April 30, 2004
L'Orage Vient
Just a quick note to lament the fact that I don't have a nice camera. There is a gigantic storm approaching--the dark clouds are almost here--and I wish I could show you guys a pic. As it is though, I will be unplugging all electronics until it passes. The house is battened down, the car's in the garage, and I'll be on the back porch. Envy me, suckers!
Update:
This is as good as I can get. The image is about forty-five minutes after the heaviest stuff passed my house. It wasn't all that damaging of a storm, but some very dramatic lightning.
Update again:
Guess I was wrong about it not being damaging. A little north of here, some cars were swept off the road and it looks like there were at least two fatalities.
Hmm.. for some reason a dopple radar image just doesn't capture the awe. :) Whenever there's a major storm, I'm always reminded of this poem by William Carlos Williams:
Lear
When the world takes over for us
and the storm in the trees
replaces our brittle consciences
(like ships, female to all seas)
when the few last yellow leaves
stand out like flags on tossed ships
at anchor—our minds are rested
Yesterday we sweated and dreamed
or sweated in our dreams walking
at a loss through the bulk of figures
that appeared solid, men or women,
but as we approached down the paved
corridor melted—Was it I?—like
smoke from bonfires blowing away
Today the storm, inescapable, has
taken the scene and we return
our hearts to it, however made, made
wives by it and though we secure
ourselves for a dry skin from the drench
of its passionate approaches we
yield and are made quiet by its fury
Pitiful Lear, not even you could
out-shout the storm—to make a fool
cry! Wife to its power might you not
better have yielded earlier? as on ships
facing the seas were carried once
the figures of women at repose to
signify the strength of the waves' lash.
Funny; I'm often reminded of Whitman's "Proud Music of the Storm." It's pretty long, but I'll quote the first stanza:
Proud music of the storm,
Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies,
Strong hum of forest tree-tops--wind of the mountains,
Personified dim shapes--you hidden orchestras,
You serenades of phantoms with instruments alert,
Blending with Nature's rhythmus all the tongues of nations;
You chords left as by vast composers--you choruses,
You formless, free, religious dances--you from the Orient,
You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts,
You sounds from distant guns with galloping cavalry,
Echoes of camps with all the different bugle-calls,
Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerless,
Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber, why have you seiz'd me?
I've never read that one. I'll have to check it out. I'm in the middle of reading "Leaves of Grass" right now anyways, so I'd get to it eventually, but that one's in the latter half of the book so I think I'll skip ahead a bit for now. :)
Marcos,
Cuando mi hijo hermoso está en México, espero que él recuerde deletrear la vaca con un V.