Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nigel Morgan Mar 2013
Fukiko had woken before her accustomed time. She was alone and would have prefered to sleep, and sleep on until Narumi had lit the brazier in her room and brought tea. But she had woken, and was aware that outside the world had changed. The world, her world of Yukiguni, where the mulberry fibres for paper-making were laid out in the snow-bleached fields. Her world where men from the cities sought the kind of woman she was, a woman uncultured in the ways of geisha, but possessing a freedom no city-bred geisha could possess. She had been schooled by an aunt, was accomplished as a performer on the samisen and though her voice was thin, it held a quality of understanding, it had a fine texture, though thin. And yes, this morning a change had come over the world outside her small house that looked over Hikachi Lake, that looked towards the southern flank of the Central Mountains where during the previous day and night the snows from across the seas had fallen on the landscape. She imagined the roofs of the monastery across the lake were heavily white, and as she sought the image in her mind’s eye so the large brass bell of the temple sounded, no, it throbbed across what she knew would now be hard-frozen water.

I am floating she thought, like the snowflakes I glimpsed in the reflected lamplight when last night I opened the shutters for a moment before bed, before sleep and descent into my dreams. For days now she had been dreaming like never before. She seemed to enter a dreamstate; she would then wake purposefully; she would then fall instantly into quite a different world; over and over this seemed to happen until she found herself wondering if she was dreaming within a dream; she would become aroused, her skin glowing with the ministrations of hidden hands and fingers; she would feel that presence on her upper thighs, a kind of perspiration born of that ****** sensation that, when awake, would sometimes steel upon her.

The coming of the deep snows before spring was always a delight, an excitement carried her from childhood. The way its coming turned daily life upside down. She would enjoy choosing her very warmest garments, the bringing together of layers, her rabbit-skin mantle perhaps, a bright warm scarf over her hair, which she would not today ‘put up’ but allow to flow comfortably next to and down her back, then the hood only if the snow and the wind persisted. She could tell from the warmth of her bed that this was not so, that outside there was a stillness. Even the birds were subdued. Only the brass bell broke the stillness born of this deep snow of spring.

She heard Narumi rise, heard her **** in her chamber ***, heard her roll her bedding away, heard her bring the stove into life and fill her mistress’ brazier with the few precious coals brought across the mountains. There would be tea soon, and this young girl, appointed by her aunt to her charge, would appear to kneel beside Fukiko and give the morning blessing her mother had given Narumi since infancy. Then, she would say, ‘Madam, the snow is deep this morning. We are bound in snow today. Our path has disappeared.’ Still a child’s voice, and still a child at thirteen winters, such a slight girl. And she would retire to the warmth of the kitchen and Fukiko’s cat who was not allowed into her mistress’ presence unless requested.

Fukiko could feel the warmth from the brazier. It was as comforting as the thought of the silent snowscape outside. Gathering her cloak around her, kneeling on the covers of her bed, she held the bowl of tea in her hands, letting its warmth caress her fingers. Standing up, she stroked herself as though to bring her body awake - her flanks, the front of her thighs, her stomach, her slight *******, the long curve of her bottom and then the back of her thighs, her right hand stroking her left arm, her left arm stroking her right arm from shoulder to fingers. She was awake, and placing her feet on the cold matting found her night cloak of deepest blue with the ornamental sash of red and white. She would open the shutter and gaze out into this fresh world of snow and light.

It seemed quite miraculous that a covering of snow could so change this view across the lake to the monastery and its attendant village and then to the mountains beyond. She had once seen a woodcut of this scene, in snow, and had been mesmerised by what it revealed. Despite her status, her profession, such as it was, any ambition she might have harboured to dwell in a city, evaporated at this vista, this snow country scene. It was as though she was living in a story book where she could imagine herself as a concubine of some favoured lord, even better, a princess groomed for a fine marriage, a marriage she knew she would be unlikely to experience. There was one, a land-owner beyond Huchin whose business brought him past her domain, who, widowed and childless, had been advised to seek her presence. And she had been charmed by his shyness, his lack of experience with such as the woman she was, or thought she had to be. And it was often that she would find herself thinking of his presence, and imagining her body melting to his careful touch.

Suddenly, out on the lake figures moved. Was the hard frost of the last week really able to sustain figures on the ice? The brothers from the monastery were tentatively moving too and fro, they were suketo, skating. She would summon Narumi. Her girl should see this sight. The brothers in their crimson robes moving to and fro across the ice, their robes flowing. ‘Narumi’, Fukiko said, ‘a sight so rare. Come and look, the monks are skating.’

So Fukiko and Narumi opened wide the shutters and let in the whole landscape, the lake, the monastery, the snow-roofed village, the mountains beyond into the room. The snowlight dazzled, the hard cold air rushed into the warm room filling its very corners with an enervating freshness. Narumi knelt beside the brazier in her best purple cloak, her hair already pinned for the day, her eyes wide at the sight of these figures dancing with movement on the ice. Although cold, Fukiko would not pull herself away from this play of forms, this wholly pleasurable sight. Just below her window her camellia bushes were in bud, almost budding, their dark redness, bloodlike, enhanced by the vivid snow white. And then the bamboo, snow on the bamboo, as though carefully layered on the fragile stems and branches. This morning no wind and a period of snow falling that had laid flake upon flake upon flake giving the bamboo a wholly different form and weight and body. Its stems bent as though in supplication, as though in prayer to bless the landscape of this snow country.

One must bend
In the floating world -
Snow on bamboo


Kaga no Chivo (1701-55)
Kanka no yuki means contemplating snow from the inside. This short story is the second in my series Snow Country and is based on a wood-cut by Ogata Gekko (1859 -1920)
Lawrence Hall Jan 2018
Snowlight

White snowlight, glowlight, brightening the woods
By praying down the sky to float among
The dark and creaking pillars of ancient oaks
Whose trunks and limbs are black with clinging ice

Drear, mouldering autumn leaves now lie at rest
Beneath soft-shoaling ripples of rare snow
Pale, iridescent light dances between
The clouds and the ground, and then back again

Shadowless colorings, pearlings, and frosts
At play with miracles in January.
Jack Jenkins May 2017
A frosted veil
  with haunting voice
Ice shattered
  raining from skies
A world below
  but I know it not
Starlight above
  a longing for love
Been a while since I have posted something that wasn't totally personal and depressing. Figured I'd exercise my creativity rather than try to bind unhealable wounds.
Helena Lipstadt Oct 2014
I
What I meant to notice was
your fine hands drumming
on the wheel, the air like grapes
through Danbury to New Haven.
But we were singing, not
the famous song your uncle wrote,
but "Lay Lady Lay" and something
from Fairport Convention.
Like every other Friday at 3 p.m.
you had taken your Compazine
and we were nearly to the hospital
with its halo of elms

II
Long and thin
as a clock hand
ticking twelve
your body lay on our bed.
I place my fingers on your chest,
on the hollow batons
of your ribs.

III
We live north of our fate.
Snow cakes on the porch steps
dense as the air upstairs when I bake
lead bricks and call them bread.  Generous,
you eat thin slices with butter and banana.
It is so white in the bedroom,
snowlight cast up from the road.
Your dark brillo hair is like
live wires searching for a signal.
We throw your economics
books to the floor.  On the cold sheet
we lay together.  The melting snow
is my evidence.  Once, you and I,
in a sweat of sexlove, here.
I close my mouth now.
I have confessed everything
to you.

IV
Your mother never played
the grand piano in the living room.
But you played
Rock and Roll radio
and when I called you
on a bet with my friend
Mary Ellen, you knew
Fontella Bass sang "Rescue Me"
in 1965 and how long
she was in the Top 10
and who was #1 before
and after her.  Facts like that,
I could count on.  Facts like
when you died  
you were 29 years old.
"The Harder They Come"
by Jimmy Cliff was at the top
of the charts, followed
by Neil Young "Heart of Gold."
I don't know
what these invisible facts mean.
They comfort me.

V
We tell no one of your prognosis.  Cancer
was contagious then.  We don't
even say the word.  Not to your best friend
Elliot or your mother or my parents.  
While you lie in that floating bed
visiting with ghosts,
I sneak out,
have burning ***
with a Viet Nam vet
who knows about death,
and bodies.

VI
I am on a crowded sidewalk.
I think I am dreaming.
It is Sixth Avenue and like two
vast rivers of fish,
people press urgently
north and south.
After seven years, I see your dark
head above the others.  You are
looking down, but steadily move
toward me.  I am helpless
with hope.  You come close.  
If I could lift my hand, I would
open my palm on the long
plane of your chest.  
Very slow, you raise your head.  
You look into my eyes.  
Your eyes are brown,
as always.  
Like rain you speak to me.  
"I will meet you,"
you say, "in the Andes."
Then you disappear.
Miranda Peterson Mar 2010
Startled by my reflection
In the open window
Living room straight back
through the kitchen

Blue snowlight
Stares through me

Seeing out all day long, forgetting

The night drops black curtains quiet
when no one's looking, instead
Of out

I see in
Brave and solitary
The one waits true
Bright unsecret
Blood rushing real
Whispering cure

He can see pain and touch it
away
with golden sincerity
Grace Feb 2017
If I was meant to kiss your
Lips are sealed on our transgressions of the
Night, sacred sidewalk, we stroll down the road in the
Twilight's half light ushers in snowlight
In winter, your hand is mine.

In spring, the snow is melting
Slowly I want to feel the years melt by with
You are exquisite, my dear, my
Mango paradise and lazy hot summer
Sunshine brushes your hair with gold
Foil my character flaws, and I hope I make you
Happy and content only that I am madly in love with you.

Take a step back: imagine if we had never
Met some guy yesterday who told me our love is
Beautiful are the leaves that burn in the
Fall deeper into the spiral that is your
Light packing is all I need to fly to you.

The little things matter; like when your
Laugh because we have today and smile because I have claimed your
Hand it to you, you know how to make me feel like you
Love me, as magpies do, iridescent and for
Life is brighter when you're
Here.

My words to you are broken sometimes but you make me whole.
an old experimental poem.

— The End —