Issue 32: J. R. Carpenter

it is only permissible to mention the weather

composed using only word from Orlando: A Biography, by Virginia Woolf

spring follows winter. and autumn summer. myriad moods. bright weather. and dark. wind blows this way. that way. rain falls vehemently. or not at all. no wind. no rain. no sun. or thunder. it is an odd sort of weather. nowadays. a change seems to have come over the climate. a light breeze rises. the sun rises and sinks. sunsets are redder and more intense. dawns are whiter and more auroral. dawn breaks with unusual suddenness. the sky turns a pale yellow. the rain almost ceases. up at dawn. out among the fields. the sun has risen. the wind has fallen. in summer. often the sun is blazing. the climate is bright—that is to say, the sun is rising. the sun on a green hill. like an emerald. sparkling. like. like nothing else. even the green of cabbages is less intense. a fluttering and flickering. the shadow of a starling. clouds passing. thin or thick. the sun–dial registers the hour in its usual cryptic way. in the confused light of a summer’s morning. everything is seen. but nothing is seen distinctly. it might be. indeed. it must be. the effect of the sun on the water–logged air. with the first breeze. the sky itself is changed. no longer so thick. so watery. so prismatic now. on clear days. if the weather is very fine. everything is different. fathomless depths of air. born of air. so blue. so glassy smooth. in the blazing noon. in the afternoon. in the brutal gaze. the weather itself. we may believe. is of another temper altogether. the brilliant amorous day is divided. as sheerly from the night as land from water. the sun blazes or there is darkness. seasons short as flowers. bloom and fade. moon rises and sun sets. night succeeds day and day night. there is first a storm. and then the weather is fine. so fine that the weathervane points due east and is steady as a rock. things remain much as they are for two or three hundred years or so. except for a little dust and a few cobwebs. so fine is the weather that the trees stretch their branches motionless above them. so fine that if a leaf falls it falls spotted red and gold. so slowly that one can watch it for half an hour fluttering and falling. till it comes to rest at last. the clouds shrink to a thin gauze. a little alarming—this shrinkage. everything seems to shrink. the sky seems to be made of metal in hot weather. it is only when a gale blows from the Southwest that the sky shivers and turns pale. blustering. it is the wind. the wind! in the roar of the wind the moon now shows bright through the woods. something wild. swift as lightning. something errant. incalculable. abrupt. and behold. the wild tides swirl about out at sea. except when the wind sinks. the waters grow calm. dead calm. in the moonlight. some hurrying tatters of cloud gather. increase. darken. and spread with extraordinary speed. a turbulent welter of cloud covers the city. a light breeze rises. the cold breeze of the present. the whole of the eastern sky is covered with an irregular moving darkness. all is darkness. doubt. confusion. a huge blackness sprawls over the whole of London. over the whole of the British Isles. frequent rain falls in fitful gusts. under a bruised and sullen canopy. white snow is muddied. the snow slithers and flops from the roof to the ground. the damp night air. makes its way into every house. silent. imperceptible. ubiquitous. damp swells the wood. furs the kettle. rusts the iron. rots the stone. so gradual a process. the sun still shines. of course. beams struggle through. marbling the clouds with strange prismatic colours. purples. oranges. and dull reds. upon the revolving clouds the rooks are tumbling. pell–mell. among the violet clouds of autumn. there is an iridescence. tempted into the marvellous. the clouds churn themselves into a golden foam. look upwards into the sky. pretend the climate is the same. year in year out. the clouds turn and tumble. ivy grows in unparalleled profusion. the dripping of the rain in the ivy could be taken for an answer. look, it’s beginning to rain. the sky is dark with clouds now. the sun blazes or there is darkness. these are raindrops falling. the blows are the blows of the rain. the sky pours forth in one profuse fountain. a steady spout of water. the air is thicker now than ever. such a steaming and droning rises from the downpour. in the darkness. wrapped about with this tremendous rain. the downpour rushes on. it is fine or wet. hot or cold. (it is now winter and very cold). birds freeze in mid–air and fall like stones to the ground. every tree is lined with frost. yet in spite of the cold. happy. hungry. cold embraces. ice grows. solid ice of such thickness. to keep the cold out. this evening. with the shadows darkening. to keep a spark of light burning. lit solely by the sun itself. the sun blazes or there is darkness. half–lights and lingering twilights. how many more suns shall set. after an hour or so. the sun is rapidly sinking. the clouds turning red. the hills violet. the woods purple. the valleys black. flowers bloom and fade. the sun rises and sinks. the breeze is made of a thousand wires or errant fingers. light sways up and down. like thin stuffs puffed out by a summer breeze. a vision of innumerable coloured stuffs flaunting in a breeze. tossed on a breeze. from which comes distinct smells. strange smells. a breath of fear. rising and falling. on a fair breeze. so near the shore. the darkened earth. quickly soaked and mud–caked. the sun setting. the sun sinking. the sight of the sun. slung like an orange. blood–red. and sinking rapidly. it must be almost evening. almost. an evening of astonishing beauty. as the sun sinks. all the domes. spires. turrets. and pinnacles of London. rise in inky blackness. against furious red clouds. the young moon shows when it is thin. sickle-shaped. and half hidden. a light breeze rises. and perhaps on the very skyline. when the wind is in the right quarter. the light is lost altogether. the moon rises slowly. the moon on the water. it is near midnight. all is still now. and nothing moves. between sky and sea.

J. R. Carpenter is an artist, writer, and lecturer in Creative Practice at University of Leeds. Her work asks questions about place, displacement, migration, colonialism, and climate. Her digital poem The Gathering Cloud won the New Media Writing Prize 2016. Her debut poetry collection An Ocean of Static was commended for the Forward Prizes 2019. Her hybrid print-digital project This is a Picture of Wind was listed in The Guardian’s best poetry books of 2020 and featured in the Digital Storytelling exhibition at The British Library 2023. Her most recent collection, The Pleasure of the Coast, is published by Pamenar Press. https://luckysoap.com 

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