The Time of Crocodiles

Illustration by J. M. Barrie.

The Time of Crocodiles


Crocodiles
are not gregarious creatures by habit.


Sun warmed and lazing
or wallowed in a shifty slumber
their armor promises
no harm, no harm
will come unto them
and the world passes by
as a bright carousel.
Time is not their enemy
and the slow hours roll
with a soft fog blurring the delineation
of past, present, future
for that which has evolved so little,
as it had no need.


As with many of us,
they just wish
to be left
alone
and will thus
return the favor
unto those bestowing it.


However, if one is unwise,
provocative,
and makes their existence
more interesting
than the comfort
of a good and lengthy float
or muddy snooze,
it should be known:


Crocodiles
are not discerning creatures by habit.


As with many of us,
they just wish
for annoyances
to end
rapidly and with
as little effort as possible.


If they must eat a pirate's hand,
a whole python,
an irritant man,
a pesky pixie,
or a clicking clock,
they shall do so without concern
for any consequence.


For under their rough husks
there will be no harm, no harm
and they will return to a sunlit bank
for victorious basking.
With a sweep of a great
and terrible tail
they wend their languorous way
through the waters of this land,
of Neverlands,
tick tocking the seconds by
but never attentive
to their passage.


Crocodiles
are not thoughtful creatures by habit.


It is following,
ever trailing.
Fearless within armor where
no harm, no harm
nor time shall
clamp sharp teeth
into untender flesh.


In the depths,
upon the lands,
slow stalking through the brush,
that uncaring leviathan
will consume your moments
scattered behind
while you flee:
lost breadcrumbs,
pocket change,
fear,
memories of joy and despair
that slip through pockets
marking out your trail.
The fiend gaining as you tire,
as you hear
the ticks grow closer
and the tocks grow more distinct.


In your wake
you will leave footprints,
tatters of yourself
and snags of that
which was held dear...
but also the track of your stalking beast.


Time,
the crocodile that chases us all.



8/15/21
Kristen Gilpin


*Notes from the wasteland: Time seems such a passive thing, idle and benign until we bestir it to be otherwise, and then it plays tricks upon us all. Lagging here to drag out something awful, spinning past there so the best days seem but a flash and in the end, it is a scythe through a field of a crop that is never ready to be harvested.

My loves converge: Pangur Bán. Cat, poetry, history and medieval scribal arts

Many know that I study the medieval period, especially the art form known as illumination. This art was used to decorate the books of the middle ages and comes in all sorts of forms from glorious to silly, breathtaking to irreverent.

I also foster cats and kittens and work with a non-profit in Tampa, FL named St Francis Society. This group has been doing great work helping the cats of the Tampa metro area have better lives.

I also have an appreciation for poetry both modern and medieval.

If you combine all of these things that I love into one place, you get Pangur Bán.

The poem Pangur Bán comes to us from the 9th century and was written by an Irish monk in a book known as the Reichenau Primer. The Primer itself is a collection of hymns and grammatical texts that was likely pen practice for a scribe. Preserved in the book is also the poem in which the author compares his work of study to the work of his cat hunting mice.

The cat's name in the poem is Pangur Bán, which is not so much a name as it is a description of the cat. In Irish, the word Bán means fair or white. Pangur, however is not an Irish word. The Welsh word pannwr means fuller, which was a job in the middle ages. A fuller used a combination of washes, scouring and felting to remove oils, dirt and impurities from wool cloth. At the end of the process, the wool would be a bright clean white, as well as soft and strong. In short, Pangur Bán was likely an all white, stunning cat. Today, we'd probably say the cat was dazzling white or sparkling white in color. He also seemed to be especially good at mouse murder, enough that he inspired a monk at study to write a poem about the similarities of their dedication to their respective work.

So, here is the poem, translated from the Irish by Robin Flower.

Pangur Bán

Cat and mouse, Hours of Charlotte of Savoy, 

Paris, France, ca. 1420-1425, f° 165r (detail)

I and Pangur Ban my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He too plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry task to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.

Created by @LauraEAydelotte with images of materials from Ms. Codex 724 

at the Kislak Center at the University of Pennsylvania.

Should you wish to make a donation to St Francis Society Animal Rescue, you can donate at our website. We are a 100% volunteer organization and every dollar raised goes back into food, litter, medicine, medical expenses. All of our adoptable felines can be found showcased on the website as well. If you donate, let them know that Pangur Ban sent you.

My Facebook page hosts a lot of cat videos, memes and pictures. If that's your gig, you are welcome to follow me there as cat posts are all public. Some people like to send cat items directly to my house as I don't usually take from the St. Francis food pantry, leaving it for others who need more help to afford supporting our cats, but it does get expensive and the boxes for the cats are always appreciated. You can find my Amazon wish list here and those boxes are often opened during live unboxing videos where the cats come and go during the live shot. It can get pretty funny.

Equinox

Here, at summer's end
I pace.
Peering out

through the crack of a door,

opening the window
a bare inch to test the air,
still searing
with a sun bright
as a flashlight in the eye
when waking from sleep.

I am waiting
for the slow browning
of the grass,
the subtle shift 

to a darker hue
of tropics
and an ache of green
without end.

The first taste
has landed on my tongue,
fragile as a snowflake.
A breath of air
cooler when inhaled
than when exhaled.

Soon, there will be blooms.
Yellow and purple flowers
that explode on roadsides
and creep into
the corners of lawns.
This is the subtle Autumn
of the deep south.
It must be searched for
to be found.

And then will come
that first morning
when, upon stepping out the door
you remember
how to breathe

as humans do
and the gills of summer
will be packed away
for another year.

Then the natives
will tumble out of houses
to live their outside lives
of patio tables
and windows yawning wide
in a flutter of curtains
while something delicious
wafts from a far grill.

This is our season

The Butterfly Women

The caterpillars
just know the act of eating.
They offer no thanks

When the rain is full
of ghosts. Cold gems come falling,
tapping foliage.

A butterfly girl
knows no rest, no warmth, no thanks...
still the insects chew

Upon shining leaves
gathered in the blowing rain,
by hands, pale and cold.

Still, the keeper knows
her charges, someday, will show
appreciation.

When wings are unfurled
and a riot of color
lifts into the sky.

-Kristen Gilpin, 2016

Unlaced.

This heart
is a cramped
and heavy place
best kept laced
tight as corsets
and gallows knots.

Just one small cut
an incision of doubt...
and of decision
and this one sharp point
applied with precision.

Yes.

Unlace my heart
and out tumbles sadness:

 an origami flutter
of folded thoughts
best left pressed in books
or tucked in cellar boxes.

 A scattering of pages,
cigarette ends
and dreams for all my ages.
Here a stamp,
there a heartbreak
with a scar
(oh I remember that night it was so...)

A handful of joy,
a dried bouquet of regret
(yes, I was 17 then... wasn't I?)
and the hopes of days
still promised yet.

All these scraps
and memories
shake out
into just one girl
(didn't she write poems?)

A star
collapsing
within a cage of bone.

(Quick, lace me up,
or someone might see...)

A girl
with a nova
inside of her chest.

Pantoum: Blossoms

Blossoms of orange scent the ink dark night,
Slip sweet as a lover through my window,
a languid kiss of spring and sugar.
Oh, how I have ached for this hour.

Slip, my sweet, as a lover through my window:
Your hands, your breath, your flesh
Oh, how I have ached for this hour.
My need, bare as a flower in the pale light.

Your hands, your breath, your flesh
I unfurl beneath each honeyed caress
My need, bare. A flower in the pale light
As blossoms of orange scent the ink dark night


Notes

So I noticed how long it has been since I have written any poetry and I was displeased with myself. I thought to take a line rattling in my head an use a poetic form to help me expand it. Pantoums are not especially easy so this might be not be the best route toward encouraging me to write again. What I love about pantoums is the repetition and the breathing of new meaning into the lines with each stanza.

I will probably work on this some more at another time as I am not entirely thrilled with this first foray back into poetic form.

Stardust

There is something to be said
for lying
diagonal across a bed,
encircled by arms
and fixed by eyes,
that inch by inch,
lock this memory deep into their head.

Pure beauty contained in a moment,
in a sigh,
in the brown eyes watching you.
Divine inspiration found
in the way fingers knit together,
by the warmth of breath
on a pale shoulder.

If I close my eyes again,
this may be gone.

I,
like so many angels,
have fallen from grace
and I fall faster than
stars through an atmosphere,
burning like sunshine,
burning like a cigarette ash
until I find the ground again.

There is something to be said
for stardust
falling from the sky.
Embers tumbling
with no understanding,
nor recollection
of how they became
or why.

Here I am,
wondering how those stars feel
when they slip
into the hands of gravity.
Do they feel this way...
when reaching across an empty bed
and brushing fingers
over the satin of a pillowcase...
waiting for that space
to be filled again.

If I open my eyes again,
this might still be real.

Brown eyes
and a hand resting lightly
upon my arm
as sleep settles on me
stir at the memory.

This day is closing down,
and I am a smiling mote
of stardust...

waiting to land.

Northwest

con trails;
streaks of incandescent light
smeared across
a pale sky
where the swollen sun
falls away
more orange than citrus.

and the radio
swells notes of karma
like god talking
in whispers
beyond the windows,
streaked with dirt
and insects,
fields stream by
in swaths of green

i note the geography,
topography.
the failing light
tracing the macadam
and ascending markers
counting off the miles.

i read the distance
i create.

it separates me slowly
into layers,
traces meridians
and parallels
in my faith.

somewhere deep
i close my eyes
and pray to return
by the old roads.

turn me southeast
and run me from this sunset.

away
to the home
i love best.

April 10 2005

Kristen Gilpin

Little Bird

Within the cage of
bone and breath, 
my heart:
a small and fluttering thing
of quick movements;
staccato rhythm.

Descending depths unknown,
I let it lead;
my small canary
with nails clipped short.

When breath leaves
it will fall quietly;
sing my warning
with silence piercing.
No perch left
to hold.

I can taste
the racing pace
of fear,
coppery and strange.

Lower,
my heart,
through years and ages;
a single candle
guttering
to light
the endless paths.

Sing,
until you cannot;
move unhindered
beneath deepest layers
of earth and sky
where fingers of rock
curl and rise
in half light
like hands
of gods forgotten.

Fall,
little bird,
only at the last,
and within that pool of light
beside your empty cage
I will know:
how the air
has grown strange,
how the path
has led me astray,
how the day
has ended.

Go before me
and I will know.

Jan 19, 2005

Kristen Gilpin

Know Me

This
is where I keep
the heart
that is not
pinned
on my sleeve
and soft
as babies.

Creamy pages,
napkin tatters,
thick journals.
They
will know me
best.

These
are places
where I speak
truth,
where I weep
in characters
and symbols
during late nights
when headlights
play across
the blinds.

Rustling papers
will remember me
best.

My heart
will be found
pressed between pages
some day
long hence,
dried like beans,
like wedding flowers,
like butterfly wings.

I hope
that it is
your soft hands
that recover
these moments.
Collect them
like relics
and gather them
to understand.

Know me
best
even when I
have forgotten
the tenor
of tears,
the breath
of living,
the miracle
of survival.

Just
know me.

 

April 19 2006

Kristen Gilpin

Old Groves

In old groves
the rows still run straight,
but that is all.
There can be no more chases
down the open lanes,
no more games.

Palmettos wave
and wildflowers bloom a carpet
when once the dirt
was kept clear
by constant feet.
Tall weeds grow
as kings unchecked
winding up
to strangle
in the crooks
of old limbs.

Once, all that was native
was tilled under
to nourish trees
that had no business
growing here.
Creeks were
redirected
to rush water
at thirsty roots
and there was prosperity
for a time.

Fortunes were made here
where the orange fruit
of a dozen seasons
now hangs unpicked,
waiting,
ripening,
mouldering away.
Brilliant hues
fade dusty
and sun washed
in the dry air.

Growing
is the only knowledge
of a tree.

Still they hunch
with limbs spreading
and spill
bounty
into the tumble
of weeds
and furtive rodents
as nature rolls back;
a wide wave
of unstoppable green.

Now,
one must look close
to know
the past of this place.
One must remember
times long gone
to taste sweet fruit,
to see proud trees,
and to know
the harsher, less certain
life of those
newly come to this land.

Tumbledown trees
are the only pioneers
that remain,
their orange memories
falling,
fading.

The smell of the river lingers
in this bend of orchard
now bisected with macadam
and patch-worked out
for emerald lawns
of new homes
that will look nothing
like an old farmhouse
that crouches still
in the distance.

Cats have taken
up root there
and gone feral
where the roof pours
sunlit pools upon
an ancient hardwood floor.
They lounge,
content
in a breeze of
orange and river
ever rolling
through the yawn
of broken windows
to carry the rumble
of a freeway
in the distance.

March 4, 2008
Kristen Gilpin

Blue Woman

The grackles on a wire
are puffed twice their size
beneath slate skies
that promise a cold
that climbs into your bones
and curls in the sinew.

Winter days
and I am a blue woman
in a blue sweater
struck with memory
that coalesces
with my breath.

Ice on the panes
and a memory of snow
on sepia streets
and I am far away
in another place,
another time,
with a blue girl
who dreams
of the sub tropics.

I want to reach back,
reach in
to that blue girl
with a hard heart
that still can be broken.

The southern winds
will thaw you,
the sands burnish you smooth
and the tropics will
slip around
quiet as a prayer.
The sea shall
take these memories
like an offering.

But blue girls
and black birds
all fare the same
on cold days.

On frozen mornings
there are grackles on a wire
too chilled to fly
and I am a cold woman
with a blue heart
too sad to remember.

Jan 12, 2010
Kristen Gilpin