1981 Marc Chagall windows taken inside Hadassah Hospital Chapel, Hebrew University
Welcome to my writing wall. Here i post stories, poems, and meandering meditations from my long intriguing life. My poet guest is at the bottom of this wall and hails all the way from Shanghai. Downloads are free but please respect and cite copyright footnote. (Updated January 2021)
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Beast without Beauty
Once upon a time there was a beast that lived in the forests of the night.
It roamed beneath the high thick branches and once in a while passed through a patch of sunlight that managed to weave its way past the tangled leaves. When this happened, the beast looked up with something approaching wonder, and caught the brightness within its deep-set eyes. But the pain of it was too sharp and it turned its head away quickly, blinded and stilled for a few seconds, before it plunged back into the gloom.
Because it was so dim, there is no way to describe the beast. It was large, since its passage bruised the tree trunks. It was heavy, since its footfalls left gouges in the underbrush. It had good hearing, since it could lumber towards its prey even if only one small peep was made by the petrified animal. And it was alone.
The hunters that braved the forest for meat were aware of the beast, and careful to avoid any trail with its scat. They always went in pairs, and they always stayed as close to the groves with open air as possible, even if it meant losing a buck or two. They always made it back to the villages in time for dusk, and they always told of the noise the beast made when it caught their scent, a long low howl that mingled frustration, warning and loneliness.
“The poor beast,” one mother said once over dinner, without thinking about who might be listening. “It may be as ugly as the worst sin and as brutal as the most ancient law, but who would wish even it to be that lonely?”
Her daughter heard, and wondered, and pondered in the night as she lay beneath the streaming paleness of the moon. And once she heard that howl which the hunters had described, and knew it was no wolf out there, for even a wolf has a mate which answers.
So when she passed into her own time of darkness, that week when a girl who gives off blood the first time must meditate within the herbalist’s cave, she shuddered from the loneliness and knew how the beast must feel, knew it so well that she wasn’t aware of the cave so much as simply darkness. Alone, still, she felt for the next step – joining with one of the boys who had recently passed his week in the cave on the other side of the valley.
But this was the way of it, this was the way her parents had done well in, and the others in the village said it kept them under the sun and moon.
After her week was completed she emerged, blinking in the noon sun brightness. She paused, eying the forest edge, and decided to walk home that way since it would be cooler. Taking up a stick that lay across the path, she wandered through the grass, tall here and cool within the shading branches. She looked past the tree trunks, but couldn’t tell what was further in than a few paces, since the sun didn’t penetrate far. Walking silently, not with her usual lilting hum, she peeled at the stick until the sticky white wood was free.
Grass tugged at skirt and bare feet. Leaves brushed against hair and eyes. The green smell of the forest filled her nostrils. Field mice skittered away underfoot. And the stick grew warm in her palms, held at the ready just in case, as her father had taught her.
It was a quiet day, and the sounds of the village in the centre of the valley where the creek tumbled were faint to her ears. The memory of the cave was as dim as the cave itself had been, and her shudders had left her body.
A shadow flitted across her and she lifted her head quickly, searching the sky. There – a large bird, high against the blue. A twig snapped to one side, the forest side, and she turned her face full that way. There – a fawn, caught at its nibbles, barely pulsing between the trees. Then suddenly it vanished, and she marveled.
Too soon, her slow steps took her close to her family’s hut. As she turned toward it, her mother came to the door and looked out at her, as if she’d been watching the whole time from inside. “Are you coming in, then?” her mother asked.
Once upon a time there was a beast that lived in the forests of the night.
It roamed beneath the high thick branches and once in a while passed through a patch of sunlight that managed to weave its way past the tangled leaves. When this happened, the beast looked up with something approaching wonder, and caught the brightness within its deep-set eyes. But the pain of it was too sharp and it turned its head away quickly, blinded and stilled for a few seconds, before it plunged back into the gloom.
Because it was so dim, there is no way to describe the beast. It was large, since its passage bruised the tree trunks. It was heavy, since its footfalls left gouges in the underbrush. It had good hearing, since it could lumber towards its prey even if only one small peep was made by the petrified animal. And it was alone.
The hunters that braved the forest for meat were aware of the beast, and careful to avoid any trail with its scat. They always went in pairs, and they always stayed as close to the groves with open air as possible, even if it meant losing a buck or two. They always made it back to the villages in time for dusk, and they always told of the noise the beast made when it caught their scent, a long low howl that mingled frustration, warning and loneliness.
“The poor beast,” one mother said once over dinner, without thinking about who might be listening. “It may be as ugly as the worst sin and as brutal as the most ancient law, but who would wish even it to be that lonely?”
Her daughter heard, and wondered, and pondered in the night as she lay beneath the streaming paleness of the moon. And once she heard that howl which the hunters had described, and knew it was no wolf out there, for even a wolf has a mate which answers.
So when she passed into her own time of darkness, that week when a girl who gives off blood the first time must meditate within the herbalist’s cave, she shuddered from the loneliness and knew how the beast must feel, knew it so well that she wasn’t aware of the cave so much as simply darkness. Alone, still, she felt for the next step – joining with one of the boys who had recently passed his week in the cave on the other side of the valley.
But this was the way of it, this was the way her parents had done well in, and the others in the village said it kept them under the sun and moon.
After her week was completed she emerged, blinking in the noon sun brightness. She paused, eying the forest edge, and decided to walk home that way since it would be cooler. Taking up a stick that lay across the path, she wandered through the grass, tall here and cool within the shading branches. She looked past the tree trunks, but couldn’t tell what was further in than a few paces, since the sun didn’t penetrate far. Walking silently, not with her usual lilting hum, she peeled at the stick until the sticky white wood was free.
Grass tugged at skirt and bare feet. Leaves brushed against hair and eyes. The green smell of the forest filled her nostrils. Field mice skittered away underfoot. And the stick grew warm in her palms, held at the ready just in case, as her father had taught her.
It was a quiet day, and the sounds of the village in the centre of the valley where the creek tumbled were faint to her ears. The memory of the cave was as dim as the cave itself had been, and her shudders had left her body.
A shadow flitted across her and she lifted her head quickly, searching the sky. There – a large bird, high against the blue. A twig snapped to one side, the forest side, and she turned her face full that way. There – a fawn, caught at its nibbles, barely pulsing between the trees. Then suddenly it vanished, and she marveled.
Too soon, her slow steps took her close to her family’s hut. As she turned toward it, her mother came to the door and looked out at her, as if she’d been watching the whole time from inside. “Are you coming in, then?” her mother asked.
At that very moment she felt it – a deep dark silence, like a shape, far under the gloom of the trees. It happened with her turn, but try as she might she could not turn back to look. There was no ordering of her muscles, no call to her eyes, from this presence, so she knew what it was without awareness of sight or sense.
Motionless she waited. Nothing happened. The brightness of the sun didn’t change, her mother’s face had her usual patient cynicism, and the smell of the forest was faint. Yet somehow she knew that if she responded to her mother, she would never again hear the howl from the forest or share the loneliness of the one who only knew the night.
“Are you coming in, then?” her mother asked again, as if it hadn’t been said it before.
And she did.
(C) Marion Wyse 2006-12-02 Toronto / photo taken along Algonquin's Crowe River
Motionless she waited. Nothing happened. The brightness of the sun didn’t change, her mother’s face had her usual patient cynicism, and the smell of the forest was faint. Yet somehow she knew that if she responded to her mother, she would never again hear the howl from the forest or share the loneliness of the one who only knew the night.
“Are you coming in, then?” her mother asked again, as if it hadn’t been said it before.
And she did.
(C) Marion Wyse 2006-12-02 Toronto / photo taken along Algonquin's Crowe River
MY GUEST WRITER
杨晋 Edward Jin Yang teaches English Literature and Language at Shanghai Normal University, and has his postgraduate degree from Xiamen University where we met twenty years ago. He says that I should put here: 'Suffice it to say that I'm a perishing published translator, a dabbler in pretentious poetry, a mourner of receding hairline, and Marion Wyse's biggest fan!'
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2. Corona for a mundane life
Shall we compare life to a turbid gutter, Where the remnants of vanity fair clutter, And the cacophony from the grueling grind, Swears to drown out the echoes of our mind? Yet deep down we sense no escape from the crisis Of disrupting and depleting Mother Gaea, And karma engendered by arrogance and avarice comes creeping on us like phosphorus fire! Bogged down in slurry, we have hardly said Our prayers for the lofty starlight, When by a dire twist of fate upon our head Hades wreaks a sweeping blight, Plaguing lungs and plundering lives, Fostering suspicions and fettering souls! “What did we ever do wrong to deserve this punishment, Your Majesty?” “What did you do right so you can be exempt?” retorts the horned deity. “You’re more of a pillager than the measure of all things; You’re more of a parasite than the master of the Earth! Homo Sapiens, repent! Rehabilitate or I shall retaliate!” |