The Winter Wind

“The Winter Wind”


The winter wind blows in gusts
Through the lonely fields of dust
Weaving through the giant oak’s shade
Up above the hill and over the winding trail
Of soft, padded grass that grows
Greener as the hillside blows
The dandelions’ heads off their thick coats
And as the winter wind envelops,
With a sway of the hand the landscape
Overflows with a still silence
That hint at eager expectation
Of the new frozen winter wind 
Watching over as the country hills
Glow with a muted radiance
Against the dark winter sky.


Image: The Winter Woods


Neil Gaiman On How Stories Last

Neil Gaiman On How Stories Last

“A few years ago, she started telling me this story of how, in the ghetto, they were not allowed books. If you had a book … the Nazis could put a gun to your head and pull the trigger — books were forbidden. And she used to teach under the pretense of having a sewing class… a class of about twenty little girls, and they would come in for about an hour a day, and she would teach them maths, she’d teach them Polish, she’d teach them grammar…

One day, somebody slipped her a Polish translation of Margaret Mitchell’s novel Gone with the Wind. And Helen stayed up — she blacked out her window so she could stay up an extra hour, she read a chapter of Gone with the Wind. And when the girls came in the next day, instead of teaching them, she told them what happened in the book.

And each night, she’d stay up; and each day, she’d tell them the story.

And I said, “Why? Why would you risk death — for a story?”

And she said, “Because for an hour every day, those girls weren’t in the ghetto — they were in the American South; they were having adventures; they got away.

I think four out of those twenty girls survived the war. And she told me how, when she was an old woman, she found one of them, who was also an old woman. And they got together and called each other by names from Gone with the Wind…

We [writers] decry too easily what we do, as being kind of trivial — the creation of stories as being a trivial thing. But the magic of escapist fiction … is that it can actually offer you a genuine escape from a bad place and, in the process of escaping, it can furnish you with armor, with knowledge, with weapons, with tools you can take back into your life to help make it better… It’s a real escape — and when you come back, you come back better-armed than when you left.

Helen’s story is a true story, and this is what we learn from it — that stories are worth risking your life for; they’re worth dying for. Written stories and oral stories both offer escape — escape from somewhere, escape to somewhere.”

Illustration by Maurice Sendak from ‘The Big Green Book’ by Robert Graves.

via Brainpickings (Just a beautiful, enchanting blog)


For when at night you’re silent
You may hear it whispering to you
Telling you tales and legends
Not many beings have knowledge of
Not many mortals have known.

Tales of the battles fought years ago
The blood shed and the sacrifices
The mingling of the sea with the earth –
Paving way for them to walk upon it.

It even carries you along with the wind
Drifting towards the land of all might
Where fathers have seen their sons overcome
Where people mourned for their beloveds’ demise.

The night, it speaks of the glories of great sorcerer’s
And their apprentices’ long been sought quests
Where the rays of the sun dawn themselves upon you
Your flight of thoughts all but turns to dust.

I’m not suggesting that the sun is the enemy of your dreams
Merely he is a chance for them to live

He draws the line between the vicious virtuality and sincere reality
In which the truths are intended cherishes.

Let it whisper in your ear and let you know
Stories that occurred thousands of years ago,
Let them leave their footprints on the sands of time
That will linger eternally in the remains of our history.

To hear the stories that the Night tells.

Image: Blue Horizon by Sarah Slater 



Here comes the wind again
She came at last
The wind blows finally
Let her blow away my past.

The sun went down at last
And finally came the night
But the clouds were too thick
For the moon to shine bright.
Yet the fearless wind blew again
Trying to shove the clouds away
But they too fought back at her
As if determined to stay.

Oh, here comes the wind again
She came at last
The wind blows finally
Let her blow away my past.

Ah,how relieved I felt when
The moon finally shone through the haze
The light finally reaching the ground
Filtering it’s way through the green maze.
The wind too rejoiced with me
As finally came the moon
Reminiscing old memories and
Expecting it’d be back again soon.

A bit nostalgic I felt
As she caressed it carefully
And slashed the waves up high ;
Playing with them a little
Leading their way to touch the sky.
Watching from the distance
I feel her delight
And she’s soaring high with zeal
Increasing my happiness in height.

Here comes the wind again
She came at last
The wind blows finally
Let her blow away my past.

Pity, how sad it is
That I didn’t get the same fate
And that’s the only thing
Which she seemed to hate

But then I felt a happy lot
To see her enjoy
Like an innocent little child,
Screaming with delight for her new toy.
So she blew up again
Rushing past me this time,
Radiating her happiness around me
And giving away her own little chime.

Ah, how pleased I felt
As the wind came at last,
And so the wind blew again
Let her blow away my past.

Image: Anastasija Kraineva


When at night I look at the stars,
They remind me of forgotten scars.
Far away, where they burn bright
Or slowly fade away with age.
Higher in the sky,then sinking low
Illuminating the pathways of every sage.
But when I turn my head to the side,
Further away from the light,
I saw a familiar group of stars,
Those forever have known these doors left ajar.
Though at times they’re wide open,
Turned upon their hinges, closed the next-
Leaving enough room for the light to enter,
And burst through the cracks flexed.
A voice then calls me back,
Somewhere distant, far behind:
Back to the present-
Shut the door on,
The thoughts conjured by my mind.
And with the doors, the light disappears
The dark creeping in, somewhere near.
Time seems frozen; the dark moves painfully slow,
For a light that gradually fades away-
For a light that loses its glow.


Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of the cold, sad clouds. Silent, like sorrowing children, the birds have ceased their song, and only the moorhen’s plaintive cry and the harsh croak of the corncrake stirs the awed hush around the couch of waters, where the dying day breathes out her last.

From the dim woods on either bank, Night’s ghostly army, the grey shadows, creep out with noiseless tread to chase away the lingering rear- guard of the light, and pass, with noiseless, unseen feet, above the waving river-grass, and through the sighing rushes; and Night, upon her sombre throne, folds her black wings above the darkening world, and, from her phantom palace, lit by the pale stars, reigns in stillness.

Then we run our little boat into some quiet nook, and the tent is pitched, and the frugal supper cooked and eaten. Then the big pipes are filled and lighted, and the pleasant chat goes round in musical undertone; while, in the pauses of our talk, the river, playing round the boat, prattles strange old tales and secrets, sings low the old child’s song that it has sung so many thousand years – will sing so many thousand years to come, before its voice grows harsh and old – a song that we, who have learnt to love its changing face, who have so often nestled on its yielding bosom, think, somehow, we understand, though we could not tell you in mere words the story that we listen to.

And we sit there, by its margin, while the moon, who loves it too, stoops down to kiss it with a sister’s kiss, and throws her silver arms around it clingingly; and we watch it as it flows, ever singing, ever whispering, out to meet its king, the sea – till our voices die away in silence, and the pipes go out – till we, common-place, everyday young men enough, feel strangely full of thoughts, half sad, half sweet, and do not care or want to speak – till we laugh, and, rising, knock the ashes from our burnt-out pipes, and say “Good-night,” and, lulled by the lapping water and the rustling trees, we fall asleep beneath the great, still stars, and dream that the world is young again – young and sweet as she used to be ere the centuries of fret and care had furrowed her fair face, ere her children’s sins and follies had made old her loving heart – sweet as she was in those bygone days when, a new-made mother, she nursed us, her children, upon her own deep breast – ere the wiles of painted civilization had lured us away from her fond arms, and the poisoned sneers of artificiality had made us ashamed of the simple life we led with her, and the simple, stately home where mankind was born so many thousands years ago.

– Jerome K. Jerome



Cries of the Night”

 A shred of light
Of the moon that shone
High up in the sky
The almighty from his throne

Faint melody
That wafts through the air
Sweet and gentle
Stillness mirrored in her stare

 Over the sounds of the night
Heard is the one of her breathing
Among the howls and coots
And the sound of feet treading

She, moving closer
To the light in her trance
Oblivion, in every step
Among the shadows that
With claws, at her prance

Distant sound of a stream nearby;
Vague insects’ chirping
And the Nightingale’s loud cry
Time never moving on
Though dark, yet she looks for dawn

With one last, lingering look unto the sky
Voices at her thoughts that pry
To the cries of the night
Those by the second grow
She finally let all her fears show

Image: Cries of the Night

The Night