trains as large cetaceans (and the butterfly unexpectedly)

maybe the trains are large animals, not unlike the blue whales, stranded, composite, growing wheels and tails and then picking their route, out of the capture, out into the wild places and fields, to see the cross-dressing hills, to roar and signal, and rear up into the cloud-bothered sky over horizons. magical trains, invoking stories,…

was clearing the rucksack and found this

a little winter poem*. i think it will look fine in the heat (such as it is) of the summer: today it snows right out of the blue they fall, correct in every aspect, criss-crossing the near to the far, cross-stitching the perspective to this silence, this mute mobility outside the glass. Snowflakes, little feathers…

the truth about my Kat

my Kat is not mythological. he has no healing powers. he sleeps everywhere. he makes weird grunting noises when happy. he wakes me up at unseemly hours. he does not even pretend to understand what i say or feel. he is easy to wash. he likes drinking from the tap, and tries to open it…

resizing of cats

my Kat changes his weight and size depending on external conditions. he becomes small when he wants something. he becomes light when he walks on the banister. when he decides to wake me up by jumping onto me from the window-sill, he becomes heavy. at night, when he guards me as we sleep, he grows very…

that bit about where we keep our dead loved ones

watching films and people use gravestones (graves) as the point of focus (or reference) of talking to their loved ones who have passed on, i wonder: why go to the places of decomposed bodies to talk to one’s loved… do not people carry them inside themselves, always, ever?

some things are just those things

i sit here, in my tower of ice, under the wing of winter herself, and watch the media stream go by. and there is something wrong in the representations of the recent events in France and other places. yes. terrorism. it does not have race, or religion, or gender, or sex, or colour. it is…

things move

the clouds in stratosphere shift invisibly, under the cover of low, rain-soaked spreads closer to earth; rain-clouds come closer to find all sorts of parade, or maybe the remnants of snow; and they rain; wind moves cyclons. or maybe the other way round; air masses move branches, and trees, and waves, and all sorts of…

how linden trees give names

they (the linden trees) are gnarled and crabby, and craggy, and at least a hundred years old. we (the people) are crabby and smooth, and the wrong shape, and too quick to die. they observe us when we come within their range of perception. they think slowly, arboreally. they write their observations into their time-lines…

she sings

she is a mature queen-cat. her woman died last year, and now she lives in the yard, hiding in the basement, sneaking into corridors, that sort of thing. people of the house feed her rather regularly. she talks to them all the time, but nobody seems to listen. and sometimes she sits on the steps…

rain

is a sign of autumn, the smell of raw water in the nostrils of all people splashing, hurrying, covering themselves improperly in umbrellas and raincoats. rain reminds. of thick morning fogs skewered by sunshine, the fragrant sod, freshly cut open, and potatoes, pale and moist, just discovered, ripe to be picked. rain sloshes up thoughts,…

kad mēness vairs neslēpjas aiz mākoņiem, jo naktīs līst

tu esi lietū, kad lapas čaukst, kad mākoņos ietinies, rudens vēl tikai silda plaukstas mēnesnīcās un kļavu zaļumā; tavi soļi zibšņos un lāsēs, un rīboņas pilnā skrējienā, pāragros putnu kāšos, kas ielavās sala neskartās debesīs; tu esi lietū, un smilšu graudos pie tavu kurpju zolēm

the division of bed-spaces

this diagram indicates that a cat can be in multiple places at once and definitely takes up more space than its body to the power of three. probably because cats store their surplus body mass in some extra dimension to be collected as necessary.

little grey birds build their nest in the arch of a church window

from where i sit, through the sunlit stain-glass, you are shadows flitting up and sideways against the light, building a continuation to things i barely understand. from the outside, i cannot reach skywards enough, so deep etched in the eaves is your work. little sounds, chirping, dollops of mud and what liquid you find to…

what time does, and how to stand in it

the musical itself is… one can watch it once or twice. this song though, is worth looking at again.   Time hangs me like a suit in its wardrobe, to be the food for all the world’s moths Time hangs us like a suit in its wardrobe, to be the food for all the world’s…

multilevel forgetfulness

on the borders of sleep, between what is and what will never be, or maybe, between what was and what only seemed, she steps in. grey, and a little bent over her walking stick, she hovers at the margins of perception, and i know her, always have known. she is my mother. or what i…

Twenty-one. Of clearing rooms

i put to you this: the level of friendship or trust can be measured by how much one cleans their home before the arrival of someone. and thus, i make the following list of people arriving, their labels, and the corresponding amount of cleaning: total strangers one has invited for unknown reason total strangers who…

Twenty. Gifts

i am part of a denomination which has a very strange attitude to women. women in general are, not unlike the children of the victorian era, to be seen, but not heard. women who think about ministry, however little, are to be walked through like they did not exist at all. yes, there are few…

Sixteen. Word thief

to be a translator is to be a thief of words. to go out, into the peopled streets and the public transport full of language carriers. to listen, and to capture words, intonations, expressions. to sort them out, like butterflies, into genres and categories, and fill scrapbooks with them. and then, sometimes, just sit and…

Eight. No word for ‘die’

some classroom discussion made me look deeper into the old english vocabulary for ending of life. and here is a thing: there is no general verb for ‘die’ in old english. no word for ‘just stop living’. there are words like steorfan, sweoltan, beon/wesan dead, beon/wesan slihte, and so on. or words that described a…

the small places we come from

wind scoops handfuls of coloured leaves and carries them up towards the pure indigo of the maple-lit autumn; they glow in lamplight, as the quarter-moon cuts a triangular window across the clouds, and then remain somewhere there, big stones in the endless river of sky. the small places we come from, little more than so…

the bit about why all religions are the only ones

there is the russian saying (at least my mother said it was a russian proverb, but the russians say it is a proverb of sb else further east) – the crow calls her little crow chick the whitest, the mother-hedgehog calls her pup hedgehog the softest. and is it not the same with religions? nobody…