Quixotic

Never a Cloud

Never a Cloud

NEVER A CLOUD by Jo Brunini

 To order my debut literary novel, and read an excerpt, see : Never a Cloud

“Heartfelt, entertaining, and hauntingly beautiful, a must-read.”—Pacific Book Review (starred review)

“The novel often feels like the film Gosford Park populated by readers of the London Review of Books... Brunini’s prose is often evocative...”—Kirkus Reviews

"Reading Never a Cloud is akin to navigating a dream in which all the main characters are familiars who become less and less solid the more we learn about them. And isn't that just like life? As a painter, Jo Brunini understands complexity and color and the elusive and mercurial nature of reality and how essential light is for revelation. Every family is burdened by the weight of the lies told by those who deem the truth too difficult a burden to bear. And Violet, our trusty narrator, ushers us in and out of time as she gently and deliberately drops bread crumbs—and all of us— home to ourselves."  —Molly Secours, author of White Privilege Pop Quiz

 

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Some things can only be hidden for so long. Some things are too difficult to talk about, and some things you have to repeat even when no one is listening . . .

Never a Cloud charts the course of three women—Violet, Ava, and Margot— who find their way to a new understanding of home and family at Otyrburn, an estate in rural Scotland. Violet Grey, a child of the sixties, writes from an island in Maine as the novel travels between Scotland, New York City, and Venice, Italy. Otyrburn belongs to George Lowell and Margot Reid, who is the half sister of Violet’s daughter, Ava. This is something Margot discovers only when Ava unexpectedly arrives. George, a director at the Metropolitan Museum, finds himself under suspicion for illicit activity as Margot reconnects with her childhood sweetheart, who is helping restore the worn-at-the-edges Regency manor, where secrets long forgotten, and those newly discovered, converge.

Book Launch

Embrace the mess! So, let the explanation unfold as to where I've been this last year—how time soars— fast at work completing my debut novel! Never a Cloud . . .  stay tuned!

Quartered Wing

Quartered Wing

I know his cry,
it splits the muted blue.
From beyond my window,
the Northern Harrier works the sky.

When November unveils,
and even the fields stop to shudder,
though the wood has lost its flame,
the Gray Ghost remains.

The future's past is summer's glory,
the bee, and I, forget and complain,
the hawk overwinters,
indulging the humdrum weather.

We are not captive,
one hundred words move
within the clouded moons,
as we point at remote skies together. 

—G. Brunini 
8 February 2021

 

Leonardo's Bicycle—a love letter to Da Vinci

LEONARDO'S BICYCLE—a love letter to Da Vinci

We followed the old farm road past blue chicory,
and smiling queen Anne's lace,
to the gravel knoll, with tall grass between us.
Leonardo's bicycle was a two-tone Schwinn Phantom Deluxe,
the spring fork most-famous balloon model.

"Quite the exquisite Cantilever frame with tank and horn," he said. "Handsome whitewall tires and extra-wide chrome fenders."
I nodded, but saw only the broad reach of his face, and color rising on harvest grapes.
The leather saddle seat fit the man that examined the world.

"We'll take the turquoise streamers," he said. "I'll ride the green and black. And for my friend, the radiant-red model, more vermillion-black."
"A token gift," he insisted.
"Add one saddlebag for his vellum journal, charcoal, and looking glass."
"And rosemary focaccia," he smiled.

We pedaled faster to where birds perched on the high wire.
"Why the line of steel hung in the sky for miles running?" he asked.
"An equator divides the globe, and a lightning bolt carries the news of feast and famine."
"And god-wars that ruin the planet." 

I went riding with Leonardo today.
He drew many spoked wheels and flying machines.

"Fly with me!" I said "It's not your volo strumentale, or divine engineering of human flight,
but with arms outstretched we can glide hands-free."
Paired hawks quartered the countryside.
"Isn't it marvelous not having anything to do but play?"
"Across the great divide..."
"Maestro, why does her free smile enchant you so?"

"She is my child, brother, mother, father, sister, lover, aunt, and uncle, too,
the Mary of many and the Mary of none,
and the geranium if a white flower wore a face.
Mona Lisa is the breadth of space remaining after we've each taken our share.
She is what moves sitting silent,
the bright prism held within the rainbow,
listening and the telling,
the seed of thought and action,
the unborn babe I sketched by candlelight, asleep in the womb,
and the edge of darkness where moonlight illumines.
She is youth and decay, love and abandonment.
If ere I dreamed and loved I do evermore.
She is the greater giving and the evil hoard.
She is warm and sweet and fragile.
And that is why I love her.
For her fears spring from the grotto birthing mine.
I've been robbed a few times—Mona Lisa stays with me."

I went riding with Leonardo today.
He drew many spoked wheels and flying machines.

 

—G. Brunini
1 February 2021

The Man in the Moon

Protest peacefully, VOTE, fall in love, run for office, raise a family which respects each color, race, or religion, and change the world...  Summer 1968 / Summer 2020

If Soul Were A Country

IF SOUL WERE A COUNTRY

La bella Italia,
Land of cypress set in stone,
Jewel of the Mediterranean.

Before the shadows of night are gone,
Hold fast to the 'moon with a bite,'
For it will be made whole again.

Your spirit cannot be contained,
Come, walk into your garden,
We listen for your voice.

The evocative sequence of joy,
With the power of love's surprise,
So familiar, and treasured by all.

—G. B. Congdon, 22nd March 2020

The poem is dedicated with love to Bergamo, Italy where I have family. Prayers pour in from around the world during the pandemic, add mine. The kids play in Lucca's piazza in Tuscany, spring 2000. The "moon with a bite" is what Black Elk called the quarter moon.

Please watch Darika Montico's #ASCOLTA, #LISTEN:

Ode to Winter's Word

ODE TO WINTER'S WORD

Were I mute, my pen would remain,
And my thoughts burst forth,
A folly of fireflies on an invisible skyline.

Were I deaf, old friend,
I'd endeavor to improvise like
An auctioneer of ideas both rarefied and asinine.

Were I blind, dear child within,
On you I would rely,
To ramble with elegant grace most Florentine.

Were I old, when once young,
I'd ask for humor,
To traverse the path both dulcet and serpentine.

Were I mortal and not divine,
I'd realize it's not a question of epiphany,
But rather the elusive patience to realign. 

—G. B. Congdon
22nd February 2020 

 

Into the Woods

INTO THE WOODS

If my inner sanctum is where light falls softly,
And birds dart and play,
Then that is where we live.

If my inner sanctum is the backside of the moon,
And the sun a halo only,
Then that is where we dispel fear.

At life's meridian, in gray attire,
The maps and charts, drawn and examined,
I opened a drawer and found a labyrinth.

Something, finely drafted from antiquity,
With meandering paths of clipped box,
Where the signposts are writ in poetry.

I hold the missing chink in the mortar of my wall.
There is little in my day you do not share.
The sky is a vault of wonder everywhere.

—G. B. Congdon
14th January 2020