Monthly Archives: December 2011

Moonlight, I thank thee.

You butter my wings with glow

And make my flights sing.

(This is one of dear Bubo’s haiku. I shall publish more as she allows.)

Oh, my dears. It’s been a long week. And it is Friday night. The sky is dark, the moon is traveling past the stars, and much of the world is readying for bed. Curl up and listen to the tales I weave, until your eyes grow heavy and you slip into slumber, ready for the Dream Maker.

On bluffs high above a rough grey sea, The Bird watches white caps grow and break. The Bird is thoughtful; thoughtful when it walks, foot in front of foot, along the beaches at dawn. Thoughtful when it sinks below the surface of steaming hot springs in the winter, when the air is so cold that breath crystallizes on our lips. The Bird is thoughtful when it dries its wings in summer breezes, letting each feather flutter just so. But The Bird is not thoughtful when it dreams at night, safe in a nest that is both above and below danger.

For in sleep, The Bird does not think. The Bird does. It changes shape so that it can race caterpillars up rose stems, brilliantly colored and vibrantly energetic. It warbles opera like a diva, changing timbre to scat along with Ella or Cab. It dives from sheer cliffs, spinning through water and earth like a great drill. It drinks mugs of magma and dips its toes in erupting volcanoes. It dances with tornadoes and dines with Plato in Atlantis, seated on settees made of shipwrecks.

You would not know this, looking at The Bird. Thick browed and nearly silent, The Bird will fool you. Unwittingly, it will fool you. It stands on bluffs high above a rough grey sea. It does not speak of its dreams. Tell The Bird of your dreams. Sink below the surface of hot springs in winter. Let your breath crystallize on your lips and hide within the steam. Get your wings wet and let them dry in summer breezes, making note of each drop as it evaporates and becomes something new.

Then, when you sleep, dance with devils, race the rain, slurp up stars and do. Be The Bird.

Sleep tight, my pets. Dream deep.

Sipping mulled cider whilst Bubo scribbles more haiku. I predict a book-length manuscript within a month. She seems to have a poetry bug.

It recently came to my attention that my dear Bubo has taken to writing haiku.

She has been scribbling in a notebook late into the night and has that far-off pondering look in her eye that can be recognized in portraits of Poe, Coleridge and Jimmy Buffet.

Early this morning I heard what sounded both like weeping and singing. Upon investigation, I discovered Mordecai and the dragons in the garden, listening to Bubo recite some of her most recent works.

Chantepleure is a noun that means alternate singing and weeping. It comes from the Old French chanter – to sing – plus pleurer – to weep.

I would imagine that this term is more often attributed to operatic works, though it seems Bubo’s haiku inspire chantepleure as well.