Nyctophilia - Musings on Darkness
December afternoon
the light in the room
is cold and tired
(Alan Spence, Seasons of the Heart)
Stoke up the fire and light your lamp
never mind the cold and the oncoming dark
take up your books, continue your studies
let no man say you were afraid of the silence
or rotted away in self-pity
(extract from At the Solstice, Kenneth White)
Unlike many, for whom this time of year can be genuinely distressing and debilitating, I have always loved the darkness. As a child, I found the rapidly-decreasing daylight hours brought a sense of excitement and expectation : guising, starry night skies to gaze at, frosty patterns glazing the pavements, occasional power cuts, and - most excitingly of all- the annual purchase at school every November of various reflective sticky dots and armbands with which to adorn every inch of my schoolbag, coat and violin case (a time when everyone walked to school in all weathers...)
This fondness for all things wintry has followed me into adulthood - I am fascinated by how a landscape can be completely altered by different degrees of light, and still can't resist pressing my face to the window to observe the falling of snow or the turbulence of a passing storm.
The sounds of Winter are also unmistakable: the insistent wail of the wind whistling through a window pane, the polystyrene squeak of fresh snow underfoot, the crackling of wood fire or even the heightened internal awareness of one's own breath on a cold day.
I loved this poem, Sounds, in Norman Bissell's collection Slate, Sea and Sky- it perfectly resonates as someone who grew up with Northern coastal winters :
Sometimes here
it's hard to tell
the sound of the wind
from the sound of the waves
or the sound of the waves
from the sound of the rain
or the sound of the wind
and the waves and the rain
from the sound of my own breath.
I made a quick recording of Da Day Dawn, a wonderfully evocative old Shetland fiddle tune, which was traditionally played at the time of Yule:
Comments
Post a Comment