Zk | Seasons

Notes

As such, every reading of every poem, regardless of language, is an act of translation: translation into the reader’s intellectual and emotional life. As no individual reader remains the same, each reading becomes a different — not merely another — reading. The same poem cannot be read twice.

[…] the poem continues in a state of restless change. (Weinberger, pg. 46)

The power of the cyclical nature of the year is of an importance that draws the heart onward1, and that which moves the heart is fair game for poetry. The demarcations for this cycle are the two solstices, with secondary markers at the equinoxes. One finds oneself at the longest night of the year and knows that, from there onwards, it is downhill into summer.2 One finds oneself at the longest day of the year and before oneself lies cooler times.

The concept of seasons and seasonality is well known within poetry. Exploring that is beyond the scope of this paper.3 To rely on synecdoche is the best one can manage with a topic so large. To that end, it is worth exploring the poetry of Dwale in such a context.

Dwale (1979–2021; it/its) was a poet living in the Southern United States. As a member of the furry fandom, it presented itself as a ‘cabbolf’ — a cat/rabbit/wolf hybrid — often dressing in a Russian kosovorotka or Middle Eastern shalwar kameez. \parencite{dwale}

Its work is described as focusing on “altered states of consciousness…poverty, addiction, subjectivity, and the transience of existence” \parencite{dwale}, though to reduce its body of work to any or all of those provides an inexact picture of its writing. This will be touched on in a future section on translation, but needless to say, this paper will focus on its work through the lens of seasonal progression.

Spring

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’ring days they stalked the plains, Within her womb there grows a golden bloom. \parencite[26]{leaves}

Spring is commonly associated with newness. New growth, new life, new warmth under a new sun.

Haiku by Issa - https://archive.org/details/autumnwindselect0000koba/page/10/mode/2up

Heedless that the dews mark the passing of our day — we bind ourselves to others (Mi no ue no tsuyu to mo shirade hodashikeri - p.11 - spring) Floating weeds, as blow the winds of the floating world — drifting and drifting (Ukigusa ya ukiyo no kaze no iu mama ni - p.18 - spring)

Summer

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’d gladly have grabbed a big hammer, Smashed them flat as Pinocchio’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. \parencite[8]{leaves}

Haiku by Issa - https://archive.org/details/autumnwindselect0000koba/page/10/mode/2up

On the hill of summer Stands the slender maiden flower In a solitary humor (Natsuyama ya / Hitori kigen no / Ominaeshi - p.65 - summer) Heedless that the tolling bell Marks our own closing day — We take this evening’s cool (Mi no ue no kane tomo shirade yusuzumi - p.39 - summer)

Autumn

Face down in the leaves We crawl through moist humus like millipedes, Feasting on dirt and dead, crumbling leaves While striped skies cycle through violet hues, While time’s kisses take the shape of a bruise. Endeavors wear the warmer years away, Reduced at last to heaven’s dormant clay. Alive, I lick brambles until my tongue Tears, despairing ever being so young. I think of you. I don’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. \parencite[9]{leaves}

“To Autumn” verse 1 by Keats

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’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’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Intercession in Late October

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
Red dragon-fly — He’s the one that likes the evening, Or so it seems. (Akatombo / Kare mo yubo ga / Suki ja yara - p.65 - autumn) 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)

Winter

Dirt Garden 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. “Time and time, I commit these small murders, To whose benefit?” 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. \parencite[5]{leaves}
Is this it, then, My last resting place — Five feet of snow! (Kore ga maa tsui no sumika ka yuki goshaku - p.37 - winter) A blessing indeed — This snow on the bed-quilt, This, too, is from the pure land (Arigata ya fusama no yuki mo Jodo yori - p.46 - winter)
Lament for Pasiphaë 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– 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’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! Like Snow 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 ‘Too much light,’ 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 She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep 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

“Winter” by Eric Whitacre, text by Edward Esch - https://ericwhitacre.com/music-catalog/winter

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.

Works cited

@book{leaves,
    title     = "Face Down in the Leaves",
    author    = "Dwale",
    publisher = "Weasel Press",
    place     = "Manvel, TX",
    year      = "2019"
}

@book{weinberger_paz_2016,
    title     = "Nineteen ways of looking at Wang Wei: (with more ways)",
    author    = "Weinberger, Eliot and Paz, Octavio",
    publisher = "New Directions Paperbook",
    place     = "New York, NY",
    year      = "2016"
}

@book{graves_poems,
    title     = "Collected poems, 1965",
    author    = "Robert Graves",
    publisher = "Cassell \& Company Ltd",
    place     = "London, UK",
    year      = "1965"
}

@article{graves_intercession,
    title   = "Intercession in Late October",
    author  = "Robert Graves",
    journal = "Poetry",
    volume  = "71",
    number  = "1",
    year    = "1947",
    pages   = "23"
}

@book{issa,
    title     = "The Autumn Wind: a selection of poems by Issa",
    author    = "Issa, Kobayashi and Mackenzie, Lewis (Trans.)",
    publisher = "John Murray (Publishers) Ltd",
    place     = "London, UK",
    year      = "1957"
}

@misc{blackbird,
    title        = "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird",
    author       = "Stevens, Wallace",
    howpublished = {\url{https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Thirteen_Ways_of_Looking_at_a_Blackbird}},
    year         = "1917",
    note         = "Accessed Feb 11, 2021"
}

@misc{pale_she,
    title        = "Pale She",
    author       = "Scott-Clary, Madison",
    howpublished = {\url{https://writing.drab-makyo.com/poetry/pale-she/}},
    year         = "2020",
    note         = "Accessed Feb 11, 2021"
}

@book{eigengrau,
    title     = {Eigengrau: Poems 2015--2020},
    author    = "Scott-Clary, Madison",
    publisher = "self published",
    place     = "Everett, WA",
    year      = "2020",
    pages     = {68--71}
}

@misc{dwale_haiku,
    title        = {\emph{untitled haiku}},
    author       = "Dwale",
    howpublished = {\url{https://twitter.com/ThornAppleCider/status/1009137826250625029}},
    year         = "2018",
    note         = "Accessed Feb 11, 2021"
}

@misc{esch,
    title        = "Winter",
    author       = "Esch, Edward",
    howpublished = {\url{https://ericwhitacre.com/music-catalog/winter}},
    note         = "Accessed Feb 10, 2021"
}

@misc{dwale,
    title        = "Dwale",
    author       = "WikiFur",
    howpublished = {\url{https://en.wikifur.com/wiki/Dwale}},
    note         = "Accessed Nov 28, 2021"
}

Notes

  1. To be more exact, due to the (generally) linear nature of time, years spiral up. Days, of course spiral forward. ↩

  2. I am not sold on this metaphor; uphill bears both positive and negative connotations, and it is difficult to say which to apply when. Ask a poet. ↩

  3. Or perhaps my abilities as an author. ↩