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Wednesday, April 30, 2008

poetry party 17

abbey of the arts party 17: inner compass

invitation to poetry icon

What serendipity! At this very time I'm trying to write a blog about Brent Bill's book, Sacred Compass, for this week's poetry party Christine posted a group of four marvelous weathervanes from the state of Maine! I chose just one because shake shingles, black whale and all, it reminds me exactly of the outbuilding on my grandmother's acreage, though she hailed from Michigan and literally boasted hints of Nebraska and a touch of North Carolina. So I'll talk about it some.

In a seafaring town on the Atlantic Ocean coast, clapboard dwellings painted white and silvering shake shingles equally prevail. Tides, sand, rocks and dune grass being common concerns, so is the weather. You need to know where the winds are blowing, whale vanecuz what you don't know you can't say "yes" to and you certainly cannot ever intentionally change anything you don't know nothing about. Discerning breezes, spirited winds and directions in general is where weathervanes can be very handy, in addition to symbolizing past glories of way bygone whaling times. But regarding change, when I commented to my grandmother how raw and unfinished freshly new shingles seem to be, standing out in a too conspicuous way like a person of any age whose manners haven't been put on quite right politely, Nana pointed out to me how quickly, how naturally with no effort on their part the shingles just happen to acquire a shimmering patina of silver. You might even call it graceful! In spite of that fact, still I'm wondering if I wouldn't rather be brazenly conspicuous and freshly spoken, because that's how I've naturally become as winds and rains have breezed through my life and world and days. That's how my manner has become, polite or not much so, and to learn where the wind of the Spirit currently blows, Bob Dylan has words for what's going to be happening soon; you can read it all on his site at When the Ship Comes In

Here's a sample:
Oh the time will come up
When the winds will stop
And the breeze will cease to be breathin'.
Like the stillness in the wind
'Fore the hurricane begins,
The hour when the ship comes in.

Oh the seas will split
And the ship will hit
And the sands on the shoreline will be shaking.
Then the tide will sound
And the wind will pound
And the morning will be breaking.

Oh the fishes will laugh
As they swim out of the path
And the seagulls they'll be smiling.
And the rocks on the sand
Will proudly stand,
The hour that the ship comes in.

And the words that are used
For to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as they're spoken.
For the chains of the sea
Will have busted in the night
And will be buried at the bottom of the ocean.
© 1963; renewed 1991 Special Rider Music

And the morning will be breaking!

1 comment:

Abbey of the Arts said...

Leah, thanks for sharing these memories of your grandmother and the image of our own patinas with the winds of time. Love the song lyrics too.