Jinn Bug: Rough notes for something that may land in a cycle of poems tentatively called IN ICE LAND And shall I be blue heron in a country where ravens fatten on lamb skulls and there are no herons I will croak questions where basalt consonants avalanche into vowel pillows of lichen and rise sparking against the glaciers tumulting down Eyjafjallajökull AY-yah-fyad-layer-kuh-tel AY-yah-fyad-layer-kuh-tel faster and faster into silence I will stand here in the middle of everywhere owing no one anything knowing nothing A blue heron migration-worn in a land of no herons peaceful as the Hrossagaukur drum a midnight sun back toward far horizon I heard the eerie bleating whirring in the air, Day 3, Iceland, standing alone in the country side. My Icelandic friends named the bird after I imitated it, Hrossagaukur, and provided the translation to English: Horse Cuckoo. This week, I had a moment to look it up: SNIPE. One of the strangest, strongest, otherworldly sounds, these feathers beating together in diving flight (and flying is controlled falling, no? as is walking). Shamanic. I never did see one of the birds; too well-camouflaged against the gray sky that evening. Listen: hljodmynd.files.wordpress/2010/05/seltjarnarnes040510_1.mp3 https://soundcloud/hugh-harrop/snipe-drumming
Posted on: Wed, 17 Jul 2013 01:39:12 +0000
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