Month: May 2015

“Fable” ~ Doris Lessing

When I look back I seem to remember singing. Yet it was always silent in that long warm room. Impenetrable, those walls , we thought, Dark with ancient shields. The light Shone on the head of a girl or young limbs Spread carelessly. And the low voices Rose in the silence and were lost as in water. Yet, for all it was quiet and warm as a hand, If one of us drew the curtains A threaded rain blew carelessly outside. Sometimes a wind crept, swaying the flames, And set shadows crouching on the walls, Or a wolf howled in the wide night outside, And feeling our flesh chilled we drew together. But for a while the dance went on – That is how it seems to me now: Slow forms moving calm through Pools of light like gold net on the floor. It might have gone on, dream-like, for ever. But between one year and the next – a new wind blew ? The rain rotted the walls at last ? Wolves’ snouts came …

The Ride Out of Phrao ~ Dina Nayeri

The O. Henry prize winners are out, and Literary Hub has published four of the winning short-stories, as some sort of taster-teaser. Just like dessert is something to look forward to and be enjoyed at the end of a meal, I was left feeling Lit Hub had kept the best for last. Here it is, my own teaser for that story, with a link to Literary Hub where the complete story can be read. <a href="”> Read More…

this moment in time

    The lilac tree is late, in a negation of what lateness is to fecundity – she stands there, punily bare and of a lesser green, almost lost and unseen against the crab apple and her bright and riotous loudly glorious dress of almost, almost almost but not quite pristine whiteness: there are still buds as pink as berries and this morning’s blossom still carries a ghost of pink nacre on their interrupted velvet. The lilac’s is grey silk, old and worn and pale and stale and still bare and barren and late. In my contemplation, I reflect that in the collective soul of my primordial fold, trees are female as is the grass – givers of the life they alone can bless, they can but be called by the lasting caress of a woman word: and thus lateness, blame it on the stalled Spring or some other fate or indifferent word, or on the tree’s lost strife against changeability, becomes fall – and thus Nature without redress will die by man’s sword.   …

absent muse

      words are hanging from everywhere, buried behind a blanket of milk and salt, an ocean of fog so dense you can almost taste it in every new gulp of air. we can barely see them, we can hardly grab them. words that are signposts. others that are masks, others veils, and others yet are lanterns. some are sea and sand, and some are sky. they dangle from the eaves and the windows and doors, from the wooden beams of ceilings and roofs, from the sills of carved stone, from porches and chimneys, from the roses and the geraniums, from the wisteria and the camellia trees, the fruit trees, the pines atop the hill, on the piled stone of the water spring, from the arches of the old stone bridge. they are like women of the life, festooned in deception and half nudity, and in the screaming powders of colour: they are in every corner. they linger and laugh out loud. they shall go with anyone, and belong to no one. they are …