About Garnet David

Musician, Muser, Part time Poet, Ruminator, INTP (Introverted, iNtuitive, Thinking, Perceiving), Capricorn, Gay, Gardener, Cat and Dog lover, Cat owner, Dilettante.

times

…times we fall through
moldy, scratchy thatch
to stiff, pine planks,
losing memory, stones
and sonnets. forgetting.

There is a strange emptiness I often feel at the first day of cool stillness in Fall. Today is overcast. The wet air leaches warmth, persistent in its chill. Persistent and immobile. It is here to stay, moving in. Memories of languid, long, endless Summer days float just beyond reach. The reality of suffering in the South is no dream, however. Their’s is aching, palpable emptiness, loss. They have no luxury of daydreams.

Yet this calm chill comforts me, reminds me all things change. It is time to recharge, request a new sheet, a clean slate. Time to move on, shift gears. Let Summer memories become the dreams they now are. Let tragedy’s lessons sink in, brand their mark on memory.

The garden outside my window is still rich with green textures. The long, fragrant, golden trumpets of Brugmansia herald (and hope for) a few more sunny weeks to come. All is not lost. But never the same.

At work I am having to work closely with those in power and money, the trustees who support my orchestra, but also control it. I used to assume they were automatically corrupted by their power, but I’m beginning to see their genuine interest in my art, in the success of my orchestra, even though I may not always agree with them. They know things about money and success I cannot know from my position. They have experience we can use. Our orchestra needs them, whether we like it or not. It’s never black and white.

Thinking of events in the world, in the US, my country, I feel frisky with a new kind of hope. The suffering of millions in the South will not be in vain. Our eyes are open. We see the chilly, calculating responses of our current administration, which seems to be more of a power machine than human leadership. And we also see the fervent, human response, the support given by millions; human responses, neither conservative nor liberal, just human. We see each other’s hearts, that we are not so different as we thought. We see where we could go if we came together to solve problems.

Our enemies are not each other. They are the power systems which corrupt and mislead. We cannot afford to be mislead. We only have each other. We only have each other and one small planet.

The chilly air settles into my bones. It’s time for action, for change. Especially since I’m late for work.

Cicada Flower Quilt

Pulsing Cicadas emboss Sunflowers
Trapunto, over dusty
tired ivies
Helios’ Chariot chars
burgundy Dahlias
unraveling their light.
Pastel Hibiscus wilt beyond
bleached Rose.
Stiff reefs of electric
Globe Thistle lap by
parched grasses.
Geranium beams
roast Baby’s Breath
Foxglove, Echinacea
While molten smoldering Petunias
pierce through, over and over.

Rhythms of the Seasons

Enjoy! And best wishes for a joyous holiday to you all!

machine of faith

The rhythms of the seasons hypnotize us
as they go ’round and ’round and ’round,
faster each year as we age,
building to some distant, palpable climax
while receding from another, past.
Faster they spin, compelling us to fill fragile days
with meaningful events,
(love may deepen,
hate grow brittle,
poetry more necessary)

To and fro, light to dark, the pendulum swings
stupendously, irrevocable across the map, throbbing
in every molecule with its unabashed preponderance.
No sooner sweet Summer arrives in her full sensual glory
and vapid dissipation, then by the slightest incline,
the longest day tipped, we star the slow, poignant slide
to the depths of Winter.

Thus we arrive again at this valley of Yin,
whose darkness and gravity turns us inward
to our sweetest, softest, most delicate
center.

As if by sheer will (and hope and need)
we nudge the gyration back toward light,
we indulge in glitter and compassion.
We reward love needed and given
with earnest countenance.
We search our souls for cheerful ways
to decorate the days.
We celebrate the counterpoint of our lives,
barely pausing to reflect
over the abyss which lies beneath
the fragile music we make.

The photo is of a small section of a large, useless, tinkling, colorful machine. It was built over a period of 25 years or so, part by bit, by a man who made it just for fun, and for his children’s entertainment. Now it’s an obscure tourist attraction. It’s housed in a little hut, perhaps 20 ft by 15 ft in the middle of nowhere, next to his house, where his wife still lives. I think he was a farmer. He used found objects and toys and trash, whatever caught his eye. It all fits together in some way. When turned on, the whole thing whirs and clicks and clangs and flashes. Being in the middle of Bavaria, it was normal and appropriate to find a crucifix perched in the middle somewhere.

There is something comforting about this scene, which is almost alter-like. The colorful chaos and glitz surrounds the peaceful icon. Sorry it’s the wrong icon for the season, but I sort of like the twisted irony of it.

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Incandescent Nectar

Poem, with photo of yellows roses in snow

Anybody read German? When Ralf and I lived together, he transtlated this poem of mine so we could print out cards for both our American and German friends. The photo is one i took of roses he gave me, which I thought looked stunning against the snow.

This poem was inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus. His mystical style touched me deeply. I read a version which had the German and English side by side. So I picked up a little German, too.

The Source

i bend
to stretch
tight hamstrings,
yoga breathing
deep, cored
waves, committed.
your hand floats
above my
naked globules,
glowing
unsunned white,
pressing humid air
to your palm’s stare.
the blond hairs bristle
with electric city
conversations
beginnings, endings, poems,
stormy at first,
stirring down to1880 logcabin
laps of gentle
consent, warmth,
and finally
desire for connection,
fuel of transference.

my breathing deepens,
windy, pomegranate scented
rings to be
shared, anointed.
we weave stringed loops
into cat’s cradles,
bridges across
desserts of thirst.
thirsty creeks
flow into
larger and more
insistent undertows.
rushing
crashing, breaths
draw you into
me, down to bone, to
implacable source.
message to
answer to message.
your gift to
my givance.
our river, our odyssey.

salvaging divine
beads of innocence,
we sew sumptuous hoops of
priapic demons,
ecstatic circles of fire.
we join hollow desire
with its own lava.
Niagara falls, deafening,
roars savage
as fused water and earth,
slag over waterfall
into the Great River,
steamy transformance-
peak emergence
in the curtain dance.
original signals of
original redemption
bring us to
a hidden palace,
guarded by fear, whose
barbed gates
open into
a garden of grace.