The Great McGonnagal [as he was known in his lifetime]was widely regaded as the worst poet in the English language. He lived in the city of Dundee in Scotland. His work is widely loved in Great Britain and elsewhere. If you, like me enjoy his work, you can find all his published poems at
www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk
you can subscibe, like I do to receive a poetic gem a day at this link
http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/cgi-bin/mcmail
The Moon
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou seemest most charming to my sight;
As I gaze upon thee in the sky so high,
A tear of joy does moisten mine eye.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the Esquimau in the night;
For thou lettest him see to harpoon the fish,
And with them he makes a dainty dish.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the fox in the night,
And lettest him see to steal the grey goose away
Out of the farm-yard from a stack of hay.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the farmer in the night,
and makes his heart beat high with delight
As he views his crops by the light in the night.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the eagle in the night,
And lettest him see to devour his prey
And carry it to his nest away.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the mariner in the night
As he paces the deck alone,
Thinking of his dear friends at home.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the weary traveller in the night;
For thou lightest up the wayside around
To him when he is homeward bound.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the lovers in the night
As they walk through the shady groves alone,
Making love to each other before they go home.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the poacher in the night;
For thou lettest him see to set his snares
To catch the rabbit and the hares.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
DD 3/22/05 A LITTLE MADNESS IN THE SPRING BY EMILY DICKINSON
DD 5/3/05 POEM BY DENISE LEVERTOV
The Métier of Blossoming
Denise Levertov
Fully occupied with growing--that'sthe amaryllis.
Growing especiallyat night:
it would takeonly a bit more patience than
I've got
to sit keeping watch with it till daylight;
the naked eye could register every hour's
increase in height.
Like a child against a barn door,
proudly topping each year's achievement,
steadily upgoes each green stem, smooth, matte,
traces of reddish purple at the base, and almost
imperceptible vertical ridges
running the length of them:
Two robust stems from each bulb,
sometimes with sturdy leaves for company,
elegant sweeps of blade with rounded points.
Aloft, the gravid buds, shiny with fullness.
One morning--and so soon!--the first flower
has opened when you wake.
Or you catch it poisedin a single, brief
moment of hesitation.
Next day, another,
shy at first like a foal,
even a third, a fourth,
carried triumphantly at the summit
of those strong columns, and each
a Juno, calm in brilliance,
a maiden giantess in modest splendor.
If humans could be
that intensely whole, undistracted, unhurried,
swift from sheer
unswerving impetus! If we could blossom
out of ourselves, giving
nothing imperfect, withholding nothing!
Denise Levertov
Fully occupied with growing--that'sthe amaryllis.
Growing especiallyat night:
it would takeonly a bit more patience than
I've got
to sit keeping watch with it till daylight;
the naked eye could register every hour's
increase in height.
Like a child against a barn door,
proudly topping each year's achievement,
steadily upgoes each green stem, smooth, matte,
traces of reddish purple at the base, and almost
imperceptible vertical ridges
running the length of them:
Two robust stems from each bulb,
sometimes with sturdy leaves for company,
elegant sweeps of blade with rounded points.
Aloft, the gravid buds, shiny with fullness.
One morning--and so soon!--the first flower
has opened when you wake.
Or you catch it poisedin a single, brief
moment of hesitation.
Next day, another,
shy at first like a foal,
even a third, a fourth,
carried triumphantly at the summit
of those strong columns, and each
a Juno, calm in brilliance,
a maiden giantess in modest splendor.
If humans could be
that intensely whole, undistracted, unhurried,
swift from sheer
unswerving impetus! If we could blossom
out of ourselves, giving
nothing imperfect, withholding nothing!
DD 5/17/05 POEM BY MICHELANGELO
For those who occasionally feel discouraged...
After Michelangelo had finished his work on the Sistine Chapel he wrote a poem of his agony during the painting of this Sistine Chapel.
I've got myself a goiter from this strain, As water gives the cats in Lombardy Or maybe it is in some other country; My belly's pushed by force beneath my chin.
My beard toward Heaven, I feel the back of my brain Upon my neck, I grow the breast of a Harpy; My brush, above my face continually, Makes a splendid floor by dripping down.
My Loins have penetrated to my paunch, My rump's a crupper, as a counterweight, And pointless the unseeing steps I go.
In front of me my skin is being stretched While it folds up behind and forms a knot, And I am bending like a Syrian bow.
And judgment, hence must grow, Borne in mind, peculiar and untrue; You cannot shoot well when the gun's askew.
John, come to the rescue Of my dead painting now, and of my honor; I'm not in a good place, and I'm no painter.
After Michelangelo had finished his work on the Sistine Chapel he wrote a poem of his agony during the painting of this Sistine Chapel.
I've got myself a goiter from this strain, As water gives the cats in Lombardy Or maybe it is in some other country; My belly's pushed by force beneath my chin.
My beard toward Heaven, I feel the back of my brain Upon my neck, I grow the breast of a Harpy; My brush, above my face continually, Makes a splendid floor by dripping down.
My Loins have penetrated to my paunch, My rump's a crupper, as a counterweight, And pointless the unseeing steps I go.
In front of me my skin is being stretched While it folds up behind and forms a knot, And I am bending like a Syrian bow.
And judgment, hence must grow, Borne in mind, peculiar and untrue; You cannot shoot well when the gun's askew.
John, come to the rescue Of my dead painting now, and of my honor; I'm not in a good place, and I'm no painter.
DD 12/11/07 LITTLE POEM BY STEVEN CANE
A man said to the universe, "
Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."
Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."
DD 1/22/08 REBECCA SOLNIT ESSAY
Diary
Rebecca Solnit
The West began at the pay phone at the gas station at Lee Vining, the little town next to Mono Lake on the east side of the Sierra Nevada, too remote for cell phones. I was standing around in the harsh golden light at eight thousand feet waiting to make a call when I realised that the man on the line was trying to patch up his marriage, and the task wasn’t going to be quick or easy. ‘You just aren’t going to let us get back together, are you?’ he said in a tone at once supplicating and truculent. I thought that maybe she had her reasons and wondered how far away she was on the other end of the line.
At Lee Vining, named after a miner and Indian killer, the rain shadow begins: the Sierra, which are just a hair shorter than the Alps, scrape off the Pacific clouds and keep everything east of it arid. There are few real boundaries in nature, and this is one of the most astounding: from the west, you can hike up a green mountain slope and come to the divide, where you look over at the beginning of a thousand miles or more of desert, stand in patches of deep snow from the winter before and look at a terrain that receives only a few inches of moisture a year. In most of California, all water flows west to the Pacific, including that of the western slope of the Sierra, but on the Sierra’s other side it goes east, into salty lakes like Mono and the Great Salt Lake, into sinks and subterranean spaces, into thin air. The Great Basin, so called because its scanty water doesn’t drain to any sea, is mostly a terrain of north-south-running ranges, sharp-edged raw geology, separated by flat expanses of sagebrush.
In the desert, plants grow further apart to accommodate the huge root systems they need to collect enough water to live, and so do communities and ranches. Few but the desert’s original inhabitants found it beautiful before cars. The extremes of heat and cold, the vast scale and the scarcity of water must have been terrifying to anyone crossing it by beast or on foot. On a hot day, water is sucked straight out of your skin, and you can feel how fast dying of thirst could be, but the aridity is what makes the air so clear, what opens up those fifty-mile views. Now with air conditioning and interstates and the option of going several hundred miles a day with ease, desert austerity is a welcome respite from the overdeveloped world. The aridity and the altitude – the lowlands are mostly more than four thousand feet high – make the light strong, clear and powerful; and the sky in these wide places seems to start at your ankles.
Because wildlife, too, is spread far apart and often operates at night, because the colours and changes of the plant life can be subtle, it often seems as though the real drama is in the sky; not exactly life, but life-giving, the light and the rain. Summer thunderstorms in the arid lands are an operatic drama, particularly in New Mexico, where the plot normally unfolds pretty much the same way every day during the summer monsoon season: clear morning skies are gradually overtaken by cumulus clouds as scattered and innocuous as a herd of grazing sheep, until they gather and turn dark, then the afternoon storm breaks, with lightning, thunder and crashing rain that can turn a dusty road into a necklace of puddles reflecting the turbulent sky. But New Mexico is besieged now by a multi-year drought, and watching the clouds gather every afternoon as if for this dionysian release that never came, I thought of the Salt Lake City scholar Paul Shepard’s claim that Yahweh was originally a Semitic storm god. I also felt for the first time something of the beseeching powerlessness of those who prayed to an angry, unpredictable God, and felt how easy it would be to identify that God with the glorious, fickle, implacable desert sky.
Every summer I go live in the sky, I drive into this enormous space whose luminousness and emptiness, whose violence, seem to give this country its identity, even though few of us live there. It’s hard to convey the scale of the empty quarter. The Nevada Test Site, where the US and UK have detonated more than a thousand nuclear bombs over the past half century, is inside a virtually unpopulated airbase the size of Wales. Nevada is about the size of Italy and has a population of a million and a half, which wouldn’t sound so stark if it weren’t that more than a million of them live in Las Vegas and most of the rest in the Reno area, leaving the remainder of the state remarkably unpopulated. At one point the state decided to capitalise on this and named Highway 50, which traverses the centre of Nevada, ‘the loneliest highway in America’.
From Mono Lake, I drove about forty miles on 120, crossing from California to Nevada at some point along the way, then a stretch along the Grand Army of the Republic Highway, Route 6, over to the small town of Basalt, another hundred or so miles up to 50. At first the country was high enough that it was green, beautiful and stark and treeless, until the altitude climbed a little into piñon-pine and juniper country, then dropped down into the drabness of most of the Great Basin, the colour of sagebrush and the dirt in between. A grove of trees is a sure sign of a ranch house and irrigation, though there are entire valleys – and a valley means a place five or ten miles wide and several times as long – in which there is no house to be seen. Highway 50 traverses a dozen of these valleys and passes; driven in a day they succeed one another like musical variations, with their subtle differences of colour and form. One range looked like mountains, another more like cliffs, with tilted strata clearly visible, one valley was full of dust devils, those knots of swirling wind that pick up dust and debris and move them across the land.
Most of California is west of the Sierra, where a dramatic change of scale takes place and the infolding, the lushness, the variety of the terrain, seems to invite the social density and complexity of California, with its thirty-something million residents from all over the world. The two coasts of the United States often strike me as rather like a pair of parentheses enclosing the inchoate outback, a part of the country coloured red for Republican on the voting map for the last Presidential election, when the coasts were Democratic blue.
The red lands are a steppe, a Siberia, far removed from the cosmopolitanism of the coasts. When I come out here, it seems hard to believe in cities, let alone in nations, in anything but the sublimity of this emptiness. The Great Basin is wide open topographically but introspective in spirit, turned in on itself, and news from outside seems like mythology, rumour, entertainment, anything but part of what goes on here, or doesn’t, out here where the sparse population is interspersed between sites for the rehearsing of America’s wars. A lot of people have been preoccupied with Area 51, an off-limits part of the eastern periphery of the Nevada Test Site where aliens are supposed to have landed, or been captured, or had their flying saucers tested, and the logic behind these beliefs seems to be equal parts creative interpretation of military secrecy and a sense that everything from outside is alien.
On another road trip a few years ago, my friend Grace and I had joined Interstate 50 further west and driven through the part of the highway that is also the Bravo 17 bombing range, past the electronic warfare installations, past the fake town they bomb for practice, to the turnoff to Dixie Valley, a ranching community whose population was forced out by sonic-boom testing in the 1980s. Fallon Naval Air Station – a naval base in this driest of the 50 states – was testing the military uses of sonic booms on livestock, school buses, and homes. The animals stampeded and aborted, the windows shattered, cars went off the roads. The Navy solved the problem by eliminating the population in this oasis, where clear spring water breaks the surface of its own accord.
The few dozen houses had been burned to the ground and tanks used for aerial target practice were scattered between them. As we looked at the ruins of one ranch house, a noise erupted behind us so powerful it seemed more physical than sound. I turned just in time to see a supersonic jet disappear again, after buzzing us from 200 feet. It came from nowhere and went back there almost immediately, as though it had ripped a hole in the sky. The wars fought in the Middle East have been fought here first, in ways that one might imagine made them more real but instead make them more removed.
Once, driving a back road in Nevada, I was stopped for half an hour by a road construction crew. The woman in the hard hat who’d flagged me down spoke wistfully of San Francisco when I told her where I was from. She’d visited once in high school and spoke as though the seven-hour drive was an impassable distance, and for her perhaps it was. Her town was called Lovelock, and it had a few casinos but no movie theatre or bookstore. When I think of how Americans could fail to judge the carnage caused by hundreds of bombs in Baghdad in terms of that caused by two hijacked airplanes in New York, I think of her.
And I think of the wars fought for our cheap gasoline, the wars that make viable not just my summer jaunts but year-round homes sixty or seventy miles from the grocery store (to say nothing of military flights measured not in miles per gallon but gallons per mile). On a freeway clotted with roadside businesses south of Salt Lake City, a car dealer flashed a signboard: ‘Our Troops. God Bless Them.’ And maybe all the talk about freedom means freedom to drive around for ever on $1.67-a-gallon petroleum, out here in a terrain just a little less harsh than Afghanistan. Thomas Jefferson was afraid of the red lands, afraid that where the arable soil ended so would his arcadian yeoman ideal, and that Europeans would revert to nomadism. There’s something roving and ferocious about the Euroamerican West that suggests he’s right; the US is really more like the lands it’s been bombing lately than like Europe.
Red stands for a kind of cowboy ethos that society is optional and every man should fend for himself. This vast space was where people stepped out of society when their domestic lives failed or the law was after them. The ethos ignores the huge federal subsidies that support cattle-growing, logging and mining, just as Republican tax-cutters overlook the fact that the military they wish to expand consumes a grotesque proportion of tax revenue. Western and action movies concoct countless situations in which belligerence is justified and admirable, in which such autonomy is necessary, and the current President, like Ronald Reagan before him, portrays himself as a representative of these places and their cosmology, an act of self-invention as bold as that of any renamed outlaw. Reagan went from the Midwest to Hollywood; Bush is a product of East Coast privilege, even if he did go to flat, dry Midlands, Texas, to cultivate his insularity and a failed oil business.
For more than a decade I’ve been making compilation tapes to listen to on these drives, mostly of country music, which seems to suit the road best. For long stretches there is nothing on the radio, but around a big city – Salt Lake, for example – there’s a kind of aural density, with hip-hop and classical as well as pop, rock, country and right-wing talk shows; the latter two seem to last furthest into the remoteness, and then they fade, and it’s silence or tape. On my way to Highway 50, it was still cool when I ran over a huge snake sunning itself on the asphalt – chipmunks and squirrels you can dodge, but not something three or four feet long and writhing – as Hank Williams was singing ‘Lost Highway’.
Never mind contemporary country music, with its upbeat insipidity, which is to the genre at its best as a giant shopping complex is to the wild terrain eradicated to build it. Tragedy is about being cast out from the community; comedy ends in marriage; over the past couple of decades tragedy has been turned into humourless country-and-western comedy affirming the virtues of the status quo. The original stuff is rancorous, melancholy, as often about couples falling apart as coming together, and it’s about this kind of space.
Love between human beings is always failing in these songs – he leaves her; she cheats on him; somebody dies; everybody drinks; it wasn’t God who made honky-tonk angels; even the bottle let him down. The old Scots and Irish ballads were as gory and gloomy, but they are generally heirlooms now, and country and western is their immigrant bastard grandchild, something that came into its own only half a century ago and hasn’t died out yet. In these songs the lovers, the plaintiffs, the protagonists are mostly anonymous; it’s their geography that is named and listed and described with passionate fondness. When people fail, places remain; you can always have recourse to the landscape, and it will never leave you, though you may leave it. Leaving home and returning are the main narratives. Rivers and roads, the long-distance elements of the landscape, are the geographical refrains of the genre. Williams’s lost highway is a metaphysical condition more than a place, a sort of Dantean circuit for damned souls, though real highways provide refuge for those who’ve cut themselves off, as his protagonist did. The name of the beloved is Texas, is Tehachapi, is Tennessee, is the murmured names of rivers, bridges, roads, small towns, radiant in the late-afternoon light of regret and backward glances.
For me, country’s definitive song might be ‘Long Black Veil’, whose way with time is straight out of the Brontës. A dead man sings ten years after his hanging for a crime he didn’t commit, but his only alibi is unutterable: ‘I’d been in the arms of my best friend’s wife,’ who when he died ‘stood in the crowd and said not a word’. Now she wanders the hills in a long black veil and, well, visits his grave where the night winds wail. Hills and the night winds are still there, are reliable, are what you have in the end. ‘Wanted Man’, which Bob Dylan wrote in 1969, is a boastful list of all the places a criminal is wanted, a recitation that includes Albuquerque and Tallahassee and Baton Rouge and Buffalo, ‘but there’s one place I’m not wanted/Lord, it’s the place that I call home.’ Nothing ever made it clearer that geography is compensation for society, and the song raises the question of what, when you love these places, do they give you back? The answers sound American, too: freedom, solitude, communion with creatures and the inorganic creation, space to think.
Not that it’s all so overwrought. A couple of days later, in Utah, I was still driving east, through canyon country so stark nobody seems to live anywhere but along the cottonwood-shaded oases of rivers, but I could pick up a great classic country station. Around where I saw the sign warning ‘Eagles on Road’, it broadcast a song by David Frizzell, a barfly’s monologue repeating his wife’s extensive home remodelling proposal that begins: ‘I’m going to hire a wino/To decorate our home/So you’ll feel more at ease here/And you won’t need to roam.’ It’s scathingly funny, but it’s still about discord, abandonment and restlessness.
I’ve been trying to get at the heart of this geographical passion for years, through the compilation tapes: an early one was called Geography Lessons, Mostly Tragic; one about drinking and rivers The Entirely Liquid Mr North (after an alcoholic composer in Tender Is the Night); and the most recent, from a line in one of Johnny Cash’s final recordings, ‘Hurt’, is My Empire of Dirt. I love the place names, too; before I left, a friend – who’d also lived in New Mexico – and I induced a nostalgic haze in each other sheerly through place names, places we’d been, places to go, and there’s a passion for place in this music that’s also my passion.
Maybe the seductive whisper of these empty places says that you don’t have to work things out, don’t have to come home, don’t have to be reasonable; you can always move on, start over, step outside the social. To think of a figure in this vast western space of the Great Basin is to see a solitary on an empty stage, and the space seems to be about the most literal definition of freedom: space in which nothing impedes will and action. The Bonneville Salt Flats – a dry lake-bed in northern Utah – where some world land speed records have been set, and Nevada’s Black Rock Desert dry lake-bed, where the bacchanalian Burning Man festival takes place every September, seem to have realised this definition in the most obvious ways: speeding cars, naked hallucinating tattooed love freaks partying down. And, of course, US military training for foreign adventures. (In the first Gulf War, the commanders referred to the unconquered portions of Iraq as Indian Territory.)
Easy though all this is to deplore on moral grounds, the place is seductive; there’s a sense for me that all this is home, that every hour, every mile, is coming home, that this isolated condition of driving on an empty highway from one range to another is home, is some kind of true and essential condition of self, because I am myself an American, and something of a westerner.
A year ago I was at a dinner in Amsterdam when the question came up of whether each of us loved his or her country. The German shuddered, the Dutch were equivocal, the Tory said he was ‘comfortable’ with Britain, the expatriate American said No. But I said Yes. Driving across the arid lands, the red lands, I wondered what it was I loved. The places, the sagebrush basins, the rivers digging themselves deep canyons through arid lands, the incomparable cloud formations of summer monsoons in New Mexico, the way the underside of clouds turns the same blue as the underside of a great blue heron’s wings when the storm is about to break.
Beyond that anything you can say about the US you can also say the opposite of; we’re rootless except that we’re also the Hopi who haven’t moved in several centuries; we’re violent except that we’re also the Franciscans nonviolently resisting nuclear weapons; we’re consumers except that this West is studded with visionary environmentalists, and on and on. The evils in this country tend to generate their opposites. And the landscape of the West seems like the stage on which such dramas are played: a space without boundaries, in which anything can be realised; a moral ground, out here where your shadow can stretch hundreds of feet just before sunset, where you loom large, and lonely.
From the LRB letters page: [ 6 November 2003 ] Leon Lewis, Rebecca Solnit.
Rebecca Solnit lives in San Francisco. Her books include Wanderlust: A History of Walking, Hope in the Dark: The Untold History of People Power and A Field Guide to Getting Lost.
Rebecca Solnit
The West began at the pay phone at the gas station at Lee Vining, the little town next to Mono Lake on the east side of the Sierra Nevada, too remote for cell phones. I was standing around in the harsh golden light at eight thousand feet waiting to make a call when I realised that the man on the line was trying to patch up his marriage, and the task wasn’t going to be quick or easy. ‘You just aren’t going to let us get back together, are you?’ he said in a tone at once supplicating and truculent. I thought that maybe she had her reasons and wondered how far away she was on the other end of the line.
At Lee Vining, named after a miner and Indian killer, the rain shadow begins: the Sierra, which are just a hair shorter than the Alps, scrape off the Pacific clouds and keep everything east of it arid. There are few real boundaries in nature, and this is one of the most astounding: from the west, you can hike up a green mountain slope and come to the divide, where you look over at the beginning of a thousand miles or more of desert, stand in patches of deep snow from the winter before and look at a terrain that receives only a few inches of moisture a year. In most of California, all water flows west to the Pacific, including that of the western slope of the Sierra, but on the Sierra’s other side it goes east, into salty lakes like Mono and the Great Salt Lake, into sinks and subterranean spaces, into thin air. The Great Basin, so called because its scanty water doesn’t drain to any sea, is mostly a terrain of north-south-running ranges, sharp-edged raw geology, separated by flat expanses of sagebrush.
In the desert, plants grow further apart to accommodate the huge root systems they need to collect enough water to live, and so do communities and ranches. Few but the desert’s original inhabitants found it beautiful before cars. The extremes of heat and cold, the vast scale and the scarcity of water must have been terrifying to anyone crossing it by beast or on foot. On a hot day, water is sucked straight out of your skin, and you can feel how fast dying of thirst could be, but the aridity is what makes the air so clear, what opens up those fifty-mile views. Now with air conditioning and interstates and the option of going several hundred miles a day with ease, desert austerity is a welcome respite from the overdeveloped world. The aridity and the altitude – the lowlands are mostly more than four thousand feet high – make the light strong, clear and powerful; and the sky in these wide places seems to start at your ankles.
Because wildlife, too, is spread far apart and often operates at night, because the colours and changes of the plant life can be subtle, it often seems as though the real drama is in the sky; not exactly life, but life-giving, the light and the rain. Summer thunderstorms in the arid lands are an operatic drama, particularly in New Mexico, where the plot normally unfolds pretty much the same way every day during the summer monsoon season: clear morning skies are gradually overtaken by cumulus clouds as scattered and innocuous as a herd of grazing sheep, until they gather and turn dark, then the afternoon storm breaks, with lightning, thunder and crashing rain that can turn a dusty road into a necklace of puddles reflecting the turbulent sky. But New Mexico is besieged now by a multi-year drought, and watching the clouds gather every afternoon as if for this dionysian release that never came, I thought of the Salt Lake City scholar Paul Shepard’s claim that Yahweh was originally a Semitic storm god. I also felt for the first time something of the beseeching powerlessness of those who prayed to an angry, unpredictable God, and felt how easy it would be to identify that God with the glorious, fickle, implacable desert sky.
Every summer I go live in the sky, I drive into this enormous space whose luminousness and emptiness, whose violence, seem to give this country its identity, even though few of us live there. It’s hard to convey the scale of the empty quarter. The Nevada Test Site, where the US and UK have detonated more than a thousand nuclear bombs over the past half century, is inside a virtually unpopulated airbase the size of Wales. Nevada is about the size of Italy and has a population of a million and a half, which wouldn’t sound so stark if it weren’t that more than a million of them live in Las Vegas and most of the rest in the Reno area, leaving the remainder of the state remarkably unpopulated. At one point the state decided to capitalise on this and named Highway 50, which traverses the centre of Nevada, ‘the loneliest highway in America’.
From Mono Lake, I drove about forty miles on 120, crossing from California to Nevada at some point along the way, then a stretch along the Grand Army of the Republic Highway, Route 6, over to the small town of Basalt, another hundred or so miles up to 50. At first the country was high enough that it was green, beautiful and stark and treeless, until the altitude climbed a little into piñon-pine and juniper country, then dropped down into the drabness of most of the Great Basin, the colour of sagebrush and the dirt in between. A grove of trees is a sure sign of a ranch house and irrigation, though there are entire valleys – and a valley means a place five or ten miles wide and several times as long – in which there is no house to be seen. Highway 50 traverses a dozen of these valleys and passes; driven in a day they succeed one another like musical variations, with their subtle differences of colour and form. One range looked like mountains, another more like cliffs, with tilted strata clearly visible, one valley was full of dust devils, those knots of swirling wind that pick up dust and debris and move them across the land.
Most of California is west of the Sierra, where a dramatic change of scale takes place and the infolding, the lushness, the variety of the terrain, seems to invite the social density and complexity of California, with its thirty-something million residents from all over the world. The two coasts of the United States often strike me as rather like a pair of parentheses enclosing the inchoate outback, a part of the country coloured red for Republican on the voting map for the last Presidential election, when the coasts were Democratic blue.
The red lands are a steppe, a Siberia, far removed from the cosmopolitanism of the coasts. When I come out here, it seems hard to believe in cities, let alone in nations, in anything but the sublimity of this emptiness. The Great Basin is wide open topographically but introspective in spirit, turned in on itself, and news from outside seems like mythology, rumour, entertainment, anything but part of what goes on here, or doesn’t, out here where the sparse population is interspersed between sites for the rehearsing of America’s wars. A lot of people have been preoccupied with Area 51, an off-limits part of the eastern periphery of the Nevada Test Site where aliens are supposed to have landed, or been captured, or had their flying saucers tested, and the logic behind these beliefs seems to be equal parts creative interpretation of military secrecy and a sense that everything from outside is alien.
On another road trip a few years ago, my friend Grace and I had joined Interstate 50 further west and driven through the part of the highway that is also the Bravo 17 bombing range, past the electronic warfare installations, past the fake town they bomb for practice, to the turnoff to Dixie Valley, a ranching community whose population was forced out by sonic-boom testing in the 1980s. Fallon Naval Air Station – a naval base in this driest of the 50 states – was testing the military uses of sonic booms on livestock, school buses, and homes. The animals stampeded and aborted, the windows shattered, cars went off the roads. The Navy solved the problem by eliminating the population in this oasis, where clear spring water breaks the surface of its own accord.
The few dozen houses had been burned to the ground and tanks used for aerial target practice were scattered between them. As we looked at the ruins of one ranch house, a noise erupted behind us so powerful it seemed more physical than sound. I turned just in time to see a supersonic jet disappear again, after buzzing us from 200 feet. It came from nowhere and went back there almost immediately, as though it had ripped a hole in the sky. The wars fought in the Middle East have been fought here first, in ways that one might imagine made them more real but instead make them more removed.
Once, driving a back road in Nevada, I was stopped for half an hour by a road construction crew. The woman in the hard hat who’d flagged me down spoke wistfully of San Francisco when I told her where I was from. She’d visited once in high school and spoke as though the seven-hour drive was an impassable distance, and for her perhaps it was. Her town was called Lovelock, and it had a few casinos but no movie theatre or bookstore. When I think of how Americans could fail to judge the carnage caused by hundreds of bombs in Baghdad in terms of that caused by two hijacked airplanes in New York, I think of her.
And I think of the wars fought for our cheap gasoline, the wars that make viable not just my summer jaunts but year-round homes sixty or seventy miles from the grocery store (to say nothing of military flights measured not in miles per gallon but gallons per mile). On a freeway clotted with roadside businesses south of Salt Lake City, a car dealer flashed a signboard: ‘Our Troops. God Bless Them.’ And maybe all the talk about freedom means freedom to drive around for ever on $1.67-a-gallon petroleum, out here in a terrain just a little less harsh than Afghanistan. Thomas Jefferson was afraid of the red lands, afraid that where the arable soil ended so would his arcadian yeoman ideal, and that Europeans would revert to nomadism. There’s something roving and ferocious about the Euroamerican West that suggests he’s right; the US is really more like the lands it’s been bombing lately than like Europe.
Red stands for a kind of cowboy ethos that society is optional and every man should fend for himself. This vast space was where people stepped out of society when their domestic lives failed or the law was after them. The ethos ignores the huge federal subsidies that support cattle-growing, logging and mining, just as Republican tax-cutters overlook the fact that the military they wish to expand consumes a grotesque proportion of tax revenue. Western and action movies concoct countless situations in which belligerence is justified and admirable, in which such autonomy is necessary, and the current President, like Ronald Reagan before him, portrays himself as a representative of these places and their cosmology, an act of self-invention as bold as that of any renamed outlaw. Reagan went from the Midwest to Hollywood; Bush is a product of East Coast privilege, even if he did go to flat, dry Midlands, Texas, to cultivate his insularity and a failed oil business.
For more than a decade I’ve been making compilation tapes to listen to on these drives, mostly of country music, which seems to suit the road best. For long stretches there is nothing on the radio, but around a big city – Salt Lake, for example – there’s a kind of aural density, with hip-hop and classical as well as pop, rock, country and right-wing talk shows; the latter two seem to last furthest into the remoteness, and then they fade, and it’s silence or tape. On my way to Highway 50, it was still cool when I ran over a huge snake sunning itself on the asphalt – chipmunks and squirrels you can dodge, but not something three or four feet long and writhing – as Hank Williams was singing ‘Lost Highway’.
Never mind contemporary country music, with its upbeat insipidity, which is to the genre at its best as a giant shopping complex is to the wild terrain eradicated to build it. Tragedy is about being cast out from the community; comedy ends in marriage; over the past couple of decades tragedy has been turned into humourless country-and-western comedy affirming the virtues of the status quo. The original stuff is rancorous, melancholy, as often about couples falling apart as coming together, and it’s about this kind of space.
Love between human beings is always failing in these songs – he leaves her; she cheats on him; somebody dies; everybody drinks; it wasn’t God who made honky-tonk angels; even the bottle let him down. The old Scots and Irish ballads were as gory and gloomy, but they are generally heirlooms now, and country and western is their immigrant bastard grandchild, something that came into its own only half a century ago and hasn’t died out yet. In these songs the lovers, the plaintiffs, the protagonists are mostly anonymous; it’s their geography that is named and listed and described with passionate fondness. When people fail, places remain; you can always have recourse to the landscape, and it will never leave you, though you may leave it. Leaving home and returning are the main narratives. Rivers and roads, the long-distance elements of the landscape, are the geographical refrains of the genre. Williams’s lost highway is a metaphysical condition more than a place, a sort of Dantean circuit for damned souls, though real highways provide refuge for those who’ve cut themselves off, as his protagonist did. The name of the beloved is Texas, is Tehachapi, is Tennessee, is the murmured names of rivers, bridges, roads, small towns, radiant in the late-afternoon light of regret and backward glances.
For me, country’s definitive song might be ‘Long Black Veil’, whose way with time is straight out of the Brontës. A dead man sings ten years after his hanging for a crime he didn’t commit, but his only alibi is unutterable: ‘I’d been in the arms of my best friend’s wife,’ who when he died ‘stood in the crowd and said not a word’. Now she wanders the hills in a long black veil and, well, visits his grave where the night winds wail. Hills and the night winds are still there, are reliable, are what you have in the end. ‘Wanted Man’, which Bob Dylan wrote in 1969, is a boastful list of all the places a criminal is wanted, a recitation that includes Albuquerque and Tallahassee and Baton Rouge and Buffalo, ‘but there’s one place I’m not wanted/Lord, it’s the place that I call home.’ Nothing ever made it clearer that geography is compensation for society, and the song raises the question of what, when you love these places, do they give you back? The answers sound American, too: freedom, solitude, communion with creatures and the inorganic creation, space to think.
Not that it’s all so overwrought. A couple of days later, in Utah, I was still driving east, through canyon country so stark nobody seems to live anywhere but along the cottonwood-shaded oases of rivers, but I could pick up a great classic country station. Around where I saw the sign warning ‘Eagles on Road’, it broadcast a song by David Frizzell, a barfly’s monologue repeating his wife’s extensive home remodelling proposal that begins: ‘I’m going to hire a wino/To decorate our home/So you’ll feel more at ease here/And you won’t need to roam.’ It’s scathingly funny, but it’s still about discord, abandonment and restlessness.
I’ve been trying to get at the heart of this geographical passion for years, through the compilation tapes: an early one was called Geography Lessons, Mostly Tragic; one about drinking and rivers The Entirely Liquid Mr North (after an alcoholic composer in Tender Is the Night); and the most recent, from a line in one of Johnny Cash’s final recordings, ‘Hurt’, is My Empire of Dirt. I love the place names, too; before I left, a friend – who’d also lived in New Mexico – and I induced a nostalgic haze in each other sheerly through place names, places we’d been, places to go, and there’s a passion for place in this music that’s also my passion.
Maybe the seductive whisper of these empty places says that you don’t have to work things out, don’t have to come home, don’t have to be reasonable; you can always move on, start over, step outside the social. To think of a figure in this vast western space of the Great Basin is to see a solitary on an empty stage, and the space seems to be about the most literal definition of freedom: space in which nothing impedes will and action. The Bonneville Salt Flats – a dry lake-bed in northern Utah – where some world land speed records have been set, and Nevada’s Black Rock Desert dry lake-bed, where the bacchanalian Burning Man festival takes place every September, seem to have realised this definition in the most obvious ways: speeding cars, naked hallucinating tattooed love freaks partying down. And, of course, US military training for foreign adventures. (In the first Gulf War, the commanders referred to the unconquered portions of Iraq as Indian Territory.)
Easy though all this is to deplore on moral grounds, the place is seductive; there’s a sense for me that all this is home, that every hour, every mile, is coming home, that this isolated condition of driving on an empty highway from one range to another is home, is some kind of true and essential condition of self, because I am myself an American, and something of a westerner.
A year ago I was at a dinner in Amsterdam when the question came up of whether each of us loved his or her country. The German shuddered, the Dutch were equivocal, the Tory said he was ‘comfortable’ with Britain, the expatriate American said No. But I said Yes. Driving across the arid lands, the red lands, I wondered what it was I loved. The places, the sagebrush basins, the rivers digging themselves deep canyons through arid lands, the incomparable cloud formations of summer monsoons in New Mexico, the way the underside of clouds turns the same blue as the underside of a great blue heron’s wings when the storm is about to break.
Beyond that anything you can say about the US you can also say the opposite of; we’re rootless except that we’re also the Hopi who haven’t moved in several centuries; we’re violent except that we’re also the Franciscans nonviolently resisting nuclear weapons; we’re consumers except that this West is studded with visionary environmentalists, and on and on. The evils in this country tend to generate their opposites. And the landscape of the West seems like the stage on which such dramas are played: a space without boundaries, in which anything can be realised; a moral ground, out here where your shadow can stretch hundreds of feet just before sunset, where you loom large, and lonely.
From the LRB letters page: [ 6 November 2003 ] Leon Lewis, Rebecca Solnit.
Rebecca Solnit lives in San Francisco. Her books include Wanderlust: A History of Walking, Hope in the Dark: The Untold History of People Power and A Field Guide to Getting Lost.
DD 5/6/08 GET A WITNESS, BY GANET ROGERS
GARNET ROGERS IS A WONDERFUL CANADIAN FOLKSINGER, NOT AS WELL KNOWN AS HIS OLDER BROTHER STAN ROGERS WHO DIED IN AN AIRLINER CRASH IN CINCINNATI IN 1983. GET A WITNESS
Garnet RogersThree long months
Ah Lord it's been that dry
Sun burning down from a cauldron sky
I woke up this morning
Clouds piled up above
Blessed rain
Ah it poured down like love
Can I get a witness
For this perfect day
Swallows chase their reflections
Above the pond
Cool green shadows
Sweep across the lawn
Nothing calls me
I've got no place to go
Ah just the birds like graceful angels
Flickering to and fro
Outside our door the world it moves too fast
Takes my breath away at how the years have passed
We'll let the world go, love, do what it will
Look into my eyes make my heart stand still
Cool sweet evening
Falls upon the fields
Battered old moon
Hangs like a broken shield
The birds have flown
Out behind the sun
Lord, maybe somewhere, somehow
Today the good guys won.
Can I get a witness.....................
Garnet RogersThree long months
Ah Lord it's been that dry
Sun burning down from a cauldron sky
I woke up this morning
Clouds piled up above
Blessed rain
Ah it poured down like love
Can I get a witness
For this perfect day
Swallows chase their reflections
Above the pond
Cool green shadows
Sweep across the lawn
Nothing calls me
I've got no place to go
Ah just the birds like graceful angels
Flickering to and fro
Outside our door the world it moves too fast
Takes my breath away at how the years have passed
We'll let the world go, love, do what it will
Look into my eyes make my heart stand still
Cool sweet evening
Falls upon the fields
Battered old moon
Hangs like a broken shield
The birds have flown
Out behind the sun
Lord, maybe somewhere, somehow
Today the good guys won.
Can I get a witness.....................
DD 5/6/08 GET A WITNESS, BY GANET ROGERS
GARNET ROGERS IS A WONDERFUL CANADIAN FOLKSINGER, NOT AS WELL KNOWN AS HIS OLDER BROTHER STAN ROGERS WHO DIED IN AN AIRLINER CRASH IN CINCINNATI IN 1983. GET A WITNESS
Garnet RogersThree long months
Ah Lord it's been that dry
Sun burning down from a cauldron sky
I woke up this morning
Clouds piled up above
Blessed rain
Ah it poured down like love
Can I get a witness
For this perfect day
Swallows chase their reflections
Above the pond
Cool green shadows
Sweep across the lawn
Nothing calls me
I've got no place to go
Ah just the birds like graceful angels
Flickering to and fro
Outside our door the world it moves too fast
Takes my breath away at how the years have passed
We'll let the world go, love, do what it will
Look into my eyes make my heart stand still
Cool sweet evening
Falls upon the fields
Battered old moon
Hangs like a broken shield
The birds have flown
Out behind the sun
Lord, maybe somewhere, somehow
Today the good guys won.
Can I get a witness.....................
Garnet RogersThree long months
Ah Lord it's been that dry
Sun burning down from a cauldron sky
I woke up this morning
Clouds piled up above
Blessed rain
Ah it poured down like love
Can I get a witness
For this perfect day
Swallows chase their reflections
Above the pond
Cool green shadows
Sweep across the lawn
Nothing calls me
I've got no place to go
Ah just the birds like graceful angels
Flickering to and fro
Outside our door the world it moves too fast
Takes my breath away at how the years have passed
We'll let the world go, love, do what it will
Look into my eyes make my heart stand still
Cool sweet evening
Falls upon the fields
Battered old moon
Hangs like a broken shield
The birds have flown
Out behind the sun
Lord, maybe somewhere, somehow
Today the good guys won.
Can I get a witness.....................
DD 8/21/07 CHANT BY SHERI TEPPER
I was recently told by SophiaHeath about a wonderful fantasy author many of you may know already - Sheri S. Tepper. I've enjoyed 4 of her books so far, including the Family Tree, Gibbon's Decline and Fall, Northshore, and Shadow's End. This fragment of a chant appears in Shadow's End:
Mother Darkness come to me,
Father Endless, come to me,
Mother and Father of peace come to me.
Tomorrow will be easier
And the day that follows easier yet.
And I will grow to age in tranquility,
In contentment approaching you,
whom my kindred have forgot.
Mother Darkness come to me,
Father Endless, come to me,
Mother and Father of peace come to me.
Tomorrow will be easier
And the day that follows easier yet.
And I will grow to age in tranquility,
In contentment approaching you,
whom my kindred have forgot.
DD 5/10/05 GANDHI QUOTES
I went searching for my favorite Gandhi quotation, and couldn't find it. It goes like this: He was asked once, toward the end of his life, how he was able to prevail against far stronger opponents. His answer was, (approximately!) "I came to every struggle with the knowledge that my opponent had at least as much chance of being right as I did." In my search, I did find these quotations, all by Gandhi:
Where there is honest effort, it will be realized that what appear to be different truths are like the countless and apparently different leaves of the same tree.
A seeker of truth will never begin by discounting his opponent’s statement as unworthy of trust.
It is unwise to be too sure of one's own wisdom. It is healthy to be reminded that the strongest might weaken and the wisest might err.
An opponent is entitled to the same regard for his principles as we would expect others to have for ours. Non-violence demands that we should seek every opportunity to win over opponents.
Where there is honest effort, it will be realized that what appear to be different truths are like the countless and apparently different leaves of the same tree.
A seeker of truth will never begin by discounting his opponent’s statement as unworthy of trust.
It is unwise to be too sure of one's own wisdom. It is healthy to be reminded that the strongest might weaken and the wisest might err.
An opponent is entitled to the same regard for his principles as we would expect others to have for ours. Non-violence demands that we should seek every opportunity to win over opponents.
DD 2/28/05 A MESSAGE FROM THE WANDERER BY WILLIAM STAFFORD
A MESSAGE FROM THE WANDERER
William Stafford
Today outside your prison I stand
and rattle my walking stick: Prisoners, listen;
you have relatives outside. And there are
thousands of ways to escape.
Years ago I bent my skill to keep my
cell locked, had chains smuggled in to me in pies,
and shouted my plans to jailers;
but always new plans occurred to me,
or the new heavy locks bent hinges off,
or some stupid jailer would forget
and leave the keys.
Inside, I dreamed of constellations --
those feeding creatures outlined by stars,
their skeletons a darkness between jewels,
heroes that exist only where they are not.
Thus freedom always came nibbling my thought,
just as -- often, in light, on the open hills --
you can pass an antelope and not know
and look back, and then -- even before you see --
there is something wrong about the grass.
And then you see.
That's the way everything in the world is waiting.
Now -- these few more words, and then I'm
gone: Tell everyone just to remember
their names, and remind others, later, when we
find each other. Tell the little ones
to cry and then go to sleep, curled up
where they can. And if any of us get lost,
if any of us cannot come all the way --
remember: there will come a time when
all we have said and all we have hoped
will be all right.
There will be that form in the grass.
William Stafford
Today outside your prison I stand
and rattle my walking stick: Prisoners, listen;
you have relatives outside. And there are
thousands of ways to escape.
Years ago I bent my skill to keep my
cell locked, had chains smuggled in to me in pies,
and shouted my plans to jailers;
but always new plans occurred to me,
or the new heavy locks bent hinges off,
or some stupid jailer would forget
and leave the keys.
Inside, I dreamed of constellations --
those feeding creatures outlined by stars,
their skeletons a darkness between jewels,
heroes that exist only where they are not.
Thus freedom always came nibbling my thought,
just as -- often, in light, on the open hills --
you can pass an antelope and not know
and look back, and then -- even before you see --
there is something wrong about the grass.
And then you see.
That's the way everything in the world is waiting.
Now -- these few more words, and then I'm
gone: Tell everyone just to remember
their names, and remind others, later, when we
find each other. Tell the little ones
to cry and then go to sleep, curled up
where they can. And if any of us get lost,
if any of us cannot come all the way --
remember: there will come a time when
all we have said and all we have hoped
will be all right.
There will be that form in the grass.
DD 12/20/2004 To Gaheya by Ursula LeGuin
TO GAHHEYA
By Stone Telling of the Blue Clayof Shinshan
Old stone, hold my soul.
When I am not in this place
face the sunrise for me.
Grow warm slowly.
This is my hand on you, warm.
This is my breath on you, warm.
This is my heart in you, warm.
This is my soul in you, warm.
You will be here a long time
facing the sunrise
with the warmth in you.
When you roll down,
when you break apart,
when the earth changes,
when the rockness of you ends,
we will be shining,
we will be dancing shining,
we will be warmth shining.
Ursula LeGuin, From AlwaysComing Home
By Stone Telling of the Blue Clayof Shinshan
Old stone, hold my soul.
When I am not in this place
face the sunrise for me.
Grow warm slowly.
This is my hand on you, warm.
This is my breath on you, warm.
This is my heart in you, warm.
This is my soul in you, warm.
You will be here a long time
facing the sunrise
with the warmth in you.
When you roll down,
when you break apart,
when the earth changes,
when the rockness of you ends,
we will be shining,
we will be dancing shining,
we will be warmth shining.
Ursula LeGuin, From AlwaysComing Home
Monday, August 11, 2008
DD 8/12/08 THE GOD OF SMALL THINGS, BY ARUNDHATI ROY
K]athakali discovered long ago that the secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don't deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don't surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover's skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don't. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won't. In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn't. And yet you want to know again.
That is their mystery and magic. To the Kathakali Man these stories are his children and his childhood. He has grown up within them. They are the house he was raised in, the meadows he played in. They are his windows and his way of seeing. So when he tells a story, he handles it as he would a child of his own. He teases it. He punishes it. He sends it up like a bubble. He wrestles it to the ground and lets it go again. He laughs as it because he loves it. He can fly you across whole worlds in minutes, he can stop for hours to examine a wilting leaf. Or play with a sleeping monkey's tail. He can turn effortlessly from the carnage of war into the felicity of a woman washing her hair in a mountain stream. From the crafty ebullience of a rakshasa with a new idea into a gossipy Malayali with a scandal to spread. From the sensuousness of a woman with a baby at her breast into the seduct! ive mischief of Krishna's smile. He can reveal the nugget of sorrow that happiness contains. The hidden fish of shame in a sea of glory.
He tells stories of the gods, but his yarn is spun from the ungodly, human heart.
KATHAKALI IS THE TRADITIONAL DANCE/DRAMA OF KERALA, IN INDIA. http://www.cyberkerala.com/kathakali/
That is their mystery and magic. To the Kathakali Man these stories are his children and his childhood. He has grown up within them. They are the house he was raised in, the meadows he played in. They are his windows and his way of seeing. So when he tells a story, he handles it as he would a child of his own. He teases it. He punishes it. He sends it up like a bubble. He wrestles it to the ground and lets it go again. He laughs as it because he loves it. He can fly you across whole worlds in minutes, he can stop for hours to examine a wilting leaf. Or play with a sleeping monkey's tail. He can turn effortlessly from the carnage of war into the felicity of a woman washing her hair in a mountain stream. From the crafty ebullience of a rakshasa with a new idea into a gossipy Malayali with a scandal to spread. From the sensuousness of a woman with a baby at her breast into the seduct! ive mischief of Krishna's smile. He can reveal the nugget of sorrow that happiness contains. The hidden fish of shame in a sea of glory.
He tells stories of the gods, but his yarn is spun from the ungodly, human heart.
KATHAKALI IS THE TRADITIONAL DANCE/DRAMA OF KERALA, IN INDIA. http://www.cyberkerala.com/kathakali/
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
DD 3/30/02 LINE FROM GREG BOWN SONG
Enlightenment doesn't come all at once. It comes in grubby little
pieces every day. -Greg Brown
pieces every day. -Greg Brown
DD 1/28/03 POEM BY WILLIAM STAFFORD IN HONOR OF THE PRESIDENT'S STATE OF THE UNION SPEECH
In honor of tonight's State-of-the-Union address:
AUNT MABEL
by William Stafford
This town is haunted by some good deed
that reappears like a country cousin, or truth
when language falters these days trying to lie,
because Aunt Mabel, an old lady gone now, would
accost even strangers to give bright flowers
away, quick as a striking snake. It's deeds like this
have weakened me, shaken by intermittent trust,
stricken with friendliness.
Our Senator talked like war, and Aunt Mabel
said, "He's a brilliant man,
but we didn't elect him that much."
Everyone's resolve weakens toward evening
or in a flash when a face melds - a stranger's even -
reminded for an instant between menace and fear:
There are Aunt Mabels all over the world,
or their graves in the rain.
AUNT MABEL
by William Stafford
This town is haunted by some good deed
that reappears like a country cousin, or truth
when language falters these days trying to lie,
because Aunt Mabel, an old lady gone now, would
accost even strangers to give bright flowers
away, quick as a striking snake. It's deeds like this
have weakened me, shaken by intermittent trust,
stricken with friendliness.
Our Senator talked like war, and Aunt Mabel
said, "He's a brilliant man,
but we didn't elect him that much."
Everyone's resolve weakens toward evening
or in a flash when a face melds - a stranger's even -
reminded for an instant between menace and fear:
There are Aunt Mabels all over the world,
or their graves in the rain.
DD 2/4/03 QUOTE FROM DERRICK JENSEN ABOUT HIS DOG
Derrick Jensen, describing one of his cocker spaniels:
The male, especially, never seemed to slow down. He ran this way and that, ears flying, tongue flapping. He was an eternal child on an everlasting Christmas morning, wearing PJs and running from gift to gift saying, "Oh, Mom. A baskeball! I've always wanted a basketb--- Ah, man! You got me a book! I love books!" Had I told him to sit in a corner, and had he heard me, I'm sure he would have run to the spot, tail wagging as if to say, "Oh, man, I've always wanted to sit in this corner. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." That's not to say he didn't have a mind of his own. Even when he heard me, he still disobeyed more often than not — one of his mottoes seemed to be, "Rules are meant to be acknowledged and then ignored." Even, or especially, in ignoring my wishes he acted as he always did, exuberantly, joyously, with an abundance of life.
I can't imagine a better teacher.
Derrick Jensen, "A Language Older Than Words"
The male, especially, never seemed to slow down. He ran this way and that, ears flying, tongue flapping. He was an eternal child on an everlasting Christmas morning, wearing PJs and running from gift to gift saying, "Oh, Mom. A baskeball! I've always wanted a basketb--- Ah, man! You got me a book! I love books!" Had I told him to sit in a corner, and had he heard me, I'm sure he would have run to the spot, tail wagging as if to say, "Oh, man, I've always wanted to sit in this corner. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." That's not to say he didn't have a mind of his own. Even when he heard me, he still disobeyed more often than not — one of his mottoes seemed to be, "Rules are meant to be acknowledged and then ignored." Even, or especially, in ignoring my wishes he acted as he always did, exuberantly, joyously, with an abundance of life.
I can't imagine a better teacher.
Derrick Jensen, "A Language Older Than Words"
DD 2 /11/03 QUOTE FROM RICHAD STINE
When the mind speaks, which words do you listen to - the ones that spin endless mischief on the surface, or the slower deeper ones that are always true? -Richard Stine
DD 2/18/03 QUOTE ABOUT THE IMMINENT IRAQ WAR FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES
The fracturing of the Western alliance over Iraq and the huge antiwar demonstrations around the world this weekend are reminders that there may still be two superpowers on the planet: the United States and world public opinion. --Patrick E. Tyler, NY Times, Feb. 16
DD 2/25/03 A VERY BRIEF STORY BY MAYER
Tomorrow is my birthday; I will be spending it in a Rochester hospital supporting my mom, who is having surgery this afternoon. So today's "daily dose" is the birthday card I wrote to myself last night...
Mayer
_________
BIRTHDAY PUZZLE
I’d like to share some very odd information. Before rejecting this unlikely story out of hand, at least stay open to the possibility that it might be true.
I’ve recently learned of an amazing, impossible-seeming place. Not only that: I’ve actually met some people who have been there. Apparently, there is, in our very own galaxy, a star that came into being in such a way that it threw off chunks of itself that coalesced into planets, orbiting it at various distances. Some were crumbled or exploded by the enormous energies buffeting them; others were thrown free of the star’s pull; and several went into stable orbits around the star. Each developed its own sustained relationship to the star.
One particular planet was so placed that it developed a skin of gas and vapor, cooling, very slowly, over millions of years, condensing into water, freezing into ice, constantly in motion and yet stable, rhythmic, rushing, flowing… singing. This planet circled the star, and with each revolution the rhythm became more familiar, more of a story known to itself, a ritual re-enacted: each time the same, each time different.
As time went on, smaller bits of the pattern began re-enacting themselves. Like the planet, they too were constantly moving, singing, creating rhythms that echoed and amplified each other, always changing, always the same.
Even better, some of these things are actually alive – they grow, reproduce, die, decay – always changing, always being themselves. Of those living things, some are like nothing you have ever seen before, and others might seem like you’ve always known them.
This place is the source of opulent variety: more environments, landscapes, living things, quirky relationships, improbable vistas and breath-taking juxtapositions than could ever be known or even dreamed of…
Here’s the thing: you can go to this unimaginable place; more than that, it waits to bid you welcome. I know that seems incredible, but it’s true. To make the journey, you need only answer one question: _______________________________________?
Mayer
_________
BIRTHDAY PUZZLE
I’d like to share some very odd information. Before rejecting this unlikely story out of hand, at least stay open to the possibility that it might be true.
I’ve recently learned of an amazing, impossible-seeming place. Not only that: I’ve actually met some people who have been there. Apparently, there is, in our very own galaxy, a star that came into being in such a way that it threw off chunks of itself that coalesced into planets, orbiting it at various distances. Some were crumbled or exploded by the enormous energies buffeting them; others were thrown free of the star’s pull; and several went into stable orbits around the star. Each developed its own sustained relationship to the star.
One particular planet was so placed that it developed a skin of gas and vapor, cooling, very slowly, over millions of years, condensing into water, freezing into ice, constantly in motion and yet stable, rhythmic, rushing, flowing… singing. This planet circled the star, and with each revolution the rhythm became more familiar, more of a story known to itself, a ritual re-enacted: each time the same, each time different.
As time went on, smaller bits of the pattern began re-enacting themselves. Like the planet, they too were constantly moving, singing, creating rhythms that echoed and amplified each other, always changing, always the same.
Even better, some of these things are actually alive – they grow, reproduce, die, decay – always changing, always being themselves. Of those living things, some are like nothing you have ever seen before, and others might seem like you’ve always known them.
This place is the source of opulent variety: more environments, landscapes, living things, quirky relationships, improbable vistas and breath-taking juxtapositions than could ever be known or even dreamed of…
Here’s the thing: you can go to this unimaginable place; more than that, it waits to bid you welcome. I know that seems incredible, but it’s true. To make the journey, you need only answer one question: _______________________________________?
dd 3/5/03 quote from "jesus christs"
A brazen girl posessed of seven devils was brought before Jesus to be cured. "I am going to cast out those seven devils from you," he said.
"May I ask you for a favor?" she spoke impudently.
"What is it?"
"Cast out six."
from A.J.Langguth, "Jesus Christs"
"May I ask you for a favor?" she spoke impudently.
"What is it?"
"Cast out six."
from A.J.Langguth, "Jesus Christs"
DD 3/11/03poem by Aurora Levins Moales
This poem is from a lovely poster with a Passover theme published by the Northland Poster Collective www.northlandposter.com .The picture, by Ricardo Levins Morales, is of an exodus of people crossing the Red Sea, which in the picture turns into a seder table.
THIS TIME
Aurora Levins Morales
They say that other country over there,
dim blue in the twilight,
farther than the orange stars exploding over our roofs,
is called peace,
but who can find the way?
This time we cannot cross until we carry each other.
All of us refugees, all of us prophets.
No more taking tuns on history's wheel,
Trying to collect old debts no one can pay.
The sea will not open that way.
This time that country is what we promise each other,
Our rage pressed cheek to cheek until tears flood the space between,
Until there are no enemies left,
Because this time no one will be left to drown and all of us must be chosen.
This time it's all of us or none.
THIS TIME
Aurora Levins Morales
They say that other country over there,
dim blue in the twilight,
farther than the orange stars exploding over our roofs,
is called peace,
but who can find the way?
This time we cannot cross until we carry each other.
All of us refugees, all of us prophets.
No more taking tuns on history's wheel,
Trying to collect old debts no one can pay.
The sea will not open that way.
This time that country is what we promise each other,
Our rage pressed cheek to cheek until tears flood the space between,
Until there are no enemies left,
Because this time no one will be left to drown and all of us must be chosen.
This time it's all of us or none.
DD 3/25/03 TEXT OF MICHAEL LEUNIG CARTOON
This text is from a cartoon by the wonderful Australian author Michael Leunig:
HOW TO SLEEP WELL "GOOD PYJAMAS: GOOD SLEEP," so goes the old saying, yet many people do not understand the vital significance of pyjamas in the achievement of deep and restful sleep. SLEEPING IS A RELIGIOUS ACTIVITY: a holy communion with the inner world of dreams and darkness. The appropriate ceremonial attire is important for a smooth passage into the Land of Nod. ESSENTIALLY, PYJAMAS MUST FEEL COMFORTABLE AND LOOK RIDICULOUS. Wearing them is a ritualistic renunciation of the conscious, external world: the world of looking good and feeling stressed. As we approach the cot, pyjama clad, the LUDICROUS SELF is proclaimed, triumphant and free. The vestments of the outer world lie cast off and crumpled on the floor. We look soft and child-like, inept and shambling; primitive and funny. The pyjama fabric droops like tired old elephant skin. The buttons are done up in the wrong holes. The trousers are hitched up nearly to the arm pits. The cuffs wag above the ankles. One side of the coat is tucked in, the other hangs out. We have no place in the "real" world looking like this! WE ARE THE STUFF THAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF. What freedom! What peace! What blessed relief! "GOOD PYJAMAS: GOOD SLEEP." Michael Leunig, from
"You and Me", 1995
HOW TO SLEEP WELL "GOOD PYJAMAS: GOOD SLEEP," so goes the old saying, yet many people do not understand the vital significance of pyjamas in the achievement of deep and restful sleep. SLEEPING IS A RELIGIOUS ACTIVITY: a holy communion with the inner world of dreams and darkness. The appropriate ceremonial attire is important for a smooth passage into the Land of Nod. ESSENTIALLY, PYJAMAS MUST FEEL COMFORTABLE AND LOOK RIDICULOUS. Wearing them is a ritualistic renunciation of the conscious, external world: the world of looking good and feeling stressed. As we approach the cot, pyjama clad, the LUDICROUS SELF is proclaimed, triumphant and free. The vestments of the outer world lie cast off and crumpled on the floor. We look soft and child-like, inept and shambling; primitive and funny. The pyjama fabric droops like tired old elephant skin. The buttons are done up in the wrong holes. The trousers are hitched up nearly to the arm pits. The cuffs wag above the ankles. One side of the coat is tucked in, the other hangs out. We have no place in the "real" world looking like this! WE ARE THE STUFF THAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF. What freedom! What peace! What blessed relief! "GOOD PYJAMAS: GOOD SLEEP." Michael Leunig, from
"You and Me", 1995
DD 4/1/03 DEKANAWIDAH PLANTS THE TREE OF THE GREAT PEACE
The opening paragraph of the constitution of the Iroquois Confederation:
I am Dekanawidah, and with the Five Nations confederate lords I plant the Tree of the Great Peace… I name the tree the Tree of the Great Long Leaves. Under the shade of this Tree of the Great Peace we spread the soft white feather down of the globe thistle as seats for you, Tadodaho and your cousin lords. There shall you sit and watch the council fire of the confederacy of the Five Nations. Roots have spread out from the Tree, and the name of these roots is the Great White Roots of Peace. If any man of any nation shall show a desire to obey the laws of the Great Peace, they shall trace the roots to their source, and they shall be welcomed to take shelter beneath the Tree of the Long Leaves. The smoke of the confederate council fire shall pierce the sky so that all nations may discover the central council fire of the Great Peace. I, Dekanawidah, and the confederate lords now uproot the tallest pine tree and into the cavity thereby made we cast all weapons of war. Into the depth of the earth, down into the deep underearth currents of water flowing into unknown regions; we cast all weapons of war. We bury them from sight forever and plant again the Tree.
I am Dekanawidah, and with the Five Nations confederate lords I plant the Tree of the Great Peace… I name the tree the Tree of the Great Long Leaves. Under the shade of this Tree of the Great Peace we spread the soft white feather down of the globe thistle as seats for you, Tadodaho and your cousin lords. There shall you sit and watch the council fire of the confederacy of the Five Nations. Roots have spread out from the Tree, and the name of these roots is the Great White Roots of Peace. If any man of any nation shall show a desire to obey the laws of the Great Peace, they shall trace the roots to their source, and they shall be welcomed to take shelter beneath the Tree of the Long Leaves. The smoke of the confederate council fire shall pierce the sky so that all nations may discover the central council fire of the Great Peace. I, Dekanawidah, and the confederate lords now uproot the tallest pine tree and into the cavity thereby made we cast all weapons of war. Into the depth of the earth, down into the deep underearth currents of water flowing into unknown regions; we cast all weapons of war. We bury them from sight forever and plant again the Tree.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
DD 4/14/03 POEM BY ROBELEY WILSON
I Wish In The City Of Your Heart
Robley Wilson
I wish in the city of your heart
you would let me be the street
where you walk when you are most
yourself. I imagine the houses:
It has been raining, but the rain
is done and the children kept home
have begun opening their doors.
from The Invisible Ladder, 1996
Robley Wilson
I wish in the city of your heart
you would let me be the street
where you walk when you are most
yourself. I imagine the houses:
It has been raining, but the rain
is done and the children kept home
have begun opening their doors.
from The Invisible Ladder, 1996
DD 4/ 29/03 QUOTE FROM MICHAEL LEUNIG
Dear Mr. Curly,
I have not written to you in quite some time, I suppose because there has been very little to report. My journey has appeared to have developed into a process of steady plodding which I rather like. When you plod, everything seems to take forever and forever is a lovely thing once you stop being scared of it.
Strange, how something that takes a lot of time can give you a feeling that there IS a lot of time - and a lot of space and a great mesure of ease. So onward I plod, through beautiful things and terible things, too numerous to mention, with my duck ahead of me and my gargling angel to protect me from above. I am well and I hope you are too.
Best wishes, yours truly,
Vasco Pyjama
PS: Is it "gargling" angel or "guardian" angel? Somebody once suggested it should be "guardian," but I grew up believing it was "gargling" - my "gargling angel" and that's how I think of it. Oh well, whatever, it seems to care for me!
...from "The Curly Pyjama Letters," by Michael Leunig
I have not written to you in quite some time, I suppose because there has been very little to report. My journey has appeared to have developed into a process of steady plodding which I rather like. When you plod, everything seems to take forever and forever is a lovely thing once you stop being scared of it.
Strange, how something that takes a lot of time can give you a feeling that there IS a lot of time - and a lot of space and a great mesure of ease. So onward I plod, through beautiful things and terible things, too numerous to mention, with my duck ahead of me and my gargling angel to protect me from above. I am well and I hope you are too.
Best wishes, yours truly,
Vasco Pyjama
PS: Is it "gargling" angel or "guardian" angel? Somebody once suggested it should be "guardian," but I grew up believing it was "gargling" - my "gargling angel" and that's how I think of it. Oh well, whatever, it seems to care for me!
...from "The Curly Pyjama Letters," by Michael Leunig
DD 5/6/03 QUOTE FROM EUGENE V. DEBS
Years ago I recognized my kinship with all living things, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on the earth. I said then and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it; while there is a criminal element, I am of it; while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.
- Eugene V. Debs
- Eugene V. Debs
DD 5/13/03 QUOTE FROM DALIA
Last Monday, my daughter Dalia read "The Frog Prince" to the children at the preschool where she works. On Tuesday, Michael came up to her with a frog puppet on his hand. "I'm a frog," he said. Dalia asked, "If I kiss you, will you turn into a prince?" "No," said Michael, "but kiss me anyway."
DD 6/2/03 EATH BLESSING BY JACK MANNO
Thanks to Appletree for suggesting I pass this on...
EARTH BLESSING
May earth's song reach us in our deepest and wildest places.
May it be heard as we move upon her, as we partake of her sustenance, as we nestle in her waters and grasses.
May we hear the voices of the stones, the winds and waters, creatures and plants, above the human chatter, softly but not silently, so we can heed them when we must.
May all those who try to conquer earth's powers learn instead from compost and humus and take from them humility, knowing any force conquered is lost forever to the conqueror.
May compassion wrack the polluter's heart, so stunned by the earth's gifts their poisons cannot be released.
At long last, may earth's protectors throw grand parties where victory is declared in a mighty sigh of relief.
May this exhalation resound in ocean depths, reverberate in humpback flesh and please all the watery souls.
May whales and wolves rejoice with weird shouts that all is well.
May we have a world's celebration where everyone stays put, our roots seeking amusements together deep in the earth, our branches entwined in the winds.
May our grandchildren's grandchildren share legends of when we brought about the end of the time of arrogance and waste. May they toss stones from shores, hearing our names echo in the ripples.
So may it be.
-- Jack Manno
EARTH BLESSING
May earth's song reach us in our deepest and wildest places.
May it be heard as we move upon her, as we partake of her sustenance, as we nestle in her waters and grasses.
May we hear the voices of the stones, the winds and waters, creatures and plants, above the human chatter, softly but not silently, so we can heed them when we must.
May all those who try to conquer earth's powers learn instead from compost and humus and take from them humility, knowing any force conquered is lost forever to the conqueror.
May compassion wrack the polluter's heart, so stunned by the earth's gifts their poisons cannot be released.
At long last, may earth's protectors throw grand parties where victory is declared in a mighty sigh of relief.
May this exhalation resound in ocean depths, reverberate in humpback flesh and please all the watery souls.
May whales and wolves rejoice with weird shouts that all is well.
May we have a world's celebration where everyone stays put, our roots seeking amusements together deep in the earth, our branches entwined in the winds.
May our grandchildren's grandchildren share legends of when we brought about the end of the time of arrogance and waste. May they toss stones from shores, hearing our names echo in the ripples.
So may it be.
-- Jack Manno
DD 6/10/03 GREAT WALT WHITMAN QUOTE
Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse unreturn'd love,
But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is certain one way or
another...
- Walt Whitman, in "Leaves of Grass"
But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is certain one way or
another...
- Walt Whitman, in "Leaves of Grass"
DD 7/7/03 DOUGLAS ADAMS QUOTE
There is a theory which states that if ever anybody discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened.
Douglas Adams
Douglas Adams
DD 7/16/03 POEM BY ARCHY THE COCKOACH
there are two
kinds of human
beings in the world,
so my observation
has told me
namely and to wit
as follows
firstly
those who
even though they
were to reveal
the secret of the universe
to you would fail
to impress you
with any sense
of the importance
of the news
and secondly
those who could
communicate to you
that they had
just purchased
ten cents worth
of paper napkins
and make you
thrill and vibrate
with the intelligence
--archy (Don Marquis)
kinds of human
beings in the world,
so my observation
has told me
namely and to wit
as follows
firstly
those who
even though they
were to reveal
the secret of the universe
to you would fail
to impress you
with any sense
of the importance
of the news
and secondly
those who could
communicate to you
that they had
just purchased
ten cents worth
of paper napkins
and make you
thrill and vibrate
with the intelligence
--archy (Don Marquis)
DD 9/2/03 VELMA FRYE SONG
I will believe the truth about myself,
No matter how beautiful it is.
--Velma Frye
(These are the worlds to a beautiful round. Get in touch with me if you want to learn the tune .)
No matter how beautiful it is.
--Velma Frye
(These are the worlds to a beautiful round. Get in touch with me if you want to learn the tune .)
DD 9/8/03 ETERNAL LIFE, BY LEE HAYS
ETERNAL LIFE
Lee Hays (of "The Weavers")
If I should die before I wake,
All my bones and sinews take
And put them in a compost pile
To decompose there for a while.
When water, sun have had their way
Returning me to common clay
All that I am shall feed the trees
And little fishes in the seas.
When Radishes and corn you munch,
You may be having me for lunch,
And then, excrete me with a grin,
Saying, "There goes Lee again!"
All this, my happy destiny
To die, and live, eternally.
Lee Hays (of "The Weavers")
If I should die before I wake,
All my bones and sinews take
And put them in a compost pile
To decompose there for a while.
When water, sun have had their way
Returning me to common clay
All that I am shall feed the trees
And little fishes in the seas.
When Radishes and corn you munch,
You may be having me for lunch,
And then, excrete me with a grin,
Saying, "There goes Lee again!"
All this, my happy destiny
To die, and live, eternally.
DD 9/16/03 MAN IN BLACK BY JOHNNY CASH
Man In Black
by Johnny Cash
Recorded February 16, 1971
Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.
I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.
Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.
I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.
And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.
Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.
Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black.
© 1971 House of Cash, Inc
by Johnny Cash
Recorded February 16, 1971
Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.
I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.
Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.
I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.
And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.
Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.
Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black.
© 1971 House of Cash, Inc
DD 9/23/03 SAND ROADS BY MARGE PIERCY
From "Sand Roads"
By Marge Piercy
You are standing too tall for
this landscape. Lie down.
Let the grass blow
over you. Let the plover
pipe, the kestrel stand beating its wings
in the air, the wolf spider
come to the door of its burrow,
the mouse nibble on
your toe. Let the beach pea
entangle your legs in its vine
and ring you with purple blossoms.
Now get up slowly
and seek a way down off the dunes,
carefully: your heavy feet
assault the balance.
Come down on the bench
of the great beach arching
away into fog.
Lie down before the ocean.
It rises over you, it stands
hissing and spreading its
cobalt hood, rattling
its pebbles.
Cold it is and its rhythm
as it eats away at the beach,
as it washes the dunes out to sea
to build new spits and islands,
enters your blood and slows
the beat of that newish contraption
your heart controlling the waves
of your inward salt sea.
Let your mind open
like a clam when the waters
slide back to feed it.
Flow out to the ancient cold
mothering embrace, cold
and weightless yourself
as a fish, over the buried
wrecks. Then with respect
let the breakers drive you
up and out into
the heavy air, your heart
pounding. The warm scratchy sand
like a receiving blanket
holds you up gasping with life.
By Marge Piercy
You are standing too tall for
this landscape. Lie down.
Let the grass blow
over you. Let the plover
pipe, the kestrel stand beating its wings
in the air, the wolf spider
come to the door of its burrow,
the mouse nibble on
your toe. Let the beach pea
entangle your legs in its vine
and ring you with purple blossoms.
Now get up slowly
and seek a way down off the dunes,
carefully: your heavy feet
assault the balance.
Come down on the bench
of the great beach arching
away into fog.
Lie down before the ocean.
It rises over you, it stands
hissing and spreading its
cobalt hood, rattling
its pebbles.
Cold it is and its rhythm
as it eats away at the beach,
as it washes the dunes out to sea
to build new spits and islands,
enters your blood and slows
the beat of that newish contraption
your heart controlling the waves
of your inward salt sea.
Let your mind open
like a clam when the waters
slide back to feed it.
Flow out to the ancient cold
mothering embrace, cold
and weightless yourself
as a fish, over the buried
wrecks. Then with respect
let the breakers drive you
up and out into
the heavy air, your heart
pounding. The warm scratchy sand
like a receiving blanket
holds you up gasping with life.
DD 9/30/03 WE, ALONE BY ALICE WALKER
WE ALONE
By Alice Walker
We alone can devalue gold
by not caring
if it falls or rises
in the marketplace.
Wherever there is gold
there is a chain, you know,
and if your chain
is gold
so much the worse
for you.
Feathers, shells,
and sea-shaped stones
are all as rare.
This could be our revolution:
to love what is plentiful
as much as
what is scarce.
By Alice Walker
We alone can devalue gold
by not caring
if it falls or rises
in the marketplace.
Wherever there is gold
there is a chain, you know,
and if your chain
is gold
so much the worse
for you.
Feathers, shells,
and sea-shaped stones
are all as rare.
This could be our revolution:
to love what is plentiful
as much as
what is scarce.
DD 10/14/03 A SHORT PRAYER OF MINE
In the Catholic tradition, an "ejaculation" is a short prayer, spontaneously spoken. Here's one of mine.
ON PASSING A SUPERMARKET LOTTERY MACHINE
Today, may I gamble for much higher stakes.
ON PASSING A SUPERMARKET LOTTERY MACHINE
Today, may I gamble for much higher stakes.
DD 11/11/03 STEVEN WEINBERG QUOTE
With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion.
Steven Weinberg (1933 - ), quoted in The New York Times, April 20, 1999
Steven Weinberg (1933 - ), quoted in The New York Times, April 20, 1999
DD 11/18/03 KAREN HALL QUOTE
My friend Karen Hall has created a beautiful piece of art with this phrase on it:
ONCE, A POND OF TIME...
What I love about the phrase it it gives us access to a whole new world of imagination than the one we are used to. What stories can you think of that begin, "Once, a pond of time..."?
ONCE, A POND OF TIME...
What I love about the phrase it it gives us access to a whole new world of imagination than the one we are used to. What stories can you think of that begin, "Once, a pond of time..."?
DD 11/25/03 POEM BY ELLEN BASS
GATE C 22
At gate C 22 in the Portland airport
a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
a woman arriving from Orange County.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after
the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
like satin ribbons tying up a gift. And kissing.
Like she'd just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
like she'd been released from ICU, snapped
out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.
Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
she kept saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
kisses like the ocean in the early morning
of a calm day at Big Sur, the way it gathers
and swells, taking each rock slowly
in its mouth, sucking it under, swallowing it
again and again. We were all watching—
the passengers waiting for the delayed flight to San Jose,
the stewardesses, the pilots, the aproned woman icing
Cinnabons, the guy selling sunglasses. We couldn't
look away. We could taste the kisses, crushed
in our mouths like the liquid centers of chocolate cordials.
But the best part was his face. When he drew back
and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
as though he were a mother still
opened from giving birth, like your mother
must have looked at you,
no matter what happened after—
if she beat you, or left you, or you're lonely now—
you once lay there, the vernix
not yet wiped off and someone gazing at you
like you were the first sunrise seen from the earth.
The whole wing of the airport hushed,
each of us trying to slip into that woman's middle-aged body,
her plaid bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse,
little gold hoop earrings, glasses,
all of us, tilting our heads up.
Ellen Bass
At gate C 22 in the Portland airport
a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
a woman arriving from Orange County.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after
the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
like satin ribbons tying up a gift. And kissing.
Like she'd just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
like she'd been released from ICU, snapped
out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.
Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
she kept saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
kisses like the ocean in the early morning
of a calm day at Big Sur, the way it gathers
and swells, taking each rock slowly
in its mouth, sucking it under, swallowing it
again and again. We were all watching—
the passengers waiting for the delayed flight to San Jose,
the stewardesses, the pilots, the aproned woman icing
Cinnabons, the guy selling sunglasses. We couldn't
look away. We could taste the kisses, crushed
in our mouths like the liquid centers of chocolate cordials.
But the best part was his face. When he drew back
and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
as though he were a mother still
opened from giving birth, like your mother
must have looked at you,
no matter what happened after—
if she beat you, or left you, or you're lonely now—
you once lay there, the vernix
not yet wiped off and someone gazing at you
like you were the first sunrise seen from the earth.
The whole wing of the airport hushed,
each of us trying to slip into that woman's middle-aged body,
her plaid bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse,
little gold hoop earrings, glasses,
all of us, tilting our heads up.
Ellen Bass
DD 12/2/03 Invisible Work, by Alison Luterman
Invisible Work, by Alison Luterman
Because no one could ever praise me enough,
because I don't mean these poems only
but the unseen
unbelievable effort it takes to live
the life that goes on between them,
I think all the time about invisible work.
About the young mother on Welfare
I interviewed years ago,
who said, "It's hard.
You bring him to the park,
run rings around yourself keeping him safe,
cut hot dogs into bite-sized pieces fro dinner,
and there's no one
to say what a good job you're doing,
how you were patient and loving
for the thousandth time even though you had a headache."
And I, who am used to feeling sorry for myself
because I am lonely,
when all the while,
as the Chippewa poem says, I am being carried
by great winds across the sky,
thought of the invisible work that stitches up the world day and night,
the slow, unglamorous work of healing,
the way worms in the garden
tunnel ceaselessly so the earth can breathe
and bees ransack this world into being,
while owls and poets stalk shadows,
our loneliest labors under the moon.
There are mothers
for everything, and the sea
is a mother too,
whispering and whispering to us
long after we have stopped listening.
I stopped and let myself lean
a moment, against the blue
shoulder of the air. The work
of my heart
is the work of the world's heart.
There is no other art.
Because no one could ever praise me enough,
because I don't mean these poems only
but the unseen
unbelievable effort it takes to live
the life that goes on between them,
I think all the time about invisible work.
About the young mother on Welfare
I interviewed years ago,
who said, "It's hard.
You bring him to the park,
run rings around yourself keeping him safe,
cut hot dogs into bite-sized pieces fro dinner,
and there's no one
to say what a good job you're doing,
how you were patient and loving
for the thousandth time even though you had a headache."
And I, who am used to feeling sorry for myself
because I am lonely,
when all the while,
as the Chippewa poem says, I am being carried
by great winds across the sky,
thought of the invisible work that stitches up the world day and night,
the slow, unglamorous work of healing,
the way worms in the garden
tunnel ceaselessly so the earth can breathe
and bees ransack this world into being,
while owls and poets stalk shadows,
our loneliest labors under the moon.
There are mothers
for everything, and the sea
is a mother too,
whispering and whispering to us
long after we have stopped listening.
I stopped and let myself lean
a moment, against the blue
shoulder of the air. The work
of my heart
is the work of the world's heart.
There is no other art.
DD 12/9/03 AMBROSE BIERCE QUOTE
War is God's way of making sure that Americans learn geography.
-- Ambrose Bierce
-- Ambrose Bierce
DD 12/23/03 POEM BY M. SHEVIN ABOUT CHNANUKAH, SOLSTICE, AND DARK OF THE MOO
FOURTH NIGHT OF CHANUKAH, SOLSTICE,
DARK OF THE MOON
Mayer Shevin
It seems so long ago
we started, tentatively, with one small candle --
(maybe nobody will notice...)
as the night grew longer
and the ground turned to stone about our roots,
as the moon abandoned us;
yet still we said our thanks
for all that sustained us until that day.
Each night another candle,
a bit more practice at boldness,
a murmur of joy in the darkness
Tonight, we feel the shift of weight in our hips
as we cross the tipping point
and we warm our frozen roots
with the blaze of our candles
and our song,
Our strange song of joy
that knows dark and cold
and knows how to sing the sun and moon back.
DARK OF THE MOON
Mayer Shevin
It seems so long ago
we started, tentatively, with one small candle --
(maybe nobody will notice...)
as the night grew longer
and the ground turned to stone about our roots,
as the moon abandoned us;
yet still we said our thanks
for all that sustained us until that day.
Each night another candle,
a bit more practice at boldness,
a murmur of joy in the darkness
Tonight, we feel the shift of weight in our hips
as we cross the tipping point
and we warm our frozen roots
with the blaze of our candles
and our song,
Our strange song of joy
that knows dark and cold
and knows how to sing the sun and moon back.
DD 12/30/03 QUOTE FOM A HINDU CHILD
You can tell if someone loves you by how they say your name; your name sounds safe in their mouth.
-- seven-year-old, quoted in "Hinduism Today"
-- seven-year-old, quoted in "Hinduism Today"
DD 1/6/04 TWO SHORT POEMS
I couldn't decide which one to post, so here are two...
_______
Sometimes I go about pitying myself
and all the time
I am being carried by great winds across the sky.
Author Unknown (Chippewa, 19th Century)
_______________
People possess four things
that are no good at sea:
anchor, rudder, oars
and the fear of going down.
Antonio Machado
_______
Sometimes I go about pitying myself
and all the time
I am being carried by great winds across the sky.
Author Unknown (Chippewa, 19th Century)
_______________
People possess four things
that are no good at sea:
anchor, rudder, oars
and the fear of going down.
Antonio Machado
DD 1/13/04 RECONCILIATION, A PRAYER BY JOY HARJO
RECONCILIATION: A PRAYER
Joy Harjo
I
We gather by the shore of all knowledge as peoples who were put here by a god who wanted relatives.
This god was lonely for touch, and imagined herself as a woman, with children to suckle, to sing with - to continue the web of the terrifyingly beautiful cosmos of her womb.
This god became a father who wished for others to walk beside him in the belly of creation.
This god laughed and cried with us as a sister at the sweet tragedy of our predicament - foolish humans -
Or built a fire, as a brother to keep us warm.
This god who grew to love us became our lover, sharing tables of food enough for everyone in this whole world.
II
Oh sun, moon, stars, our other relatives peering at us from the inside of god's house walk with us as we climb into the next century naked but for the stories we have of each other. Keep us from giving up in this land of nightmares which is also the land of miracles.
We sing our song which we've been promised has no beginning or end.
III
All acts of kindness are lights in the war for justice.
IV
We gather up these strands broken from the web of life. They shiver with our love, as we call them the names of our relatives and carry them to our home made of the four direction and sing:
Of the south, where we feasted and were given new clothes.
Of the west, where we gave up the best of us to the stars as food for the battle.
Of the north, where we cried because we were forsaken by our dreams.
Of the east because returned to us is the spirit of all that we love.
Joy Harjo
I
We gather by the shore of all knowledge as peoples who were put here by a god who wanted relatives.
This god was lonely for touch, and imagined herself as a woman, with children to suckle, to sing with - to continue the web of the terrifyingly beautiful cosmos of her womb.
This god became a father who wished for others to walk beside him in the belly of creation.
This god laughed and cried with us as a sister at the sweet tragedy of our predicament - foolish humans -
Or built a fire, as a brother to keep us warm.
This god who grew to love us became our lover, sharing tables of food enough for everyone in this whole world.
II
Oh sun, moon, stars, our other relatives peering at us from the inside of god's house walk with us as we climb into the next century naked but for the stories we have of each other. Keep us from giving up in this land of nightmares which is also the land of miracles.
We sing our song which we've been promised has no beginning or end.
III
All acts of kindness are lights in the war for justice.
IV
We gather up these strands broken from the web of life. They shiver with our love, as we call them the names of our relatives and carry them to our home made of the four direction and sing:
Of the south, where we feasted and were given new clothes.
Of the west, where we gave up the best of us to the stars as food for the battle.
Of the north, where we cried because we were forsaken by our dreams.
Of the east because returned to us is the spirit of all that we love.
DD 1/20/04 COOPER QUOTE IN HONOR OF BUSH'S STATE OF THE UNION SPEECH.
On the occasion of Our Leader's State of the Union address:
"Power always has most to apprehend from its own illusions. Monarchs have incurred more hazards from the follies of their own that have grown up under the adulation of parasites, than from the machinations of their enemies." -James Fennimore Cooper
"Power always has most to apprehend from its own illusions. Monarchs have incurred more hazards from the follies of their own that have grown up under the adulation of parasites, than from the machinations of their enemies." -James Fennimore Cooper
DD 1/27/04 BELL HOOKS QUOTE
In a space before time and words, the world was covered in a thick blanket of darkness. It was a warm and loving covering. Since it was hard for the spirits who inhabited this place to see one another, they learned to live by and through touch. So if you were running around lost, you knew you were found when arms reached out in that loving darkness to hold you. And those arms that held the spirits in that beautiful dark space before time are holding us still...
-- bell hooks
-- bell hooks
DD 2/2/04 G K CHESTERTON QUOTE
(Please forgive the male-centric language of this lovely quotation... Mayer)
Hope is the last gift given to man, and the only gift not given to youth. Youth is pre-eminently the period in which a man can be lyric, fanatical, poetic; but youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of the world. But the power of hoping through everything, the knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the middle-aged. -- G.K. Chesterton
Hope is the last gift given to man, and the only gift not given to youth. Youth is pre-eminently the period in which a man can be lyric, fanatical, poetic; but youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of the world. But the power of hoping through everything, the knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the middle-aged. -- G.K. Chesterton
DD 2/10/04 BYRD TAYLOR, THE OTHER WAY TO LISTEN
This is the text of a wonderful children's book, "The Other Way to Listen," by Byrd Taylor, with illustrations by Peter Parnall
I used to know an old man who could walk by any cornfield and hear the corn singing.
"Teach me," I'd say when we'd passed on by. (I never said a word while he was listening.) "Just tell me how you learned to hear that corn."
And he'd say, "It takes a lot of practice. You can't be in a hurry."
And I'd say, "I have the time."
He was so good at listening - once he heard wildflower seeds burst open, beginning to grow underground. That's hard to do. He said he was lucky to have been by himself up there in the canyon after a rain. He said it was the quietest place he'd ever been and he stayed there long enough to understand the quiet.
I said, "I bet you were surprised when you heard those seeds."
But he said, "No, I wasn't surprised at all. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world." He just smiled, remembering.
Another time he heard a rock kind of murmur good things to a lizard. I was there. We saw the lizard sunning on a rock. Of course, we stopped. The old man said, "I wonder how that lizard feels about the rock it's sitting on and how the rock feels about the lizard?" He always asked himself hard questions that take a while to answer.
We leaned against another rock. A long time passed, and then he said, "Did you hear that? They like each other fine."
I said, "I didn't hear a thing."
He said, "Sometimes EVERYTHING BEING RIGHT makes a kind of sound. Like just now. It wasn't much more than a good feeling that I heard from that old rock."
"Were you surprised to hear it?" I always had to ask.
He said, "Not a bit. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world."
I said, "I wish I'd heard it too." He said he thought I might someday. He told me how a friend of his once heard a whole sky full of stars when she was seven. And later on when she was eighty-three she heard a cactus blooming in the dark. At first she didn't know what she was hearing. She found it by just following the sound. There were twenty flowers on one cactus and they were all white as the moon. The old man said, "Most people never hear those things at all."
I said, "I wonder why."
He said, "They just don't take the time you need for something that important."
I said, "I'll take the time. Bust first you have to teahc me."
"I'd like to if I could," he said, "but the thing is... you have to learn it from the hills and ants and lizards and weeds and things like that. They do the teaching around here.
"Just give me a clue on how to start," I said.
And so he said, "Do this: go get to know one thing as well as you can. It should be something small. Don't start with a mountain. Don't start with the whole Pacific Ocean. Start with one seed pod or one dry weed or one horned toad or one handful of dirt or one sandy wash."
I said, "I'll take the sandy wash."
He said he started with one tree. Every morning of his life when he was young he climbed a cottonwood and sat there listening. He told me it was worth the time. He said trees are honest and they don't care much for fancy people. And he said he doesn't know of anything he ever did as important as sitting in that tree.
"Tell me everything you can," I said.
"He said, "Well, you have to respect that tree or hill or whatever it is you're with. Take a horned toad, for example. If you think you're better than a horned toad you'll never hear its voice - even if you sit there in the sun forever." And he said, "Don't be ashamed to learn from bugs or sand or anything."
I said, "I won't."
He thought of one more thing. "It's good to walk with people but sometimes go alone." "That way," he said, "you can always stop and listen at the right time."
"I'll remember everything," I said. And I did.
But nothing worked. I thought there must be something wrong with me because I only heard wind and quail and coyotes and doves - just things that anyone could hear. I almost gave up trying.
Of course I still went walking in my hills. In fact, I used to sing to them a lot. I thought that since they wouldn't sing to me, I'd just sing to them instead.
The day I'm telling you about now I was singing and the whole song was this:
HELLO HILLS
HELLO HILLS
HELLO HILLS
HELLO.
That was after I had been away five days and I had missed those hills - five days. I went out earlier than usual. You know how everything looks new at sunrise. Well, all those hills were looking new. I was just walking where I always walk but that moring I kept thinking HERE I AM. And whatever way I happened to go was always right. I climbed the rocky side, not the path. The rocky side is steeper, but I like it best, and anyway, that's where I gound my three hawk feathers. I stood at the top where I always stand looking down.
HELLO HILLS
HELLO HILLS
HELLO HILLS
HELLO.
All I know is... suddenly... I wasn't the only one singing. The hills were singing too. I stopped. I didn't move for maybe an hour. I never listened so hard in my life.
Of course their kind of singing isn't loud. It isn't any sound you can explain. It isn't made with words. You couldn't write it down. All I can say is it came straight up from those dark shiny lava rocks humming. It moved around like the wind. It seemed to be the oldest sound in the world. All I can say is I was standing in the middle of that sound at seven o'clock in the morning... just thinking HERE I AM! and thinking LISTEN! and not even being surprised. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
I used to know an old man who could walk by any cornfield and hear the corn singing.
"Teach me," I'd say when we'd passed on by. (I never said a word while he was listening.) "Just tell me how you learned to hear that corn."
And he'd say, "It takes a lot of practice. You can't be in a hurry."
And I'd say, "I have the time."
He was so good at listening - once he heard wildflower seeds burst open, beginning to grow underground. That's hard to do. He said he was lucky to have been by himself up there in the canyon after a rain. He said it was the quietest place he'd ever been and he stayed there long enough to understand the quiet.
I said, "I bet you were surprised when you heard those seeds."
But he said, "No, I wasn't surprised at all. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world." He just smiled, remembering.
Another time he heard a rock kind of murmur good things to a lizard. I was there. We saw the lizard sunning on a rock. Of course, we stopped. The old man said, "I wonder how that lizard feels about the rock it's sitting on and how the rock feels about the lizard?" He always asked himself hard questions that take a while to answer.
We leaned against another rock. A long time passed, and then he said, "Did you hear that? They like each other fine."
I said, "I didn't hear a thing."
He said, "Sometimes EVERYTHING BEING RIGHT makes a kind of sound. Like just now. It wasn't much more than a good feeling that I heard from that old rock."
"Were you surprised to hear it?" I always had to ask.
He said, "Not a bit. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world."
I said, "I wish I'd heard it too." He said he thought I might someday. He told me how a friend of his once heard a whole sky full of stars when she was seven. And later on when she was eighty-three she heard a cactus blooming in the dark. At first she didn't know what she was hearing. She found it by just following the sound. There were twenty flowers on one cactus and they were all white as the moon. The old man said, "Most people never hear those things at all."
I said, "I wonder why."
He said, "They just don't take the time you need for something that important."
I said, "I'll take the time. Bust first you have to teahc me."
"I'd like to if I could," he said, "but the thing is... you have to learn it from the hills and ants and lizards and weeds and things like that. They do the teaching around here.
"Just give me a clue on how to start," I said.
And so he said, "Do this: go get to know one thing as well as you can. It should be something small. Don't start with a mountain. Don't start with the whole Pacific Ocean. Start with one seed pod or one dry weed or one horned toad or one handful of dirt or one sandy wash."
I said, "I'll take the sandy wash."
He said he started with one tree. Every morning of his life when he was young he climbed a cottonwood and sat there listening. He told me it was worth the time. He said trees are honest and they don't care much for fancy people. And he said he doesn't know of anything he ever did as important as sitting in that tree.
"Tell me everything you can," I said.
"He said, "Well, you have to respect that tree or hill or whatever it is you're with. Take a horned toad, for example. If you think you're better than a horned toad you'll never hear its voice - even if you sit there in the sun forever." And he said, "Don't be ashamed to learn from bugs or sand or anything."
I said, "I won't."
He thought of one more thing. "It's good to walk with people but sometimes go alone." "That way," he said, "you can always stop and listen at the right time."
"I'll remember everything," I said. And I did.
But nothing worked. I thought there must be something wrong with me because I only heard wind and quail and coyotes and doves - just things that anyone could hear. I almost gave up trying.
Of course I still went walking in my hills. In fact, I used to sing to them a lot. I thought that since they wouldn't sing to me, I'd just sing to them instead.
The day I'm telling you about now I was singing and the whole song was this:
HELLO HILLS
HELLO HILLS
HELLO HILLS
HELLO.
That was after I had been away five days and I had missed those hills - five days. I went out earlier than usual. You know how everything looks new at sunrise. Well, all those hills were looking new. I was just walking where I always walk but that moring I kept thinking HERE I AM. And whatever way I happened to go was always right. I climbed the rocky side, not the path. The rocky side is steeper, but I like it best, and anyway, that's where I gound my three hawk feathers. I stood at the top where I always stand looking down.
HELLO HILLS
HELLO HILLS
HELLO HILLS
HELLO.
All I know is... suddenly... I wasn't the only one singing. The hills were singing too. I stopped. I didn't move for maybe an hour. I never listened so hard in my life.
Of course their kind of singing isn't loud. It isn't any sound you can explain. It isn't made with words. You couldn't write it down. All I can say is it came straight up from those dark shiny lava rocks humming. It moved around like the wind. It seemed to be the oldest sound in the world. All I can say is I was standing in the middle of that sound at seven o'clock in the morning... just thinking HERE I AM! and thinking LISTEN! and not even being surprised. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
DD 2/17/04 WHAT THERE IS BY KENNETH PATCHEN
WHAT THERE IS
Kenneth Patchen
In this my green world
Flowers birds are hands
They hold me
I am loved all day
All this pleases me
I am amused
I have to laugh from crying
Trees mountains are arms
I am loved all day
Children grass are tears
I cry
I am loved all day
Everything
Pompous makes me laugh
I am amused often enough
In this
My beautiful green world
O there's love all day
Kenneth Patchen
In this my green world
Flowers birds are hands
They hold me
I am loved all day
All this pleases me
I am amused
I have to laugh from crying
Trees mountains are arms
I am loved all day
Children grass are tears
I cry
I am loved all day
Everything
Pompous makes me laugh
I am amused often enough
In this
My beautiful green world
O there's love all day
DD 2/24/04 BLESSING THE BOATS BY LUCILLE CLIFTON
BLESSING THE BOATS
Lucille Clifton
(at St. Mary's)
may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that
Lucille Clifton
(at St. Mary's)
may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that
DD 3/3/04 OLD RHYME ABOUT THE COMMONS
They hang the man and flog the woman
That steal the goose from off the common,
But let the greater villain loose
That steals the common from the goose.
The law demands that we atone
When we take things we do not own,
But leaves the lords and ladies fine
Who take things that are yours and mine.
--English Nursery Rhyme c. 1764
That steal the goose from off the common,
But let the greater villain loose
That steals the common from the goose.
The law demands that we atone
When we take things we do not own,
But leaves the lords and ladies fine
Who take things that are yours and mine.
--English Nursery Rhyme c. 1764
DD 3/6/04 STORY BY URSULA LEGUIN
Last year, Archer shared with this list some of her wonderful thoughts on the topic of sacrifice. When I read this story this afternoon, it reminded me so much of her writing, and of the way that gifts are shared so generously in this community. I spent a very sweet hour typing this story into my computer and thinking of my joy in your company.
___________________
The Kerastion
By Ursula LeGuin
(For Roussel Sargent, who invented it)
The small caste of the Tanners was a sacred one. To eat food prepared by a Tanner would entail a year's purification to a Tinker or a Sculptor, and even low-power castes such as the Traders had to be cleansed by a night's ablutions after dealing for leather goods. Chumo had been a Tanner since she was five years old and had heard the willows whisper all night long at the Singing Sands. She had had her proving day, and since then had worn a Tanner's madder-red and blue shirt and doublet, woven of linen on a wilowwood loom. She had made her masterpiece, and since then had worn the Master Tanner's neckband of dried vauti-tuber incised with the double line and double circles. So clothed and so ornamented she stood among the willows by the burying ground, waiting for the funeral procession of her brother, who had broken the law and betrayed his caste. She stood erect and silent, gazing towards the village by the river and listening for the drum.
She did not think; she did not want to think. But she saw her brother Kwatewa in the reeds down by the river, running ahead of her, a little boy too young to have caste, too young to be polluted by the sacred, a crazy little boy pouncing on her out of the tall reeds shouting, "I'm a mountain lion!"
A serious little boy watching the river run, asking, "Does it ever stop? Why can't it stop running, Chumo?"
A five-year-old coming back from the Singing Sands, coming straight to her, bringing her the joy, the crazy, serious joy that shone in his round face -- "Chumo! I heard the sand singing! I heard it! I have to be a Sculptor, Chumo!"
She had stood still. She had not held out her arms. And he had checked his run toward her and stood still, the light going out of his face. She was now only his womb-sister. He would have truesibs, now. He and she were of different castes. They would not touch again.
Ten years after that day she had come with most of the townsfolk to Kwatea's proving day, to see the sand-sculpture he had made in the Great Plain Place where the Sculptors performed their art. Not a breath of wind had yet rounded off the keen edges or leveled the lovely curves of the classic form he had executed with such verve and sureness, the Body of Amakumo. She saw admiration and envy in the faces of his truebrothers and truesisters. Standing aside among the sacred castes, she heard the speaker of the Sculptors dedicate Kwatewa's proving piece to Amakumo. As his voice ceased a wind came out of the desert north, Amakumo's wind, the maker hungry for the made -- Amakumo the Mother eating her body, eating herself. Even while they watched, the wind destroyed Kwatewa's sculpture. Soon there was only a shapeless lump and a feathering of white sand blown across the proving ground. Beauty had gone back to the Mother. That the sculpture had been destroyed so soon and so!
utterly was a great honor to the maker.
The funeral procession was approaching. She heard or imagined she heard the drumbeat, soft, no more than a heartbeat.
Her own proving piece had bee the traditional one for Tanner women, a drumhead. Not a funeral drum but a dancing drum, loud, gaudy with red paint and tassels. "Your drumhead, your maidenhead!" her truebrothers called it, and made fierce teasing jokes, but they couldn't make her blush. Tanners had no business blushing. They were outside shame. It had been an excellent drum, chosen at once from the proving ground by an old Musician, who had played it so much she soon wore off the bright paint and lost the red tassels; but the drumhead lasted thoughout the winter and till the Roppi Ceremony, when it finally split wide open during the drumming for the all-night dancing under the moons, when Chumo and Karwa first twined their wristplaits. Chumo had been proud all winter when she heard the voice of her drum loud and clear across the dancing ground, she had been proud when it split and gave itself to the Mother; but that had been nothing to the pride she had felt in Kwatewa!
's sculptures. For if the work be well done and the thing made be powerful, it belongs to the Mother. She will desire it; she will not wait for it to give itself, but will take it. So the child dying young is called the Mother's Child. Beauty, the most sacred of all things, is hers; the body of the Mother is the most beautiful of all things. So all that is made in the likeness of the Mother is made in sand.
To keep your work to try to keep it for yourself, to take her body from her, Kwatewa! How could you, how could you, my brother? her heart said. But she put the question back into the silence and stood silent among the willows, the trees sacred to her caste, watching the funeral procession come between the flaxfields. It was his shame, not hers. What was shame to a Tanner? It was pride she felt, pride. For that was her masterpiece that Dastuye the Musician held now and raised to his lips as he walked before the procession, guiding the new ghost to its body's grave.
She had made that instrument, the kerastion, the flute that is played only at a funeral. The kerastion is made of leather, and the leather is tanned human skin, and the skin is that of the wombmother or the foremother of the dead.
When Wekuri, wombmother of Chumo and Kwatewa, had died two winters ago, Chumo the Tanner had claimed her privilege. There had been an old, old kerastion to play at Wekuri's funeral, handed down from her grandmothers; but the Musician, when he had finished playing it, laid it on the mats that wrapped Wekuri in the open grave. For the night before, Chumo had flayed the left arm of the body, singing the songs of power of her caste as she worked, the songs that ask the dead mother to put her voice, her song into the instrument. She had kept and cured the piece of rawhide, rubbing it with the secret cures, wrapping it round a clay cylinder to harden, wetting it, oiling it, forming and refining its form, till the clay went to powder and was knocked from the tube, which she then cleaned and rubbed and oiled and finished. It was a privilege which only the most powerful, the most truly shameless of the Tanners took, to make a kerastion of the mother's skin. Chumo had claimed it!
without fear or doubt. As she worked she had many times pictured the Musician leading the procession playing the flute, guiding her own spirit to its grave. She had wondered which of the Musicians it might be, and who would follow her, walking in her funeral procession. Never once had she thought that it would be played for Kwatewa before it was played for her. How was she to think of him, so much younger, dying first?
He had killed himself out of shame. He had cut his wrist veins with one of the tools he had made to cut stone.
His death itself had been no shame, since there had been nothing for him to do but die. There was no fine, no ablution, no purification, for what he had done.
Shepherds had found the cave where he had kept the stones, great marble pieces from the cave walls, carved into copies of his own sandsculptures, his own sacred work for the Solstice and the Hariba; sculptures of stone, abominable, durable, desecrations of the body of the Mother.
People of his caste had destroyed the things with hammers, beaten them to dust and sand, swept the sand down into the river. She had thought Kwatewa would follow them, but he had gone to the cave at night and taken the sharp tool and cut his wrists and let his blood run. Why can't it stop running, Chumo?
The Musician had come abreast of her now as she stood among the willows by the burying ground. Dastuye was old and skillful; his slow dancewalk seemed to float him above the ground in rhythm with the soft heartbeat of the drum that followed. Guiding the spirit and the body on its litter borne by four casteless men, he played the kerastion. His lips lay light on the leather mouthpiece, his fingers moved lightly as he played, and there was no sound at all. The kerastion flute has no stops and both its ends are plugged with disks of bronze. Tunes played on it are not heard by living ears. Chumo, listening, heard the drum and the whisper of the north wind in the willow leaves. Only Kwatewa in his woven grass shroud on the litter heard what song the Musician played for him, and knew whether it was a song of shame, or grief, or welcome.
___________________
The Kerastion
By Ursula LeGuin
(For Roussel Sargent, who invented it)
The small caste of the Tanners was a sacred one. To eat food prepared by a Tanner would entail a year's purification to a Tinker or a Sculptor, and even low-power castes such as the Traders had to be cleansed by a night's ablutions after dealing for leather goods. Chumo had been a Tanner since she was five years old and had heard the willows whisper all night long at the Singing Sands. She had had her proving day, and since then had worn a Tanner's madder-red and blue shirt and doublet, woven of linen on a wilowwood loom. She had made her masterpiece, and since then had worn the Master Tanner's neckband of dried vauti-tuber incised with the double line and double circles. So clothed and so ornamented she stood among the willows by the burying ground, waiting for the funeral procession of her brother, who had broken the law and betrayed his caste. She stood erect and silent, gazing towards the village by the river and listening for the drum.
She did not think; she did not want to think. But she saw her brother Kwatewa in the reeds down by the river, running ahead of her, a little boy too young to have caste, too young to be polluted by the sacred, a crazy little boy pouncing on her out of the tall reeds shouting, "I'm a mountain lion!"
A serious little boy watching the river run, asking, "Does it ever stop? Why can't it stop running, Chumo?"
A five-year-old coming back from the Singing Sands, coming straight to her, bringing her the joy, the crazy, serious joy that shone in his round face -- "Chumo! I heard the sand singing! I heard it! I have to be a Sculptor, Chumo!"
She had stood still. She had not held out her arms. And he had checked his run toward her and stood still, the light going out of his face. She was now only his womb-sister. He would have truesibs, now. He and she were of different castes. They would not touch again.
Ten years after that day she had come with most of the townsfolk to Kwatea's proving day, to see the sand-sculpture he had made in the Great Plain Place where the Sculptors performed their art. Not a breath of wind had yet rounded off the keen edges or leveled the lovely curves of the classic form he had executed with such verve and sureness, the Body of Amakumo. She saw admiration and envy in the faces of his truebrothers and truesisters. Standing aside among the sacred castes, she heard the speaker of the Sculptors dedicate Kwatewa's proving piece to Amakumo. As his voice ceased a wind came out of the desert north, Amakumo's wind, the maker hungry for the made -- Amakumo the Mother eating her body, eating herself. Even while they watched, the wind destroyed Kwatewa's sculpture. Soon there was only a shapeless lump and a feathering of white sand blown across the proving ground. Beauty had gone back to the Mother. That the sculpture had been destroyed so soon and so!
utterly was a great honor to the maker.
The funeral procession was approaching. She heard or imagined she heard the drumbeat, soft, no more than a heartbeat.
Her own proving piece had bee the traditional one for Tanner women, a drumhead. Not a funeral drum but a dancing drum, loud, gaudy with red paint and tassels. "Your drumhead, your maidenhead!" her truebrothers called it, and made fierce teasing jokes, but they couldn't make her blush. Tanners had no business blushing. They were outside shame. It had been an excellent drum, chosen at once from the proving ground by an old Musician, who had played it so much she soon wore off the bright paint and lost the red tassels; but the drumhead lasted thoughout the winter and till the Roppi Ceremony, when it finally split wide open during the drumming for the all-night dancing under the moons, when Chumo and Karwa first twined their wristplaits. Chumo had been proud all winter when she heard the voice of her drum loud and clear across the dancing ground, she had been proud when it split and gave itself to the Mother; but that had been nothing to the pride she had felt in Kwatewa!
's sculptures. For if the work be well done and the thing made be powerful, it belongs to the Mother. She will desire it; she will not wait for it to give itself, but will take it. So the child dying young is called the Mother's Child. Beauty, the most sacred of all things, is hers; the body of the Mother is the most beautiful of all things. So all that is made in the likeness of the Mother is made in sand.
To keep your work to try to keep it for yourself, to take her body from her, Kwatewa! How could you, how could you, my brother? her heart said. But she put the question back into the silence and stood silent among the willows, the trees sacred to her caste, watching the funeral procession come between the flaxfields. It was his shame, not hers. What was shame to a Tanner? It was pride she felt, pride. For that was her masterpiece that Dastuye the Musician held now and raised to his lips as he walked before the procession, guiding the new ghost to its body's grave.
She had made that instrument, the kerastion, the flute that is played only at a funeral. The kerastion is made of leather, and the leather is tanned human skin, and the skin is that of the wombmother or the foremother of the dead.
When Wekuri, wombmother of Chumo and Kwatewa, had died two winters ago, Chumo the Tanner had claimed her privilege. There had been an old, old kerastion to play at Wekuri's funeral, handed down from her grandmothers; but the Musician, when he had finished playing it, laid it on the mats that wrapped Wekuri in the open grave. For the night before, Chumo had flayed the left arm of the body, singing the songs of power of her caste as she worked, the songs that ask the dead mother to put her voice, her song into the instrument. She had kept and cured the piece of rawhide, rubbing it with the secret cures, wrapping it round a clay cylinder to harden, wetting it, oiling it, forming and refining its form, till the clay went to powder and was knocked from the tube, which she then cleaned and rubbed and oiled and finished. It was a privilege which only the most powerful, the most truly shameless of the Tanners took, to make a kerastion of the mother's skin. Chumo had claimed it!
without fear or doubt. As she worked she had many times pictured the Musician leading the procession playing the flute, guiding her own spirit to its grave. She had wondered which of the Musicians it might be, and who would follow her, walking in her funeral procession. Never once had she thought that it would be played for Kwatewa before it was played for her. How was she to think of him, so much younger, dying first?
He had killed himself out of shame. He had cut his wrist veins with one of the tools he had made to cut stone.
His death itself had been no shame, since there had been nothing for him to do but die. There was no fine, no ablution, no purification, for what he had done.
Shepherds had found the cave where he had kept the stones, great marble pieces from the cave walls, carved into copies of his own sandsculptures, his own sacred work for the Solstice and the Hariba; sculptures of stone, abominable, durable, desecrations of the body of the Mother.
People of his caste had destroyed the things with hammers, beaten them to dust and sand, swept the sand down into the river. She had thought Kwatewa would follow them, but he had gone to the cave at night and taken the sharp tool and cut his wrists and let his blood run. Why can't it stop running, Chumo?
The Musician had come abreast of her now as she stood among the willows by the burying ground. Dastuye was old and skillful; his slow dancewalk seemed to float him above the ground in rhythm with the soft heartbeat of the drum that followed. Guiding the spirit and the body on its litter borne by four casteless men, he played the kerastion. His lips lay light on the leather mouthpiece, his fingers moved lightly as he played, and there was no sound at all. The kerastion flute has no stops and both its ends are plugged with disks of bronze. Tunes played on it are not heard by living ears. Chumo, listening, heard the drum and the whisper of the north wind in the willow leaves. Only Kwatewa in his woven grass shroud on the litter heard what song the Musician played for him, and knew whether it was a song of shame, or grief, or welcome.
Monday, August 4, 2008
DD 3/16/04 FROM HALLELUJAH! BY LEONARD COHEN
You say I took your name in vain,
but I don't even know your name.
and if I did, well, really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word;
It doesn't matter which you heard;
the holy, or the broken Hallelujah.
from "Hallelujah"
by Leonard Cohen
but I don't even know your name.
and if I did, well, really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word;
It doesn't matter which you heard;
the holy, or the broken Hallelujah.
from "Hallelujah"
by Leonard Cohen
DD 3/23/04 EVE TO HER DAUGHTERS BY JUDITH WRIGHT
Excerpt from the poem "Eve to her Daughters," by the Australian poet Judith Wright:
....But you are my daughters, you inherit your own faults of character;
....Faults of character have their own logic
and it always works out.
I observed this with Abel and Cain.
Perhaps the whole elaborate fable
right from the beginning
is meant to demonstrate this: perhaps it's the whole secret.
Perhaps nothing exists but our faults?
At least they can be demonstrated.
But it's useless to make
such a suggestion to Adam.
He has turned himself into God,
who is faultless, and doesn't exist.
....But you are my daughters, you inherit your own faults of character;
....Faults of character have their own logic
and it always works out.
I observed this with Abel and Cain.
Perhaps the whole elaborate fable
right from the beginning
is meant to demonstrate this: perhaps it's the whole secret.
Perhaps nothing exists but our faults?
At least they can be demonstrated.
But it's useless to make
such a suggestion to Adam.
He has turned himself into God,
who is faultless, and doesn't exist.
DD 3/29/04 QUOTES FROM TONY BENN AND ROBERT FROST
In his Monday interview on Democracy Now!, former British MP Tony Benn said, "I do not, myself, see much difference between a Stealth Bomber and a suicide bomber, in that both are killing innocent people for political purposes, and that's what we've got to eliminate." He also quoted Irish hunger-striker Bobby Sands, who, before he died, said, "Don't talk of revenge. Our revenge will be the laughter of our children."
....and this, from Robert Frost:
we dance around in a ring, and suppose,
but the Secret sits in the middle, and knows.
....and this, from Robert Frost:
we dance around in a ring, and suppose,
but the Secret sits in the middle, and knows.
DD 4/6/04 THE SONGS OF MIRIAM, BY ALICIA OSTRIKER
Celebrating Miriam on the second day of Passover...
The Songs of Miriam
By Alicia Ostriker
"And Miriam the prophetess took a timbrel in her hand and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances."
I'm a young girl
My periods not started yet
Up to my waist in Nile water, I push
The baby basket through the bulrushes
Onto the beach
Come on, I say to myself, let's go
And they see it
And come running
My brother cries like a kitten
In the arms of that princess
Her painted face fills with the joy
Of disobedience, which is the life of joy
When she is hooked I walk
Out of the river
Bowing and bowing
I am Miriam, daughter
Of Israel
We gather the limbs, we gather the limbs
We gather the limbs of the child
We sing to the river, we bathe in the river
We save the life of the child.
If you listen to me once
You will have to go on listening to me
I am Miriam the prophetess
Miriam who makes the songs
I lead the women in a sacred circle
Shaking our breasts and hips
With timbrels and with dances
Singing how we got over
O God of hosts
The horse and his rider
Have you thrown into the sea--
That is my song, my music, my
Unended and unfinished prophecy--
The horse was captivity--
And its rider fear--
O God of hosts
Never again bondage
Never again terror
O God of hosts
Call me rebelliousness, call me the bitter sea
I peel the skin off myself in strips
I am going to die in the sand
Miriam the leprous, Miriam the hag
Miriam the cackling one
What did I have but a voice, to announce liberty
No magic tricks, no miracles, no history,
No stick
Or stone of law. You who believe that God
Speaks only through Moses, bury me in the desert
I curse you with drought
I curse you with spiritual dryness
But you who remember my music
You will feel me under your footsoles
Like cool ground water under porous stone--
Follow me, follow my drum
Follow my drum, follow my drum,
Follow me, follow my drum
Follow my drum.
I who am maiden
woman and crone
I who am
Miriam.
The Songs of Miriam
By Alicia Ostriker
"And Miriam the prophetess took a timbrel in her hand and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances."
I'm a young girl
My periods not started yet
Up to my waist in Nile water, I push
The baby basket through the bulrushes
Onto the beach
Come on, I say to myself, let's go
And they see it
And come running
My brother cries like a kitten
In the arms of that princess
Her painted face fills with the joy
Of disobedience, which is the life of joy
When she is hooked I walk
Out of the river
Bowing and bowing
I am Miriam, daughter
Of Israel
We gather the limbs, we gather the limbs
We gather the limbs of the child
We sing to the river, we bathe in the river
We save the life of the child.
If you listen to me once
You will have to go on listening to me
I am Miriam the prophetess
Miriam who makes the songs
I lead the women in a sacred circle
Shaking our breasts and hips
With timbrels and with dances
Singing how we got over
O God of hosts
The horse and his rider
Have you thrown into the sea--
That is my song, my music, my
Unended and unfinished prophecy--
The horse was captivity--
And its rider fear--
O God of hosts
Never again bondage
Never again terror
O God of hosts
Call me rebelliousness, call me the bitter sea
I peel the skin off myself in strips
I am going to die in the sand
Miriam the leprous, Miriam the hag
Miriam the cackling one
What did I have but a voice, to announce liberty
No magic tricks, no miracles, no history,
No stick
Or stone of law. You who believe that God
Speaks only through Moses, bury me in the desert
I curse you with drought
I curse you with spiritual dryness
But you who remember my music
You will feel me under your footsoles
Like cool ground water under porous stone--
Follow me, follow my drum
Follow my drum, follow my drum,
Follow me, follow my drum
Follow my drum.
I who am maiden
woman and crone
I who am
Miriam.
DD 4/13/04 THE LIZARD BY D.H. LAWRENCE
If men were as much men as lizards are lizards
they'd be worth looking at.
D.H. Lawrence, "The Lizard"
they'd be worth looking at.
D.H. Lawrence, "The Lizard"
DD 4/20/04 ELLEN BASS BASKET OF FIGS
Basket of Figs
Ellen Bass
from "Mules of Love"
Bring me your pain, love. Spread
it out like fine rugs, silk sashes,
warm eggs, cinnamon
and cloves in burlap sacks. Show me
the detail, the intricate embroidery
on the collar, tiny shell buttons,
the hem stitched the way you were taught,
pricking just a thread, almost invisible.
Unclasp it like jewels, the gold
still hot from your body. Empty
your basket of figs. Spill your wine.
That hard nugget of pain, I would suck it,
cradling it on my tongue like the slick
seed of pomegranate. I would lift it
tenderly, as a great animal might
carry a small one in the private
cave of the mouth.
Ellen Bass
from "Mules of Love"
Bring me your pain, love. Spread
it out like fine rugs, silk sashes,
warm eggs, cinnamon
and cloves in burlap sacks. Show me
the detail, the intricate embroidery
on the collar, tiny shell buttons,
the hem stitched the way you were taught,
pricking just a thread, almost invisible.
Unclasp it like jewels, the gold
still hot from your body. Empty
your basket of figs. Spill your wine.
That hard nugget of pain, I would suck it,
cradling it on my tongue like the slick
seed of pomegranate. I would lift it
tenderly, as a great animal might
carry a small one in the private
cave of the mouth.
DD 4/28/04 LLOYD SCHWARTZ PROVERBS FOM PURGATORY
To be read aloud, giggling, to someone else.
PROVERBS FROM PURGATORY
Lloyd Schwartz
It was déjà vu all over again.
I know this town like the back of my head.
People who live in glass houses are worth two in the bush.
One hand scratches the other.
A friend in need is worth two in the bush.
A bird in the hand makes waste.
Life isn't all it's crapped up to be.
It's like finding a needle in the eye of the beholder.
It's like killing one bird with two stones.
My motto in life has always been: Get It Over With.
Two heads are better than none.
A rolling stone deserves another.
All things wait for those who come.
A friend in need deserves another.
I'd trust him as long as I could throw him.
He smokes like a fish.
He's just a chip off the old tooth.
I'll have him eating out of my lap.
A friend in need opens a can of worms.
Too many cooks spoil the child.
An ill wind keeps the doctor away.
The wolf at the door keeps the doctor away.
A friend in need shouldn't throw stones.
A friend in need washes the other.
A friend in need keeps the doctor away.
A stitch in time is only skin deep.
A verbal agreement isn't worth the paper it's written on.
A cat may look like a king.
Know which side of the bed your butter is on.
Nothing is cut and dried in stone.
You can eat more flies with honey than with vinegar.
Don't let the cat out of the barn.
Let's burn that bridge when we get to it.
When you come to the fork in the road, take it.
Don't cross your chickens before they hatch.
DO NOT READ THIS SIGN.
Throw discretion to the wolves.
After the twig is bent, the barn door is locked.
After the barn door is locked, you can come in out of the rain.
A friend in need locks the barn door.
There's no fool like a friend in need.
We've passed a lot of water since then.
At least we got home in two pieces.
All's well that ends.
It ain't over till it's over.
There's always one step further down you can go.
It's a milestone hanging around my neck.
Include me out.
It was déjà vu all over again.
PROVERBS FROM PURGATORY
Lloyd Schwartz
It was déjà vu all over again.
I know this town like the back of my head.
People who live in glass houses are worth two in the bush.
One hand scratches the other.
A friend in need is worth two in the bush.
A bird in the hand makes waste.
Life isn't all it's crapped up to be.
It's like finding a needle in the eye of the beholder.
It's like killing one bird with two stones.
My motto in life has always been: Get It Over With.
Two heads are better than none.
A rolling stone deserves another.
All things wait for those who come.
A friend in need deserves another.
I'd trust him as long as I could throw him.
He smokes like a fish.
He's just a chip off the old tooth.
I'll have him eating out of my lap.
A friend in need opens a can of worms.
Too many cooks spoil the child.
An ill wind keeps the doctor away.
The wolf at the door keeps the doctor away.
A friend in need shouldn't throw stones.
A friend in need washes the other.
A friend in need keeps the doctor away.
A stitch in time is only skin deep.
A verbal agreement isn't worth the paper it's written on.
A cat may look like a king.
Know which side of the bed your butter is on.
Nothing is cut and dried in stone.
You can eat more flies with honey than with vinegar.
Don't let the cat out of the barn.
Let's burn that bridge when we get to it.
When you come to the fork in the road, take it.
Don't cross your chickens before they hatch.
DO NOT READ THIS SIGN.
Throw discretion to the wolves.
After the twig is bent, the barn door is locked.
After the barn door is locked, you can come in out of the rain.
A friend in need locks the barn door.
There's no fool like a friend in need.
We've passed a lot of water since then.
At least we got home in two pieces.
All's well that ends.
It ain't over till it's over.
There's always one step further down you can go.
It's a milestone hanging around my neck.
Include me out.
It was déjà vu all over again.
DD 5/4/04 DALIA SAPON-SHEVIN POEM
AND IN THE BRIGHTENING
AIR I FEEL THEM NOW ARO
UND ME ONCE DEAR AND
CLOSE NOW NESTLE BETWEEN MY FING
ERS IN THE SHADOWS OF MY RIBS A BREATH
NO YOU WERE NEVER ALONE HERE
SEE SEE HOW WE ALL THE TIME HAVE
BEEN TRAVELING STATIC RADIO WAVES MOVING
TO FIND YOU HERE
--Dalia Sapon-Shevin
AIR I FEEL THEM NOW ARO
UND ME ONCE DEAR AND
CLOSE NOW NESTLE BETWEEN MY FING
ERS IN THE SHADOWS OF MY RIBS A BREATH
NO YOU WERE NEVER ALONE HERE
SEE SEE HOW WE ALL THE TIME HAVE
BEEN TRAVELING STATIC RADIO WAVES MOVING
TO FIND YOU HERE
--Dalia Sapon-Shevin
DD 5/11/04 SHORT LEONARD COHEN POEM
They locked up a man
who wanted to rule the world.
The fools -
they locked up the wrong man!
Leonard Cohen (1970)
who wanted to rule the world.
The fools -
they locked up the wrong man!
Leonard Cohen (1970)
DD 5/18/04 CHARLIE KIEL, PARAPHRASING WILLIAM BLAKE
From an essay by our VWC friend Charlie Keil, in which he's paraphrasing William Blake:
....each of us has many moments each day, many a pulsation of the
artery in which the poet¹s work is done. An awakening could occur at any
moment! To one person after another, and to many people all at once.
....each of us has many moments each day, many a pulsation of the
artery in which the poet¹s work is done. An awakening could occur at any
moment! To one person after another, and to many people all at once.
DD 5/31/04 MICHAEL LEUNIG POEM
a poem by one of my favories, Australian cartoonist Michael Leunig...
THE LAST FLIGHT OF THE LONELY PASSION
The last flight of the "Lonely Passion,"
Our one remaining plane,
Took off late on Sunday night
And was never seen again.
It is said, amongst a host of other things,
That there were various malfunctions in the wings.
In fact a very large collection...
The fact is, the wings were MADE of imperfection.
And yet, such beautiful, functional things:
Imperfections carefully woven into wings;
Failings great, but mostly medium to small,
But something strangely uplifting in every fall.
You see, it didn't fly
By means of a propeller or a rocket burning;
It rose into the heavens
By the pure boldness of its yearning!
And now our "Lonely Passion" is unaccounted for.
Maybe it strayed into the airspace or the headspace of
a wicked unforgiving war.
Or maybe, in the night of all this fearful, sad and
bitter thinking,
Its little navigation light is somewhere blinking...
THE LAST FLIGHT OF THE LONELY PASSION
The last flight of the "Lonely Passion,"
Our one remaining plane,
Took off late on Sunday night
And was never seen again.
It is said, amongst a host of other things,
That there were various malfunctions in the wings.
In fact a very large collection...
The fact is, the wings were MADE of imperfection.
And yet, such beautiful, functional things:
Imperfections carefully woven into wings;
Failings great, but mostly medium to small,
But something strangely uplifting in every fall.
You see, it didn't fly
By means of a propeller or a rocket burning;
It rose into the heavens
By the pure boldness of its yearning!
And now our "Lonely Passion" is unaccounted for.
Maybe it strayed into the airspace or the headspace of
a wicked unforgiving war.
Or maybe, in the night of all this fearful, sad and
bitter thinking,
Its little navigation light is somewhere blinking...
Sunday, August 3, 2008
DD 6/8/04 MUSHROOMS BY SYLVIA PLATH
In honor of Venus's transit, and Angela's transformative vision...
(Read this aloud to someone, very quietly -- Mayer)
MUSHROOMS
Sylvia Plath
Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly
Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.
Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.
Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,
Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,
Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We
Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking
Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!
We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,
Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:
We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.
(Read this aloud to someone, very quietly -- Mayer)
MUSHROOMS
Sylvia Plath
Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly
Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.
Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.
Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,
Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,
Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We
Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking
Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!
We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,
Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:
We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.
DD 6/22/04 SMALL POEM BY WILLIAM STAFFORD
Which of the horses
we passed yesterday whinnied
all night in my dreams?
I want that one.
William Stafford
we passed yesterday whinnied
all night in my dreams?
I want that one.
William Stafford
DD 7/6/04 QUOTE FOM PHILO OF ALEXANDRIA
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.
Philo of Alexandria
Philo of Alexandria
DD 7/13/04 QUOTE FROM FRANZ KAFKA
The fact that our task is exactly as large as our life makes it appear infinite.
Franz Kafka
Franz Kafka
DD 8/2/04 QUOTE FROM "TEACHING TOWAD FREEDOM" BY BILL AYERS
The Chinese ideogram for "person" depicts a figure grounded in the earth
and stretching toward heaven. What is she reaching for? What dream is
she pursuing? Why so seemingly becalmed on one end, yet so relentlessly
restless on the other? The character suggests the desiny of every human
being: to be fated, but also to be free; to be both free and fated.
Each of us is planted in the mud and muck of daily existence, thrust
into a world not of our choosing, and tethered then to hard-rock
reality; each of us is also endowed with a mind able to reflect on that
reality, to choose who to be in light of the cold facts and the merely
given. We each have a spirit capable of joining that mind and soaring
overhead, poised to transgress boundaries, destroy obstacles, and
transform ourselves and the world.
Bill Ayers, from "Teaching Toward Freedom"
and stretching toward heaven. What is she reaching for? What dream is
she pursuing? Why so seemingly becalmed on one end, yet so relentlessly
restless on the other? The character suggests the desiny of every human
being: to be fated, but also to be free; to be both free and fated.
Each of us is planted in the mud and muck of daily existence, thrust
into a world not of our choosing, and tethered then to hard-rock
reality; each of us is also endowed with a mind able to reflect on that
reality, to choose who to be in light of the cold facts and the merely
given. We each have a spirit capable of joining that mind and soaring
overhead, poised to transgress boundaries, destroy obstacles, and
transform ourselves and the world.
Bill Ayers, from "Teaching Toward Freedom"
DD 9/7/04 WORDS TO A ROUND I WROTE
In admiration of all of you...
These are the words to a round I wrote years ago, before I had met any
of you:
Fireflies dancing in the darkness,
Playful guardians of the night -
Loved ones, we're all fireflies,
Each flashing that same wild light.
These are the words to a round I wrote years ago, before I had met any
of you:
Fireflies dancing in the darkness,
Playful guardians of the night -
Loved ones, we're all fireflies,
Each flashing that same wild light.
DD 9/13/04 EXCERPT FROM "THE POSSIBLE RELATIONSHIP"
This wonderful definition of love comes from one of the "classics" of the growing literature on polyamory, an article called "The Possible Relationship," published in 1985. The full article can be found at
http://www.context.org/ICLIB/IC10/UVFamily.htm
THE SPACE OF LOVE
Through our heart sharings, we encountered our next unexpected lesson in relationship. When we listened without judgment and shared without editing, we found that we were consistently "in love with each other." But it wasn't love as we had known it - love as a reaction to another person. It was love that came from simply removing all the resistance to each other. As we gained our sea legs on this ocean of love that we created nightly in our heart sharing ritual, we gradually began to carry it over into everyday life - we could be "in love" while cooking, gardening, walking by the ocean, with someone in a foul mood or by ourselves, because the door to love was within us. Love wasn't an emotion (though wonderful emotions went along with it) and it wasn't a response; it was more like a choice. Love was a space. It couldn't be given or received, only entered.
What was askew in our old notion about love was that we had thought of it as though it were a vector, which in math is something that has direction and magnitude (and in biology is a disease carrier!). Since a vector is like an arrow, we dubbed this the "Cupid" model of love. Trying to love using this model looks something like this: Boy finds "someone to love." Out comes an arrow and "ping!" he shoots it over to her - and then waits. Will she shoot one of her arrows back? If not, he's lost part of his love (good thing he played it safe and didn't shoot all his love arrows over to her!). But if she shoots two back, wowee, she loves him more than he loves her! What if another guy comes along and shoots her an arrow? Whose love will she return? After all, there's a limited supply of love arrows . . . and on and on the game goes. Fortunately, we made the discovery that love, rather than being a vector, was a space - a limitless space - that any of us could enter by letting go of our protective games. Each one of us had our own door to the room of love, one uniquely shaped in the image and likeness of our naked selves. We had to leave our masks and armor and baggage outside the room of love and could only retrieve them by leaving love. Judgment, taking offense, blame and guilt are a few of the components of that baggage - they exist only outside the room of love.
So we found that we don't need anything or anybody to be in love. But how do we account for that sense of interpersonal love, that caring for one another? We found that when any one of us was in the space of love and when another person, through his or her own relinquishing of ego, entered that room of love, then we were "in love with each other" - not as a reaction to that person's looks or personality (these qualities are outside the door), but simply by ending up in the space of love together. All people in love are in the same space. Some are so transient that one moment they're in and the next they're out. They have not established residence there. Others, commonly known as saints, live there full-time. From this standpoint, to say, "I love you" means that there is nothing - no personal "stuff," distortions, agendas or needs - in the way of being with you totally.
We found consistently that when we based our relationships on shared residency in the room of love, every aspect of the relationship, from the sexual to the intellectual, was easy to work out. But every time we'd run out to play with some of the baggage outside - be it sexual attraction, or anger or a desire to rescue someone - suddenly there would loom insurmountable problems. Solution: stay in love. Absurdly simple - and not always easy to live.
http://www.context.org/ICLIB/IC10/UVFamily.htm
THE SPACE OF LOVE
Through our heart sharings, we encountered our next unexpected lesson in relationship. When we listened without judgment and shared without editing, we found that we were consistently "in love with each other." But it wasn't love as we had known it - love as a reaction to another person. It was love that came from simply removing all the resistance to each other. As we gained our sea legs on this ocean of love that we created nightly in our heart sharing ritual, we gradually began to carry it over into everyday life - we could be "in love" while cooking, gardening, walking by the ocean, with someone in a foul mood or by ourselves, because the door to love was within us. Love wasn't an emotion (though wonderful emotions went along with it) and it wasn't a response; it was more like a choice. Love was a space. It couldn't be given or received, only entered.
What was askew in our old notion about love was that we had thought of it as though it were a vector, which in math is something that has direction and magnitude (and in biology is a disease carrier!). Since a vector is like an arrow, we dubbed this the "Cupid" model of love. Trying to love using this model looks something like this: Boy finds "someone to love." Out comes an arrow and "ping!" he shoots it over to her - and then waits. Will she shoot one of her arrows back? If not, he's lost part of his love (good thing he played it safe and didn't shoot all his love arrows over to her!). But if she shoots two back, wowee, she loves him more than he loves her! What if another guy comes along and shoots her an arrow? Whose love will she return? After all, there's a limited supply of love arrows . . . and on and on the game goes. Fortunately, we made the discovery that love, rather than being a vector, was a space - a limitless space - that any of us could enter by letting go of our protective games. Each one of us had our own door to the room of love, one uniquely shaped in the image and likeness of our naked selves. We had to leave our masks and armor and baggage outside the room of love and could only retrieve them by leaving love. Judgment, taking offense, blame and guilt are a few of the components of that baggage - they exist only outside the room of love.
So we found that we don't need anything or anybody to be in love. But how do we account for that sense of interpersonal love, that caring for one another? We found that when any one of us was in the space of love and when another person, through his or her own relinquishing of ego, entered that room of love, then we were "in love with each other" - not as a reaction to that person's looks or personality (these qualities are outside the door), but simply by ending up in the space of love together. All people in love are in the same space. Some are so transient that one moment they're in and the next they're out. They have not established residence there. Others, commonly known as saints, live there full-time. From this standpoint, to say, "I love you" means that there is nothing - no personal "stuff," distortions, agendas or needs - in the way of being with you totally.
We found consistently that when we based our relationships on shared residency in the room of love, every aspect of the relationship, from the sexual to the intellectual, was easy to work out. But every time we'd run out to play with some of the baggage outside - be it sexual attraction, or anger or a desire to rescue someone - suddenly there would loom insurmountable problems. Solution: stay in love. Absurdly simple - and not always easy to live.
DD 9/20/04 2 POEMS BY DAVID WHYTE
Two poems... one for reading when you fall asleep, and one for reading
when you wake up.
SWEET DARKNESS
David Whyte
When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.
When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.
Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.
The dark will be your womb
tonight.
The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.
You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.
Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
______________________
WHAT TO REMEMBER WHEN WAKING
David Whyte
In that first
hardly noticed
moment
in which you wake,
coming back
to this life from the other
more secret,
moveable
and frighteningly
honest
world
where everything
began,
there is a small
opening
into the new day
which closes
the moment
you begin
your plans.
What you can plan
is too small
for you to live.
What you can live
wholeheartedly
will make plans
enough
for the vitality
hidden in your sleep.
To be human
is to become visible
while carrying
what is hidden
as a gift to others.
To remember
the other world
in this world
is to live in your
true inheritance.
You are not
a troubled guest
on this earth,
you are not
an accident
amidst other accidents
you were invited
from another and greater
night
than the one
from which
you have just emerged.
Now, looking through
the slanting light
of the morning
window toward
the mountain
presence
of everything
that can be,
what urgency
calls you to your
one love? What shape
waits in the seed
of you to grow
and spread
its branches
against a future sky?
Is it waiting
in the fertile sea?
In the trees
beyond the house?
In the life
you can imagine
for yourself?
In the open
and lovely
white page
on the writing desk?
when you wake up.
SWEET DARKNESS
David Whyte
When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.
When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.
Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.
The dark will be your womb
tonight.
The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.
You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.
Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
______________________
WHAT TO REMEMBER WHEN WAKING
David Whyte
In that first
hardly noticed
moment
in which you wake,
coming back
to this life from the other
more secret,
moveable
and frighteningly
honest
world
where everything
began,
there is a small
opening
into the new day
which closes
the moment
you begin
your plans.
What you can plan
is too small
for you to live.
What you can live
wholeheartedly
will make plans
enough
for the vitality
hidden in your sleep.
To be human
is to become visible
while carrying
what is hidden
as a gift to others.
To remember
the other world
in this world
is to live in your
true inheritance.
You are not
a troubled guest
on this earth,
you are not
an accident
amidst other accidents
you were invited
from another and greater
night
than the one
from which
you have just emerged.
Now, looking through
the slanting light
of the morning
window toward
the mountain
presence
of everything
that can be,
what urgency
calls you to your
one love? What shape
waits in the seed
of you to grow
and spread
its branches
against a future sky?
Is it waiting
in the fertile sea?
In the trees
beyond the house?
In the life
you can imagine
for yourself?
In the open
and lovely
white page
on the writing desk?
DD 9/27/04 STORY ABOUT MY DAILY BLESSING
My Daily Blessing
My morning routine, about which I'm pretty devoted, involves staggering out of bed at 5:30 or 6:00 am, throwing on some gym clothes, and driving off to the gym for an hour's workout before the rest of my day begins. Every morning, I stop at the Sunoco station on Erie Boulevard for a cup of dark roast coffee and my daily blessing.
Rao is a little, energetic man, a Christian from the south of India, who works the graveyard shift at this all-night gas station on the edge of a very tough neighborhood. He knows thousands of customers, not by name, but by the ways he and they have connected over the years. "Good morning, sir!" he shouts to me from the back of the store when I enter. "How is madam this morning?" "I don't know," I sometimes say, she's not up yet," or "She's great, she'll be in soon," or "She's out of town." (Sometimes my partner and I both come in together, and he treats this like an event of great importance. "The sun will rise in the west today!" he says.) After we talk about "Madam," I ask him, "How are you today?", and we both smile, because his answer is always the same. "Ah, sir, I am awesome, by the grace of God!" "That's wonderful," I'll say, and sometimes, emboldened, I'll add, "I'm awesome too!" I pay for my coffee, and as I leave, I always hear, "Thank you, sir! Have a blessed day, by the grace of God!"
Some days, I am leaving the station just as Rao's shift ends, and I drive him the two miles to his apartment. I know little more about him than that he has a wife and two sons in India that he supports, and that it will probably be a few years before he will see them again. We never talk theology - somehow it has never seemed important.
I leave each morning, coffee in hand, feeling the cloak of grace about my shoulders. I am always smiling, knowing that whether or not I can believe in Rao's God, it's the easiest thing in the world for me to believe in Rao.
My morning routine, about which I'm pretty devoted, involves staggering out of bed at 5:30 or 6:00 am, throwing on some gym clothes, and driving off to the gym for an hour's workout before the rest of my day begins. Every morning, I stop at the Sunoco station on Erie Boulevard for a cup of dark roast coffee and my daily blessing.
Rao is a little, energetic man, a Christian from the south of India, who works the graveyard shift at this all-night gas station on the edge of a very tough neighborhood. He knows thousands of customers, not by name, but by the ways he and they have connected over the years. "Good morning, sir!" he shouts to me from the back of the store when I enter. "How is madam this morning?" "I don't know," I sometimes say, she's not up yet," or "She's great, she'll be in soon," or "She's out of town." (Sometimes my partner and I both come in together, and he treats this like an event of great importance. "The sun will rise in the west today!" he says.) After we talk about "Madam," I ask him, "How are you today?", and we both smile, because his answer is always the same. "Ah, sir, I am awesome, by the grace of God!" "That's wonderful," I'll say, and sometimes, emboldened, I'll add, "I'm awesome too!" I pay for my coffee, and as I leave, I always hear, "Thank you, sir! Have a blessed day, by the grace of God!"
Some days, I am leaving the station just as Rao's shift ends, and I drive him the two miles to his apartment. I know little more about him than that he has a wife and two sons in India that he supports, and that it will probably be a few years before he will see them again. We never talk theology - somehow it has never seemed important.
I leave each morning, coffee in hand, feeling the cloak of grace about my shoulders. I am always smiling, knowing that whether or not I can believe in Rao's God, it's the easiest thing in the world for me to believe in Rao.
DD 10/5/04 SEPTEMBE AFTERNOON AT 4 O CLOCK, BY MARGE PIERCY
September Afternoon at Four O'Clock
Full in the hand, heavy
with ripeness, perfume spreading
its fan: moments now resemble
sweet russet pear glowing
on the bough, peaches warm
from the afternoon sun, amber
and juicy, flesh that can
make you drunk.
There is a turn in things
that makes the heart catch.
We are ripening, all the hard
green grasping, the stony will
swelling to sweetness, the acid
and sugar in balance, the sun
stored as energy that is pleasure
and pleasure that is energy.
Whatever happens, whatever,
we say, and hold hard and let
go and go on. In the perfect
moment the future coils,
a tree inside a pit. Take,
eat, we are each other's
perfection, the wine of our
mouths is sweet and heavy.
Soon enough comes the vinegar.
The fruit is ripe for the taking
and we take. There is
no other wisdom
Marge Piercy
Full in the hand, heavy
with ripeness, perfume spreading
its fan: moments now resemble
sweet russet pear glowing
on the bough, peaches warm
from the afternoon sun, amber
and juicy, flesh that can
make you drunk.
There is a turn in things
that makes the heart catch.
We are ripening, all the hard
green grasping, the stony will
swelling to sweetness, the acid
and sugar in balance, the sun
stored as energy that is pleasure
and pleasure that is energy.
Whatever happens, whatever,
we say, and hold hard and let
go and go on. In the perfect
moment the future coils,
a tree inside a pit. Take,
eat, we are each other's
perfection, the wine of our
mouths is sweet and heavy.
Soon enough comes the vinegar.
The fruit is ripe for the taking
and we take. There is
no other wisdom
Marge Piercy
DD 10/11/04 "THE STOLEN CHILD" WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
The Stolen Child - William Butler Yeats
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can
understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can
understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can
understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can
understand.
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can
understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can
understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can
understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can
understand.
DD 10/19/04 SEASONAL AFFECTIVE DISODER SONG BY GORDON BOK
Long before we had a name for Seasonal Affective Disorder, Gordon Bok
wrote this wonderful song, probably just at this time of year...
Turning Toward the Morning
(Gordon Bok)
When the deer has bedded down
And the bear has gone to ground,
And the northern goose has wandered off
To warmer bay and sound,
It's so easy in the cold to feel
The darkness of the year
And the heart is growing lonely
For the morning
Oh, my Joanie, don't you know
That the stars are swinging slow,
And the seas are rolling easy
As they did so long ago?
If I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
That the world is always turning
Toward the morning.
Now October's growing thin
And November's coming home;
You'll be thinking of the season
And the sad things that you've seen,
And you hear that old wind walking,
Hear him singing high and thin,
You could swear he's out there singing
Of your sorrow.
When the darkness falls around you
And the North Wind comes to blow,
And you hear him call you name out
As he walks the brittle snow:
That old wind don't mean you trouble,
He don't care or even know,
He's just walking down the darkness
Toward the morning.
Oh, my Joanie, don't you know
That the stars are swinging slow,
And the seas are rolling easy
As they did so long ago?
If I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
That the world is always turning
Toward the morning.
It's a pity we don't know
What the little flowers know.
They can't face the cold November
They can't take the wind and snow:
They put their glories all behind them,
Bow their heads and let it go,
But you know they'll be there shining
In the morning.
Now, my Joanie, don't you know
That the days are rolling slow,
And the winter's walking easy,
As he did so long ago?
And, if that wind would come and ask you,
"Why's my Joanie weeping so?"
Wont you tell him that you're weeping
For the morning?
Oh, my Joanie, don't you know
That the stars are swinging slow,
And the seas are rolling easy
As they did so long ago?
If I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
That the world is always turning
Toward the morning.
wrote this wonderful song, probably just at this time of year...
Turning Toward the Morning
(Gordon Bok)
When the deer has bedded down
And the bear has gone to ground,
And the northern goose has wandered off
To warmer bay and sound,
It's so easy in the cold to feel
The darkness of the year
And the heart is growing lonely
For the morning
Oh, my Joanie, don't you know
That the stars are swinging slow,
And the seas are rolling easy
As they did so long ago?
If I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
That the world is always turning
Toward the morning.
Now October's growing thin
And November's coming home;
You'll be thinking of the season
And the sad things that you've seen,
And you hear that old wind walking,
Hear him singing high and thin,
You could swear he's out there singing
Of your sorrow.
When the darkness falls around you
And the North Wind comes to blow,
And you hear him call you name out
As he walks the brittle snow:
That old wind don't mean you trouble,
He don't care or even know,
He's just walking down the darkness
Toward the morning.
Oh, my Joanie, don't you know
That the stars are swinging slow,
And the seas are rolling easy
As they did so long ago?
If I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
That the world is always turning
Toward the morning.
It's a pity we don't know
What the little flowers know.
They can't face the cold November
They can't take the wind and snow:
They put their glories all behind them,
Bow their heads and let it go,
But you know they'll be there shining
In the morning.
Now, my Joanie, don't you know
That the days are rolling slow,
And the winter's walking easy,
As he did so long ago?
And, if that wind would come and ask you,
"Why's my Joanie weeping so?"
Wont you tell him that you're weeping
For the morning?
Oh, my Joanie, don't you know
That the stars are swinging slow,
And the seas are rolling easy
As they did so long ago?
If I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
That the world is always turning
Toward the morning.
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