Twilight

Twilight magic

source (Chennai, Tamil Nadu, India)

          Just past the solstice, in the north it's winter, in the south it's summer.  What we share is the release and relief of twilight, the magical time of sunup and sundown.  

          In evening twilight, For many of us the day's chores are done, special desserts are ready for those celebrating Christmas eve or reading the days of Kwanzaa.  We light candles or lights.  A falling darkness may be broken by sun or moon and starlight. 

 

           Twilight.  

source

           In the dawn twilight, we may be sleeping, exercising, praying, sitting quietly with a cup of coffee or tea, taking a walk, getting ready for work, or milking the cows.  

 

           Settle yourself into a twilight--either before sunup or before sundown, turn on a light or light a candle, and write a new poem influenced by a winter or summer twilight.  What's going on?

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Sample poems:

The Twilight Turns  by James Joyce
The twilight turns from amethyst
To deep and deeper blue,
The lamp fills with a pale green glow
The trees of the avenue.

The old piano plays an air,
Sedate and slow and gay;
She bends upon the yellow keys,
Her head inclines this way.
Shy thought and grave wide eyes and hands
That wander as they list — -
The twilight turns to darker blue
With lights of amethyst.

In the twilight rain By Matsuo Basho
In the twilight rain
these brilliant-hued hibiscus . . .
A lovely sunset.
Twilight by Louise Glück
All day he works at his cousin’s mill,
so when he gets home at night, he always sits at this one window,
sees one time of day, twilight.
There should be more time like this, to sit and dream.
It’s as his cousin says:
Living—living takes you away from sitting.

In the window, not the world but a squared-off landscape
representing the world. The seasons change,
each visible only a few hours a day.
Green things followed by golden things followed by whiteness—
abstractions from which come intense pleasures,
like the figs on the table.

At dusk, the sun goes down in a haze of red fire between two poplars.
It goes down late in summer—sometimes it’s hard to stay awake.

Then everything falls away.
The world for a little longer
is something to see, then only something to hear,
crickets, cicadas.
Or to smell sometimes, aroma of lemon trees, of orange trees.
Then sleep takes this away also.

But it’s easy to give things up like this, experimentally,
for a matter of hours.

I open my fingers—
I let everything go.

Visual world, language,
rustling of leaves in the night,
smell of high grass, of woodsmoke.

I let it go, then I light the candle.

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