Haiku

Wind strewn rose petals
pale from red to pink when
winter bites summer.

Amanda~Louise Gilmour © 2020

Book Review: Storm Damage

Storm Damage is a collection of short stories written by John A. A. Logan. There is a surreal intent to many of the stories. Reality appears to straddle a dream-like world, which at times manifests as a sprinkling of the uncanny. These sprinklings are present in Sometimes all the World Comes Down. A man discovers an old fashioned metal spinning top lying on the road between him and a stag, sending him spinning into the past. Elsewhere a boy disappears into the desert; in another story, circus animals and performers revolt against the establishment. Some stories go further by dancing at the edge of magical realism. In The Orange Pig, a lonely orange pig climbs to the top of a hill with a long wolf. For the first time, the pig realises that the world has been pulled over his eyes when he sees a ‘silvered panorama.’ In The Airman, realms become so thin that the omnipotent narrator can see ‘the airman’s blood burn and spin.’

The stories slide between the first, third and omniscient narrator, and it becomes apparent that these seemingly separate stories are bound to one another by an intricate weave of interrelations. The metaphorical wolf appears in no less than five of the ten stories. Further to this, the ‘shimmering purple cloud’ from the first story appears again and again throughout in different forms, such as streams, cloaks, sails, cloths and carpets. This ambiguous metaphorical punch may be difficult for some readers to grasp; however, Logan’s beguiling prose is peppered with poetry and offers striking imagery and symbolism. In The Magenta Tapestry, the protagonist, ‘could still remember the feel of the dry fibres against her skin, like dead spider legs about to crumble.’ The protagonist in The Pond feels his lover’s fingers ‘lightly flutter in his palm like a tiny bird’s wings answering him across forty years.’

Storm Damage is thick with a perception that lies beneath the surface of each story. It is a philosophical enquiry into the nature of the human psyche and a rebellion against ideology in many forms. The stories are entangled with folklore and mythology—including the symbolic white butterfly. Although the narratives of each story are linear, there appears to be an overarching circular structure to the book as a whole. Each story encompasses a pre-echo of the final story, Sometimes all the World Comes Down, which is as much the beginning as it is the ending. The original trauma and betrayal occurred in this story, as a character ran across a purple carpet away from a metaphorical storm, and setting the scene for everything that was to come, including the title story Storm Damage. The stories and characters ‘end up so far from their beginnings there is no sense to be made of it’ though ‘souls are fortunate, whenever they find their respite, here and there along the way.’

Reviewed by Amanda @ Bonny Highlands Prose & Poetry

Haiku

Fluttering past
sibilant trees—butterflies
bleached in solstice sun.

© Amanda~Louise Gilmour 2020

Haiku ~ three

On the old apple
blossom, crispy petals bloom
into white butterflies.

Amanda~Louise Gilmour © 2020

Haiku ~ two

Sparkling star-like on 
roses, dewdrops ignited 
by sunrise.


Amanda~Louise Gilmour © 2020 

Haiku ~ one

Gauzy clouds veil sun-
down, diluting the scarlett 
sky, salmon-pink.

Amanda~Louise Gilmour © 2020

Haiku #13

Beautiful Haiku written by Polly Stretton.

journalread

Light: airy, weightless,
a detectable wavelength
tiny wee photons

Polly Stretton © 2020

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Haiku

Breathy droplets 
(suspended between dust motes)
drown my flailing lungs.

© Amanda~Louise Gilmour 2020

Spring Storm Haiku

At dawn, torn 
blossoms litter the lawn:
storm damage.

Haiku

Haiku Wishes

Puff faces, feather light 
wishes,waltzing with winds:
dandelion fluff.

Snowy-Spring Haiku

Spring dawn wakens to
susurrus snowflakes yawning
beside cherry blossoms.

Dawn Haiku

At first blush, lilac
hues seep into clouds resting
under rising rays.

Haiku

At dawn, nothing stirs
but fallen baby blossoms
caught a-whirl in wind.

Haiku, by Amanda Gilmour.

Insomnia

If only I could
sleep and inhabit dreams where
I wander freely.

Amanda~Louise Gilmour

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Son

Brittle

Brittle
He grew delicate
roots inside me,
brittle as glass.

by Amanda Gilmour

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Foinaven

Fractured quartzite-rocks
graze Achriesgill's grey edges
with scattered pieces
that I wrap in my lace scarf,
keeping the hill close.

by Amanda~Louise Gilmour

Oldshoremore

At Oldshoremore, the
aurora borealis
waltzes over stars
while I collect broken shells
bathed in rose-gold glow.

by Amanda~Louise Gilmour

Soul

As I burn your soul
onto paper, a butterfly
lands on my pen.

by Amanda~Louise Gilmour

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