idee

Idé d’jour

Better keep yourself clean and bright; you are the window through which you must see the world.
— George Bernard Shaw, play write (1856–1950)

At The Cafeteria

At The Cafeteria

Three women
rise from the table,
then walk east.
One says, "I
can multitask. I'm
a woman."
Three women:
maid, mother, matron,
on their way.
Three women
walk as one.

---

Another try with the "Octologue", a syllabic form which is supposed to report a monologue, and have an air of mystery. This is more straight reportage (I actually saw & heard what's reported, yesterday).

Along with Mike Snider, I like to occasionally let you peak behind the curtain (the link is to Mike's "draft" blog). Happily, making poetry is not normally as messy as making saugages. At any rate, you'll see below an image of the first two drafts; on the left, the Moleskine Journal ™ (3.5 x 5.5"), on the right, my bedside journal (4.75 x 7").


Moleskine ™ version
Octologue
Three women
rise from the table
then walk east
Three women
maid, mother, matron
walk as a group
One says, "I
can multitask.
I'm a woman."

The bedside journal version is more or less the final, except I've now given it a title, and I deleted the following lines (beginning at line 7):
Three women,
carrying their trays,
pass me by.
Three

Subliminals

1. Finale:: Grand
2. Martial arts:: film
3. Flirt:: tease
4. Energy:: wind
5. Flavor:: full
6. Guess?:: who?
7. Accomplishment:: List of
8. Prom:: Season
9. Diploma:: mill
10. Bloody:: hell!

Clairvoyance

"You know, back in 2000 a Republican friend of mine warned me that if I voted for Al Gore and he won, the stock market would tank, we'd lose millions of jobs, and our military would be totally overstretched. You know what? I did vote for Al Gore, he did win, and I'll be damned if all those things didn't come true."
— James Carville

---

Reminder: Al Gore won the popular vote.

Idee 5/25

Idée d’jour

In politics, everyone regards themselves as moderate, because they know some sumbitch who's twice as crazy as they are.
— from Blood Done Sign My Name, by Timothy B. Tyson; quoted
in Entertainment Weekly, #766, May 21, 2004, pg. 83.

In Memorium

In Memorium, Father Stan D.
November 20, 1921 – May 18, 2004

Father Stan died on Tuesday, May 18, a week ago today. His funeral was this past Saturday, May 22nd. I can't say I knew him very well. His primary liturgical duties were at the 11:00 service; I normally attend the 9 o'clock. I think I heard him read the Gospel once, about a year and a half ago.

So why did I cry at his funeral?

I suppose it could be by association. I mean, his funeral may have reminded me of other funerals I have attended in my my life. The loss of this man with whom I shared perhaps two face-to-face interactions somehow reminded me of other losses in my life.

But I think it was more than that.

I knew Fr. Stan through "The Community of the Broken Cross," a group of people studying the Rule of St. Benedict. A handful, including Fr. Stan, are oblates of a near-by Roman Catholic Benedictine monastery. The remainder of us seek to apply the Rule to our daily lives, to varying degrees, with varying degrees of success.

Fr. Stan led this group with Mother Nesbitt, who now continues his good work. Fr. Stan would read a passage from the Rule, a meditation, then a commentary. Then the group as a whole would reflect on these passages. This is an application of Lectio Divina, which I have discussed (and applied) elsewhere.

Naturally, Fr. Stan would have his own responses, either to the reading or to the reflections which came out of the group. His reflections were always based on his own experience of a dedicated spiritual life. I maintain that a primary foundation of "integrity" is to practice what one preaches; that is, that one's words be integrated with one's actions.

The man I came to know as Fr. Stan was one who lived his life with integrity.

This is perhaps best exemplified by how he responded to reflections from the group's members. Every time he responded to one of my reflections, for example, I could tell he had truly listened. Even when he disagreed with a point, he would respond respectfully.

As I write this, I remember the first funeral I attended. I was four years old when Grandfather Samuel H— died. Today, I only have two clear memories of Sam: playing chinese checkers, and walking with him to the ice cream shop. I also remember that I cried at his funeral, to the embarrassment of my older brother.

But I knew then, as I know now, that Sam H— loved me. Just as I know that Fr. Stan loved each member of our group. Granted, this was not the love of a grandfather for his youngest grandson — though an argument for similarities may be made. But it was the sincere unconditional love of one who had dedicated his life to the Source of All
Love.

Idee 5/24/04

Idée d’jour

We can put television in its proper light by supposing that Gutenberg's great invention had been directed at printing only comic books.
— Robert M. Hutchins, educator (1899-1977)

Our spring day

Haiku

Verses in Search of Haiku

Leaves whisper as water,
dapple slender stone paths;
late spring afternoon.

Even oak trees lean west,
monkey grass kisses the ground.
Late spring afternoon.

Canyon clouds slowly
scuttle across the sky.
Late spring afternoon.

Yelllow trumpets nod near
heavy wooden chairs.
Late spring afternoon.

This pocket journal
couched upon my lap.
Late spring afternoon.

Idée d’jour

While I have got religion several times in my life, I have always got over it.
— Christopher Key, commenting at Dr. Omed's Tent Show

Oklahoma's State Wildflower

Idee

Idée d’jour: Jesus, the Man With No Name

Who is Jesus?  He has no name.
— Meister Eckhart

---

Today's "Idée" was chosen at random from The Gospel According to Zen, ed. by Sohl & Carr.

I think understand why this chosen for a book related to Zen. It has a very koan-like quality to it. In other words, the statement seems to be a contradiction How can one say Jesus has no name right after they have said the name?

But what is true of most of us is equally true of Jesus: the truth of the whole person is not defined by the name alone. The fact I am called James, and that I inherited my name from my paternal grandfather, may tell you a little about me, but it does not give you much of a clue concerning the whole person. The fact that I have given myself a number of pseudonyms — jac, Jason, and Jonah — may tell you something about my sense of fractured identity and my sense of play, but it still doesn't reveal the whole person.

In the case of Jesus, this may be understood in the context of the pre- and post-resurrection Jesus.

Marcus Borg talks about the pre-resurrection Jesus and the post-resurrection Jesus. The pre-resurrection Jesus is the historical Jesus, of whom we know relatively little. Borg's claim is this person never referred to himself as "Son of God" or claimed equality with the Divine. There is no question this was a remarkable person, who reportedly performed a number of miracles. The persistence of a following after his grisly death suggests that much.

Borg sees the resurrection as a metaphor for the persistence of Jesus' teachings, rather than as a physical reality. So, when Borg talks about the post-resurrection Jesus, he is talking about how the disciples and the early church understood the life and teachings of the very human person Jesus.

I would extend this further to say the post-resurrection Jesus is given flesh (as it were) by those who sincerely strive to follow those teachings. In which case, Jesus may be James as easily as Jane. This is the Jesus who has no one name, but abides with each of us as we serve and allow ourselves to be served.

Ideé d’jour

The fact that a believer is happier than a skeptic is no more to the point than the fact than a drunken man is happier than a sober one.
— George Bernard Shaw, writer, Nobel laureate (1856-1950)

Quote

“Poetry is not an occupation, but a verdict.”
— Leonard Cohen

Idee

Ideé d’jour

To kill time is not murder, it's suicide.
— William James, psychologist and philosopher (1842-1910)

Princeton Summer

I woke up face down at the east end of Nassau Street.
It was one o'clock Princeton summer.
I rolled over. The air was steamy.

Flat on my back, I watched the clouds.
Pink clouds, forming, then breaking apart.
I wasn't dreaming. They came from the factories.

Last I remembered, I had drank three boilermakers.
That was Friday. I was a block away
from the apartment, where three of us lived.

I was hung over. The pink clouds
hung over me. The sky was pot-luck.
The ground was hanging over the sky.

Elsie & I took pictures of native wildflowers on Friday. Here, you see a highly alterred version of Oklahoma's "State Wildflower."

Idee d'jour

Ideé d’jour

Power is of two kinds. One is obtained by the fear of punishment and the other by acts of love. Power based on love is a thousand times more effective and permanent then the one derived from fear of punishment.
— Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948)

Ideé d’

We have met the enemy, and he is us.
— Walt Kelly, 1913–1973; author and artist of Pogo

---

For more along this line, see Stephanie's free-ranging post.

Newly Blog-Rolled

Just added a couple of new "virtual" friends to the list on your left:

• Hail Dubyus! is an editorial cartoon up-dated Monday through Friday. The art is pretty good. I agree more than I disagree (though I do, sometimes, disagree). "Gregorious," as he styles himself, deserves increased readership. Check him out.
• Saunter and Repose, where Keiko Sono has been posting for about a month. What I've seen so far (especially of her photography) impresses me. Go visit her, and leave a comment. Her recent series of photographs of peonies in progress is worth the price of admission alone.

Respects

Respects

God Save King George,
who marches us into the forge,
long may he reign!

God bless his tax cut plan,
and bless the wealthy man
whose riches we maintain.

God save his army bright,
they battle a holy fight
to win God's victory.

Which God will bless the plan
of this compassionate man?
Truth: ’tis the God Ares.

The Poet As Fauve Painting

Old Friends

I've been inspired by Ms. Candide to share a bit of an old school book with you.

This comes from my elementary school, James Madison, which I attended from the first grade through the second. As I dimly recall, the book was being phased out, and the teacher simply gave the books to us at the end of the year.

This is one of the classic "Dick & Jane" books There is no print date, but the copyright is 1946 (Scott, Foresman & Co).

Here, you see the Table of Contents. The copyright information is that very fine print at the bottom of the page. The text is a little more complex than the stereotypical "See Dick run.  Run, Dick, run!" Here, the sentences are actually a little longer — as we shall see.

The selection I still remember is "Dark Pony," which the table of contents lists as a folk tale. Here's the first two pages:

Dark Pony (Folk Tale)
Every night a little dark pony came running along the road.
Every night he took boys and girls to Sleepy Town.
Every night his four little feet came galloping, galloping, galloping.
His color was dark, and he came at dark.
So that is why all the children called him Dark Pony.

One night a boy met Dark Pony running along the road.
The little boy called,
 "Please take me down
 To Sleepy Town."
Dark Pony stopped running.
Up jumped the little boy, and away they went.
Galloping, galloping, galloping.

[Next a little girl, then a little puppy, then Grey Squirrel]

How happy they all were!
They sang and sang and sang.
Soon Dark Pony began to go slower and slower and slower and slower.
He was coming to Sleepy Town.
The puppy, the squirrel, the boy, and the girl were all very sleepy.
And so was Dark Pony.
Slower and slower he went, and at last he stopped.
He had come to Sleepy Town.
And so had the puppy, the squirrel, the boy, and the girl.
They all had come to Sleepy Town.

It's odd. Whenever I think of this entry, I think of it as a poem. It's sort of formatted as a poem, but it does not have a regular rhyme scheme or metrical pattern that I can discern. Primarily, it has repetition; but it is more or less the same sort of repetition common to the remainder of the book.

If it pleases me to call it a poem, it does no one any harm. But I wonder what Mike Snider would say?

Ideé d’jour

Every time I see an adult on a bicycle, I no longer despair for the future of the human race.
— H.G. Wells, writer (1866-1946)

---

The seed of God is in us. Given an intelligent and hard-working farmer, it will thrive and grow up to God, whose seed it is; and accordingly its fruits will be God-nature. Pear seeds grow into pear trees, nut seeds into nut trees, and God seed into God.
— Meister Eckhart, quoted in The Gospel According to Zen, ed. Sohl & Carr.

Insanity of War

Oklahoma Senator Jim Imhofe has guaranteed himself a spot on the news by making a patently absurd comment about the abuse of Iraqi prisoners in Abu Ghraib: "You know, they're not there for traffic violations." Now, as a self-proclaimed "extreme right-wing radical conservative," Senator Imhofe no doubt believes that everyone American police arrest here are automatically guilty as well. Most others recognize, as do senators of both parties, that some in Abu Ghraib were falsely imprisoned. Hearing Senator Imhofe's comments make me want to disown the state in which I was born.

The recent murder of Nick Berg will most likely add fuel to Sen. Imhofe's righteous indignation. No doubt, Sen. Imhofe will view this video of proof that we battle barbarians, who must be destroyed utterly. Take, for example, this well-reasoned essay in the National Review. No doubt Sen. Imhofe will call for us to bomb them all.

Continuing with the Berg story, there's a new twist on blaming the victim:

A U.S. official, speaking on condition of anonymity, said Berg was in Iraq "of his own accord" and had been advised to leave Iraq but refused. The official refused to elaborate but promised more information later Wednesday. [CNN on-line]

Happily, his father has been brave enough to offer another version of that story:

According to his family, Berg, a small telecommunications business owner, spoke to his parents on March 24 and told them he would return home on March 30. But he was detained by Iraqi police at a checkpoint in Mosul on March 24.

Berg was turned over to U.S. officials and detained for 13 days. His father, Michael, said his son wasn't allowed to make phone calls or contact a lawyer. On April 5, the Bergs filed suit in federal court in Philadelphia, contending that their son was being held illegally by the U.S. military. The next day Berg was released. He told his parents he hadn't been mistreated. His family last heard from him April 9 but it was unclear when and where he was abducted. [same article]

To connect these two stories, the "eye for an eye" morality cited by Mr. Berg's killers is no different from Imhofe's contention that the Al Ghraib prisoners got what they deserved because they're terrorists. If there is a difference, it is only by degree. Both incidents simply prove that humans are capable of inflicting untold abuse on their fellow creatures. Not exactly a major headline.

I believe it was Gandhi who originally said that an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth would eventually leave us hungry and blind. I pray people will not see this murder as a justification for our presence in Iraq, or for increased military retaliation.

The situation in that beleaguered country gets exponentially worse with each week, to the point that the VietNam analogy no longer holds. By which I mean to say that the situation seems to be getting worse faster than it did in 'Nam. For example, revelations about the Mai Lai massacre did not become public until sometime in the '70s — by which point, America had been involved in VietNam since sometime in the late 50s. The revelations about prisoner abuse are being made a little over one year after the "end of major conflict."

Britney Spears Sings the Blues
For Pat

The day is longer than my noonday shadow
the leaves are greener than her eyes
The wind comes up, the trees courtsey,
And the leaves sing with a voice of many waters

I walk the cathedral harbor
Where shellfish prayers
Prick my fingers
Barbed wire twines the afternoon
I walk the formidable sidewalk DNA
Through dog-bush warrens
And her impossible magnolia eyes

Light plays feline mazurkas
Across the fractured concrete
Each door could be hers
Each window a foreign country
And though I have chanted the ancient stones
Her shade follows me from pillar to post

More Current Events

Courtesy of the erstwhile Brother Dave, I've read this article by Greg Palast, which discusses Disney's decision not to distribute Michael Moore's film Fahrenheit 9-11. According to Mr. Palast, Moore's film is based on a documentary Palast unsuccesfully tried to distribute to the U.S.

The theme of Palast's documentary, and Moore's entertainment, is the background of why the administration has not further investigated possible Saudi ties to Al Queida and the 9/11 attacks. News flash for the handful of Faux News lovers who somehow stumbled here: most of the men who highjacked those planes were Saudi, not Iraqi or Afghani.

According to Palast (and Moore) the reason that particular lead has been stiffled is the most American reason around: money. GHWB has very close ties to the Saudis, and there's an amazing amount of Saudi money in GWB's campaign war chest.

Meanwhile, Emily forwarded an essay by Bill Moyers on how media conglomeration has affected the quality of information we receive. Sadly, I don't know the origin of the essay, so I can't link to it. Here's an excerpt:

The war in Iraq has become also a war of images. This week, we were troubled by pictures of tortured Iraqi prisoners. Last week, it was photographs of American soldiers who have given their lives there.

On Friday a week ago on Nightline, Ted Koppel read the names of the dead and showed their photographs. But their faces and names were blacked out on ABC stations owned by Sinclair Broadcasting. Sinclair accused Koppel of "...doing nothing more than making a political statement."

But what about Sinclair's own political agenda? With 62 stations the company is the biggest of its kind in the country and has lobbied successfully in Washington for permission to grow even bigger. Its executives are generous contributors to the Republican party.
<snip>
Sinclair's not alone with cozy ties to Washington. Clear Channel, the biggest radio conglomerate in the country (with twelve hundred stations plus), was a big winner in the deregulation frenzy triggered by Congress in 1996. Last year Clear Channel was a cheerleader for the invasion of Iraq with pro-war rallies.

Rupert Murdoch's a big Washington winner, too. Congress and the Republican controlled Federal Communications Commission let him off the hook even though his News Corp. owned more stations than the rules allowed.

Murdoch also controls Fox News, another big cheerleader for American policy in Iraq, [and] the New York Post. For a week, the Post refused to publish photographs of those tortured Iraqi prisoners saying the pictures would "reflect poorly" on the troops risking their lives there.
<snip>
Nowadays, these mega-media conglomerates relieve government of the need for censorship by doing it themselves. So we're reminded once again that journalism's best moments have come not when journalists make common cause with the state but stand fearlessly independent of it. A free press remains everything to a free society.

Finally, from the Smiling Chimp, comes this theory that GWB has chosen stupidity as an Oedipal response to his mostly absent father (famously known as G "Herbert Hoover" WB). This gibes fairly well with what I'm currently reading in American Dynasty by Kevin Phillips. This book is an impressive combination political/psychological biography and sociological analysis.

Ideé d’jour

All know that the drop merges into the ocean but few know that the ocean merges into the drop.
— Kabir, reformer, poet (late 15th century)

Benefit Concert Tonight

I know it's short notice, but Da Band is doing a benefit concert at St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral tonight in Oklahoma City. Tickets are $5 at the door.

If you're new to this web-log, you don't know that I'm a vocalist/harp blower for this group of middle-aged miscreants. We're playing stuff from the 50s & 60s. Some Stones, a respectable amount of Beatles, some Carl Perkins ... well, you get the idea. We've been rehearsing for several months since our last gig, so I imagine folk will really hear a difference.

As vocalist, I'm sort of the "boy singer", in that I'm normally called on to sing ballads like "My Girl" or "And I Love Her". The exceptions are "Like a Rolling Stone" and the Elvis Presley medley. Folk try to give me Moon Pies after the Presley thing; not sure why.

Anyway, proceeds benefit St. Paul's Outreach Commission, whose projects extend beyond the cathedral walls — some even extend beyond Oklahoma City. So, it's a good cause.

St. Paul's is at N.W. 7th & Robinson, downtown OKC. The concert is in Dean Willey Hall, which is the middle of three buildings. Concert begins with an opening band at 7:00, then Da Band follows somewhere between 7:15 and 7:30.

Hope to see you there!

Midday Sketch

Sky dome arcs
from north-east to south-west
from north-west to south-east
her marian blue robe
stretches from north pole
to southern cross

Great turtle slowly turns
as she builds her nest
creature of habit, she
tracks the course of her beloved
across the day

Dust is stirred by her massive feet
it colors the sky like a sand painting

Who doesn't belong?
Perhaps the vigilant owls
at the hem of Aurora's gown
Perhaps the four hawks preceding her
And the eight silver kites behind
Perhaps the buffalo or puma,
the coyote, or the jackrabbit
Perhaps this tiny circle of Red Dirt
she smiles upon
But she smiles because she loves it
most of all

---

Work in progress. You may note the "vigilant owls", which I have included as an homage to the good Dr. O.

What you see here is transcribed from my Moleskine Journal®. I have a feeling the "Who does not belong" stanza will change in the next transcription. Stay tuned.

Bookmarks

Stray scrap of envelope flap
shopping list
credit card receipt
plastic-encased pictograph of Horus on papyrus
multi-colored ribbons

Where she works
where she once sang
her powder-blue scrubs
her green station wagon
her tent in the storm
the hovel where we kissed
even the street

Her head seen from behind
her long soft hair
her breast pressed against mine
her hands
her silken tongue
her voice in lost afternoons

Hazardous Duty

I've seen and heard a couple of stories recently on the relatively short life spans of poets. This reminds me of the parlor game Dr. Omed & I like to play: listing all the writers we can think of who killed themselves.

Limiting it for the moment to 20th C Americans, there's Hemingway (who wrote some pretty bad poetry), Plath, Anne Sexton, and Fitzgerald (via drink). I believe there's a lot more, but those are all the names I can think of at the moment.

On the other hand, poetry might be less risky than construction work. Doubt I'm going to end up with 6 pens or pencils driven into my head and neck any time soon.

Actually, that short life-span thing seems like pretty hopeful news to me. My retirement plan consists of dying at age 65.

Current Events

Please read "Business as Usual" at Dick Jones' Patteran Pages.  It's the first sensible response to the "shocking" tapes of our soldiers abusing prisoners in Iraq.  Bottom line:  we train these guys to kill.  At the same time, most major religions teach it is wrong to kill. In order to overcome this moral repugnance against killing, soldiers are taught to consider the enemy less than human. So, as Dick points out, it's more shocking we haven't heard a story similar to this sooner.

On the less sensible or reasonable side, see this report (Sick, Sick, Sick) on Rush Limbaugh's reaction. I've glanced at the transcript at Rush's site, and the quotes are accurate. Rush does say Marv Albert would be turned on by the pics, and seems draw a moral equivalence with Britney Spears' stage show. Proving once again that Rush is an entertainer, not a commentator who should be taken seriously.

Those who have used Saddam's torture palaces as justification for our invasion are hopefully reconsidering that position. It definitely must look to the Iraqis like the American bully is as bad as the Baathist bully. Certainly, the publication of these images make the situation several times worse.

Finally, this cartoon by Gregorious gives you a fair notion how civil liberties are doing here at home.

Ideé d’jour

Love is like war; easy to begin but very hard to stop.
— H.L. Mencken, writer, editor, and critic (1880-1956)

New Card

You may recall, a coupla weeks ago, my reporting an international collaboration with Natalie d’Arbeloff (the alter-ego of Augustine, or vice-versa; both of whom live in England). She was trusting enough to lend me four digitally-created images, and I have been ever-so-slowly writing poetic responses to them.

Originally, I had pictured this like a series of panels. Ultimately, we agreed it was best if each image/poem combination stood on its own. So far, we've got The Apparition and Escape. Just this morning I completed the penultimate image/poem. Natalie has approved it, so now I can share Stardust with you.

Between these wonderful images and aubergines, I hardly have an excuse to have residual writer's block.

Back to the Moleskine Journal® ....

Subliminals

1. Sexy :: Beast
2. Clique :: high school
3. Pledge :: allegiance
4. Carbs :: low
5. Dream Job :: dream life
6. Sweeps :: stake
7. Soundtrack :: movie
8. Hero :: sandwich
9. Shave :: Burma
10. Christina :: ballerina

Meditation on Owls

Dr. Omed posted the following mini-dissertation in the comments section of Thistle & Hemlock:

Owl, in Middle English "oule;" Old English "ille" cognate with Low German "ule" and German "eule" all from the presumed proto-Germanic "uwwalo" or "uwwilo." Another derivation of owl is Icelandic "ugla" cognate to "ugglier" which came into English via Scandinavian as "ugly." In contrast to the modern meaning of ugly, "uggligr" means fearful, dreadful. Owl in Hindi is "ul" or "ulu;" Latin "bubo" Greek "buas" Hebrew "o-ah" Nepali "huhu."

The Owl Lodge was an old institution among the Oglala Sioux. The Sioux venerated the Snowy Owl; warriors who had shown bravery in battle could wear a cap of owl feathers. However, many Athabascan tribes fear the owl and consider it taboo. The Yakama tribes in Washington State regard the owl as a powerful totem.

The Hindu Goddess Laxmi rides an owl.

There was flightless owl species on Andros Island in the Bahamas, now extinct and known only from recovered remains. "Tytopollens" stood one meter tall and according to old local tales were apparently thought to be leprechaun like imps called "chickeharnies," with three toes, and able to turn their heads all the way around.

Athena Pronoia's bird was a little owl, Athena Noctua; as it was held sacred and thus protected the owl inhabited the acropolis in great numbers.

Australian Aborigines believe owls represent the souls of women, as bat do for the men, Thus, an owl is every man's sister, daughter, and mother.

Owl in Scots Gaelic is "coileach;" cognate "Cailleach" means old woman. The owl is often associated with the crone aspect of the Goddess.

The earliest image of an owl may be a paleolithic drawing of Snowy Owls (Nyctea Scandiaca) in a cave in France. Other owl petroglyphs have been found from the Victoria River Valley in North Australia to the Columbia River in Washington. A Screech Owl is part of a bas relief of Mayan ruler "3" in Dos Pilas in Guatemala.

"I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls." Job 30:29

<snip> ...I've been trying to write a poem on owls, the owls that are not what they seem, for several years now. Thus far I have failed utterly.

Impressive work. As an aside, I've found that a lot of study on a topic can kinda plug up the poetic works. The temptation is to frustrate oneself while trying to throw in everything one has learned.

I had this same problem in my unfininshed poem on the Columbia disaster (I never got further than the introit). I bought a couple of special issues, read the official biographies of the astronauts who died, followed the theories on the cause of the disaster ... and ended up totally blocked. Finally had to let go of the project to move ahead with any kind of writing at all.

For good or ill, I did not have this problem with the Aubergine sestina which appears below. I did a bit of research, and a couple of the links reflect said research. Guess I did ok — Josh called it "rather lovely" in an e-mail.

As for owls, I'm content to ask them to make cameo appearances in an occassional poem.

In Defense of Aubergine

Adam was in a restaurant in Cape Town
when he noticed something upon his plate:
a glossy fruit, a curious mad apple,
and the wild purple on the pure white
reminded him of eggs in a secret garden.
There — lightly sauteed — the mysterious aubergine.

Eve watched him delicately slice the aubergine
into neat quarters.  The Cape Town
afternoon swept across the restaurant garden
as sunlight danced upon his plate.
Adam speared a slice, carried it from white
to his mouth like a shiny forbidden apple.

And the "oh" of it was a tender apple
bush, that bitter-sweet aubergine.
The table cloth was blue, the sky was white
as silence seemed to rule that Cape Town
patio where Adam cleaned his plate
bite by bite, like birds in a garden.

Eve was thinking of summer jazz in the garden
of another eatery, near the Big Apple.
What was the name? — she had the salad plate —
ah, she knew it now — it was the Aubergine.
Well, that was a world away from Cape Town
where the sea is blue & the waves are white.

"This is good," he said, his eyes shining white
as his left hand swayed like a garden.
He was thinking of leaving Cape Town
for it was no longer a diamond apple.
But for now, he was lost in aubergine,
lost in the disks left on his plate.

Eve had already cleaned her plate
and was waiting for a soft white
chocolate mousse. She'd had no aubergine
that was not fresh from the garden.
For dessert, she ordered an apple,
a foreigner in Cape Town.

They left Cape Town, and Adam's plate,
sharing the apple and the white
sky. Left the garden, blessed by aubergine.

---

For more on this, see Josh's entries at Cahiers de Corey, beginning 2:21 p.m. on Wednesday, April 28. Josh is keeping a pretty extensive list of other blogs which have picked up this “meme” in his subsequent entries. Even Katey, one of my favorite poets, has entered the fray.

aubergine [oh-behr-ZHEEN], n.

1: hairy upright herb native to southeastern Asia but widely cultivated for its large glossy edible fruit commonly used as a vegetable [syn: eggplant, brinjal, eggplant bush, garden egg, mad apple, Solanum melongena]

2: egg-shaped vegetable having a shiny skin typically dark purple but occasionally white or yellow [syn: eggplant, mad apple]

WordNet ® 1.6, © 1997 Princeton University

Also:

<jargon> A secret term used to refer to computers in the presence of computerphobic third parties.

The Free On-line Dictionary of Computing, © 1993-2003 Denis Howe

Both courtesy of Dictionary.com

Correction

Not the fine web-log of the same name, but making a correction to a slight spelling error. Probably too late to go through and correct the spelling in all the entries where I mention this item, so this entry will have to do:

The brand-name of the journal I've mentioned several times is Moleskine. That final "e" makes a BIG difference, especially when you're searching through the Google wilderness.

The journal is made in Italy, which kinda explains why Real Live Preacher would tell me it's pronounced "Mol-eh-skeen-eh".

This information does put my mind at ease. I've been having nightwares in which crazed Italians were out skinning moles for these journals ....

Ideé d’jour

The reason the Pentagon thought Iraq had weapons of mass destruction was they still had the receipts. — E-mail humor; original source unknown

Ideé d’jour

Did you know that the worldwide food shortage that threatens up to five hundred million children could be alleviated at the cost of only one day, only ONE day, of modern warfare.
— Peter Ustinov, actor, writer and director (1921-2004)

At the end of his book Plan of Attack, Bob Woodward asks the Resident how history would judge his Iraq war. Mr. Bush smiled: "‘History,’ he said, shrugging, taking his hands out of his pockets, extending his arms out and suggesting with his body language that it was so far off. ‘We won't know. We'll all be dead.’"

Unfortunately, this is the administration's attitude about environmental issues, as well. Who cares if the ozone burns away in just a few generations? My cronies & I will be dead by then.

And heck, come the rapture, God's gonna provide us with a brand-spanking new Earth. Yep, after the muscle-bound Jesus has cleaned the clock of all the Muslims, Buddhists, Democrats, and other infidel unbelievers, he's gonna scrub the atmosphere clean so we can start all over again.

All five Republicans who have actually obeyed every jot and tittle of the Mosaic code, that is.

Hand Mandala

These hands
those slender fingers
that silver thread

This silver thread
those illumined notes
that chapel of light

This chapel of light
the intricate lines
define that hungry dark

This darkness
that thin line
this doorway

Those pilgrims
walking through
that doorway

This chapel
that high silver thread
these hands


Here you see the mandala I produced in the workshop I describe below. What was interesting about this process was getting my inner critic/analyst to shut the heck up. The critic was saying "You know, this is unbalanced. If you put an element here, you really should balance it with an element here." Just when I put the critic back in his appropriate corner, the analyst would chime in: "You know what this means, don't you? You got secrets. You want to hold your light inside. The teacher's coming over now! She's going to be able to tell how screwed up you are!"

I think we spent, maybe, around 30 minutes creating these mandalas. Of that time, I think I had between 5 to 10 minutes where I could silence those dueling voices. During those times, my hand seemed to flow along the paper. Then my heart seemed to be singing through the whiteness. Well, that's prayer, isn't it?

By the way — my handy dictionary says the word "mandala" comes from Sanscrit, and means "a design symbolizing the universe". This design, I suppose, represents the universe of my soul as well as the greater universe. Both are connected, y'know.

Class time was constrained, so we had to stop at the end of those 30 minutes. As we were reflecting on the process, Ms. Rugh suggested we keep our mandalas in a spot where we would see it on a regular basis. She suggested it might call us to add more to it, or to respond to it in another artistic form (e.g., poetry). Naturally, Elsie asked if I would be writing a poem for my mandala. Thanks to my sense of being blocked, I was non-committal.

I did put the mandala across from my bed, where I would see it every night & every morning.

Phrases started coming into my head as I was driving home. Over the past few days, I've been recording those phrases in my new Moleskin (Mol-eh-skeen-eh, according to Real Live Preacher) Journal®.

Shall I let you peek behind the curtain? I think I shall:

I.
These hands
this intimate intricate chapel of light
those quarter note fingers


This illuminated circle
describing the dark
These hands form
the illuminated circle
which describes the dark

II.
These hands
those slender fingers
that thin silver thread

This chapel of light
those illuminated notes
describing the dark

These fingers
follow the thread
through the dark

Pilgrims honoring
the line that marks
this thin doorway

Moon mountains bow
before earth valleys
as these hands illumine the circuit

As you see, the poem was further honed in the process of transferring it from my Moleskin Journal® to my (larger) bedroom journal.

At least for the moment, the Moleskin is encouraging scribbling for its own sake. Not sure why. Maybe because it is so handy. Maybe because I often carry it close to my heart. Anyway, the notorious inner critic has been mostly quiet as I've scribbled in this new journal.

Perhaps, even though it is a rectangle rather than a circle, this new journal can be a mandala in which I honor & discover my soul.

Art Therapy & Spirituality

Image is the language of Soul – Thomas Moore

Saturday, April 24th
St. Gregory's University, Shawnee, OK
Facilitators: Madeline M. Rugh, Ph.D., A.T.R.
Sheryl Cozad, M.F.A.

Ms. Rugh began our session by emphasizing a small hearth she had created. It consisted of a stone, a feather, and a candle. She felt a hearth was important in this enclosed academic studio. A hearth should bring together the fundamental elements of earth (the stone), fire (the candle), air (the feather), and water. The blessed Hildegard von Bingen believed we needed these fundamental elements in our home to help center us, because we are made from them.

Madeline then discussed the origins of Art Therapy, which became an official discipline in 1977. It was created by two sisters; one a Freudian analyst, the other an artist. Each sister represents a different "leg" the discipline has had since its inception: the studio and the couch. The analytic (couch) side sees the discipline primarily as a diagnostic tool. In other words, the patient will draw something and the analyst will interpret the picture to discern what's wrong with the patient with the goal of a "cure".

This emphasis on interpretation, as you might see, negates creativity or aesthetics. Is it possible the Art Therapist could trade a story for the patient's creation? It may seem a subtle difference. It's the difference between telling someone what their art "means" and telling them what their art reminds you of.

This latter response demands a degree of vulnerability most analysts are not comfortable with. Enter James Hillman, and Depth Psychology.

Depth Psychology, building on the theories of Carl Jung, recognizes that Art and Spirituality have long been partners. From the famous cave paintings to Chartres' Rose Window, and on and on, humans have used art as a means of expressing, or relating to, the ineffable. In this model, the therapist listens to the whole of the client's life, using art as the medium for conversation. The art, therefore, has value on its own merit — rather than as a mere diagnostic tool.

Madeline then talked about some of her work as an Art Therapist. In particular, a painting she did for a client. The client told her his story, she prayerfully listened, then created a work of art which incorporated his talismans, spirit guides, and other symbols which were significant to the client.

After Ms. Cozad discussed similar work she has done, Madeline led the group through a hands-on experience. She explained that all care of the soul takes the form of a circle, and that we would be creating our own mandalas. She gave us some black construction paper, white-leaded pencils, and plastic plates.

She then led us in a prayer over our pencils. Talk about honoring your tools!

---

Open your heart.
Perceive pure soul light
being projected from the back of your skull
onto your third eye.
Feel this light fill your opened heart.

---

We then used a scratch sheet to get accustomed to our pencil — to get a sense of going from faint white to bright, hard white. Our goal, you see, was to illumniate the manadala.

She told us to lay each hand within the circle and trace it with the other, in any position we wished. From there, we created. With fear & trembling, we entered the mandala, working out our own soul.

---

Trace the labyrinth with your fingers.
Work into the dark.
Illuminate your circle.
Honor the fruitful darkness.

Ideé d’jour

America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter, and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.
— Abraham Lincoln, 16th U.S. President (1809-1865)

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To whit: the Patriot Act (Pts I & II). The pseudo-election of the current Resident. The gerrymandering of Texas, et al (i.e., Colorado). Diebold election machines. The list goes on ....

Sub-Liminals

1. Elastic :: man
2. Intervention :: class
3. Risk :: game
4. Junk food :: junkie
5. Arrogance :: American
6. Responsibility :: Maturity
7. X :: Malcolm
8. Marshall :: Plan
9. Kill :: the killer (or Bill)
10. Brother :: Dave

---

The final entry is a sort of "two-fer": it represents both my relative and the comedian.  The first entry would be well understood by the Comic Book Guy.  There may be a connection between 5 and 6.  Like, if our leadership were mature enough to accept responsibility for its actions, perhaps the world community would not view it as being arrogant. Just a thought.

Surreal Compliment

Oh how my pathological scar desires to read poems through the ruddied girth of your soul!
— Courtesy The Surreal Compliment Generator.

Props to Rayne for the link!

Moleskin Fragments

Eat six metals
watch the rose window spin
like Ezekiel's wheel

---

Intimately folded eighth notes
across the Celtic line

---

Have you heard of the Moleskin ® Journal? I had not, until Real Live Preacher posted an entry about his.

Anyway, it's a charming (but, at $10 a pop, expensive) pocket-sized journal which has been used — according to the ads — by Van Gogh, Matisse, and Hemingway. One thing which makes this journal handy is its rigid "moleskin" cover, which makes it easier to write in when one doesn't have a hard surface to place the notebook on.

I bought mine yesterday, at Elsie's encouragement. Doubt I'll start writing like Real Live Preacher or Hemingway. But one guaranteed way for a writer to get over his/her block is for said writer to buy something to honor the trade. Notebook or pen, something about investing in either just about demands that something be written. I can't tell you how many partially full notebooks I have scattered about the place, but each one represents – in its way – a block and the leap over the block.

A word about the above fragments: the first "triad" came to me early Thursday morning. I had been awakened around 2:30 a.m. by 2-3 male cats seranading their intended. It took me a while to wake up enough to scatter the crew elsewhere. In the meantime, my unconscious came up with the mysterious phrase "eat six metals". May have been a curse intended for the horny felines, but I don't think so. There was something else that followed that injunction — some kind of promise, I think — but that's been lost. Anyway, after scattering the kitty chorus, I entered a semi-psychogogic state, and perceived a stained-glass rose window spinning (like Ezekiel's wheel) at the place of my third eye.

The "couplet" came as I was driving home from an "Art Therapy & Spirituality" workshop Elsie and I attended in Shawnee last night. More about that workshop later.

Now, I'm going to church with Preferring Christ in my right hand and my mole journal in my left pants pocket. Who knows what new fragments will be collected?

Ideé d’jour

Poets are constitutionally obliged to be ... sad and lonely; otherwise we'd be writing advertising or self-help books.
— The Very Rt. Rev. Dr. Omed, poet & bon-vivant

Emily for the Day

Sleep is supposed to be
By souls of sanity
The shutting of the eye.

Sleep is the station grand
Down which, on either hand
The hosts of witness stand!

Morn is supposed to be
By people of degree
The breaking of the Day.

Morning has not occurred!

That shall Aurora be —
East of Eternity —
One with the banner gay —
One in the red array —
That is the break of Day!

c. 1858; Johnson, poem 13, pg 12

---

Returning to poetry, specifically my study of the early work of Emily Dickinson — This is a charming poem, with a varying rhyme scheme and stanza length.
Most of the stanzas use a triple rhyme (note the "ands" in the second stanza and the "ays" in the final stanza), and it's entirely possible the final word of the first stanza is intended as half rhyme. The long "e" rhymes of the first stanza repeat in the third and fifth stanza. The lonely "ay" rhyme in the third stanza is used to conclude the poem in the fifth stanza. These repeated vowel sounds tend to hold the poem together, and emphasize the lack of a rhyme for the single-line fourth verse.

What I read into this poem is a conflict between people of reason and those who dream. The phrase "souls of sanity" is echoed by "people of degree", which suggests a certain irony, or tension. This tension is brought to the breaking point by the single-line fourth verse: "Morning has not occurred!"

In other words, all the tools of reason do not recognize true morning. "Morning", as a new beginning or new birth, is best recognized in brightly-dressed Aurora, the Roman Goddess of the dawn. This is the province of the poets and the dreamers.

Love, Italian Style

My referrer list made me aware that someone in Italy had Googled into this page. This, in turn, led me to an Italian version of this blog page. You know? I think I sound better in a Romance language.

Here's my "Woody Guthrie-ish" verse, "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Uncle Sam" in Italian:

Non lasci il sole andare giù sullo zio Sam
Non lasci il sole andare giù sulla libertà
Non lasci la libertà essere di funzionare dalla città
Non lasci la nostra bandierina transformarsi in in treason
Non lasci la vittoria delle ombre
Neghi gli uomini poco profondi
Con le teste fatte di paglia

Non lasci il sole regolarsi su discorso libero,
vita, libertà e consuetudinario;
Non lasci che il timore regoli il giorno
Non voti i vostri diritti via

Non lasci il sole andare giù sullo zio Sam
Mantengalo vivo & camminando attraverso la nostra terra

Pretty cool, huh?

“Best Of” Now Available

Not that I suppose anyone has been chomping at the bit, but I've finally completed a mini-site which compiles what I believe are the best entries I've posted over the past year (March 03 – March 04).

Click here for the "Home Page"

I'm afraid I was left to my own devices, as there were no nominations for best entries (insert appropriate Eyore-quality sigh here). I had a couple of criteria as I selected the entries: (1) entries I still liked upon re-reading; and (2) entries which received positive feed-back when they were posted.

The first two choices (listed under "Prose" on the home page) reflect firsts — the first entry on the blog, and the first poem I posted.

Here's the complete list:
Prose

1. First Post
2. First Poem
3. On Forgiveness
4. Meeting George Wallace
5. Who Am I This Time?
6. What's in a Name,II
7. Happy Birthday, St. Leonard
8. Today's Holy Reading
9. Belated Lectio
10. Automatic Apocalypse

Poetry

1. Beautiful Hands
2. My beloved is handsome
3. It's 4 a.m.
4. She sleeps in beauty
5. Door Open
6. America, the Lost
7. Storm at Midnight
8. rosary guitar
9. Ruby Stars
10. Jonquil Dreams

Lastly, grateful props to Ms. Candide (of the late, lamented Thistle & Hemlock for her support and advice.

More Changes
I've been tweaking some things in the Saturn Sequence on-line chapbook. Among the notable changes: I've added 5 poems to the "Other Poems" section:

1. Crash on the Highway
2. Ghosts on the Radio
3. The Green House
4. Java Blues
5. Death of the Father

Two of these are song lyrics. One of the songs is obviously a song; the other is not. Your mission: name the two songs.

What's On Your Desk?

In his comment on my "Book Game" entry, Dr. Omed asked what books I have on my desk. As you can see, there is precious little room actually on my desk. I moved The Book of Mercy back to the book shelves, so the only book literally on my desk at the moment is the King James' Version of The Book of Psalms, which was given to me when I was very young (maybe age 5). Near the desk is Thomas H. Johnson's edition of The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, which I've been drawing on as I sporadically study the work of that magnificent poet.

As Elsie has pointed out, I have a series of neat piles throughout the house. So, in no special order, here are the books stacked in strategic places about the house:

Table

• Sing Out! v48, no 1
• Linda Cobb: Talking Dirty with / Talking Dirty Laundry with / the Queen of Clean
• Patricia Cornwell: Portrait of a Killer
• UNESCO: Our North American Heritage
• Chaucer: The Canterbury Tales (NCE)

Recliner

• Thich Nhat Hanh: Going Home: Jesus & Buddha as Brothers
• Kevin Phillips: American Dynasty
• Barbara Kingsolver: Small Wonder
• Richard Rhodes: How to Write
• Larry Dossey: Prayer is Good Medicine
• Malachy McCourt: Danny Boy – Legend of the Beloved Irish Ballad

Couch

• Marianne Williamson: Illuminata
• Susan Wooldridge: poemcrazy
• Roberts & Amidon, eds: Prayers for a Thousand Years

Flight Path

• Norvene Vest: Preferring Christ: A Devotional Commentary & Workbook on the Rule of St. Benedict

Bed

• Paul Begala: It's Still the Economy Stupid
• Margaret Crave: I Heard the Owl Call My Name
• Andy Gill & Kevin Odegard: A Simple Twist of Fate: Bob Dylan and the Making of Blood on the Tracks
• Thomas a´Kempis: Of the Imitation of Christ
• Terry Southern: Red-Dirt Marijuana
• Patrick McDonnell: Mutts 6 - A Little Look-See
• Terry Moore: Strangers in Paradise 12: Heart in Hand

I am actively reading A Simple Twist of Fate and Benedict's Dharma (the latter edited by Patrick Henry). I also read Entertainment Weekly as I eat breakfast. If that's not too much information.

Dr. Omed has also challenged me to craft a found poem from these fifth line on page 23 of each of these books. I'll consider it. Might be just the thing I need to break my current block.

Changes

I have moved the location of my electronic chapbook, The Saturn Sequence. This new location insures that you (my trusted and loyal audience) will be able to read the poetry collected without the distraction of persistent pop-up ads.

I am also working on the "Best of 2003-2004" pages, which will include poetry and prose selections that have been posted on this site from March of '03 through March '04.

Stay tuned for more details.

Sub-Liminal

1. Virginia :: Roanoke
2. Soft :: tissue
3. Carol :: Y—
4. Vanity :: Fair
5. Feminist :: humanist
6. Alias :: Sydney Briscoe
7. Coward :: Noel
8. Beer :: chaser
9. Chance :: the Gardner
10. Honest :: to goodness

Item 3 refers to a friend named Carol. Item 6 is related to a tv program. I think the other responses may go without explanation.

The Book Game

I first saw this peculiar game mentioned at Katey's One Good Bumblebee. Since then, I've seen it at Mabrina's Forge, the Stickpoet, and elsewhere.

Gotta say, I don't really get the point of the excercise, but it's a cute idea. Besides, the Good Doctor has done it. So, I naturally do as the Doctor orders.

Here's the rules:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence along with these instructions.

The book which is on my (somewhat cluttered) desk at the moment is Book of Mercy by Leonard Cohen (Random House, New York, NY, © 1984). This book is promoted as "contemporary psalms", and I'm inclined to agree. Uniquely, these are psalms written as prose poetry.

Psalm 11 begins on page 23 of this particular edition. The fifth sentence of this psalm is "Various families came to him and showed him all the chairs he might sit in."

Now what does that tell us? What does it tell me that Dr. Omed has Camille Paglia's Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson close to hand? Not much, I suppose. It does introduce folk in the blogverse to a number of different books, and alternate voices.

All to the good.

Ideé d’jour

Unthinking respect for authority is the greatest enemy of truth.
— Albert Einstein, physicist, Nobel laureate (1879-1955)

Nick arranged the altar flowers at the Cathedral every week for a number of years. Nick was an artist in many ways, and arranging the altar flowers was one way he shared that gift with the Church.

Another way Nick shared his artistic gift was through hand-painted Easter eggs. He used wooden eggs, rather than blown natural eggs. These eggs were given to the Sunday School teachers. One example is below, under "Easter Phoenix"; another example is above. Considering these wooden eggs are the same size as an average hen's egg, the detail is impressive.

Fran has a glass bowl full of eggs painted by Nick. She and her husband Gary also have a painting, and a beautiful sculpture done by Nick.


Chris tells the story of how Nick slipped a painted egg into his pocket last Easter (or maybe the prior Easter).  Chris believes to this day that Nick "stole" one of the eggs in Fran's bowl.

Nick died the Saturday prior to Thanksgiving.  He was arranging the flowers for Sunday, with a special Thanksgiving theme.  He passed out, and was rushed to the nearest hospital.  By the time the ambulance reached the hospital, Nick was dead.

I never met Nick.  Based on the stories told, I would have remembered him. As Fran said, "He would not let you ignore him."

At the funeral, Dean Back referred to Nick as a "Child of God." Certainly, Nick had been baptized into God's family; but he did not have all the rights & privileges of any other member.

The church would not recognize Nick's relationship with Jim. The church has no service for such unions. When Jim died earlier the same year, their relationship could not be officially recognized. 

If Nick had been ordained to the priesthood, he could not have had such an open relationship with Jim.  Nor, according to many, could he be a Bishop.

Were Nick and Jim such notorious sinners?  It's hard to believe that; their relationship lasted more than a decade (15-20, I believe). In the gift of these eggs, in the altar flowers, we see how freely Nick shared himself with God's family.

In the stories told this Sunday, I saw how deeply Nick touched many lives in God's family.

Isn't it about time we accepted Nick and Jim, as well as Edie and Gail, as full members of God's family?

Subliminals

1. Boxing :: Day
2. Lewis :: & Clark
3. Bodyguard :: Postman
4. Burnout :: Case
5. Cruising :: on a lazy afternoon...
6. Easter :: egg
7. AA :: Bill W
8. Research :: Park
9. Redemption :: Avenue
10. Snickers :: Bar

Ideé d’jour

All marketing is proselytizing. Diet Coke is trying to convert people from Diet Pepsi.
— Phil Vischer, producer of the Veggie Tales series, quoted in Entertainment Weekly #760 (April 16, 2004), 36

This Bunny Died For You

Much in the spirit of my iconoclastic friend, I wanted to post an image of the Easter Bunny being crucified. OK, warped sense of humor, but I'm not alone: see The Passion of the Bunny.

Oh, those crazy AOG'ers! The point of scourging the Easter Bunny, apparantly, was to make the point that Easter was about more than said Bunny. And yet, they're torturing it just as Jesus was reportedly tortured.

I wonder whether Ms. Bickerton, the youth minister at the church which did this presentation, still has her position.

Art by Nick Irza, d. 11/03.

Ideé d’jour

Life itself is the proper binge — Julia Child, quoted in the Little Zen Book

The Vision, The Poem

Just remembered I have a new poem/card I haven't linked you to yet. This is another response to one of Natalie d'Arbeloff's digital images. This one has a slightly different lay-out than my normal "poem postcard"; I think of it as a sort of notecard.

The poem is only three lines long, but it took a couple of days to hone to where I was happy with it. More time was taken in the design — I used the positioning function of Cascading Style Sheets (CSS) to place the poem on the nice dark blue background Natalie created for the left side. The web-savvy among you will be aware that a browser above version 4 or 5 will be required to properly view this page. In fact, you may not be able to read the poem at all (unless you use View/Source), since the lettering is yellow. My limited research suggests most people are using a browser above 4 or 5; if you are not, my apologies. May I recommend Firefox?

---

Just learned that Natalie has just posted the full series of digital images on her site, here. The ones she initially loaned me are the top four pictured. I hope to have a poetic response to each of these by the end of April.

I like all of these pictures, but my favorites (beyond those four) are Pregnant, Wondering, Meditation, and Resurrection. So, do drop by Natalie's Augustine blog; tell her jac sent ya.

Seeking Shelter

I'm taking a break from Emily Dickinson today, to write about a lyrical ballad which - for me - relates to Good Friday.

This ballad was written in 1974. It is a both a true ballad, and a sung ballad. It begins:

’Twas in another lifetime,
One of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue
And the road was full of mud
I come in from the wilderness,
A creature void of form;
"Come in," she said, "I'll give you
Shelter from the storm."

You may recognize it now. It's a song from Bob Dylan's album, Blood on the Tracks. The lyrics for the rest of the song may be read here [note the transcriber breaks the lines differently than I would].

With ten verses, this almost qualifies as one of Dylan's long story songs; and thus, we may rightly call it a sung ballad. But it also fits a rhythmic pattern that may sound familiar from our study of Emily Dickinson poems: 4 accents in the first line, three in the following; the remaining verses generally fit that same model. This is the troubador's ballad form. And, if Dylan is telling a story here, it's appropriate that he use the troubador ballad form.

But what is the story? One striking clue occurs in what I count as the fifth verse: "She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns." Then there's this line in the penultimate verse: "In a little hilltop village / they gambled for my clothes." Certainly, in the context of Good Friday, we recognize the scene. What makes this even more striking to me is that the fact that Dylan wrote this five years before Slow Train Coming and his noisy conversion to Christianity.

We might discount these lines as throw-away, but there's other hints and reflections hidden in the song. In the fourth verse he sings, "I was hunted like a crocodile / Ravaged in the corn", which to my ear sounds very like "I am a worm and no man" from Psalm 22 (vs. 6); this same psalm has a number of other animal images (bulls, dogs, lions) which might also apply. In the 7th verse, "The deputy walks on hard nails / And the preacher rides a mount ... And the one-eyed undertaker blows a futile horn"; this reminds me of Psalm 22, verse 16: "the assembly of the wicked have inclosed me". Then, that line about gambling for his clothes - that could refer to verse 18 ("They part my garments among them, and cast lots upon my vesture") as much as it does to the Passion story.

For me, the punchline to the whole thing comes in the last line (appropriately): "Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born". The feminine Dylan is singing of is not the anima-projection he found in his wife Sarah; it is a woman who was with God from the beginning. In other words, the Hagia Sophia, the divine feminine.

And what does it say to me, on this Good Friday 2004? It reminds me that living the Christian life is not easy. Anyone who believes they can reach a meaningful Easter without the suffering of Good Friday is denying a part of our essential humanity. As the Buddha said, "Life is suffering". We do not reach the Promised Land without turning our back on what enslaves us. Odds are we will wander in the wilderness, or lay awake through the Dark Night of the Soul called Crow Time.

But there is shelter available, even in the wilderness. The Divine Feminine does not shun Crow Time or the Darkness or the Wilderness. She will meet us there, walking up to us in grace and beauty. Though we may "get our signals crossed" and find ourselves "living in a foreign country", she will continue to be our companion. Offering the protection and healing of her wings. Leading the way to shelter. Shelter from the storm.

Prize-Winning Sermon

Hey! Psst! Spare five minutes to read a good Unitarian Sermon? It's a good sermon for Holy Week, an excellent sermon for tomorrow (Good Friday). It's a good sermon for anyone who has walked through the Wilderness, or felt the clock tick in Crow Time.

This sermon moved me to tears. It's rare the printed word does that for me (with the exception of the Real Live Preacher).

Props to Jill's Enormously Witty Blog for pointing me in the direction of this sermon.

Under Construction
Stars unfolding petals
like ripples on the water.
My hair is in the stars;
my heart, the moon's daughter.

The river runs through me
to my distant lover's arms.
I practice his name at dawn,
chanting Aurora's charms.

---

This is a poem I wrote in response to one of Natalie's images (see The Image, The Inspiration, below). Natalie admitted, with admirable reluctance, that this poem didn't fit her picture that well.

So — does it work on its own? I wrote the first draft of this early last week, when I was making plans for my Emily Dickinson series. It seems possible — nay, even probable — that I was trying to channel Ms Dickinson's style (note, in particular, the rhyme scheme).

Does it need more work? Or is it best suited for my cedar chest?

Emily D. for Today

The morns are meeker than they were —
The nuts are getting brown —
The berry's cheek is plumper —
The Rose is out of town.

The Maple wears a gayer scarf —
The field a scarlet gown —
Lest I should be old fashioned
I'll put a trinket on.

c. 1858; Johnson pg 11

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We immediately notice the rhyme scheme in today's poem is more regular than the past two I've selected. Looking at the eight lines as a whole, I read it as a, b, c, b, d, b, e, b. I am assuming, based Emily's later works, that "on" is intended as an "eye rhyme" for "gown", et al.

If you are not a recovering English major, you may wonder what I mean by "eye rhyme." This is also sometimes called "slant rhyme" but I prefer the former, colloquial, term, because it explains itself so neatly. Which is to say, an "eye rhyme" are two words that look like they should rhyme, but don't.

Well, of course only the hammiest Irish character actor would pronounce "on" so it rhymes with "gown". That's where the "slant" comes in – the words might have only a consonant and vowel in common. As I mentioned yesterday, there are times when one can't be certain how liberal to be when anticipating Ms. Dickinson's intended rhymes. But, since this a, b, c, b pattern is fairly common in Emily's work, I believe I'm on safe ground.

The meter is similar to yesterday's poem: mostly iambs, like "The morns are meeker than they were". But there is some variance in meter. The line that sticks out, for me, is the final line: "I'll put a trinket on". See the problem? It seems to be missing a beat, even though it has the same number of syllables as the fourth line in the first stanza (its logical mate). Count Chockula might make it sound like iambs, but I'm darned if I can using ordinary speech patterns.

Is this intentional? I can hardly claim to read Emily Dickinson's mind, but an argument could be made. The sprung rhythm does emphasis that final word, which alerts us to the difference between "trinket" and the "gay" apparel of the natural world in the previous lines.

It's a charming poem. To the best of my memory, it's not one that normally appears in anthologies. But, again, we begin to see more marks of Emily's developing poetic voice.

Today's Postcard

Click picture to read the poem. Then, pop back here to leave a comment.

Bonus Ideé d’jour

Three grand essentials to happiness in this life are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.
— Joseph Addison, writer (1672-1719)

Poetic Ideé d’jour
"Poetry continually cleanses the language. For every lie we're told by advertisers and politicians, we need one poem to balance it." — Jorie Graham, Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and co-chair of The Academy of American Poets.

Subliminals

1. Condemn:: forgive
2. Promiscuous:: liberated
3. Pro-life:: pro-choice (or:: pro-enslavement)
4. Mona Lisa:: blues
5. Crown:: Royal
6. Mumble:: stumble
7. Hack:: computer
8. Diet:: Soda
9. Introduction:: to the Arts
10. Latin America:: revolution

Emily For Today

My wheel is in the dark!
I cannot see a spoke
Yet I know its dripping feet
Go round and round.

My foot is on the Tide!
An unfrequented road —
Yet have all roads
A clearing at the end —

Some have resigned the Loom —
Some in the busy tomb
Find quaint employ —

Some with new — stately feet —
Pass royal through the gate —
Flinging the problem back
At you and I!

c. 1858; Johnson, pg. 10

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More early work from Emily Dickinson. I tried to comment on yesterday's poem, but lacked the formal terms to describe what she was doing rhythmically. As with yesterday's poem, the basic meter seems to be the iamb; for example, the first two lines seem to scan:

My wheel is in the dark!
I cannot see a spoke

Immediately,  the next line varies the model: "Yet I know its dripping feet..."

Aside from "loom / tomb" in the third stanza, there does not seem to be a rhyme scheme. There may be some "eye" rhymes here, but one would have to be extremely forgiving to say "feet" rhymes with "gate" in the final stanza.

So, mechanically, the thing holding the poem together is the shifting rhythm. The diction is also striking: "Some in the busy tomb / Find quaint employ" is an irony worthy of Andrew Marvel or John Donne. In fact, I sense an echo of Marvel's "Coy Mistress" in the line.

Thematically, this seems to be a sort of puzzle poem (as yesterday's was). I think we can enjoy it on its own merits, without trying to resolve what Emily is talking about. But part of the fun is resolving that problem, and understanding what that answer means to us.

Returning to my belief that reading the Complete Works is beneficial to the beginning poet, one can identify some elements here that are typical of Ms. Dickinson's future work. The most obvious is her frequent, and hap-hazard, use of the dash as a punctuation mark (here represented by the —). Second, is her growing sense of rhythm. Third, is her distinctive turn of phrase. The irony in the third stanza is one example of her turn of phrase; another is "Pass royal through the gate" in the concluding stanza.  For some reason, I really like that one; it seems appropriately compressed.

Reading through Emily Dickinson's Complete Works, as compiled and edited by Thomas Johnson, is proving to be a fruitful poetry workshop.

Today's Postcard

Elsie and I have been having a lot of fun with our digital cameras. My recent extreme close-up of a daffodil has inspired her to take similar pictures.

I wrote a poemlette this morning which seemed to especially fit a picture Elsie took about two weeks ago. Naturally, the whole thing is now preserved in Postcard Format.

Meanwhile, Augustine has some kind words about this space (see "Digital Dialogue," dated April 6, 2004). In particular, she described "Love During Wartime" as "a gentle, unhurried stroll into poetry, politics, religion, justice and such."

Couldn't have said it better myself.

Hope you enjoy today's Postcard.

Ideé d’jour
The poet – when [she] is writing – is a priest, the poem is a temple; epiphanies and communion take place within it.
— Denise Levertov, quoted in The Oregonian, 04/04/04

I'm a Lowly Insect
At least, I am according to The Truth Laid Bear (TTLB) ecosystem.

I think I've evolved from a "crusty crustaceon" thanks to the fact that Augustine added me to her "Blogs I read" list. Prior to this, (according to TTLB), only one other blog linked to this one. Props to Ms. Mambrina!

Thing is, I know I'm linked elsewhere. For some reason TTLB's system doesn't pick up the Tent Show, or Correction, or a half dozen others.

C’est l’vie.

I'm a lowly insect. As it should be. "A worm and no man," as the Psalmist says.

It's good for my humilty.

Emily For Today

8.
There is a word
Which bears a sword
Can pierce an armed man —
It hurls its barbed syllables
And is mute again —
But where it fell
The saved will tell
On patriotic day,
Some epauletted Brother
Gave his breath away.

Wherever runs the breathless sun —
Wherever roams the day —
There is its noiseless onset —
There is its victory!
Behold the keenest marksman!
The most accomplished shot!
Time's sublimest target
Is a soul "forgot!"

Emily Dickinson, c. 1858
Johnson, pg 9; © 1960, Little, Brown & Co.

Ideé d’jour
To the complaint, 'There are no people in these photographs,' I respond, 'There are always two people: the photographer and the viewer.'
— Ansel Adams, photographer (1902-1984)

Received Wisdom

If you look at the light,
you'll sneeze.

Keep your mouth closed
when peeling onions,
and you won't cry.

Here's a good weapon:
carry your longest key
between your middle and ring finger;
if attacked, aim at the soft bits.

It must be true!
I saw it on a sit-com!

The Image, the Inspiration

The poem below is my response to a picture by Natalie d’Arbeloff. You may recall I mentioned a collaboration with an artist a few days ago (well, Friday). This is it, sort of.

Through the traditional baffles & chambers, I discovered Natalie's work at Blaugustine; which is a blog maintained by her alter-ego, Augustine. Might sound a bit off, but it's worth a visit. Trust me. It is, it really is.

If nothing else, you've got to read Augustine's Interview with God. Reading this feature convinced me I had discovered a kindred spirit. So, naturally, I suggested some form of "collaboration", and Natalie was willing to give it a try.

No need to go into all the gory details here, but this is how it's worked out: Natalie has been kind enough to let me view a bit of the art she has digitally drawn on the computer. These are images which have not yet been posted on her own site. I am writing poetic responses to them, then putting the whole thing into my "poetry postcard" format. My commitment is to ask Natalie's permission before letting the world see the final product.

Natalie isn't my editor (though I probably need one). Nor is she an artistic prima-donna. She simply has the right to decide how her images are used. It's a basic application of the Golden Rule, and I'm sure she would extend the same courtesy to me if she wanted to use one of my poems with one of her art-pieces.

So ... still with me? Here's the image that inspired the poem below (it has a reprint of the poem, along with your correspondent's birth name).

Let us know what you think of the finished product.

My beloved folds his hands
and watches the carpet awaken.
The carpet breathes beneath him.

I see his reflection in his chair.
His hands form a cathedral.
I come through the red door.

I am the red door.
I am the infinite hour.
I am the petals opening.

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Been working on this for a few days. It's in response to an image, and I'm waiting for authorization before I link you to said image.

So, the question is, does the poem work without the image?

"I'm wearing my Bob Dylan mask." — Your correspondent, circa 1985.

Emily for the Day

Read several poems by Emily Dickinson last night, as my observance of National Poetry Month continues. I have in my lap The Complete Poems, edited by Thomas H. Johnson. Doctor Omed (can I ever stop talking about him?) directed me to this at a used book sale in Tulsa last year. But that's another story.

I began, logically enough, at the first poem in the collection. It's dated "Valentine week, 1850"; it begins

Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine,
Unwind the solemn twine, and tie my Valentine!

Oh, the Earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain,
For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain.

Trust me, it doesn't get much better from there.

But, the advantage of reading "complete poems", at least for the aspiring poet, is to see the development of the voice and talent. Just a few years later, in 1854, she wrote

Frequently the woods are pink —
Frequently are brown.
Frequently the hills undress
Behind my native town.

Here, we can see the beginning of a voice we've come to know & love.

More to come, as I pay Emily more visits.

Happy Blogday, Dr. Omed!

Yesterday was Dr. Omed's "blogday" (as he calls it), the anniversary of the day he posted his first entry at his Tent Show Revival. He followed me by about a week, though I'm unaware of whether he was copying (or inspired by) me.

If he has said, I've forgotten.

I am a tad jealous. The good Doctor has more comments at his Tent Show, and apparantly a few more visitors. I think his "Nun of the Week" might be part of it. His poetry keeps getting better & better. I tend to think his is better than mine, but I'm too close to judge.

But, aside from the writing, I think the readership has something to do with the method we've chosen to publish our web-logs. Dr. Omed is using the Salon server, which has a built-in community. This service also has a handy comment system, which uses cookies to remember the user each time they post a comment (thus, I've posted as "Jonah" in most of the Salon-based blogs).

If "blogger" or "blogspot" has any sort of community, I've yet to discover it. Since I'm using the free version of blogger, folk have to scan past the notorious banner ads. And, I'm using a free version of the Haloscan commenting system, which does not use cookies to "remember" folk who post here frequently. Thus, folk like the venerable Doctor have to type their name, web-site, etc each time they post a comment. I'll note that one is not required to fill out each of those fields, but plugging in your blog-site in a comment field is a great way to promote it.

All that is beside the point. I'm actually glad Dr. Omed is finding success in the Salon. I look forward to another year full of faux-president-bashing (sorry, I refuse to say the man's name), scurrilous nuns, dancing scizzors, and great poetry.

Ideé d’jour 
Learning of many things does not teach intelligence.  — Heraclitus (535-475 B.C.E.)

Ideé d’jour
At bottom, every man knows perfectly well that he is a unique being, only once on this earth; and by no extraordinary chance will such a marvelously picturesque piece of diversity in unity as he is, ever be put together a second time.
— Friedrich Nietzsche, philosopher (1844-1900)

April Is National Poetry Month!

Michael, at Stick Poet Superhero has a number of good suggestions on how to celebrate this special month. Of special interest is the Poet's Almanac, which is offering "30 Ways to Celebrate National Poetry Month."

I also recommend that you visit Jilly, at the Poetry Hut. She has daily poetry-related news and ideas that will be worth your perusal.

As for your humble correspondent, I shall try to focus on poetry this month. Already, you see an occasional poem below, in celebration of the return of my hat. So — either poems, or poetry-related entries. Who knows? Maybe I can once again achieve a poem-a-day.

I do have a couple of poetry-related projects in the pipeline: one is religious in nature, and is the culmination of about three months worth of work. The other is a very special collaboration with an artist whose work I recently discovered.

Finally, I have the goal of reading one Emily Dickinson poem a day. I plan to comment, or respond to these poems here as the month goes by. In the words of my cyber-friend, Michael Wells, "She is a wonder, isn't she".

The hat came back. Though I thought it was a goner, my old friend returned. It heard me calling, and found its way back to my hand. My hat came back. We have journeyed together for so long, it chose to return rather than seek a new companion. My hat came back. And the house is filled with rejoicing. We shall not lose faith with each other.