Itziar Verria’s Birds

Lack of media space on this blog has moved me to a new location.

(Photo:CBC news, August 15, 2018)



I gave you the edge of reason, and there it sat, unattainable to your trembling hands

Gifts like these feel like poison rather than kindness, rather than, the warmth of tea

I gave but it became a burden, alongside hope, that loses its sparkle and you feel that tug of breathless crush on your chest

I could squeeze it into your hand, a gift, my hand to yours, but it’s too heavy now—perhaps in the morning light it will feel weightless and smooth like the sunrise

Reason, edge upon edge of it, slicing, gutting the soft bellied things


I folded night, with a little warm wish

I closed tight my fist

The rain, the black—the storms that sweep & wail against the finery of my window pane

Warm whispers of cold things

Little shocked tongues & moonhaze

Each glow coming forward and tearing open my chest

Singing into it, like all songs do

How they whisper, bright & black in midnight’s hue

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This quietly enclosure of froth & sound & murmur
Like wind on turbulent hills
Sun on pre-scorched flesh
Swallows & crows beak at the bindings of
Air circles my breath like summer circles the winter
A small time then ache
Ache comes quick & clean & sorrow on its doorstep

I’d hide there. Broken. A longing lost on my lips
Like the words I never speak like the
Foods I never
Eat like the
Eyes I never
See like the
Wounds that
Weep & weep


what gave winter her wild

& summer her dream?

what has now become these small sunken teeth

gashing where the sinew sits laced against the bones?

I watched you give whispers to the willows,

small blooms to the thyme that creeps the dry caked earth,

innocent white buds of the yarrow quivering along this parched path.

I watched as you gave wisps to the clouds & smeared the sunset serenely, with each shade of passion & blush

I watched from here, where everything is nothing. Where whisper & bud is a mere fantasy. Where the land stinks with refuse & the valley never floods with anything but thirst.

I saw the tides that came—people blackened with exhaustion & worry & grief. People. With their tongues dried out & dragging. I saw.

How they gripped onto me, swaying, weighing me down to sit with them, to weep with them. To find some solace in these touchings of a human to a human, a soul to a soul—to feel the vast vagueness of our own selves & of those who die off like flies along this way. Across the desert. Over the salted plains of waters undrinkable. Off to the chainlink homes of hopes unfounded.

I saw. I watched. I cried. I fell.

My knees bled, slow & stinging. The ache came & stayed a while, sipping the tea from my bones & rocking, back & forth.

I could quiet it all with one sweet prayer, splayed wide to my God. I could quiet my insides. He quieted my insides—this inner seething & sadness spilt out upon the ground like a blood sacrifice.

I waited. Oh how I have waited.


No idea what they’re saying but I heard this on a GoPro video on Instagram and immediately fell in love with it.

Back in the old days I always frequented the ‘World’ section in the music store. I loved hearing music from around the world. Now with iTunes it’s a far easier and cheaper exploration. I only owned a few foreign language cds as a teen. A couple in tribal South American languages, because we had a couple bands locally here, Sisa Picari & Alpa Kalpa, both were so good live. They had traditional Andes instruments and gruff voices similar to how the lead from The Gypsy Kings. I had one cd of Swahili music, like a mix of most popular stuff from various Swahili speaking countries at the time.

I’m sure there were more but those were my favourites. I love where I live because you do hear Arab & Hindi/Punjab music blaring from homes and cars often enough—for just a brief moment you could imagine you are far away from the place of ‘too familiar.’

So this Musical Interlude takes you far far away. I may share a couple more of my International favourites these days.

🌍🌎🌏 love the whole of it. What a wonderful gift we have in cultures and experiencing new things.

The Open Wound

The beauty of rainfall to ease the open wound, to touch back the pain, to where it can be lost and home again.

The beauty of light as it cracks the cloud, firm and bold despite the harsh and loud.

What could be fear is ash and dust; what could be lost is moth and rust.

To fold back page upon page, to remember age upon age.

I could gaze but why the pain—the beauty of this moment, of this rain.