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+                <h1>Zk | notes</h1>
+            </header>
+            <article class="content">
+                <p>Dwale: 1979&ndash;July 2, 2021</p>
+<p>From <em>Face Down in the Leaves</em>, 2019, Weasel Press.</p>
+<hr />
+<p>p.26</p>
+<div class="verse">The seasonal storms have poured upon the grassy flat,
+The leafless stalks abound like thirsty mouths.
+Puddles form and soon are swarmed with little fish,
+And all the arid life has fled despair.
+
+And here, wrapped in rain, lies the oldest soul,
+The changes wrack his bones with painful cold.
+His skin is like the sky at night, as many scars
+Have marked his hide as there are glinting stars.
+
+At once he feels his lungs become bereft of breath,
+His daughter nudges him, to no effect.
+She walks away rememb&rsquo;ring days they stalked the plains,
+Within her womb there grows a golden bloom.</div>
+<div class="codehilite"><pre><span></span><code><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="c1">-- u - u -u - u- u</span>
+<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
+<span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
+<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span>
+
+<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
+<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
+<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
+<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
+
+<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
+<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span>
+<span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
+<span class="o">-</span><span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span> <span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span><span class="o">-</span> <span class="n">u</span>
+</code></pre></div>
+
+<hr />
+<p>p.8</p>
+<div class="verse">Summer, season of hot insomnia,
+That much never seems to change at all.
+Laying awake in the red desert night,
+I shape forest from shade and wait for fall.
+
+Ten years now gone, and who thought I would miss
+Cricket songs, cicadas and katydids?
+Then I&rsquo;d gladly have grabbed a big hammer,
+Smashed them flat as Pinocchio&rsquo;s conscience.
+
+Testing palisades of clocks and yardsticks,
+No advent waits for the restive dreamer.
+I bandage my tattered, bitten left hand
+And shed the smoke rings on my cloven finger.</div>
+<hr />
+<p><em>Face down in the leaves</em></p>
+<p>p.9</p>
+<div class="verse">We crawl through moist humus like millipedes,
+Feasting on dirt and dead, crumbling leaves
+While striped skies cycle through violet hues,
+While time&rsquo;s kisses take the shape of a bruise.
+Endeavors wear the warmer years away,
+Reduced at last to heaven&rsquo;s dormant clay.
+Alive, I lick brambles until my tongue
+Tears, despairing ever being so young.
+
+I think of you. I don&rsquo;t smile when I do.
+
+A moment more and then the day is gone,
+In evening grey, we mourn the vanished dawn,
+And so on, maybe waiting for someone
+To come drag us back to where we belong.
+In dreams we interred, with your pure throat bare,
+I know your breath, your jasmine-scented air.
+Alive, a god to mites and mud-daubers.
+The harvestmen scuttle and bob onwards.</div>
+<hr />
+<p><em>Dirt Garden</em></p>
+<p>p.5</p>
+<div class="verse">My garden of foxtails and milk-thistle,
+Alive and wild, more so than tended rows
+In growth, has died. I killed them a little,
+The crab-grass clumps, Datura and nettle.
+&ldquo;Time and time, I commit these small murders,
+To whose benefit?&rdquo; I ask why and wonder,
+The scent of sap on scuffed and bloody hands.
+If I indwelt some luring scrap of land
+Far from here, secluded, my own to call,
+I would welcome these same weeds, one and all,
+To plant their roots in my warm, earthen roof,
+Just they and I, with no need of reproof,
+And thank the thorns for making a hale fence,
+The compost for being my winter blanket.</div>
+<hr />
+<h2 id="analysis">Analysis</h2>
+<h3 id="related">Related</h3>
+<p>&ldquo;Winter&rdquo; by Eric Whitacre, text by Edward Esch - https://ericwhitacre.com/music-catalog/winter</p>
+<div class="verse">I.
+The snow is falling,
+sleeping,
+whispering,
+dreaming of water.
+
+II.
+Gold, silver, iron, stone;
+pure and gentle, silently melting,
+the sun sings softly through the quiet ice.
+
+III.
+A single snowflake awakens,
+shimmers,
+glows,
+watches the world with weary eyes,
+darkens,
+settles,
+and disappears.</div>
+<p>From &ldquo;Mid-Winter Songs&rdquo; by Morten Lauridsen, text by Robert Graves - https://genius.com/albums/Morten-lauridsen/Mid-winter-songs</p>
+<div class="verse"><em>Lament for Pasiphaë</em>
+
+pg.206
+
+Dying sun, shine warm a little longer!
+My eye, dazzled with tears, shall dazzle yours
+Conjuring you to shine and not to move
+You, sun, and I all afternoon have laboured
+Beneath a dewless and oppressive cloud&ndash;
+A fleece now gilded with our commen grief
+That this must be a night without a moon
+Dying sun, shine warm a little longer!
+
+Faithless she was not: she was very woman
+Smiling with dire impartiality
+Sovereign, with heart unmatched, adored of men
+Until Spring&rsquo;s cuckoo with bedraggled plumes
+Tempted her pity and her truth betrayed
+Then she who shone for all resigned her being
+And this must be a night without a moon
+Dying sun, shine warm a little longer!
+
+<em>Like Snow</em>
+
+pg.143
+
+She, then, like snow in a dark night
+Fell secretly. And the world waked
+With dazzling of the drowsy eye
+So that some muttered &lsquo;Too much light,&rsquo;
+And drew the curtains close
+Like snow, warmer than fingers feared
+And to soil friendly;
+Holding the histories of the night
+In yet unmelted tracks
+
+<em>She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep</em>
+
+pg.173
+
+She tells her love while half asleep
+In the dark hours
+With half-words whispered low:
+
+As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
+And puts out grass and flowers
+Despite the snow
+Despite the falling snow
+
+<em>Mid-Winter Waking</em>
+
+pg.165
+
+Stirring suddenly from long hibernation
+I knew myself once more a poet
+Guarded by timeless prinicipalities
+Against the worm of death, this hillside haunting;
+And presently dared open both my eyes
+
+O gracious, lofty, shone against from under
+Back-of-the-mind-far clouds like towers;
+And you, sudden warm airs that blow
+Before the expected season of new blossom
+While sheep still gnaw at roots and lambless go&ndash;
+
+Be witness that on waking, this mid-winter
+I foudn her hand in mine laid closely
+Who hsall watch out the Spring with me
+We stared in silence all around us
+But found no winter anywhere to see
+
+<em>Intercession in Late October</em>
+
+Poetry vol.71 no.1 - October 1947 - pg.23 - https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=24836
+
+How hard the year dies: no frost yet
+On drifts of yellow sand Midas reclines
+Fearless of moaning reed or sullen wave
+Firm and fragrant still the brambleberries
+On ivy-bloom butterflies wag
+
+Spare him a little longer, Crone
+For his clean hands and love-submissive heart</div>
+<p>Haiku by Issa - https://archive.org/details/autumnwindselect0000koba/page/10/mode/2up</p>
+<div class="verse">Heedless that the dews
+mark the passing of our day &mdash;
+we bind ourselves to others
+
+(Mi no ue no tsuyu to mo shirade hodashikeri - p.11 - spring)
+
+O winds of autumn!
+Nearer we draw to the Buddha
+As the years advance
+
+(Akikaze yo hotoke ni chikaki toshi no hodo - p.11 - autumn)
+
+Floating weeds,
+as blow the winds of the floating world &mdash;
+drifting and drifting
+
+(Ukigusa ya ukiyo no kaze no iu mama ni - p.18 - spring)
+
+A blessing indeed &mdash;
+This snow on the bed-quilt,
+This, too, is from the pure land
+
+(Arigata ya fusama no yuki mo Jodo yori - p.46 - winter)
+
+Is this it, then,
+My last resting place &mdash;
+Five feet of snow!
+
+(Kore ga maa tsui no sumika ka yuki goshaku - p.37 - winter)
+
+On the hill of summer
+Stands the slender maiden flower
+In a solitary humor
+
+(Natsuyama ya / Hitori kigen no / Ominaeshi - p.65 - summer)
+
+Red dragon-fly &mdash;
+He&rsquo;s the one that likes the evening,
+Or so it seems.
+
+(Akatombo / Kare mo yubo ga / Suki ja yara - p.65 - autumn)
+
+Heedless that the tolling bell
+Marks our own closing day &mdash;
+We take this evening&rsquo;s cool
+
+(Mi no ue no kane tomo shirade yusuzumi - p.39 - summer)</div>
+<p>Some underlines in <em>19 Ways of Looking at Wang Wei</em> by Eliot Weinberger, 2016, New Directions Publishing Corporation.</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>Great poetry lives in a state of perpetual transformation, perpetual translation: the poem dies when it has no place to go.</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>p.3</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>In its way a spiritual exercise, translation is dependent on the dissolution of the translator&rsquo;s ego: an absolute humility toward the text.</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>p.20</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>As such, every reading of every poem, regardless of language, is an act of translation: translation into the reader&rsquo;s intellectual and emotional life. As no individual reader remains the same, each reading becomes a different &mdash; not merely another &mdash; reading. The same poem cannot be read twice.</p>
+<p>[&hellip;] the poem continues in a state of restless change.</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>&ldquo;To Autumn&rdquo; verse 1 by Keats</p>
+<div class="verse">Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
+    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
+Conspiring with him how to load and bless
+    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
+To bend with apples the moss&rsquo;d cottage-trees,
+    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
+        To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
+    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
+And still more, later flowers for the bees,
+Until they think warm days will never cease,
+        For Summer has o&rsquo;er-brimm&rsquo;d their clammy cells.</div>
+            </article>
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