Tag: a.i.Art
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The Old Woman With No Cat
Where is the Old Woman?” …the cat demands,pacing the length of the kitchen,tail held high like a sceptre of injustice. “She is late.My bowl is half-empty.My sunbeam is un-warmed.This is negligence.” The crow, from the fence, offers:“Perhaps she’s writing poetry?”The cat scoffs.“Poetry doesn’t fill stomachs.” “No shit!” agrees the robin. Just then—the back door opens.There…
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1304: The Liturgy, Part 8
Liturgy for the Mechanical DarkNight on the Rhône, Half Light and Awake I. The Weight of Sound Sound has become a weight.Not noise—noise is fleeting:a shout, a clatter; this thingshuffles marrow in bone. This is weight:the engine’s pulse hammering my bonesuntil sleep feels mechanical,a function rather than a rest. Lanterns shake in their brackets.The floor…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The First Crocus (Or: How to Philosophise a Flower) The Old Woman kneels in the still-cold soil,points to a brave spear of yellow poking through frost and forgotten leaves,“Look,” she whispers.“Spring.” The cat pads over,sniffs delicately …then draws back as if offended by hope. “Hmm.A small, yellow invader.Uninvited.Asserting itself.” She smiles.“It’s a flower, not a…
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0704: The Six Liturgy
Liturgy for the Steamer’s Hold(a hymn for those who have known the terror of enclosure) I. The Shudder That Will Not StopIt enters you through the soles of your feet.The paddle wheel’s repeating blow,strike after strike relaying another,water beaten into obedienceand singing its pain through the hull. The shudder climbs your spine,settles in your skull,becomes…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
A Cupful of Moon The old woman with no catdigs where the crow dropped her house key,a hole just moonbeam-wide,neatly spooned between two failuresof courgettes. Her spade hits porcelain.Not bone.Not root.A teacup …a drowned saint,half-sunk in the drought-starved clay,glazed in sorrow and stained by Earl Grey. The crack in its sidesings in a language of…
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0504: A Cantata
A Cantata Speak to meof green, she said. I said —vertigris, crushed mint,a willow’s yawn,sap rising, a celloin a maple’s veins. Hear it — bird-staccato,crow’s low oboe through the breezein polished bark. Breathe it — fern,grass bladesscissoring light, pine resinhumming slow gold. It waitsuntil you press your earto a leaf and listento what is leaving.…
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0304: ST(R)AY – The Book
ST(R)AY This book is a meeting place. Black-and-white film photographs by Nick Maroudis sit alongside poems by Marilyn Braendeholm, each page holding a small moment of attention. A dog crossing a road. A pause in passing light. A life moving quietly alongside our own. These are not stories of rescue or loss. They are simply…
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3103: dVerse Haibun
March is a mad hare in a fit. Wild, bounding, all elbows and interruptions. He sits in the sun until he remembers he prefers frost, then leaps up and overturns the day. “Change places!” he cries, though no one is sitting where they were to begin with. He pours tea into the wind, scolds the…
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3103: The Hinge
The Hinge That Forgot Its Door A hinge without a doorstill turns, not freely,not fully,but enough to remember. Two plates,a pin worn thin,holding to a purposethat no longer exists. It opens into nothing. Again.Again. A motion rehearsedlong after the meaninghas gone. Wind finds itand it answers,a small, obedient shudder, as if something unseenstill passes through,as…
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3003: The Six Liturgy
Liturgy for the Paddle Wheel — where old and new collide I. The Animal of Iron and BreathIt came up the Rhône like a great beast learning to speak.Pistons for lungs, smoke for voice,paddle wheels striking the waterwith the rhythm of a heart that never tires. We stood on the bank and watched it approach,this…
It's Still Life 