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A Sea Become Winged

by Vesper Moth

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poem by William Carlos Williams South wind striking in—torn spume—trees inverted over trees scudding low a sea become winged bringing today out of yesterday in bursts of rain— a darkened presence above detail of October grasses veiled at once in a downpour— conflicting rattle of the rain against the storm's slow majesty— leaves rising instead of falling the sun coming and going toward the middle parts of the sky
I am the lone of my name since the weight of the past crushed my last forebear's frame Telling connections no more Orphaned of everything that was in my life before When in the mud a face I saw I claimed the prize as my own And searched for the wood in the heart of the stone And I see Punch smile heaviness growing all the while Can we learn what they knew in the days before the Little Shining Man was torn in two I ran away with the pack Dogs for companions, the fence at my back Following a guide born blind Seeking the Changes in ruins the war left behind But in a ship some stones remained So we hid the things that we stole when the heir of corruption climbed out of the hole And I see Punch smile heaviness growing all the while Can we learn what they knew in the days before the Little Shining Man was torn in two I learned the story long ago But I could not number the cost when I caught a glimpse of the things that were lost And I see Punch smile heaviness growing all the while Can we learn what they knew in the days before the Little Shining Man was torn in two
poem by Jason Byron I wandered without aim through life With neither goal nor aspiration And though I never found my place I enjoyed my bout of respiration I bore my youth as it grew Into the miasma of adulthood And as it stretched its shadow far The Star fell down, the Star call’d Wormwood A bitter taste fill’d my throat, My mouth, it burned with bitter fire I threw my burden down in a rage And threw myself down to expire I expired not, my life flows on (Though not in any one direction) My body aches with the weight of years The perfect weight of imperfection From night to day to night again I gyre as a thoughtless stream Here and there and in between I pass my days in idle dream A still life painting sang to me One afternoon twelve years ago I imagined what beauty the artist saw: A scene inspired, a pointless show
I reach for you delicate split tongue flicking come close so I can taste your skin Leaf and limb obfuscate the movement within my lidless eyes mirror your shadow I can't see but I sense your heat I can't hear but I feel your breath on me I don't know the shape of your name even so I will not forget your scent I'll caress you with my teeth as we entwine in writhing splendor
Sycamore 02:18
Moonrise 06:44
poem by D.H. Lawrence And who has seen the moon, who has not seen Her rise from out the chamber of the deep, Flushed and grand and naked, as from the chamber Of finished bridegroom, seen her rise and throw Confession of delight upon the wave, Littering the waves with her own superscription Of bliss, till all her lambent beauty shakes towards us Spread out and known at last, and we are sure That beauty is a thing beyond the grave, That perfect, bright experience never falls To nothingness, and time will dim the moon Sooner than our full consummation here In this odd life will tarnish or pass away.
Peregrine 03:41
Sometimes I'd like to wonder how I got here The answer, I'm afraid, is hard to miss And though I sometimes tire of the burden on my shoulders I've seen too many others carry far more weight than this And I suppose I walked away It's not as though I ever heard you ask for me to stay And miss you as I may I won't pretend that it was a mistake I made that day Do you remember when the world was all before us? Every door was open down the hall Each door I choose now shuts another one behind it But that's a better life, I think, than choosing none at all And though at times I may have strayed All in all I won't disown the choices I have made I've no desire to masquerade The cards were dealt and I will claim the hand that I have played We each have our own passions driving us We each have our own paths to find We are all just stumbling in the dark Through broken trails By cold starlight Years have passed and many I will treasure Despite mementos etched as bruise or scar And though the path is strewn with the remnants of my failures I wont' abandon now the course that's carried me this far And if we meet again someday There is so much that I would like to show you if I may Since going on my way I've seen such beauty in this world it's too much to convey With any words I say
Granadilla 01:58
poem by Amy Lowell I cut myself upon the thought of you And yet I come back to it again and again, A kind of fury makes me want to draw you out From the dimness of the present And set you sharply above me in a wheel of roses. Then, going obviously to inhale their fragrance, I touch the blade of you and cling upon it, And only when the blood runs out across my fingers Am I at all satisfied.
poem by Emily Dickinson Eeach life converges to some centre Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature A goal, Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be, Too fair For credibility’s temerity To dare. Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven, To reach Were hopeless as the rainbow’s raiment To touch, Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance; How high Unto the saints’ slow diligence The sky! Ungained, it may be, by a life’s low venture, But then, Eternity enables the endeavoring Again.


released November 11, 2018

Janet Collard - voice
Ri Crawford - bass
Sam Gutterman - drums
Terran Olson - electric piano, clarinet on Moonrise

Greg Massi - guitar on Fool's Circle
Dan Means - saxophone on Lachesis Muta
Sidran Olson - violin on Granadilla

Recorded & mixed by Greg Wilkinson at Earhammer Studios
Additional recording by Theo Czuk and Greg Massi
Mastered by James Plotkin

Photography by Jenya Chernoff


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Vesper Moth Oakland, California

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