On the few days of winter when low clouds cover the hill slops like scarves or blankets of fog, I'm happy and wait for the water that will make my garden happy. The trees will be happy, the bushes, the roses, the grass - all stretching their branches and leaves up towards the sky, towards the life-giving nourishment of rain. And singing their songs in silence. Lets hear the voices of poets, inspired by rain...
Like Rain it sounded till it curved
by Emily Dickinson
Like Rain it sounded till it curved
And then I knew 'twas Wind --
It walked as wet as any Wave
But swept as dry as sand --
When it had pushed itself away
To some remotest Plain
A coming as of Hosts was heard
It filled the Wells, it pleased the Pools
It warbled in the Road --
It pulled the spigot from the Hills
And let the Floods abroad --
It loosened acres, lifted seas
The sites of Centres stirred
Then like Elijah rode away
Upon a Wheel of Cloud.
And then I knew 'twas Wind --
It walked as wet as any Wave
But swept as dry as sand --
When it had pushed itself away
To some remotest Plain
A coming as of Hosts was heard
It filled the Wells, it pleased the Pools
It warbled in the Road --
It pulled the spigot from the Hills
And let the Floods abroad --
It loosened acres, lifted seas
The sites of Centres stirred
Then like Elijah rode away
Upon a Wheel of Cloud.
The Fury of Rainstorms
by Anne Sexton
The rain drums down like red ants,
each bouncing off my window.
The ants are in great pain
and they cry out as they hit
as if their little legs were only
stitche don and their heads pasted.
And oh they bring to mind the grave,
so humble, so willing to be beat upon
with its awful lettering and
the body lying underneath
without an umbrella.
Depression is boring, I think
and I would do better to make
some soup and light up the cave.
each bouncing off my window.
The ants are in great pain
and they cry out as they hit
as if their little legs were only
stitche don and their heads pasted.
And oh they bring to mind the grave,
so humble, so willing to be beat upon
with its awful lettering and
the body lying underneath
without an umbrella.
Depression is boring, I think
and I would do better to make
some soup and light up the cave.
It is the depressive darkness of stormy clouds and the danger of too much water, both literally (rain) and figuratively (tears) that "asks" for a shelter from the rain and turmoil, under a light-filled umbrella... so beautifully portrayed on a card by Kathy Gallegos, Director and Founder of Avenue 50 Studio in Highland Park.
The Rainy Day
by Rabindranath Tagore
Sullen clouds are gathering fast
over the black fringe of the forest.
O child, do not go out!
The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads
against the dismal sky; the crows with their dragged wings are
silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river
is haunted by a deepening gloom.
Our cow is lowing loud, ties at the fence.
O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.
Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes
as they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain-water is
running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who
has run away from his mother to tease her.
Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.
O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry is closed.
The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly rushing rain; the
water in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home
early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.
The evening lamps must be made ready.
O child, do not go out!
The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is
slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo
branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.
O child, do not go out!
The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads
against the dismal sky; the crows with their dragged wings are
silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river
is haunted by a deepening gloom.
Our cow is lowing loud, ties at the fence.
O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.
Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes
as they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain-water is
running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who
has run away from his mother to tease her.
Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.
O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry is closed.
The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly rushing rain; the
water in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home
early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.
The evening lamps must be made ready.
O child, do not go out!
The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is
slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo
branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.
Big Tujunga Wash with Rainclouds
The favorite Polish poem about rain was written by Leopold Staff (1878-1957), who heard in the rain the sounds of despair, death, loneliness and desolation - portrayed with a typical fin-de-siecle exaggerated fashion. I found an English translation of Staff on MLingua Forum: http://forum.mlingua.pl/showthread.php?t=31650
Deszcz
jesienny
By Leopold
Staff
O szyby deszcz dzwoni, deszcz dzwoni
jesienny
I pluszcze jednaki, miarowy,
niezmienny,
Dżdżu krople padają i tłuką w me
okno...
Jęk szklany... płacz szklany... a
szyby w mgle mokną
I światła szarego blask sączy się
senny...
O szyby deszcz dzwoni, deszcz dzwoni
jesienny...
Wieczornych snów mary powiewne,
dziewicze
Na próżno czekały na słońca
oblicze...
W dal poszły przez chmurną pustynię
piaszczystą,
W dal ciemną bezkresną, w dal szarą
i mglistą...
Odziane w łachmany szat czarnej
żałoby
Szukają ustronia na ciche swe groby,
A smutek cień kładzie na licu ich
młodem...
Powolnym i długim wśród dżdżu
korowodem
W dal idą na smutek i życie tułacze,
A z oczu im lecą łzy... Rozpacz tak
płacze...
To w szyby deszcz dzwoni, deszcz
dzwoni jesienny
I pluszcze jednaki, miarowy,
niezmienny,
Dżdżu krople padają i tłuką w me
okno...
Jęk szklany... płacz szklany... a
szyby w mgle mokną
I światła szarego blask sączy się
senny...
O szyby deszcz dzwoni, deszcz dzwoni
jesienny...
Ktoś dziś mnie opuścił w ten chmurny
dzień słotny...
Kto? Nie wiem... Ktoś odszedł i
jestem samotny...
Ktoś umarł... Kto? Próżno w pamięci
swej grzebię...
Ktoś drogi... wszak byłem na jakimś
pogrzebie...
Tak... Szczęście przyjść chciało,
lecz mroków się zlękło.
Ktoś chciał mnie ukochać, lecz serce
mu pękło,
Gdy poznał, że we mnie skrę roztlić
chce próżno...
Zmarł nędzarz, nim ludzie go wsparli
jałmużną...
Gdzieś pożar spopielił zagrodę
wieśniaczą...
Spaliły się dzieci... Jak ludzie w
krąg płaczą...
To w szyby deszcz dzwoni, deszcz
dzwoni jesienny
I pluszcze jednaki, miarowy,
niezmienny,
Dżdżu krople padają i tłuką w me
okno...
Jęk szklany... płacz szklany... a
szyby w mgle mokną
I światła szarego blask sączy się
senny...
O szyby deszcz dzwoni, deszcz dzwoni
jesienny...
Przez ogród mój szatan szedł smutny
śmiertelnie
I zmienił go w straszną, okropną
pustelnię...
Z ponurym, na piersi zwieszonym
szedł czołem
I kwiaty kwitnące przysypał
popiołem,
Trawniki zarzucił bryłami kamienia
I posiał szał trwogi i śmierć
przerażenia...
Aż strwożon swym dziełem,
brzemieniem ołowiu
Położył się na tym kamiennym
pustkowiu,
By w piersi łkające przytłumić
rozpacze
I smutków potwornych płomienne łzy
płacze...
To w szyby deszcz dzwoni, deszcz
dzwoni jesienny
I pluszcze jednaki, miarowy,
niezmienny,
Dżdżu krople padają i tłuką w me
okno...
Jęk szklany... płacz szklany... a
szyby w mgle mokną
I światła szarego blask sączy się
senny...
O szyby deszcz dzwoni, deszcz dzwoni
jesienny...
On windows the raindrops, the
raindrops are knocking
Rhythmically, constantly, not ever
stopping,
The autumn rain falling and tapping
on pane…
Glass weeping… glass crying… the
signs of the rain
And light, oh so gray, the colours
is blocking…
On windows the raindrops, the
raindrops are knocking…
The dreams, ghosts of evening
ethereal and floating
The sun which could save them in
vain they’ve been wanting…
Ahead they are marching through
gray, foggy desert,
Ahead only unknown, ahead is their
present…
_________________________
You can listen to the poem here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6mrWlfppbM
Autumn Rain
by Leopold Staff
Autumn rain keeps ringing and
ringing out loud
Beating against windows, so steady
its sound!
Raindrops keep on falling and
hitting the sill
Glass moaning... glass crying...
rain keeps falling still
Gray sunlight keeps dreamily seeping
through the clouds
Autumn rain keeps ringing and
ringing out loud
Evening dreams, so beautiful but
flighty and faint
Eagerly awaited the sun that never
came
Until finally they faded away into
night
Into darkness eternal, untouched by
light
Wearing nothing but rags of their
mourning clothes
A quiet place for their own graves
they sought
On their faces, grief and sorrow
left their mark
In a long line they moved on into
dark
To forever wander with tears in
their eyes
Haunted by their sadness, no
recourse in sight
It's the autumn rain ringing and
ringing out loud
Beating against windows, so steady
its sound!
Raindrops keep on falling and
hitting the sill
Glass moaning... glass crying...
rain keeps falling still
Gray sunlight keeps dreamily seeping
through the clouds
Autumn rain keeps ringing and
ringing out loud
Someone left me on this cloudy,
rainy autumn day
Who? I know not... I know I'm alone
and in pain
Someone died... who? I rake my
memory in vain
Someone close to me... from some
funeral I came
Ah ... the coming joy was frightened
away by the dark
Someone wanted to love me but I
broke their heart
When they found that they couldn't
sustain the flame
A beggar died, awaiting help that
never came
In a village somewhere, a house
burned to the ground
Children died in the fire... people
gathered around
And wept bitter tears
It's the autumn rain ringing and
ringing out loud
Beating against windows, so steady
its sound!
Raindrops keep on falling and
hitting the sill
Glass moaning... glass crying...
rain keeps falling still
Gray sunlight keeps dreamily seeping
through the clouds
Autumn rain keeps ringing and
ringing out loud
Satan, his grief deadly, to my
garden came
And turned it into ruins, blackened
by the flames
His head lowered, brow furrowed, he
spread out gloom
Under ashes he buried the flowers in
bloom
Heavy stones he scattered, grass he
set ablaze
He spread fright and despair and
fury and rage
Until at last, frightened by what he
had done
He laid down awaiting relief that
would not come
His grief weighing him down, he shed
tears of flame
It's the autumn rain ringing and
ringing out loud
Beating against window, so steady
its sound!
Raindrops keep on falling and
hitting the sill
Glass moaning... glass crying...
rain keeps falling still
Gray sunlight keeps dreamily seeping
through the clouds
Autumn rain keeps ringing and
ringing out loud
Big Tujunga Wash with Chemtrails
The recitation of Deszcz Jesienny by Staff is illustrated by the most famous piece of "rain" music in the classical canon: Fryderyk Chopin's Prelude in D-flat Major, Op. 28, No. 15. Several contemporary poets wrote about this work for the anthology I edited in 2010, Chopin with Cherries: A Tribute in Verse (Moonrise Press, 2010).
To accompany the readers on their Chopin-inspired journey, here are some links to various pianists' interpretations of the Prelude:
- Artur Rubinstein (a classic)
- Martha Argerich (a classic)
- Valentina Igoshina (with the pianist as a romantic star)
- Yundi Li (fast, elegant, and delicate)
- Evgeny Kissin (with a romantic painting as a backdrop)
- Grigory Sokolov (extra slow and expressive)
Prelude in Majorca
Christine Klocek-Lim
The wet day carried rain into night
as he composed alone.
With each note he wept
and music fell on the monastery,
each note a cry for breath
his lungs could barely hold.
Even as his world
dissolved around him
“into a terrible dejection,”
he played that old piano in Valldemosa
until tuberculosis didn’t matter;
until the interminable night
became more than a rainstorm,
more than one man sitting alone
at a piano, waiting
“in a kind of quiet desperation”
for his lover to come home
from Palma
When Aurore finally returned
“in absolute dark”
she said his “wonderful Prelude,”
resounded on the tiles of the Charterhouse
like “tears falling upon his heart.”
Perhaps she is right.
Or perhaps Chopin “denied
having heard” the raindrops.
Perhaps in the alone
of that torrential night
he created his music simply
he created his music simply
to hold himself inside life
for just one note longer.
Notes:
Prelude
No.15 in D-flat Major, Op. 28.
Quotes
from Histoire de Ma Vie (History of My Life, vol. 4) by George
Sand (Aurore, Baronne Dudevant).
(c) 2010 by Christine Klocek-Lim, published in Chopin with Cherries (Moonrise Press, 2010).
(c) 2010 by Christine Klocek-Lim, published in Chopin with Cherries (Moonrise Press, 2010).
Chopin’s “Raindrop”
Cheryl M. Thatt
A steady rain
drop
drips down
insistent as the minutes
he looks out the window
cannot escape it.
He translates rain
drop
damp spirit
travels inward
passionate
notes whittle away the dreary
steady rain
drop
a clock
in the distance punctuates the gray day
wrestling with his own dark language
his soft fingers caress the keys to sanity
slowly he shapes adversary into ally…
pounds out melancholy
drop
by precious damn drop…
A steady rain
drop
dripped down
like the click of a shutter
slippery hours
captured
forever.
(c) 2010 by Cheryl M. Thatt, published in Chopin with Cherries (Moonrise Press, 2010).
Prelude in D-Flat Major, Opus 28, No. 15
by Carrie A. Purcell
You have to
my teacher said
think of that note like rain,
steady, but who,
my teacher said
wants to hear only that?
On Majorca in
a monastery
incessant coughing
covered by incessant composition
and everywhere dripping
sotto
voce
move the rain lower
let it fill the space left in your lungs
let it triumph
We die so often
we don’t call it dying anymore
(c) 2010 by Carrie A. Purcell, published in Chopin with Cherries (Moonrise Press, 2010).
But we do not have the rain, the raindrops, the thick, low clouds in California. Not often. Not for long. The last solid rain season of El Nino was in 1998. Since then, our skies are more often than not crisscrossed by the white stripes of chemtrails, left by high-flying airplanes with tanks full of chemicals that nobody wants to list or describe... We live under a chemical sky, our white stripy clouds are a geometric design of insane architects who are meddling with what they do not understand. No rain under white-striped skies...
(c) 2010 by Carrie A. Purcell, published in Chopin with Cherries (Moonrise Press, 2010).
_______________________________________
But we do not have the rain, the raindrops, the thick, low clouds in California. Not often. Not for long. The last solid rain season of El Nino was in 1998. Since then, our skies are more often than not crisscrossed by the white stripes of chemtrails, left by high-flying airplanes with tanks full of chemicals that nobody wants to list or describe... We live under a chemical sky, our white stripy clouds are a geometric design of insane architects who are meddling with what they do not understand. No rain under white-striped skies...
chemical weather –
we forget what we want
to be
under whitened sky
(c) 2015 by Maja Trochimczyk
their air is for sale
their water rights sold –
last breath of freedom
(C) 2015 by Maja Trochimczyk
Oblivion
The clouds become
milky, the sun death-white, like bleached bones on the chalky shore. Planes
after planes fly high up, leaving patterns of crisscrossing chemtrails in the
sky. The strange lines of clouds puff up and spread like cancer in the air. He
takes out his camera, takes another series of snapshots for the series of
Graffiti in the Sky. At home, he looks through his inbox, Los Angeles Sky Watch
is meeting again. Same old, same old: aluminum, barium, strontium compounds,
nano-particles stopping the rain, causing the blizzard, transforming California
fields back into deserts. Only six thousands signed the Stop Geo-engineering
petition he wrote. Only two hundred came to the demonstration he spent months
planning. He thinks of ancient prophets, unheard voices calling in the urban
wasteland.
like frogs in boiling
water
they do not notice
poison
raining on their heads
(C) 2015 by Maja Trochimczyk
(C) 2015 by Maja Trochimczyk
And where is the rain?
________________________
To see more photos of strange chemtrail patterns in California skies compared with clear blue skies, or regular cumulus or rainclouds, visit my "Graffiti in the Sky" albums on Picasa Web Albums: Part I from 2014 to March 2015; Part II from April to October 2015.
No matter how bad the weather is, we can still triumph internally, by keeping a spiritual balance. How do you do it? Like this:
The Great God Experiment
Or
How to Find the Meaning of Life and Universe
And All their Sultry Secrets in Ten Easy
Steps
Ask a friend to sit facing you,
closely, but do not touch.
Remember Mary of Magdala:
“Noli me tangere”
said the gardener and she saw God.
Close your eyes. Clear your mind
of every worry, every thought but
“I am here, I am, I love.”
Open your eyes. Look.
A flash, a lightning will pass
between you two. Time will stop.
The world will disappear.
You will see what the blind saw
after His hands touched their eyelids.
The unnamable.
The One who is, who will be.
Don’t talk.
Love.
Be thankful.
Ask a new friend.
© 2007 Maja Trochimczyk
Published in Meditations on Divine Names (2012)
