Ned Hayes's Blog, page 144
October 29, 2013
"We become so quiet that the loudest noise is the sizzle of...
"We become so quiet that the loudest noise is the sizzle of burning tree sap. The darkness around us presses down, as if to listen. The music of the wind rises and falls with the swirls of the snow, the creaking of the sea of branches in the darkness above us."
— from the novel Sinful Folk
October 28, 2013
"In the deep places of the earth I will hide myself. That...
"In the deep places of the earth I will hide myself. That ancient holy king, David, he sought such refuge when pursued. Under the sanctuary are the catacombs where the dead wait for resurrection. The living do not venture there.
The caverns here underneath the Sanctuary are illuminated only by dim shafts of light from the sanctuary. The walls are etched with flowers of frost, but at least I am out of the wind. Dark bays line the hall in front of me, a vast rabbit warren, each hold filled to the brim with the scent of the past.”
— from the novel Sinful Folk
October 27, 2013
Libraries are subversive institutions…!
Libraries are subversive institutions…!
"Sound carries far here in the trees. Snow slides off a heavy...
"Sound carries far here in the trees. Snow slides off a heavy oak as some creature shuffles through the woods, and ancient branches snap. Out of the corner of one eye, I see the flash of colored feathers. It is a yellowhammer, black eyes flickering in a hedgerow, tiny breast plumped out in golden livery, streaked with colors rich and brown. It was calling in its winter song:
A little bit of bread and no cheese—
A little bit of bread and no cheese—
Moments later, the bracken flutters and the slight shadow of the bird darts into the woods. Deep in the forest now, I hear a low voice that wends back and forth, whispering in secret.”
— from the novel Sinful Folk
October 26, 2013
“Fog lifts in the valley, rising as mist through the...
“Fog lifts in the valley, rising as mist through the bare-limbed trees. Far below lies the deeping combe with our village in the heart of it.
My whole world for nearly a decade has been contained in that place—and now the village of Duns looks so small. I hold up my hand, form a circle with my fingers. The distant village, wreathed in mist, seems a child’s plaything that I can hold in my own hand.
A great fallen yew with nurslings jutting evergreen from its broken body lies near our path. This is the very place at which I first saw the village ten years ago. The line of trees here on the ridge is unchanged, as if I came here only yesterday.”
— from the novel Sinful Folk
SOURCE: lafleurdesmurailles — the blue ridge by ivivalamolly
“This morning, in the hour before dawn, the world is...
“This morning, in the hour before dawn, the world is covered in a bank of fog: the cliffside and the distant hills are islands in this mist.
The wind comes gusting in, seven small snowflakes melt upon the babe’s warm skin. Below, a flowing river of mist fills the basin with a gray light, a color that echoes in the young mother’s eyes. She holds her child close, she wraps him in that linen netting from above her bed.”
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
PHOTO: fiskarna: by harry booth on Flickr.
October 25, 2013
"The road tends east, away from this late sun. It is a newer...
"The road tends east, away from this late sun. It is a newer way, and full of mud and ruts: the road to the county of Ely and to Norfolk. The noble company prepares now to depart to the lands of Doncaster and with the Lady goes every other pilgrim. The players go with her as well as their motley cart of masks. Our small party under guard is left alone to the travel the White Road to London."
— from the novel Sinful Folk
SOURCE: ev0lution-of-stardust: Six in the Morning by Rasmus Mäkelä
A Poet Reflects: electrichoney: “I believe poetry is a primal impulse within us all. I...
“I believe poetry is a primal impulse within us all. I believe we are all capable of it and furthermore that a small, often ignored corner of us positively yearns for it. I believe our poetic impulse is blocked by the false belief that poetry might on the one hand be academic…
October 24, 2013
“
I can see her now. On the day we take the forest path to...
“
I can see her now. On the day we take the forest path to the deep stream beside the alder copse. There a plover calls in the deep woodsy stillness, and then a pair of martins dart across the over-grown path. Through the trees can be seen the thick and fast-moving line of flowing water, a steep bank beneath our feet and flowering at the edge of the water, the purple loosestrife and meadowsweet of spring.
Nell smiles at me, her face shifting in the light of the beech leaves and the vines. Come, she says. I’ll show you my bridge. She takes up a coil that lies near at hand and pulls it tight, anchoring it to a tree with a cloverleaf knot. Beneath my feet it rises, stretched taut to the other side. And then a smaller rope, making a slight uneven handhold above the first.
When we hold the one, and stand upon the other, we rise inches above the flood. Together, we stand there in mid-stream, looking up and down, the dappled light around us falling on shallows and deep pools alike. The water rushing always, without pause.
“
from the (forthcoming) novel SINFUL FOLK
