Morning Glory

Original Acrylic Painting by Jason Weaver 2015

Original Acrylic Painting by Jason Weaver 2015

Spring has arrived in the southern hemisphere in a symphonic flourish of birdsong. Our days warm quite nicely pushing up against the edges of summer, but the nights are yet cool, wearing winter’s chill like damp boots. “Good sleeping weather,” we would say back in Pennsylvania, with bedroom sashes lifted, tucked under a blanket.

Quite often, I awaken to the call of the earliest bird of morn’, a soloist cantering before the first flicks of dawn’s light. As I lie in my room in the dark comfort of my still sleep-dreamy head, I begin to imagine this troubadour perched in a tree beyond my bed to be a sort of avian alarm clock, pulpiteering to the others that the new day approaches, “We must ready ourselves!” Or maybe he is just a friend of the nightowl, awake and alive way into the wee hours like artists and writers and nightclub singers, who will sleep until noon while the others build nests and gather food. Or perhaps this prepunctual riser is merely telling the stories that need to be told, singing the long songs of origin and myth, reminding us all again the way of the world.

For me, this time in-between the days is weightless, no longer saddled with the bags of yesterday’s worries and not yet responsible for the hopeful prospects of tomorrow. I slip easily back into my pillow for a second, deeper sleep, knowing that in due time the sun will peek over the distant horizon line and filter through my bedroom curtain in a hazy veil of slate-blue, fine and eternal. And as it does, beyond my open window in the dewy forest garden, an entire orchestra of birds will begin tweetering in full-throated chorus, as though to will the gray mist of night cede to deep rich greens and violaceous blues, and the sky to lighten — ever so slowly it goes, beyond the perception of human eyes, so that the formless shadows of night become the flowering vines and leafy bushes of dawn.

Sometimes I slide from undercover out into this magical space to witness the fullness of its glory, catching myself in extended moments of grace that defy conventional time and that adhere to my soul like wetness on my bare skin. The chill of night is pushed against by the golden winds of dawn, where the lines between subtlety and boldness converge and coalesce. In this Morning Glory, light and dark, day and night, beast and plant and man are one in the same; the impermeable borders of distinction dissolve to porous membrane, as concepts of self transform into a streaming universal experience.

Yes, spring has finally arrived.

by Jason Weaver
Original Painting, A Glória da Manhã (2015), acrylic on canvas, 70x100cm, by Jason Weaver.

For more information on this painting and others in my studio, please check out my artist blog, JasonWeaverArtist

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In a Sense

A late morning sun warms my back
and casts a shadow onto the concrete slab underfoot.
It is Monday,
the First Monday
after a string of Forever Fridays.

I feel new.
Clean.

The air is immense
as it holds me in my place
filling in the empty space where nothing else seems to exist
but colors, intense
reds, blues, yellows.
Greens.

I feel that yesterday may have all
been just a dream
and that tomorrow
perhaps may never be
and so
I breathe it all in, deep
and as it rushes into my lungs and blood and bones
it binds within me,
pulsing into my mind it combines with me,
creating this very perception and memory
of all that I have seen,
of all that I have been,
of all that I know and feel,
all of this love has never been so

natural. Real.

It is Monday,
the First Monday after eternity
and here
now
is where I shall begin again.

by Jason Weaver, 2014

Origin

Check out OpenLink at dverse Poets Pub every Tuesday at 3pm– for a chance to share and read some great poetry!

Proveniencia FINAL smaller

+++‘bem-te-vi–bem-te-vi
the shrill decree
of resident kiskadee
resonates in still
morning mist
+++ ‘I saw you well’
but whom did he see?
This, he would not tell.

by Jason Weaver, 2013

Author’s Note:
“Proveniência,”–2013 (which translates to ‘provenance’ or ‘origin’) is an original acrylic on canvas, 24″x36″, painted by me and commissioned by my Aunt Mary Shirk, who lives in Pennsylvania, US. It depicts my take on the original Pardise, where birds reenact the eating of the apple, in this case, a guava. The Kiskadee, pictured middle-right,  is called ‘Bem-te-vi’ in Brazil (promounce BAYM-che-vee), which is not only his name, but also what he says, which translates to “I saw you well.” In fable, it was the Bem-te-vi who alerted the Jews to Jesus with his cry “I saw you well” (whether purposefully or accidentally was not explained to me in the tale). The other two birds depicted in this Garden of Eden are ‘japu’ (Crested Oropendola), top left, and Sabiá Laranjeira, or the Rufous-bellied Thrush, which is the National Bird of Brazil. All three birds have very distinct and beautiful calls. The plants in this scene are all drawn from actual plants in my forest garden– bananas, guava tree, taioba (the green/purple leaves on the bottom right) and Costela de Adão (Adam’s Ribs) on the bottom left.  The red flower in the front center is called a Anthurium Andreanum or Painter’s Tongue (among other names) which is said to represent hospitality.  This particular bunch of bananas I had personally cut down, drew, and then (when ripened) ATE (of course, I shared with the Marmosets and birds as well).  It is up to the viewer to decide who ate of the fruit, as in this interpretaion, the Kiskadee  will not tell. Besides, in this version of Proveniéncia, innocence is kept.

Note of change: I updated this poem from the orignial posting by adding the word “This” to the final line for better rhyme and rhythm. I had initially omitted it, and then, upon umteenth reading, decided to add it in again 🙂

White Lilies and Grass

Lirios Brancos e Capim--2013 by Jason Weaver

In the ambience of this estival morn
I’d ambled, with eager pleasure,
to a sunlit patch of unshorn greens
cast amid the forested hill
and dewy still from the night just passed,
where capim grass grew as tall as lemon trees
and vines of a floriferous kind had wound themselves
down the length of an overgrown garden path.
Illuminate leafs rolled off the tall Cassia above
falling to the matted floor
like bits of confetti gold.
Though not sultry, the air, warm and humid,
was imbued with a heady bouquet as sweet as honeysuckle,
the ambrosial scent of abundant wild white lilies.
An eurhythmic cadence of mating cicada
undulated afore me and through me
as birds sang gaily of daybreak and
from across the ebulient valley a horseman
who had set his herd to pasture on the mountainside
called in zeal
++++++++ “Hyuh! Hyuh! Hyuh!”
I leaned into a bramble of esculent berries
where I plucked the ripest-reds,
each one pressed to my palette with my tongue and held
as though I were making memory–
–a confluence of touch and taste
of sight and sound
of smell–
that would pass as quickly
as it had come.

By Jason Weaver

Author’s Note: Lírios Brancos e Capim (White Lilies and Grass) –2013 by Jason Weaver, an orignal painting, acrylic on canvas

Also: This photo-poetry post has been submitted to dVerse Poet’s Pub, a great place to share poetry! Check it out!

Sunlit

Sunlit

Lining golden the ragged mountain ridge
the early day broke dim
Obscurity of mid-night now passed
the purity in dawn’s light at last
awakens the slumber
from within my lumbering limbs
yet encumbered
by remnants of the oppressive darkness
set in coated coalescence
wet on my skin
stark
and aquiver
I am delivered anew this day
as fine-mist dew drops dissipate
in the essence of sunlit
rejuvenescence