March 6, 2014 § 6 Comments
He shelters her in his garden
From sun and storm alike
He whispers to her silence
On his uneasy nights
So he wraps and wraps around
His lady’s uncanny lay
Her bright and tawdry petals falling
In wreaths of sweet decay
But she is constant, to his eye
Unchanging as the sea
So he wraps and wraps around
His lady’s sympathy
Elizabeth Cook, 2014
Image from Digital Art Gallery
March 4, 2014 § 25 Comments
I met a man below a hill, where the road unwinding paused
‘Round a poplar grove and spring, removed from worldly laws
There he sat with tranquil brow, and offered of his bread and wine
And he told me of the place he left, which he hoped again to find
In his eye there lay a land, so splendorous I would not conceal
How bright and gleaming was the port, where ships of starry cargo wheeled
Where a thousand silver suns set sail, and one might buy ten thousand more
Where sailors’ songs gilded the waves, taming siren hearts and storms
April 16, 2013 § 28 Comments
(Now imagine a much smaller, much paler person doing this in her bedroom mirror)
Realizing that you’ve done more than what should be possible is one of the best feelings in the world.
A few days ago I was playing squash with a friend. On one water break we paused to watch two guys on another court; at least one of them was on the Queen’s squash team, and although he seemed to be beating his partner they were playing really well.
They were on a higher level than I have ever played at.
My friend and I went back to playing, but soon we saw that the two guys had finished and for some reason they had walked down to watch us. They stood outside the glass and seemed to be commenting on what we were doing.
Having them stand there, watching, talking, changed everything. « Read the rest of this entry »
April 15, 2013 § 36 Comments
If only to slip through
This curving wall of glass
Wherein life turns and spills
Spills down the warming glass
Images change each moment
A moment made a moment lost
Hopes tumbling bright among
The falling gems and dross
And my wish beheld is granted
In pressing palms pressing on
Past the gleaming barrier
Made pliable and soft
I stand under the torrent
To breathe the passing sights
To marvel and to swift forget
How I watched from the outside
For I have gained the hourglass
Where shimmering sands fall
To bathe my feet, my hips, my neck
‘Til I do not breathe at all
Copyright Elizabeth Cook 2013
April 13, 2013 § 20 Comments
It does not take much strength to lift a hair, it does not take sharp eyes to see the sun and moon, it does not take sharp ears to hear a thunderclap.
~ Sun Tzu
Two nights ago I read 9 of the 13 sections of The Art of War, and wrote 13 pages of notes. I need hardly explain why my dreams were medieval and confusing. I could explain why I am doing this during exams, with my undergraduate seminar paper hanging over my head, but only if I knew.
Perhaps some of you are also perverse in timing things. I read Sun Tzu’s carefully framed quotations and the commentary offered by those such as Li Quan, Mei Yaochen, and Zhang Yu, and simply didn’t find a stopping place. Reading their reflections on terrain called to mind the varied landscapes of China, and I found myself Googling images of mountain jungles and rice fields.
I did not read the remaining four sections because I thought I should do some math instead. It turns out this was an excuse to pick up another book.
Today I finished Bram Stoker’s Dracula. I discovered a “Reader” app on my super-high-tech-complicated Android phone, and lo and behold, there were classic book inside. Free.
How could I not read a free copy of Dracula, which I had never read before?
So I exchanged the “ground of life and death” for the wilds of Transylvania, and the Count’s great ruined castle on its promontory. « Read the rest of this entry »
April 11, 2013 § 11 Comments
Even without sight I could tell as the house loomed and I was borne within.
I could only act as myself in part, and could be nothing more than what I pretended to be. On this my life rested. My eyes flashed open once inside, and with a cry I let out all the fear that had been building. The man carrying me did not so much as miss a step. The house was great and empty, and I froze in awe at the room he brought me into. It stirred memories too old to recall. Cushions littered the floor around a low mahogany card table. Divans made a half-circle, and a great harp stood behind them.
I wriggled free. I think he let me do so, for there was no other way out of the room, and I scrambled away across the cushions until there was nowhere left to go, and there I sat drooping but wary, exhausted by the effort. « Read the rest of this entry »
April 9, 2013 § 30 Comments
Before a year had passed I was restless. Balsa knew before I did; I saw her watching, and was at first puzzled by the new lines around her eyes.
We were in the kitchen, peeling roots. I thanked her again for all that she had done for me, and asked how I might repay that debt; she replied that it was only right to settle debts before leaving a place. And she set me to bringing in the washing, and taking inventory in the cellar, and cleaning the baths.
It went on for some time. Until Balsa struggled to find new tasks for me, and wore an expression that made me sad and guilty.
I avoided her eyes and their lines. I wondered if it was wrong to go – I hoped that I might stay. But men had made roads that went north, and even had there been no roads I would have been forced to go that way, lest I live without deserving each breath.
Spring turned to summer, and one morning Balsa gave me a bag.
“It is best to go when it is warm.” She kept her face blank and I was torn. « Read the rest of this entry »