Walking up where mist weaves paths out of nothing, leading nowhere, I look for the hidden soul of the month. This dear January is so patient, bearing the brunt of our displeasure at coldness and empty cupboards. The sun spins delicate dream-pictures out of frost and vapor. Somewhere among the secret rocks and springs, behind the constellations, there is a broader conception, a purer mind, and January is the custodian of it.
Is it idle to look for it? Only if it’s idle to look for your own soul or to look for love. I have a mythic frame of mind which naturally turns to the old gods and their sources. It’s hard not to see the hidden soul of January – in the month’s later stages – eloping as a water-bearing maiden from her place in the ecliptic (the band of the zodiac around the earth), to find the human partners who will follow those strange paths out of the mist with her. The month is then no longer the forbearing figure who has so much to put up with.
There are strange choices to make if you will drink from her starry cup. To abscond from time, to think light instead of thoughts – to visit a land where Love streams fire down to earth. For nothing is what it seems – and it never was. Where the raven’s coat flashes multicolored in the sunlight, the month gives up its youth and secret soul.
January, born first, is the oldest month -
it has many mouths to feed and is wise
in the way snow is wise when it reclaims
greed for purity, green for white. Most of all
it empties Time of loose talk, Temples of chalk-dust,
and returns a greater conception to the conceived.
Still I search among the hidden rocks and springs
at the back of sleep, for the divine month,
nature’s darling, which is January’s soul.
But is this not a search for Love itself,
which ever-beguiles from crystalline forms of snow?
And the month, which is alone where rocks and springs
hide openly, elopes from constellations
bearing water, purest-tasting at first light.
I have heard, in lonely times, of strange choices
men must make who will drink from her starry cup.
To abscond from time, leave the cold ecliptic,
think light instead of thoughts and travel on it,
visiting a land where Love streamed fire to earth.
For the world is not as it seems and never was -
where the raven turns its multicolored coat
in sunlight, this ancient month gives up its youth.
Best wishes, today,
Picture: Hebe, Goddess of Eternal Youth, by Berthel Thorvaldsen
©Jay Landar 2013. All rights reserved
You are welcome to quote from Light on the Page on the condition that you cite the author and the source: Author: Jay Landar. Source: www.lightonthepage.com. For other permissions please contact the author.