This morning is made of alabaster, too soft a stone for the monumental art of cathedrals. Her skin is almost white enough for sanctity, but for a blush of sinful pink when she becomes aware of her own beauty, blossoming under the intricate fingertips of first light.
The beauty, the restful and igniting poetry, within your words gives me a little leap, like a rustling-awake sort of feeling... you open my window into nature's secrets & delights wide... so much imagry to gather and hold close, to savor---thanks for the morning bouquet...
Here in the eastern US, we have a black and grey kingfisher who ratchets about the pond calling out the days news. He's a joyful irritant, it that makes any sense. I delight in the sight of him. But then, I am not a minnow. I love your prose!!
I’ve listened to this little masterpiece three times now, David, …blissfully.
Had just been watching one, well, a cousin, North American, Belted Kingfisher, in cool morning light an hour before stumbling into a pocket of cell service to find this tale awaiting my hungry ears.
Last evening, again, I sat for a half hour with a patient, bolt of lightning/fisherman in fading light (attached).
And now I’m making a supply run to town, which gets me cell service for a while, which offers me the possibility of thanking you for my bedtime story last night, my third listen before surrendering to the sandman beside the singing river.
Morning, sleepyhead :-) I was just walking back home from Nateby, upstream along the river, having dropped my car at the little family garage for its annual. Thinking about you and that other river, far out in the untouched. The English countryside is so lacquered and layered and soaked in the centuries of its occupation that it is a wonder how you and I can even speak the same language when we talk about the land. In just five meandering miles I walked past a meteor-shower of history. A fifteenth-century manor, still inhabited by the family line. With an oak to match. So big that you could sleep happy in the hollow cavity at its base. English kings have hidden in worse. Then onwards past the old barns with flagstone roofs, lottery tickets where more often than not you win a barn owl. A Norman castle with its broken teeth, grinning at the sky. What would you make of all this? Would you feel claustrophobic or would you, like me, consider the vast sweep of time as a somehow substitute for distance and space? Each degree of freedom has its lessons, I suppose. And after all, there was family of stonechats lined up on the fence for inspection. We’d have smiled in unison and wished them well.
Your prologue is kind of blowing my mind, David. :-) I feel quite honored and grateful myself. At its best Substack can serve as this creative collective in absentia, striking sparks, images flashing, paths crossing, minds meeting. As for this beautiful praise poem, what it is to be alive on such a day, in such a place, Kingfisher carrying the light. Your Beauteous Vale, so vividly inhabited by beings of multitudinous talents and gifts; not the least among them, you. I hope that I too may slump toward wisdom like the Crone of the soil. Bless xo
How very late I am to this service! Perhaps if I hadn't been so late to others I may have been as awestruck by the songs ringing within! I blush also in sinful pink...
With apologies for unsolicited sharing of my own stuff, your kingfisher evocation reminds me so strikingly of my own poem that I have to share it: https://segullah.org/kingfisher-easter
David, the first time I listened to The Kingfisher, I was driving a country road , heading out of town to farmland for the last day to pick big, fat, juicy strawberries, deep jeweled red, ripened to perfection. I pulled over to the side of the road ,thinking, no no this will not do, I need to sit quietly and listen to this sacred poetry for life .So I pulled over, listening intently, but sitting in my car, just felt, wrong. I drove on, and saw a lone majestic Maple, presiding over an ancient farmer’s boundary, the old stone wall leading up to its great girth. Arched arms reaching towards the heavens, one heavy branch dipping towards earth. Perfect, I said to myself. Usually clad in hiking boots, I walked up the hill , took a seat under her great canopy and said, “don’t mind if I do, thank you very much.
“Prayers in hand, we look intently for salvation. Not skywards. No, not in this church. Our eyes fall to the peat-stained glass of the river, fresh from rain. The whisk of the river’s eddy whips all our reflections into one”.
It reads like a psalm, or the most beautiful lyrics for a song yet to be written. I hope you do not mind, I have added one more line, I am sure Norman Maclean would be pleased.
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.”~Norman Maclean
(And a quick thank you to carmine Hazelwood for inspiration).
Hi Lor. Oh heavens, don't those words of Maclean hang bright over us all - and especially, I confess, the Redford rendition of them. I shudder every time I think of them. The challenge to always live up to the ideal of them. The endless long climb as a writer to somehow get a few steps closer to that summit before we die :-)
Oh, you! I'd gladly write for just one person who feels the cloth like you do. And, by the way, I found your note on how to be happy here very wise and very timely as I started slowly to drift towards wondering how to find a wider readership. And I reminded myself of the promise I made long ago (to whom I am unsure) - if the words themselves do not sing their own song then let them fade into the night and be done with. :-)
ah David, if the churches i attended in buildings were half as Edenic as this, i might have stayed...but then again, perhaps "church" isn't a building at all (i personally think not...)
Oops. Proofreading needed. "I thought they were so much bigger." And double quotation marks, please, unless it is a quotation within a quotation. - Ed.
I just subscribed. Couldn’t help it. I’ve nearly memorized John O’Donahue and enjoy your narrated poetry. Complete your PhD a gift the world needs now - uh always. Im confident at least a few more of us from West Coast North America will find you. Blessings!
Thank you so much, Kim. I'm so glad that even in these busy, busy times you made a moment to sit by this little river and watch. I'll take the generosity of your support and do my very best to recycle it into something beautiful. Its a small world - we used to live in a tiny village in Conamara. I spent some years there to learn the local dialect of Irish Gaelic. Of the twenty of so houses in the village one was O'Donohue's, empty since his death. A powerful, haunting presence.
The beauty, the restful and igniting poetry, within your words gives me a little leap, like a rustling-awake sort of feeling... you open my window into nature's secrets & delights wide... so much imagry to gather and hold close, to savor---thanks for the morning bouquet...
Thank you, Toni. The waking moment is a very precious commodity :-)
Here in the eastern US, we have a black and grey kingfisher who ratchets about the pond calling out the days news. He's a joyful irritant, it that makes any sense. I delight in the sight of him. But then, I am not a minnow. I love your prose!!
Thanks for reading and sharing your feisty kingfisher. 'Ratchets about' - crickey. Word envy :-)
I’ve listened to this little masterpiece three times now, David, …blissfully.
Had just been watching one, well, a cousin, North American, Belted Kingfisher, in cool morning light an hour before stumbling into a pocket of cell service to find this tale awaiting my hungry ears.
Last evening, again, I sat for a half hour with a patient, bolt of lightning/fisherman in fading light (attached).
And now I’m making a supply run to town, which gets me cell service for a while, which offers me the possibility of thanking you for my bedtime story last night, my third listen before surrendering to the sandman beside the singing river.
Morning, sleepyhead :-) I was just walking back home from Nateby, upstream along the river, having dropped my car at the little family garage for its annual. Thinking about you and that other river, far out in the untouched. The English countryside is so lacquered and layered and soaked in the centuries of its occupation that it is a wonder how you and I can even speak the same language when we talk about the land. In just five meandering miles I walked past a meteor-shower of history. A fifteenth-century manor, still inhabited by the family line. With an oak to match. So big that you could sleep happy in the hollow cavity at its base. English kings have hidden in worse. Then onwards past the old barns with flagstone roofs, lottery tickets where more often than not you win a barn owl. A Norman castle with its broken teeth, grinning at the sky. What would you make of all this? Would you feel claustrophobic or would you, like me, consider the vast sweep of time as a somehow substitute for distance and space? Each degree of freedom has its lessons, I suppose. And after all, there was family of stonechats lined up on the fence for inspection. We’d have smiled in unison and wished them well.
Sleep well, friend, whenever sleep time is over there. I’ll be back to chat in the morning.
I am in the habit of thrice listening to/reading David’s prose too. Each time, a joyous, and deeper, remembering.
I missed your writing and look forward to each essay. I wish that I could visit and walk with you through your area.
Hi, fella. Thanks for kind thoughts over the many miles.
Your prologue is kind of blowing my mind, David. :-) I feel quite honored and grateful myself. At its best Substack can serve as this creative collective in absentia, striking sparks, images flashing, paths crossing, minds meeting. As for this beautiful praise poem, what it is to be alive on such a day, in such a place, Kingfisher carrying the light. Your Beauteous Vale, so vividly inhabited by beings of multitudinous talents and gifts; not the least among them, you. I hope that I too may slump toward wisdom like the Crone of the soil. Bless xo
Hi Carmine. Aye, isn't it just a tangled web of beauty and ideas. Thanks for the key to this one :-)
Beautiful writing for those of us who love peace and who believe that nature trumps all 💙
Thanks, Carol, that is kind of you.
How very late I am to this service! Perhaps if I hadn't been so late to others I may have been as awestruck by the songs ringing within! I blush also in sinful pink...
Beguiled David... utterly!
Ah, but the service never ends :-) Thanks for coming and adding to the voice of the choir.
With apologies for unsolicited sharing of my own stuff, your kingfisher evocation reminds me so strikingly of my own poem that I have to share it: https://segullah.org/kingfisher-easter
Well shared, Anne, and many thanks for it. 'grace unearned / and given.' Lovely drop into the passive to merge us all into one :-)
Thank you David!
David, the first time I listened to The Kingfisher, I was driving a country road , heading out of town to farmland for the last day to pick big, fat, juicy strawberries, deep jeweled red, ripened to perfection. I pulled over to the side of the road ,thinking, no no this will not do, I need to sit quietly and listen to this sacred poetry for life .So I pulled over, listening intently, but sitting in my car, just felt, wrong. I drove on, and saw a lone majestic Maple, presiding over an ancient farmer’s boundary, the old stone wall leading up to its great girth. Arched arms reaching towards the heavens, one heavy branch dipping towards earth. Perfect, I said to myself. Usually clad in hiking boots, I walked up the hill , took a seat under her great canopy and said, “don’t mind if I do, thank you very much.
“Prayers in hand, we look intently for salvation. Not skywards. No, not in this church. Our eyes fall to the peat-stained glass of the river, fresh from rain. The whisk of the river’s eddy whips all our reflections into one”.
It reads like a psalm, or the most beautiful lyrics for a song yet to be written. I hope you do not mind, I have added one more line, I am sure Norman Maclean would be pleased.
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.”~Norman Maclean
(And a quick thank you to carmine Hazelwood for inspiration).
Hi Lor. Oh heavens, don't those words of Maclean hang bright over us all - and especially, I confess, the Redford rendition of them. I shudder every time I think of them. The challenge to always live up to the ideal of them. The endless long climb as a writer to somehow get a few steps closer to that summit before we die :-)
Yes, the Redford rendition !
Excuse me while I wipe drool from my phone. Your prose sends me! (And I don’t know where but I love it.)
Oh, you! I'd gladly write for just one person who feels the cloth like you do. And, by the way, I found your note on how to be happy here very wise and very timely as I started slowly to drift towards wondering how to find a wider readership. And I reminded myself of the promise I made long ago (to whom I am unsure) - if the words themselves do not sing their own song then let them fade into the night and be done with. :-)
I'll feel the cloth any day when it's 100% pure silk. :) Glad you resonated with my note. I feel sad when someone I love over here drowns in the muck.
ah David, if the churches i attended in buildings were half as Edenic as this, i might have stayed...but then again, perhaps "church" isn't a building at all (i personally think not...)
Isn't that just so, Anne. Sometimes worship is found in buildings called churches. Often enough, somewhere else entirely :-)
Oops. Proofreading needed. "I thought they were so much bigger." And double quotation marks, please, unless it is a quotation within a quotation. - Ed.
Thanks :-) I always say that the world has plenty of writers. Generally enough readers. But never nearly enough editors.
I just subscribed. Couldn’t help it. I’ve nearly memorized John O’Donahue and enjoy your narrated poetry. Complete your PhD a gift the world needs now - uh always. Im confident at least a few more of us from West Coast North America will find you. Blessings!
Thank you so much, Kim. I'm so glad that even in these busy, busy times you made a moment to sit by this little river and watch. I'll take the generosity of your support and do my very best to recycle it into something beautiful. Its a small world - we used to live in a tiny village in Conamara. I spent some years there to learn the local dialect of Irish Gaelic. Of the twenty of so houses in the village one was O'Donohue's, empty since his death. A powerful, haunting presence.
Beautiful.
Hi, Holly, thanks for coming back for another dip in the river :-)
Don’t think this’ll be the last time! Love these dips!!
Beautiful piece, magical voice
Thanks again, Sharon, for listening to the sound of the river :-)
Couldn't stop reading eventhough I was telling myself I didn't have time. So beautiful!
Lovely. I borrowed a bit of your day :-)