half & half world

Beyond the stars, light, equinox


Nothing prepares us for such cosmic rite of passage. Not even the dazzling displays of aurora borealis that filled our sky since last summer's dusk... As we wandered through February, the island began to display precocious signs of revival. Strangely, our trees began to share so early buds... Winter bowed out without complaint, as milder air filtered through March. Not ice, but rain dominated our Nordic skies. March, month of rainbows and wild hares!

Revival, renaissance, a promise of return
From Imbolc to Ostara, our earthly calendar of life feels more than generous.
Celandine popped up with a good fortnight in advance... Avian movements have turned our skies into fantastic motorways! From wildfowl to waders, via blackbirds, skylarks and common guillemots, the island gradually welcomes back its summer visitors. 

And wherever you decide to walk, Greylag geese feast about everywhere! Their sound and sights slash days and nights. I love to listen to bird calls in a crepuscular sky. Geese make the best use of stars for night navigation. Somehow, I think of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's Vol de Nuit.


Night. The one that weaves solace and fears  through a curtain of love & hate... 


Yet night will shrink even further as we jig with spring equinox! What began from late January will now accelerate at some amazing speed. So until then, I shall make the most of our stars and walk through spring till they faint away past Beltaine - enjoy a walk through the meadows and re-discover my world's palette of colours, though quite timid at first, when petals open to the sun. On Sunday morning, I heard my first skylark. Now I can truly welcome Voar, that wonderful dialect word for spring.

Voar haiku string 

Voar -

wind of spring in rattling blind,

distant echo of wheatears.

#haiku fae 60N

Let it out -

March, month of rainbows, ghosts & angels,

my grief still tattooed in grey sky.

#haiku fae 60N

Les choristes -

in their chocolate & white suits,

on every corner of the stack, guillemots sing.

#haiku fae 60N

Arctic Sunday

back to whiteworld


We have been warned. That exotic (anything above zero Celsius) air would not last long... Kate's 50 words for Snow is playing inside the hut, as am I'm savouring a bowl of warm porridge. The island once more caught in some Arctic spell, with a thin, though icy sheet of snow, has clad every meadow, garden and geo. Our three felines ventured fully clawed on the icy blue.


Peewit the Cat clambered over the crab basket and watched geese in mid-morning sky from his post. He looked a sphinx in this ocean of ice.  Frozen garden in glorious light on Sunday morning. Overnight gales let us enjoy more magic from our Nordic sky, with yet another luminous display of aurora. Mirrie Dancers delighted eyes late in darkness. So cold though through this Arctic air. If at the start of February, I felt on the shore of the Labrador, today makes me think of Svalbard, or somewhere near the horizon of South Georgia, South Shetland or Orkney Islands, or even Iles Kerguélen...  A short walk around my patch transports my heart to those desolate freezing realms. Scott, Charcot and Shackleton  belong to this catalogue of famous polar explorers, and yet, other names, no so well remembered, adorn this list. No leopard or elephant seal, just common and grey ones can be found all around my shore. Each print of snow boot has its rewards. I heard a snippick (snipe) in the nearby field, and geese calling above my head. So was the theme of my stravaig before lunchtime.


Everything belongs to the ice.

In defiance to eyes and claws of February, sparrows and starlings sang during snowfall on Saturday. So eager to chase this spell of desolation, they stood and chirped all around us. Every tree began to feel the weight of winter. Sticky snow whitened our world. But still, birdsong filled in sound this myriad of snowflakes. My Nordic world sounded so light. 

Such desire to feel alive and sing in Saturday's bleakest moments...

June & Richard's Old Manse looks so romantic clad in white. The old stone walls harbour comfort and secret worlds fit for a starling, gull or wren. They too feed birds that come to shelter from harshness. Among bits of twisted branches and frozen garden, tubes of peanuts hang from bareness. Birds know it so well. later they will find a suitable tree to love and fare for their offspring... In the meantime, they have to make do with whiteworld.

Recent haiku & tweets from 60N

Morning distorted by raindrops that could crystallize by Saturday - will have to tell curlews & wrens... #Geopoetics  

Magic words -

 inside book of incantations, 

one spell for snow.

 #haiku fae #60N #Geopoetics #flâneur #snow #dérive

Garde-barrière - 

sur le rebord du monde, 

deux étourneaux attendent la neige.

 #haiku fae 60N 

Now found your footprints in the snow - echoing round the 

whole island! 

Draco dans les étoiles

time to reconvene with fire


It has gained in stature. It is now known around the world. It leaps from island to island... It fills our sky with sparks and light and parrafin lingers in our hearts forever.


Each last Tuesday of January, fire fever sparks off all around town. The dragon's back around our walls, and with it, hordes of boys and men in starting blocks for merriment. In my night sky, Draco awaits curtain of night to show the way. 



On this last day of January, young islanders turn warriors and invest corridors inside their own institution. Everyone gathers to applaud and marvel at shiny helmets. The atmosphere is bon enfant, as staff and pupils play the game until our squad of young Vikings join their elders by the harbour. It is indeed a special day for those young men who represent our school. They too have their own galley to set on fire and walk in footsteps of elders. 

Fire fever animates hearts throughout the day. It kicks early and will demand another day to recover from party time! It culminates with the now famous procession. In the meantime, boys and men have to endure a much accepted marathon by visiting schools, hospital, care homes and whoever wants to see them before sunset. 

The procession well after dusk shines as highlight. Folk from the world come to marvel at boys & men ready to march and  turn their boat into ashes. Impressive prints left in your eyes. As night progresses, the guizing men will engulf halls where women wait to serve and feed with tattie soup (or reestit mutton) and other liquid concoctions until next dawn... For those of you familiar with the opening scene from the movie Beowulf - mind you, minus Grendel and treasures! - the allegory won't feel too strong. In our depth of winter, Up-Helly Aa feels so welcome as light begins to override night in a much more assertive way. 


February born off ashes 

This year, Imbolc follows so close to Lerwick's Up-Helly-Aa.
Imbolc, the Earth's true beginning of Spring, and with it, the very first and timid steps to renewal. 


Our dawns have become precocious - our afternoons linger longer... Sometimes sunsets turn pink and blue in pastel style and this precious nordic light carve smiles in eyes and hearts. It gives us time to wander ("stravaig") around our shore.

 Long-tailed ducks mingle with Eiders & Goldeneyes, common Scoters, kittiwakes and selkies... Little auks have been seen. Ravens re-started their acrobatics, as courtship begins on roadsides at breakfast time. Ravens, once captured by Vikings around the island to be used as scouts & seekers of land beyond seafarers' horizon... Starlings and sparrows filled this morning's sky with calls and chirps, so quarrelsome can they become. Even if the land feels desolate, precocious signals are noticed. Our path to the Vernal Equinox looks now lit. And until then, we shall keep our beacons alight, watch out for ice at every dawn and salute Draco in our sky.


The hearth is keeping us warm. Candles bring smiles when all feels dark. And when our sky feels generous, the entire universe fills our eyes. In moonless night, we can enjoy our Northern Lights. Without a doubt, 60N is a magic place! 

Today, prolific day at the wordbench. So here, a string of fresh haiku :-)

Nuit de feu - 

dry wax & ashes for Imbolc, 

we have been burning wood all night. 

Haiku fae 60N 

Stravaig - 

in-between ditches & potholes, 

follow rock doves & hooded crows. 

Haiku fae 60N 

Parrafin - 

elixir to sun worshippers 

that lingers through depth of winter. 

Haiku fae 60N 

day of sun

day of sun, day of light


my fleeting soul, as Bertie sings. It all felt aerial, so ethereal and magical from dawn till now.  The Met Office application on my iPod had somehow whispered to make the best of our Sunday... Dazzled by blue from dawn till dusk, the island weighed its mass of gold. Fuelled by might of our Nordic light, I packed my heart with adventures found on the shore of the South End - its very tip made of white sand. 


West Voe was littered with uprooted kelp forests tides bring to rest on silver shores after each storm. Warmth on my skin, as I stepped out of the motor and began my first wandering. Whereas folk made it to the other side of arch, I followed the song of the waves and scrutinised the very edge of my own world. Life comes and feasts on rotting kelp,  
from wading friends to the tiniest!


What better spectacle but watch waders - turnstones and purple sandpipers - mingle with lace made by the surf. Each one looked so mechanical every time they got their feet wet! I soon sealed time in a bubble and let my eye play through the lens. 

And yet, behind me, the magic of our elusive jenny wren that too made the most of earth bonanza and played hide and seek in boulders. Magic moments. 





A drive around Spiggie led us to geese - greylag, white-fronted and bean - scattered around the loch and the lush fields in-between Spiggie and Bigton. 

Bigton, la voie royale to Arcania! So I went to salute my dear sandbridge for the first time since Yule and found new rocks on its shoreline... We shall never underestimate the power of water. Oceans and seas carry the world in their currents. We came to find shells of all kinds. And so we did... As spray flew high half-way though the tombolo and tide was high, we found happiness at its base. I marvelled at the game of light through marram grass... Like angel hair all around us. When the world sounds so loud, I always come back to the shore and listen for its earthly song. And love the island in such light. 


By mid-afternoon, I reconvened with my troupe in the town, as theatre needs rehearsals. Dusk draped Sunday without a word. This epilogue back inside night - somewhat distracted by a glow of Aurora in the evening - hovers like a silvery cloak of a day more than well spent. 


And I want to remember how it all began, 

here it is, immortalised, inside a triptych of haiku.

Vol de nuit -

des oies sauvages en escadrille

par delà tuiles dans bleu de l'aube.

Night flight -

wild geese in a squadron

beyond tiles in blue dawn.

#haiku fae 60N

Cri de l'aube -

des fers de la nuit,

merle noir se déchaine.

Cry Dawn -

from night's shackles

blackbird unchains itself.

#haiku fae 60N

Chant du monde -

au dire du matin,

les étourneaux en rang par trois.

Earth song -

to what morning whispers,

starlings in rows of three.

#haiku fae 60N

With everlasting thanks to my other half for his precious shots of geese :-)

first sun

2012 awakening


I love to wake to Nordic sun. A cold wind blows across the island. Last night's Réveillon at our friends began with a bang, as Andy lit that single rocket in black sky at the back of Midnight. We hung our last hour of 2011 on Monica's coat rack and gathered by a warm hearth for Hogmanay. We wished Cameron "Happy Birthday", smiled, kissed and toasted to a brand new year. Merriment de rigueur as we swung towards brand new dawn...


I love this isle from this point of elevation. Brand new year, the wanderer walks through heather and looks for now bathed in pale blue and brand new sun. Kate Bush once wrote & sang, "stepping out of the page, into the sensual world..." This simple phrase sticks through my mind, as I stood still and felt this crisp first day against my skin. At around noon, my northern realm was so dazzling. 


from blue to grey


But then light feels like trapped inside Pandora's Box as clouds gathered as if to signal end of gold... Birds hasted wingbeats and prepared for roosting time. But first, feast wherever it is offered to them.  Inside willows and on feeders, before they switch to sleepy sky... 


The wind still bites after sunset. And from the comfort of my hut, I celebrate this brand new year graced by a generous first sun. 


inspiring world

first sun -

pioneer's fire through new year,

January begins with pale blue.

#haiku fae 60N

happy new year fae 60N :-)

Solstice

longest night


I never saw sunrise on Solstice Day. Not even chirping birds managed to disturb my slumber. On the first day away from bells & timetable, I just slept away happily.
I occupied my eyes and heart around the hut from mid-morning till dusk. Yule is a time when gift paper wraps up surprises to be shared and carve new smiles. In the garden, squalid showers and heavy rain obeyed winter sky's metronome. Sunset begins early. By 1450 our world darkens. By 4 o'clock, the island has sunken in black. 

eerie world


Yuletide lights adorn the spruce Norway gifts us at Market Cross (as well as around a couple of other landmarks) in the town. They seem to defy the anger of the hissing gales, hail and malevolent spirits...Yet, on Solstice Night, all feels quiet. Maybe too quiet for the time of year. It's just gone five. A good number of the shops on Da Street remain open late on Thursday nights and yet the town feels deserted. Its many dwellers have already made their way home. The bus shelters, filled with laughters, will soon be haunted with footprints at The Esplanade. 

The harbour looks serene. The Leirna's left for one of her daily crossings through the Bressay Sound. The nearby pub, Thule, welcomes its daily intake of sailors & workers. Neon lights glow behind the blinds. Bar tenders will fill night with beer...
A few passers-by hurry to the light wherever it glows. 
The town's main streets and arteries have now returned to Yule spirits, as they recovered freedom of the world.

The island prepares for the longest night.

Yuletide haiku & micropoetry fae 60N

Tic-toc -

origin of the universe

shelled deep inside dry seeds of time.

Nordic sunrise -

tone, tone, tone, tone, tone,

splash!

A high moon lights end of night,

winter feels like a humpback whale -

unpredictable to our eyes.

Lune d'hiver -

cet imprimé d'argent

dans les flocons de neige.

winter moon -

this silver print

inside snow flakes.

glimpse of light

in between gales


sequence


a triangle of light appeared out of the gloom grey...
Not much at first, from SSE. It's just past noon. A NNW gale blows, overriding storm force winds from earlier this morning.

Contrasts belong to cardinal points.
A few minutes, as I look west. That gale wipes clean-crisp back to blue (oh, not for long). I love the old manse against that less dramatic background. 
At its zenith, our star's elevation barely reaches 7.34º - temperatures have plummeted since gales have ravaged the island.

Looking SSW.
By lunchtime, light shines without shame,
but soon low clouds regain position by the hill! Our afternoon light last about three hours...  

Still from SSW

As soon as our sun begins to set, I need to seek shelter once again,

as  cold rain beads slash the double pane of my window. 

A grey-filled sky darkens my world; only a tiny glimpse of light acts a rebel.

I am day-dreaming of first snow, as dusk settles.

A mix of rain, slush and hailstones crashed on the glass, so why not now. And when I look back towards west, an angry sky begins to show... Welcome to the claws of winter, just as those from the wolverine that dwells inside the boreal forest. 

In time for night, the wind still howls through that gigantic megaphone, though its triads lose frequency. Somehow it became a little bit more Wagnerian! 

And speaking of the boreal world, I shall leave you with a more seasonal string of haiku.

Wings of change -

raven at north junction,

in search of excess carrion.

#haiku fae 60N

Déshabillez-moi -

when first frost starves gardens from sap,

they yield to the wind in a nude.

#haiku fae 60N

Lean times -

wolverine paws in single white,

the raven has to be patient.

#haiku fae 60N

in memoriam

culture of peace


 Né sous une bonne étoile.


I still remember my maternal grand mother who hammered in my heart how fortunate I was to be born in relative peace time. "Relative" in the sense no bombs fall on my head in spite of fears incessantly generated by some politicians backed (or pushed) by their generals. So far in my lifetime, I witnessed extraordinary events: the Fall of the Berlin Wall, German re-unification, collapse of communism pre-seeded by glasnost - in other words, historical steps towards peace between nations tarnished by blood over centuries. Peace secured all around fields our ancestors fought in the name of their rulers... We all have a poppy to wear. For centuries, families have lost loved ones in the name of political madness. 


Since early childhood, I have learnt to remember those who fell in the fields of northern France and Flanders. On every 11 November, we were led to the monument aux morts by our teachers. Wherever I stand, I remember all men who were sacrificed in a name of a war, irrespective of nationality, since nationalism was invented to elevate states to extreme competition and human carnage . Nobody asks to die in such ways. In the name of politics, propaganda glorifies any conflict. Nobody plasters Dulce et Decorum Est on the door of their parliament, hospital or court of justice. And yet war poetry is studied at secondary level. Pupils learn and forget the messages of brave young men, like Wilfred Owen, who dared to denounce the true face of war and condone its illusions.


Earlier on at school today, I attended Armistice Day Ceremony within the walls of the old institute. Our Lord Lieutenant stood in full regalia, together with officials & other dignitaries to celebrate forty nine pupils who fell during WWI.   Poignant moment, as wreathes were laid under the framed list of the boys, and selected pupils read out their names after the reading of In Flanders Fields . Two minutes ' silence were observed on the eleventh hour in the entire establishment, as the rest of the island and at national level. Our local piper & final words from the local history teacher closed the ceremony. 


My heart warped through time as I remember the picture of my great grand father, a stretcher-bearer, gassed at Verdun and at Le Chemin des Dames and think of all men and women embroiled in all recent conflicts. As if human flesh was still regarded as a "commodity"...

By celebrating Armistice Day, we remember all those who have been sent to nothing but reckless butchery. 

 

I wrote a haiku this morning before I left for school. It read:

Coquelicots -

pinned on the tartan of your scarf,

explosive red in foreign fields.

#haiku fae 60N