Friday Fun: Hiding in the Forest

For those days when you just need to go off-grid and get away from it all, here are some dream-like cabins in the woods. (Appropriately enough, following my review of Do You Hear Me yesterday, which also takes place in a forest, although under less pleasant circumstances.)

Winter cabin, with heating (one assumes), from Bookends and Daisies on Tumblr.

Rather grander modernist interpretation of isolated cabin, from Cuded Art Design. Not off grid.

A place inspired by native huts, to dream away your worries, from Bridge and Burn on Tumblr.

I can never say no to Japanese tea houses, even if they are not all that remote. From houzz.com

Cabin for a romantic rendezvous, from Cabanes de Salagnac in France.

Sculptural cabin designed by Sergio Gomez.

Tree houses or houses on stilts will never cease to appeal, from Sky with lemon website.

Guess the Title

The challenge for this poem, should you choose to accept it, is guess the title (or the ‘subject’ of the poem).  I know, I know, sometimes a poem isn’t ‘about’ anything, but this particular one was written in response to a very specific fear (some might say I have too many fears in general).  A much earlier version of this poem appeared in the online multilingual literary (and arts) magazine http://www.respiro.org/

First the little slip.

Name much praised

remembered slightly aslant

like a jigsaw piece chewed and frayed

not quite fitting in its groove.

 

Then a petulant rewrite

of yesterday’s events:

a pout of a travesty

bearing no semblance, no cause, no fruit.

Too stubborn to admit all is haze and indifference.

 

Next, the heartbeat stop before mad scrabble

and dig and delve

to capture that elusive frame

in the broken film of the mind.

 

Finally, the chasms beckoning:

throw self in?

chuck pretence out?

make way for shadows,

population of yesteryear?

 

Darker and darker the woodland cover

hunched, stop-cock breathing,

waiting for the elliptical, haphazard flux to cease

the lynx-bared jaw of foaming bite

those fixed clear eyes of poison fire.

 

Precarious rock after rock

the chamois cleared.

But only just.

 

Next day

next week

its foothold less secure

chasms will close in-

to beckoning pools of blankness.