So this is the new year / and I don't feel any different
The temperature rose from a wintry twenty into a rainy upper-forties. Driving back from the store, the fog was lifting from the earth and hovering at knee-height (graveyard-high) over the snow, and the pink-orange glow from the street lamps illuminated islands of crystal cloud. Between the pockets of illuminated fog, the snow was beautiful in the twilight, a hue of blue I cannot hope to describe, so beautiful I found myself sighing.
No footsteps marred the transcendent beauty of the frosted hillscape, and so the perfect blue receded into the trees and foothills on the outskirts of town like a journey of unanswered paths.
Here it is, where it all always begins, with some thread and sewing pins, and an inquisitive heart.
If you never walk where there are no tracks, is it your own life you are living?
I continued with my research into Elizabeth Bishop, today, and added Ted Kooser onto my poets list. I enjoy Ted Kooser's reminisce and the surrealist manner in which he draws together dissimilar objects into a cohesive dream. Elizabeth Bishop is also interesting, as though she's deliberately dumbed down the emotional window of her poetry so that each poem becomes a mystery, a delight in dancing shadows and light as the reader attempts to decipher what it was like being she, and what she believed, to draw such marvelous words.
Can a cloud-covered sky be so impossibly pretty, it steals your breath away? yes
I do feel different, though; I do. I feel abloom, like an Edgar Allen Poe love poem to life and being, but not this one
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
~Edgar Allen Poe
You cannot clasp in tighter grasp the grains of golden sand - though how beautiful they look as chaff on the golden wind? The final night of this grain - fly gently into the wind, oh dream within a dream.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Jonathan Luke
Yesterday was the day my brother died, and tomorrow is the day my grandfather died. I'm not sad - those are not the feelings clapping through my skull like tiny dwarves with hammers (or somersaulting porcupines). It's a confusing time to celebrate a birthday.
It reminds me of that one scene in Princess Mononoke (if you have not seen it, shame on you!), when Ashitaka is wounded and San brings him to the forest spirit for healing. Every step the forest spirit takes, flowers and grasses form up and bloom around its ankles, and then shrivel into death, as though each plant was born, grew, lived, and died in the space of a moment, in the time it took for the forest spirit to lift its foot from the forest floor. Life can be short as a breath or long as forever, depending on how you savor its gifts. As we celebrate new life, we witness the toll paid also for any life lived: its eventual end. Is there sorrow in this? That too depends on where and how you look at the world.
Today I spent time looking through a bunch of different poems with an emphasis on Elizabeth Bishop (whose poetry I have enjoyed quite a bit today).
I never really remembered my grandparents names on my mother's side. I don't remember them. My mother told me them, today: Bertram and Janet. Janet died when my mother was 7 from leukemia, and Bertram, my grandfather, died when I was very young.
Jonathan means the Lord gives and Luke is a latin name meaning light.
Between the ghastly fog
and the road, one lamp
pulses with a ruddy, unnatural light.
Luke, the Lord has given
Jonathan, my light -
I tried, oh, dear God, I tried
not to cry - it would only increase
the frozen stretch of street
layered beneath my feet.
the diffused glow of
orange and pink that bounces
between the shroud and snow
helplessly, I know what it is, and how
one solitary stretch of tears
the light won't mind
It reminds me of that one scene in Princess Mononoke (if you have not seen it, shame on you!), when Ashitaka is wounded and San brings him to the forest spirit for healing. Every step the forest spirit takes, flowers and grasses form up and bloom around its ankles, and then shrivel into death, as though each plant was born, grew, lived, and died in the space of a moment, in the time it took for the forest spirit to lift its foot from the forest floor. Life can be short as a breath or long as forever, depending on how you savor its gifts. As we celebrate new life, we witness the toll paid also for any life lived: its eventual end. Is there sorrow in this? That too depends on where and how you look at the world.
Today I spent time looking through a bunch of different poems with an emphasis on Elizabeth Bishop (whose poetry I have enjoyed quite a bit today).
I never really remembered my grandparents names on my mother's side. I don't remember them. My mother told me them, today: Bertram and Janet. Janet died when my mother was 7 from leukemia, and Bertram, my grandfather, died when I was very young.
Jonathan means the Lord gives and Luke is a latin name meaning light.
Between the ghastly fog
and the road, one lamp
pulses with a ruddy, unnatural light.
Luke, the Lord has given
Jonathan, my light -
I tried, oh, dear God, I tried
not to cry - it would only increase
the frozen stretch of street
layered beneath my feet.
the diffused glow of
orange and pink that bounces
between the shroud and snow
helplessly, I know what it is, and how
one solitary stretch of tears
the light won't mind
Friday, February 7, 2014
Huginn and Muninn
Louise Gluck was my poet of the day, brought to me by Simic's commentary. Simic is quite extreme with her writing, saying it's either brilliant or falling horribly flat: lacking in wisdom, wit, or even significant artistic merit. These are powerful words regarding a Pulitzer prize winning poet, and in the poems Simic describes as cliche and banal, I still see poetry far exceeding the quality of my own. I have no long-term desire to be a poet, but it provides a ready comparison that humbles my learning journey.
Yet it is heartening to hear that even the great poets of the last twenty years can falter and fall, writing poetry that lacks depth and direction. No one writes perfectly every time, and it leaves me wondering how many failed attempts great poets leave behind their successful endeavors.
But Gluck writes some very interesting poetry, evoking powerful imagery in only a few concise phrases, such as this one:
It is coming back to me.
Pear tree. Apple tree.
I used to sit there
pulling arrows out of my heart
(Louise Gluck)
It's a short poem, but it's beautiful, dreadful.
Tomorrow (the 8th) is the day my little brother died. It's a day of Huginn and Muninn, those ravens that follow our wheel around us on our journeys through life. It is also Saturday, the Shabbat, and I hope to, if not finish, draw close to finishing the Renegade, by Simic. I'm glad it is the weekend, I'm glad the world is wrought anew in white, and I'm glad of friends.
The name of my little brother was Jonathan, which means the Lord has given. We often follow that phrase up with 'the Lord taketh away', and so God has. My parents could not conceive for years following that, and when they finally did, my little brother Samuel (God has listened) was born- appropriate in view of the story of Hannah. Good night - happy weekend. Enjoy the snow (if you have it)
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Snow Day
With my child's mind, I witnessed a world
encased in ice - I ached in the sun's death,
split, sundered into smoky skies
and breathless-cold beyond belief.
ash white are the remnants of shattered glass-light,
falling ever falling...
resplendent plumage of the paradise bird -
I cried, cried for the frozen sun,
and the swirling devils of wind
brusquely bullying it about,
and each word the winter swallowed
Today, I discovered a bit more about Dada I never learned before, and gained an appreciation of the chaotic formlessness that was, in its own way, a form. I skimmed along the lives of Marcel Duchamp, Hannah Hoch, and Hans Arp, and opened my eyes unto the avant-garde of the post-world war one European art, and the rejection of everything formal.
I also read about Donald Hall, and found out he was the husband of Jane Kenyan (I did not know who her husband was). A lot more things make sense now.
I still had to work, as I work from the warm, cozy cove of my room, but the snowfall outside was beautiful all day long, and magicked the day speedily past.
encased in ice - I ached in the sun's death,
split, sundered into smoky skies
and breathless-cold beyond belief.
ash white are the remnants of shattered glass-light,
falling ever falling...
resplendent plumage of the paradise bird -
I cried, cried for the frozen sun,
and the swirling devils of wind
brusquely bullying it about,
and each word the winter swallowed
Today, I discovered a bit more about Dada I never learned before, and gained an appreciation of the chaotic formlessness that was, in its own way, a form. I skimmed along the lives of Marcel Duchamp, Hannah Hoch, and Hans Arp, and opened my eyes unto the avant-garde of the post-world war one European art, and the rejection of everything formal.
I also read about Donald Hall, and found out he was the husband of Jane Kenyan (I did not know who her husband was). A lot more things make sense now.
I still had to work, as I work from the warm, cozy cove of my room, but the snowfall outside was beautiful all day long, and magicked the day speedily past.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Study
One of my friends that I most admired was quite adept at most anything he believed in, however shortly. He didn't believe in partially committing - when he ran, he trained with an impressive regimen; when he studied, he input his all; when learning music, he said he might practice or invest in the theory and contemplation of music for twenty hours a day, leaving only a couple for sleep or sustenance.
I admire his dedication. I asked him the last time we got together whether he still runs, and he replied that he couldn't understand the purpose of running unless it were for the olympics. Sometimes I wish I could dedicate as much of myself to studies and betterment. I started late, and my natural proclivity towards knowledge is lesser than some of the intellectual juggernauts in my life. But one of the pieces of D's training that I adopted was an immersive journey. While I cannot (currently) bodily travel to the locations of all my favorite writer's living locations and writing niches, I've started reading biographies of their lives (or autobiographies if available), as a means of grasping some of the driving force behind the motifs littering each author's famous works.
I picked up a rather fun book today by Simic (one of my favorite recent poets) with a number of essays detailing the histories of some of his inspirational poets, and how their lives meshed with their poetry. I'm not a poet yet, not the least bit, but I'm beginning to see, to hear, and to notice when all my other faculties of sense have fallen short.
Why did that poet use that particular phrasing, and how has this particular cadence evolved, or the prosody of poetry affected my interaction with the piece? That's just it, isn't it? Everything is an interaction, whether it is the expected experience designed by the author, or not. My college roommate (lifetime roommates A) had an art show consisting of psychological and dreamscape drawings encased behind shutters. In order to reveal the iconographic renderings within, you must first open the window unto heaven. On the doors, a simple labyrinth was drawn, allowing the recipient to trace their fingers along a predetermined route, receiving a visceral interaction and readying preparation for the pieces within.
I admire his dedication. I asked him the last time we got together whether he still runs, and he replied that he couldn't understand the purpose of running unless it were for the olympics. Sometimes I wish I could dedicate as much of myself to studies and betterment. I started late, and my natural proclivity towards knowledge is lesser than some of the intellectual juggernauts in my life. But one of the pieces of D's training that I adopted was an immersive journey. While I cannot (currently) bodily travel to the locations of all my favorite writer's living locations and writing niches, I've started reading biographies of their lives (or autobiographies if available), as a means of grasping some of the driving force behind the motifs littering each author's famous works.
I picked up a rather fun book today by Simic (one of my favorite recent poets) with a number of essays detailing the histories of some of his inspirational poets, and how their lives meshed with their poetry. I'm not a poet yet, not the least bit, but I'm beginning to see, to hear, and to notice when all my other faculties of sense have fallen short.
Why did that poet use that particular phrasing, and how has this particular cadence evolved, or the prosody of poetry affected my interaction with the piece? That's just it, isn't it? Everything is an interaction, whether it is the expected experience designed by the author, or not. My college roommate (lifetime roommates A) had an art show consisting of psychological and dreamscape drawings encased behind shutters. In order to reveal the iconographic renderings within, you must first open the window unto heaven. On the doors, a simple labyrinth was drawn, allowing the recipient to trace their fingers along a predetermined route, receiving a visceral interaction and readying preparation for the pieces within.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Balustrade
After a week's worth of outings, I'm glad of my introvert-night. I had a fantastic week, but I needed an eventual unwind, and tonight's learning journey was worth the wait, even with much of it spent following wikipedia trails and researching the last several poet-laureates. Honestly, sometimes the greatest nights are those with candles, books, music, and blankets as soft as dream-clouds.
an anodyne reminder that life boils down
the fault-lines of souls, to a fragile
ash-wooden sacrifice, one story all-told,
whose spiritual timbres creak and groan,
filling the dark eyes of a child on barrow hill -
I see them still, frameless,
no mountains, no forests , no fields balm
the pain written in runneled lines
down the blind boy's fair face
standing before a sudden grave -
for the ocean, and the motion of waves,
how silent the mountains?
to the valleys who bow beneath,
how wise the lofty peaks
the clouds ever drown in violence?
but the mountains be valleys be dust
in the end, back where it always begins
where we begin again, anon -
I greet the rising sun over a city of glass,
and automobiles with their dumb-eyed daffodils
searing through the fog -
above and beyond all the earth, where
lovers and trees neck in the woods,
here, from the oculus of dreams
we follow the railroad ties of sunlight
struggling between grey seams,
illuminating what our ears see:
a high pitched squeal, a soughing through,
laughter
beneath a chestnut tree high as yggdrasil
in the girl-child's toffee-gaze
joy, I know thee well.
And caught between these siren-stares
I step precariously along the balustrade
one stare at a time.
an anodyne reminder that life boils down
the fault-lines of souls, to a fragile
ash-wooden sacrifice, one story all-told,
whose spiritual timbres creak and groan,
filling the dark eyes of a child on barrow hill -
I see them still, frameless,
no mountains, no forests , no fields balm
the pain written in runneled lines
down the blind boy's fair face
standing before a sudden grave -
for the ocean, and the motion of waves,
how silent the mountains?
to the valleys who bow beneath,
how wise the lofty peaks
the clouds ever drown in violence?
but the mountains be valleys be dust
in the end, back where it always begins
where we begin again, anon -
I greet the rising sun over a city of glass,
and automobiles with their dumb-eyed daffodils
searing through the fog -
above and beyond all the earth, where
lovers and trees neck in the woods,
here, from the oculus of dreams
we follow the railroad ties of sunlight
struggling between grey seams,
illuminating what our ears see:
a high pitched squeal, a soughing through,
laughter
beneath a chestnut tree high as yggdrasil
in the girl-child's toffee-gaze
joy, I know thee well.
And caught between these siren-stares
I step precariously along the balustrade
one stare at a time.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
February
It was a beautiful day, yesterday. Driving up scholls, with the sunlight boring holes through the winter-sparse canopy, I could almost imagine it was spring, for just a moment. I saw fifteen, twenty motorcycles, and children playing in short-sleeved apparel in the cul-de-sacs. With so many people enjoying the weather, it must have reached 10C. I wish that summer skies looked like this, with a depth of blue-violet that electrifies the sky. I visited powells, walked about outside, and then played a bunch of excellent, nerdy games.
I'm feeling, as with all Februarys, the pull of spring, the sweet swing of the earth as it spins ever faster towards equinox. A bunch of stories are churning within me, and I'm almost believing it's the season where I begin writing shorts again. Even though it's probably my least favorite season (the drawn-out portion of winter with work days that begin and end in darkness - I still love this time of year), I think there are a few things that ever draw me to February.
1. amethyst: I've always been drawn to the color purple. I don't have favorites, but I think what interests me most about purple are: the ways the color interacts with thought patterns (students who take tests in purple rooms generally do better); how we torture colors to fit our cultural stereotypes of gender (purple is female - I prefer to think of it as royal, which came because of a rare phoenician dye which was secreted by a rare snail); that the sky is purple as much as blue, but our eyes get confused
2. The lengthening of days becomes more noticeable. Sunset is already after work ends (5:22), and sunrise is nearing when work begins (7:29).
3. My birthday is in this month
4. February is the oddity of the months, being most closely related to an actual moon cycle in term
5.leap years: it jumps a bit with a bunch of strange rules
6. the sneaky 'r' after the b. I like that sneaky 'r' a lot.
7. It has Oregon's birthday in it, and groundhog day, president's day, and even Valentine's day. What an interesting collection. Try and imagine a connection between those, and I'm certain you'll have an interesting story.
8. It can be one of the most finicky of months in terms of weather. Like yesterday, we had sunlight and clear skies, and the most beautiful night of stars and a beaming, cheshire-cat moon. But we are supposed to get a hint of snow tomorrow possibly, and definitely some rain later this week.
9. The mountains are white-tipped (even the shortest, usually. Except this year), the clouds are creative, and the blue skies are the child-eyes of the azure summer and amethyst
Time for adventures, time to live.
I'm feeling, as with all Februarys, the pull of spring, the sweet swing of the earth as it spins ever faster towards equinox. A bunch of stories are churning within me, and I'm almost believing it's the season where I begin writing shorts again. Even though it's probably my least favorite season (the drawn-out portion of winter with work days that begin and end in darkness - I still love this time of year), I think there are a few things that ever draw me to February.
1. amethyst: I've always been drawn to the color purple. I don't have favorites, but I think what interests me most about purple are: the ways the color interacts with thought patterns (students who take tests in purple rooms generally do better); how we torture colors to fit our cultural stereotypes of gender (purple is female - I prefer to think of it as royal, which came because of a rare phoenician dye which was secreted by a rare snail); that the sky is purple as much as blue, but our eyes get confused
2. The lengthening of days becomes more noticeable. Sunset is already after work ends (5:22), and sunrise is nearing when work begins (7:29).
3. My birthday is in this month
4. February is the oddity of the months, being most closely related to an actual moon cycle in term
5.leap years: it jumps a bit with a bunch of strange rules
6. the sneaky 'r' after the b. I like that sneaky 'r' a lot.
7. It has Oregon's birthday in it, and groundhog day, president's day, and even Valentine's day. What an interesting collection. Try and imagine a connection between those, and I'm certain you'll have an interesting story.
8. It can be one of the most finicky of months in terms of weather. Like yesterday, we had sunlight and clear skies, and the most beautiful night of stars and a beaming, cheshire-cat moon. But we are supposed to get a hint of snow tomorrow possibly, and definitely some rain later this week.
9. The mountains are white-tipped (even the shortest, usually. Except this year), the clouds are creative, and the blue skies are the child-eyes of the azure summer and amethyst
Time for adventures, time to live.
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