain faraway face, and really old tomes. I return to the latter among them today, scouring my personal archive as well as online resource pools. there is a practical purpose at the root of it all — I am putting together a present for someone — but I shan’t lie, the meat of it is for my own peruse and personal enjoyment. † twenty-one : this is a strange, restless day. I cannot sleep; or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that something within myself is not allowing me to. the landscape of my mind renders a perplexing tableau — where some things have only now begun blooming, others are reaching their ripening point. † twenty-two : my melancholy is inescapable. I must prune the orchard of myself. I must — I know I must, and yet o, why do my hands not yield to my will and do what I ask of them? it feels as though my mind and my body exist as separate entities, at war perpetually with one another. I am tired of their fighting; and unless I find a way to reconcile them, I fear I shall soon become collateral damage. † twenty-three : tonight, caroling begins in my town, and with it the holiday season is almost through. I grit my teeth — almost is a not quite, and all that does is exacerbate my misery. I feel like a horrible person for being so jaded, but the commercial merriment of Christmas is the antithesis to my palate.

last quarter twenty-four : this year, I am alone for the holidays — in body as well as in spirit. this is not an isolated occurrence; so many of my New Years' eves have been spent on hospital terraces, perched on a stone ledge. a bird always, eh? I digress. I am home, and I have wine, and I tell myself that that is enough. † twenty-five : although I willed it to pass by sooner, in truth I think that I shall miss the season; I always do. fallen to a quiet melancholy, I spend the evening baking bread for a simple dinner of cheese and red bell peppers. tradition dictates one must eat pork, but of late I have been indulging past my appetite. † twenty-six : I think I died during the night. something in me has splintered; I’ve heard it hit the floor. yet this death seems to me less about sinking and more about kneeling, the frog-hunch which precedes a great leap. I pray to my God and to his moors — give me wings, or I shall fall from too great a height. † twenty-seven : a strange restlessness seizes me, and, suddenly, I do not know what to do with my hands.

I try to read — availless. I try to think — availless. I try to work — availless, all availless. is this the latest form in the chain of my ever-evolving anxiety, I wonder? I hope not; I pray not. this skin is unbearable. † twenty-eight : oh, god, I am twenty. I do not know how I have made it this far; something in me says I should not even dare wonder, lest the miracle of it breaks. to my friends — I am so thankful to have you. twenty-eight, again : oh, god, I am twenty. † twenty-nine : my mood today is much improved; still rather listless, but I am allowing myself time. that is one of the many things this year has taught me: I must be gentle with myself. I must indulge, bite into things at a pace of my own making. what is mine will find its’ way to me, including my bettered self. † thirty : final preparations for New Years’ — we go shopping in the early morn hours. it is pandemonium. † thirty-one : on this last day, I am reflective. the year has taken from me as much as it has given — God is in His Heaven, and we all may yet be alright. now the arms of Janus are encircling me slowly; I leave you with love and with this prayer: may you from within your own darkness bloom, burning and lovely.

liebling———

In the here and now, we are something half-forgotten. Your skin is elusive under your own hand; the hand itself seems alien, as if seen through the prism of a dream remembered only fragmentarily. Some nights, you think you are glowing, a corpse-candle giving life to the dark.

We have made a habit of that, have we not?

More robin than blackbird, at least where sacrifices are concerned.

Always so willing to bleed, always so eager to die on someone else’s cross. Alas — I think we have moved past that. Or I hope that we have. We deserve something softer than being broken like bread, dear heart, and you too know it to be so.

We are children of Saturn, yet we are not Atlas.

And even if we had been, surely he too must have his springs — times where Mercy graces him, undoing his chains so he may rest. Eternity being what it is, and the world so heavy, how else could he shoulder it all? No bone may last under such duress without breaking, lest it sleeps.

You, too, must sleep. Cocooned in dawn, if that is where you feel you are safest. We are autumnal things, beloved, and spring has come; so rest. Rest while you may, rest deeply. Keep your true death close to your chest, concealed.

Remember: you have survived worse things.

across the ages, another you

odds & ends

as I consider December to be my month, this trivia section will acquaint you with one of my symbols: the blackbird. classical Greek folklore tells us that, should this sacred fiend feed on pomegranate, it will without preamble perish; their link to the underworld persists throughout world mythology, possibly because they are night-singers. depending on the habitat, their calls can be heard to the near fullness of a calendar year — males begin singing as early as January, and where the weather permits, it is only in the colder months of autumn that their song stills.

for this month’s album, a classic: Hozier’s self-titled debut.

To Be Alone has been one of my most-played songs again this year, and I have written much poetry to its’ rhythm.

a closing fragment

out of an empty burrow, God sings — I sing with him, for I too know the heaviness of winter’s soils; I sprang from them.

He says, were there no kinder thickets? no, Lord, there were not. no fire holds me as loving as yours does.