The Rocky Horror Ritual

I.

"Lips! Lips! Lips!"

This cry is heard from New York City to San Francisco to Houston, like a call to arms. In Brooklyn, people have encircled a city block, wearing costumes which rival the transvestites in Central Park. In Tulsa, Oklahoma, a plate glass window was broken because the movie theater did not start the show on time.  Some people have seen this movie a hundred times or more.  What is this movie which has inspired cult-like fanatacism?

It is The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a film based on a stage musical which originated in England, then was successful Off-Broadway, but was a commercial failure as a movie when it was released in 1972.  But a mere seven years later, there were posters, t-shirts, a soundtrack album on picture disc. Certainly, with such a following, this movie qualifies as a phnomenon.

The primary enjoyment of the movie appears to be the experience of losing your inhibitions in a crowd.  People come dressed as various characters from the movie, their costumes and make-up ranging from the very poor to the very convincing.  They reply to comments made by the characters, insult them, and give them stage directions.  As a friend of mine has said, seeing Rocky Horror is like going to a rock concert.

In brief, the movie is about Brad and Janet, two ultra-average college kids who get engaged after two of their friends get married.  They decide to tell their good news to their science professor, Dr. Everet Scott.  Unfortunately, on the way they have a flat tire on a deserted country road.  Because their spare tire is "badly in need of air," they are forced to walk to that castle a mile back on the road.

At the castle, they meet Riff Raff, a crazed hunch-back servant, his sister Magenta, and a warped Dr. Frankenstein-like scientist named Dr. Frank N. Furter.  Frank, in full make up, corset, and stockings, ignores Brad and Janet's pleas to let them use his telephone, but he does invite them to his lab to see his muscle-bound creation, Rocky.  From the moment of Rocky's creation it's clear that Dr. Furter takes joy in creation for reasons beyond the fact that he is its creator — there's an obvious sexual interest. Not only is it implied that he has sex with Rocky, he explicitly has sex with Brad and Janet — in that order.  And all three in one night.

But Frank does not go unpunished.  It seems that he and his servants are from the plant Transylvania in the gallaxy of Transexual.  And Riff Raff has been given orders to leave earth.  In so doing, he kills the doctor because his life-style's been "too extreme," and leaves Brad and Janet crawling helplessly, like insects, on the planet's face.

Lost in my brief synopsis of the movie are the numerous allusions to classic horror movies, especially Frankstein and King Kong. In the end scene, Magenta bears a marked resemblance to Elsa Lancaster as the Bride of Frankenstein.  After Frank has been killed, Rocky climbs to the top of the RKO radio tower with his master's limp body under his arm (RKO is the studio which released King Kong).

Also lost are the crowd's reactions.  In one scene, Riff Raff is drinking wine from a bottle while holding a full wine glass in his other hand. "Drop it," the crowd shouts; and seconds later, he drops the wine bottle.  After Janet has had sex with Frank N. Furter, she asks, "O Brad, how could I have done this to you?" To which many in the crowd reply, "It was easy!" And someone else says, "No, it wasn't – she still has panty hose on!"  In another scene Frank sings, "What ever happened to Fay Wray?" and the crowd answers, "She went ape-shit!"

The movie opens with a wedding, and many in the audience throw rice.  Later, when Dr. Furter marries Rocky, they throw rice again.  During a scene where it is raining, people squirt water pistols.  There's a gospel-styled song titled "There's A Light" during which people hold up lighters, matches, and lit candles.  In another scene, the doctor proposes a toast - so people throw slices of toast.  And when he sings, "Cards for sorrow, cards for pain," the air is filled with tossed playing cards.

These actions are ritual, repeated at every showing of this movie.  Often I have heard, while standing on line, "O dear, I forgot the rice.  Anybody got some extra rice?" or "Anybody got an extra book of matches?" And once you are familiar with the plot and all the allusions in the movie, you surely go to this movie just to be part of the ritual.

Perhaps the meaning of the ritual can be found in the movie. The character for whom the most sympathy is Frank N. Furter.  It certainly isn't Brad and Janet, the logical choices, since they're described by the audience as Asshole and Whore from the moment of their introduction.  Frank N. Furter, who is portrayed by the British actor Tim Curry, is the strongest and most charismatic character on the screen. His introduction, in the titles, is greeted by applause.  His entrance into the film is preceded by a rhythm guitar, with which the audience claps. Clearly, he is the character with whom the Me Generation of the 1970s identifies.

And yet, Frank is killed — punished for his life of extreme debauchery. It would seem the moral of the movie is "The wages of sin are death." But the Pepsi Generation comes to the movie, time and again, to vicariously engage in a wild sex orgy.  In this sense, the movie is a safety valve where those who are repressed in this SEX-obsessed era can release their libidinal steam.

II.

“I'm doing exactly what I want to . . . That's what Rocky Horror is all about.” – Bostonian woman.

— No, we don't have to worry much about violence. We never have to call the police, 'cause there's a couple of guys here who break up fights and escort people out of the theater.

In order to get to the Satellite Theaters in Norman, Oklahoma, you must go up two flights of red-carpeted stairs.   The lobby is small, slightly larger than two prison cells.  And, if you're lucky, and arrive at the right time, you meet the manager, who is the owner's daughter-in-law.  Whe is a very handsome young woman, possibly in her late 20s or early 30s.  When I met her, she was wearing a pastel red pant suit and a brilliant diamond ring.  She was very personable and forthright in answering my questions.

— I'm afraid I can't tell you how much we pay for the rental on the film, how much we make on it, or how much we spend on cleaning. [The owner] doesn't give out that information on any of the films.  Sorry.

— I'm not interested in actual figures; I'd just like a comparison between this and your other shows.  For instance: do you spend more on cleaning for this show?

— Well, I can tell you this: we do spend more to clean up for this show that for the others. He's here most of Saturday and Sunday morning cleaning.  But the crowd isn't all that bad, y'know.  We get a lot of drunks, of course.  And we don't like people drinking beer, smoking marijuana and cigarettes, or lighting those lighters, but .... how can you stop them?
 You know, this one time this guy brought in an aerosal spray can and sat in the front row.  Well, he lit his lighter in front of that can and the flame shot out past those curtains at the side of the screen.  One of the guys escorted him out.  You know, that could've really scared people - if the curtains caught on fire.
 Another time, this guy hit his girl friend and we had to take him out of the theater.  He really hurt her.  But he was real apologetic later; he was drunk, y'know, and he just ... he just got carried away.  Another time, a couple of guys came to blows, but we got 'em out without any problems.. And those incidents are real rare.  Most of the time, they're pretty cool – I guess 'cause they're a college crowd. I've not been there, but I've heard they get really wild at the May, where they show it in the City (OKC).

— So the crowd isn't destructive?

— Not at all.

— Have you ever had a Standing Room Only crowd?

— Not as far as I know.  The theater can seat 400 people, and I think we haven't had more than 250 for Rocky Horror. but if you looked in that theater now [at the 6:30 showing of The Warriors], there wouldn't be that many people in there.

— Do you know why the owner chose to show the film so late at night?

— Well, you know that Twentieth Century Fox [the distributer of Rocky Horror] approached him, he didn't go to them. He didn't know anything about the film until they approached him. They told him a little about it, and how it was a good money-maker. And they suggested he show it late at night.  It really is a late-night film.  You know, the Boomer Theater showed Rocky Horror here in 1976, earlier in the evening, and it bombed. If we showed it daily and for the matineés, I think we'd start loosing money on it. People would get bored with it.  But, showing it every week-end, we get a steady revenue from it.  We wouldn't show it otherwise.

Getting Rocky Horror fanatics to talk about the film is not difficult.  Especially if you sound like you're attacking it.  M.K. Jackson, who is currently a graduate student working in the Bizzell Library, very kindly agreed to speak with me on short notice.  She has seen the movie at least a dozen times.

— Although, she says, I stopped counting at six.  I've seen it in Houston, Kansas, Colorado, Tulsa, and Norman.  The crowds in Houston and Kansas are better than the one here in Norman. There, they cooperate; they all shout the same thing at the right time – between lines of dialogue. That way, you can hear what's going on in the movie.  I don't really like the crowd here in Norman: they shout different things at different times, and it's just noise.

— Well, if it's so bad here, why continue seeing it?

— Because it's fun.  There's absolutely nothing like it.  And it's exciting.

— Something that's interested me: people get so involved in the film – throwing things, wearing costumes, and all of that. Why don't even small groups of people get involved during the orgy scene.

— What you don't understand, James, is this film isn't about sex.  It's a film about decadence, which involves more than sex.  Decadence is self-centered.  And although it's self-destructive – as is the case with Frank N. Furter, and that great decadent, Oscar Wilde – there's also a sense of self-preservation, of how much you can get away with. And the sort of thing you're talking about is just too much.

— Why do you think Rocky Horror is so popular?

— It's a release.  And it's a cult:  with all the rituals, it really is like going to church every Friday or Saturday night.  And I think it fills a need for the ritual which is lacking in America today.

III. Son of Rocky Horror

“Each man must create his own system or else he is slave to another man's” – William Blake

Objectivity is a fiction.  "Truth in journalism" implies an I, and that pronoun proliferates like telephone poles on a country road.  The 1970s were the "Me Decade", as Tom Wolfe wrote.

The 70s were the denouement of a neo-Romantic era which began in the 1960s, between the death of Robert Frost and President Kennedy.  Just as Romanticism in France was heralded by the first French Revolution, so was America's by campus revolts during President Johnson's terms of office. And as the activism of France's Romanticism ended with Napoleon's deposition and the beginning of a more rigid government, so did America's activism end with the shock of "four dead in Ohio."

After these ages of activism ended, an age of Romanticism as literary and cultural philosophy began.  Now the self, as in "self help" is emphasized. The letter "I" is holy.  The accent is on youth, for Romanticism is the teenage years gone wild.  It's the "Pepsi Generation."

I believe Rocky Horror is a fable for the Romanticism of the 1970s.  Granted, this movies is about decadence, as one of the songs says, to "give yourself over to absolute pleasure." But, my dear friend, decadence is just Romanticism in drag.

The advertisements for this movie read: "He's the hero!  That's right, he's the real hero!" But the question is, who is the hero?  It would seem to be Dr. Frank N. Furter, for this is the character whom audiences applaud and cheer throughout the movie. Yet, in the end he is killed, punished for being the true Existentialist Man who lives by no morals but his own.  But this is not unusual.  Dorian Gray dies in the end, after all.  The tragic Romantic hero is an enduring trope.  We cheer these heroes, even though their deaths are a form of moral defeat.

Who would not like to create their perfect mate? No doubt, we envy Dr. Furter's success in that pursuit.  But we also cheer him because we wish we could share his loose morals.  But most of us have enough sense of self-preserevation to realise that such extremism is self-destructive.  Although we may identify with the Doctor, we are really just a bunch of Brads and Janets being vicariously debauched for ninety-two minutes.  Every Friday and Saturday night, we go to this Church of Decadence, barely tasting the communion.

Why?  Listen:

People have an innate need to believe in something, be it Krishna, God, the Flying Spagetti Monster, or the Cosmic Doughnut.  And those who have rejected both Christian mythology and the myths of foriegn cultures are placed in the lonely position of creating, in effect, their own religion.  Without at least one other person believing as you do, and observing your rituals, it's hard to convince yourself that your religion is viable or true.  So we run to the religion of the Self: self-help, self-hypnosis, regression therapy,or Werner Erhert's pseudo-existentialist EST.  Or .... we become card-carying members of the Rocky Horror cult.

I have already described many of the rituals involved in this cult, but what (if any) beliefs do its adherents have in common?  Obviously, all the hard core fanatics believe this movie is great; so great, in fact, that it is worth spending three dollars a shot for as many as forty-three to one hundred visits.  Also, sexual licentiousness is OK.  Although the audience calls Janet a "Whore", I doubt there are very many single virgins in the audience.  The term is used ironically: it is as if to say: "My parents would think you're a whore, but you're all right in my book."

* * *

I originally wrote this essay in March of 1979, at which time I predicted enthusiasm for the movie would soon end.  I'm now a 60 year-old geezer writing about this 43 year-old movie.  Surprisingly, it's still showing in many markets with the same rituals I observed all those years ago.  Romanticism may be dead, but the longing for connection and ritual is not. Nor is the temptation to give yourself over to absolute pleasure.

idée d’jour

Just ask, just ask! says the dew, and rolls away.
— Issa

Idée d’jour

Ah! what a divine religion might be found out if charity were really made the principle of it instead of faith.
– Percy Bysshe Shelley, poet (4 Aug 1792-1822)

20.VI.15

Raking fresh mown grass
contemplating
things best left undone

Idée d’jour

Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.
— Rumi

The Way of Jazz

The Jazz you can play
isn't the real Jazz.
The Jazz you can sing
isn't the real Jazz.

Horn & Ivory
begin in No-Jazz:
Jazz is the mother
of the American Songbook.

Jazz is empty,
used, but not used up.
Deep, yes ancestral
to the American Songbook.

Horn & Ivory aren't humane.
To them the American Songbook
is a straw dog.

Wise souls aren't humane.
To them Fats & Miles
are straw dogs.

Horn & Ivory
act as a bellows:

Empty yet structured,
they move, inexhaustibly giving.

Horn will last,
Ivroy will endure.
How can they last so long?
They don't exist for themselves
and so can go on and on.

True swing
is like water.
Water's good
for everything.
It goes right
to the low loathsome places
and so finds a way.

Once upon a time
people who knew Jazz
were subtle, spiritual, mysterious, penetrating
unfathomable.

To follow Jazz
is not to need fulfillment.
Unfulfilled, one may live on
needing no renewal.

---

Selections from Ursala K. Le Guin's rendering of the Tao, substituting words as follows:
Jazz: Name, Way
Horn: Heaven
Ivory: Earth
American Songbook: 10,000 things
Fats & Miles: the hundred families
Swing: goodness

Guin, Ursula K. Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching : A Book about the Way and the Power of the Way. United States: Shambhala Publications, Incorporated, 2009. 2-24. Print. 

Dream Café

I got the bum's rush from the Dream Café.

OK, I guess that deserves some explanation.
Woke from the edge of a dream around 2 a.m.:
a modest indoor café – nice wooden tables,
no table cloths.  I was alone at a table with four chairs.
I was writing.
I think I was writing poetry.

The waiter was familiar. The café was not.
There were several pages around me.
No plates, no service ware, not even a cup of joe;
just sheets of paper, one beneath my right hand,
the rest fanned out in a small arc just above.
I was bent over, consumed in my writing.

I think I was alone in the café.
The tables were good quality wood,
not laminate or Formica.
But – no table cloths, no candles.
I'd guess it was a moderately-priced café.

This dream is almost two-days old,
and the path back is drenched in fog.
The memories are indistinct, and
intermingling with my quotidian road.

The waiter was familiar.
He sheepishly approached me:
“I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave
if you're not going to buy anything.”

That's when I woke up.
With dream fragments
to go.

Poetry Month Scouting Wrap Up

These two questions come from a survey sent by the Found Poetry editors:

1. What did you like best about the project? What parts came easy to you?
   I appreciated the challenge of the prompts; some were more challenging than others (a couple using websites as resources were especially frustrating).  But I felt a sense of accomplishment in over coming these challenges.  Any prompt that asked the poet to use the source material as "word banks" were the easiest.
   Having a goal of completing at least half the prompts (15 out of 30) was freeing; I felt very successful in completing 28 out of 30.
2. What did you like least about the project? What parts were difficult for you?
   I remember three websites that were challenging for me: the one for Haiku Anew, the erasure tool for Redacted, and the diastic tool for Spelling B.  I'll admit some of that challenge was likely due to my own time limitations, and concurrent impatience. I knew the "Out and About" prompts would be challenging – and the editors warned us these prompts would challenge our comfort zones.  As it turned out, I completed all but two of those "Out and About" prompts (the two which required the highest level of interaction with the public). 

I chose to take on this project with two goals: to flex my poetry muscles, and to generate more content for my blog.  The prompts have forced me to think of poetry in new ways (e.g., it doesn't necessarily have to tell a coherent story), and have given me some ideas for how to break writer's block in the future.  Since I was essentially writing a poem a day, I had to accept that many of these poems would be mediocre at best - some might not even qualify as poems. It was a good way to enforce the William Stafford method of writing a poem a day - I lowered my standards, of necessity.

As for generating content, I've had more posts this month than in some time, through writing about the process of responding to the prompts.  The links to the PoMoSco site will remain available to the general public through the end of May; after that point, I'll decide which poems to repost on this blog.  Flexing those muscles may inspire me to set myself a modest goal of writing at least one poem a week (or month).

I especially enjoyed the prompts which directed the poet to use text(s) as a word bank. I tend to get stuck on images and words, and this was a good way to break out of that habit.

Short Takes: PoMoSco Update

C1 2 B1 was in response to the Orders Up prompt.  I went to Jeff's County Cafe on Classen, a greasy spoon I go to about once a month.  The title comes from what I typically order for breakfast.

At the Comic Com was written in response to the All Ears prompt. The directions involved going to a public space and copying down as many snippets of conversation as possible, then converting that to a poem.  I picked up a free paper at Jeff's and saw there was a small comic con in town on the same day, and decided to go. One thing that's unique about this poem is that it has embedded PSAs; I'm very pleased the editors let them stand.

A Monk and His Book was drawn from Mark Twain's first book, The Innocents Abroad or The New Pilgrim’s Progress; the word bank was derived by phone number, as described in the Dialed In prompt.

Blue Earth People was derived from a page from Desert Notes by Barry Lopez.  The Click Trick prompt is an erasure variant using Photoshop (or equivalent) to obscure unwanted words.  The resulting poem makes Lopez sound like a cranky misanthropic anthropologist.

Family is a Gift forced me to get some exercise and fresh air by walking in random directions around my neighborhood.  I wrote down as many words as possible on this "Chance Walk".  I remindend myself that many cars names can serve dual purpose as nouns or verbs (e.g., dart). The poem has an embedded ad for the burger joint down the street from my house (technically, a link to its Twitter feed).  The title comes from a sign on the door of an abandoned house.

The As Advertised prompt challenged the poet to use notices on a community bulletin board as word banks.  As it turned out, my favorite bookshop (the only locally-owned new bookshop I'm aware of) didn't have many notices up.  Their bulletin board is in a small entry way, so I decided it would be simplest to read the notices into an electronic device (in this case, a Samsung Tab).  The device "misheard" serveral words (e.g., "yoda" for "yoga" and "sister" for "Sedaris"); I chose to preserve these "mondregreens" for this Earth Day poem.

Listening to Shame was derived from Krista Tippett's On Being interview with Brené Brown.  This was in response to the Quiet on Set prompt; my reading of the directions caused me to keep many phrases intact. I received a positive response to one of those phrases; it's not a verbatim quote (which would've been breaking the rules), but it's darn close.

Another poem which seems very beholden to its source material is Rise Up Young Heart, which comes from a meditation by Bp. Steven Charleston. He graciously granted me limited permission to re-purpose his writing.  I haven't decided whether to reprint it here; it seems at best an abridged version of his original work. This was done in response to the Cut It Out prompt, where the poet literally cut out the unwanted words and phrases with an exacto knife. I thought the scan of the document would be more interesting if I put a picture behind the page.

Hard Without Glasses was in response to the Best Laid Plan prompt. The text comes from “The Alcoholic Veteran with the Washboard Cranium”, a remembrance by Henry Miller.  Not sure this is entirely successful, but it was worthy experiment.

Beautiful Renewal is the last poem written in response to one of the official prompts. Since I was going to miss two prompts, I decided to revisit one of the prompts I'd already completed (one of the Badge Masters did the same thing). I simply revisited Substitute Texter, since my previous attempt had been relatively successful.  The substitutions for this poem were chosen at random from words left over from the Cut It Out prompt; inspired by the work of P.F. Anderson, I decided to construct this as a pantoum.

I only had to create one more "found poem" to have written 30 poems in 30 days, so I set my own challenge, which appears immediately below (Psalm 4: Lord of the Exploding Universe).  The result is sort of a cross between the Substitute Texter and Interloper prompts, since I exchanged some words from the sermon for words in the psalm.

Psalm 4: Lord of the Exploding Universe

Answer me when I call
Lord of the exploding universe.
My memories live in my body.
You set me free when I was in distress,
for I carry that exploding day in my body.
Be gracious to me now and hear my prayer.

How long, O mortals will you defame my honor:
All is coming apart in this Age of Terror
how long will you love what is worthless and seek after lies?
All is coming apart, all is exploding

Know this, that the Lord has chosen,
has chosen those who are fearful,
has chosen those who are righteous:
I struggle to live with righteousness
but the Lord hears me when I call.

How well we remember.
Will we remember what it means?

Stand in awe; we live in the shadow,
in the shadow of the April 19 Bomb:
commune with your own memories.
My memories dwell in my body.

Offer the sacrifices that are appointed:
The past may be smoke, but it can return in an instant.
Put your trust in the Lord of the expanding universe.
This building of brick has expanded by a foot;
Can our hearts expand as well?

There are many who say,
You weren't there, but you were present
in the shadow of the April Bomb.
Lift up the light of your face on us O Lord.
O Lord of the exploding universe.

But you have put gladness in my heart:
bringing order out of chaos.
The world has shifted.
They may revel in the madness
of mutually assured destruction.
I put my trust in you, O Lord.

The world has shifted, but
I lie down in peace and sleep comes at once:
For O Lord , it is you only
who make memories dwell in my body.

Found poem; Sources:
“Psalm 4.” A New Zealand Prayer Book = He Karakia Mihinare O Aotearoa: The Anglican Church in Aotearoa, New Zealand, and Polynesia. San Francisco: HarperSan Francisco, 1997. 200. Print.

Back, Rt Rev George. “On the 20^th Anniversary of April 19, 1995.” St. John's Episcopal Church, Oklahoma City. 19 Apr. 2015. Sermon.

---

I've completed 28 prompts for the Poetry Scout Month Project; looks like I won't make the last two. So, to have a full 30 poems for the month of April, I've done a repeat of one challenge (see Beautiful Renewal), and created a challenge of my own. This explores the communication between a psalm and a sermon delivered on the same day the psalm was read.

The Rolling Stone Series

Two poems for the Poetry Scout Month project used the April 23rd issue of Rolling Stone as a resource: Down the Rabbit Hole and A Terrifying Band for Our Children When You Look Back. A friend gave me a subscription to Rolling Stone (prior to the campus rape hub-bub), and this project gave me a chance to put a back issue to good use.

“Down the Rabbit Hole” was in response to the Pinch an Inch prompt.  The instructions direct you to select a column inch anywhere on the x-axis of the page.  This was interesting to do with a magazine, since all the magazines I have handy (Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly, and Outdoor Photographer) are divided into three columns of  ~inch each per page.  So, all I had to do was decide what article to use, and which of the three pre-determined column inches to select. I thought a music review would be the most likely to have “poetic language”, so I selected the lead review, which was in the far right-hand column.  Just to make things interesting, I selected two more reviews on the opposite side of the page - both also in the far-right hand column. The poem takes its title from the third of these reviews.

“A Terrfying Band” was in response to the Picture It prompt.  I had a hard time groking the instructions for this badge, until I reviewed what other poets had done in response.  I finally decided the easiest method was to simply doodle on the page and black out any words that might mislead the reader.  The result still did not reflect my intent, so I typed out the version of the poem I intended.  The source text was an interview with Peter Townsend.  He's been somewhat on my mind, as I've been obsessively wood-shedding “Pinball Wizard” whenever I wasn't working on this project.

Their Testimony

Report on my progress through the Poetry Month Scout Badges continues.  “Their Testimony” was written in response to the “Interloper” prompt. The goal was to go to a public speech (preferrably something specialized and unfamiliar to the writer). I fudged a bit by taking notes at my church – during the sermon and during the presentation for adult education.  Both presentations were related to the 20th anniversary of the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building on April 19.

Based on the editor's response to others (on Facebook), I suspect they would consider this choice “cheating”.  I feel very at home at my church, for one thing, and “April 19” has meaning and familiarity to anyone who has lived in Oklahoma for more than a few years. In fact, there's Reflections of April 19, 1995 linked immediately to your left.

The handbook warned writers many of these prompts would push our comfort level.  The thought of being in a strange place, among strangers, was way beyond my comfort level. So, I strove to honor the spirit of the prompt – the words and phrases of the poem come entirely from the two presentations offered at my church on April 12.

A Riot of Souls

Two more for Poetry Month Scouting: for the Haiku Anew and Interrogator badges.

First, the Haiku: I selected a haiku from a collection titled Haiku Mind: 108 Poems to Cultivate Awareness and Open Your Heart by Patricia Donegan. It's a source I dip into every so often, haiku being a sort of stout ale best appreciated in sips.  I entered the haiku text (by Hekigodo Kawahigashi) into the recommended on-line discombobulator, which rearranges letters as well as words. It seemed to come up with extra words, so I picked the ones that seemed to work the best. I titled the collection of five haiku Moonlit Riot. The instructions say to create a poem that “fits the haiku structure while still making sense.” At first, I assumed "haiku structure" meant the common 5-7-5 syllabic construction (first line 5 syllables, and so on).  In reading other examples, I don't think many other participants have felt bound to this restriction; I think the editors really meant "a poem of three short lines."

This proved to be an interesting exercise, one I might repeat. I think I'd loosen the bonds a bit more, though.

You Who Question Souls was my response to the Interrogator prompt. I still had Leonard Cohen on my mind (he has yet another live album coming out in May), so I pulled out my copy of Book of Mercy. My goal was to gather about two pages worth of questions from the book.  These questions were rearranged into a new poem. I'm rather pleased with the end result; with the exception of a couple of lines, one might not guess the source was a modern collection of psalms.

Babel Broke Down

Poetry Month Scouting, continued. My poem “Babel Broke Down” was in response to the “First in Line” prompt. As the referenced page mentions, this type of poem is a cento, a form I've tried once before, using the index of first lines from selected poems of Emily Dickinson.

My first impulse was to use first lines from Book of Longing by Leonard Cohen, which happens to be next to the chair by my writing desk. It also happens to have an index of first lines, which includes the titles of his drawings throughout the book. The index goes on for several pages, and felt too overwhelming. So I picked up a chapbook which also sits near my chair, Lexicography, by my friend Carol Hamilton.  Although her chapbook had no index of first lines, it was less intimidating – being a little over 81 pages.

Chapbooks tend to be collections of poems along a common theme, in this case Words, and their meanings. After only a few pages, I was struck by how frequently the first line on the recto page seems to comment on, or reply to, the first line on the opposing page.  In a sense, the poem seemed to write itself.

In my mind, it seems to have a plot.  As a friend said, “It almost makes sense.” As such, I think it is one of my more successful attempts in this project.

Poetry Month Scouting

As I mentioned on March 25, I am participating in the Poety Month Scout project, sponsored by the Found Poetry Review.  “Found Poetry” is an interesting concept, challenging the writer to create something new out of a pre-existing work.  The editors of the Found Poetry Review have crafted 31 prompts intended to be a fun way to introduce poets to this process. I've managed to complete nine prompts, or badges.  In effect, I've written a poem a day.

Some of these attempts have been more rewarding, some have been frustrating.  For example, the "Redacted" badge required the poet to use an on-line tool to black out words on screen; the remaining words would constitute the "poem".  I found the on-line tool very hard to use (especially in Firefox).  However, after reading the experiences of other poets, I decided to give it another go, this time using the Chrome browser. I'm happier with this result; the source text is a meditation on the resurrection narrative from the Gospel of John.

“Crumpled is a Verb” is possibly the most popular of my attempts, at least judging from the number of positive comments it has received. To quote from the Scount Badge Handbook:

To earn the “On Demand” badge, start by coming up with an unlikely word combination. You can make up your own, choose words at random from a source text, or use a generator like the one at JimPix to come up with your words. Examples:

• Foolish Ninja
• Calamitous Rock
• Hurry Pork
• Jugular Magnet

Visit Google (http://www.google.com) and do a search on your chosen word combination (no quotes around the terms)..

Google will display a list of pages, as well as short descriptions for each site. Compose a poem using only these page titles and short descriptions — do not click into the sites themselves to grab more text. You can use multiple pages of search results if necessary.

I used the Jim Pix tool, and got "“Crumpled Change” as the word combination.

“Working On Doodles” was in response to the “Spaced Out” prompt.  It's possible I didn't select the best source text for this challege: a one-paragraph blurb on “Ally McBeal” from Entertainment Weekly.

The irony in all this, of course, is that I was a wash-out as a scout; never made it past cub. Don't know what the editors would call a person who completes 15 or more of these prompt badges, but I hope it's better than cub. Padre would be amused, if not proud.

Idée d’jour

Bad weather always looks worse through a window.
— Tom Lehrer, singer-songwriter and mathematician (b. 9 Apr 1928)

Bones of Bashan

Third in the PoMoSco series. The source is Psalm 22, as rendered in the New Zealand Prayer Book.

The guidelines were to select words and phrases by a means of rolling dice. I had done a similar poem using the I Ching. The editor-in-chief of the PoMoSco project gave me permission to use the I Ching for this project as well.

The I Ching didn't give as much variety as I had hoped, and using a method similar to what I did for A Loveless Marriage (linked above) would have been too time-consuming, so I also applied an on-line dice rolling site — using six twelve sided dice. Each die would determine which line I would select; the line of the trigram would determine whether I would select the first half or second half of the line. I think the end product is rather interesting.

This poem also marks the third in my personal “Holy Week” series. The PoMoSco Handbook has a suggested calendar, but I respond to do this prompt out of order. “Roll the Dice” immediately made me think of a line from Ps 22: “they cast lots for my clothing”. “Casting lots” is similar to rolling dice. A connection!

In remembrance of her

A cut-up from the Gospel According to Mark, 2nd in the series for Poetry Month.

This picture demonstrates the process: I cut out a paragraph from the Passion according to Mark from my church bulletin. I sliced out words and phrases with the Exacto knife, put them in the glass bowl, and shook vigorously. Tiny slips of paper flew everywhere! Being a slow learner, I put them back in the glass bowl and shook more gently. Fewer slips of paper were lost. I painstakingly pulled them out of the bowl and stuck them on the blank page. This was hampered by the fact that just a sliver of Glue Stick was left, and it was almost dried out.

Yet, if you go to the PoMoSco site, you'll see a scan of that same page. Although cut-up is often associated with William S. Burroughs, the PoMoSco Handbook attributes the process to Dada poet Tristan Tzara. Gotta say, I ended up with something like word salad, so I've got to wonder how Burroughs made any sense.

The poem has received a positive comment: “It’s fascinating how the main character becomes female here and the voice of the teller fades into the background. I had to look up the verses to see what was shattered — this is that interesting!”

A Withered Hosanna

This linked poem is the first in the Poetry Month Scout Project, a special National Poetry Month effort . This is in response to the “Pick &” Mix prompt under the Remixing Badge. The goal was to write down words and phrases that caught my eye in the source text, then use them in any order I wished. MLA style citation appears below.

I chose the reading from Mark, assigned for Palm Sunday, because this project begins in the midst of Holy Week. Interestingly, the April 1 prompt coincides with Holy Wednesday, which many scholars call "silent", because there is no record of what Jesus did on this day.

The goal is to respond to at least 15 out of 30 prompts by the end of April, the cruelest month.

Thursday afternoon, 19.Mar.2015

Feeling earth respond to my step
energized by ion-rich mist
Bradford Pear blossoms

Idée d’jour

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion.
T.S. Eliot

Idée d’jour

There is only one religion though there are a hundred versions of it.
— George Bernard Shaw

Idée d’jour

Music is a means of rapid transportation.
— John Cage

Idée d’jour

The beauty of the band was you never knew what was going to come out next.
— Jimmy Page

Idée d’jour

There are few things in life more heartwarming than to be welcomed by a cat.
Tay Hohoff

Idée d’jour

There is no enlightenment outside of daily life
— Thich Nhat Hanh

Idée d’jour

Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.
— Rumi

Idée d’jour

For one human being to love another...the work for which all other work is but preparation.
— Rainer Maria Rilke

Idée d’jour

‘Respect for religion’ has become a code phrase meaning ‘fear of religion’. Religions, like all other ideas, deserve criticism, satire, and, yes, our fearless disrespect.
— Salman Rushdie

Idée d’jour

There are years that ask questions and years that answer.
– Zora Neale Hurston

When My Voice Was Born

The stars were still waking the hour my voice was born.
The archer stretched her bowstring to the shadows
the hour my voice was born.
The trees were shaking off their leaves
and gifting all their colors to my voice.
The caverns of the sea filled with haunts of my voice.
The waters of Jerusalem & the Sea of Tranquility;
the dark flowing river of mother's hair;
father's nicotine fingers on the guitar line:
weaving the journey of my voice
the day my voice was born.
O my voice is early twilight;
O my voice knows the backstreets;
O my voice knows the blue highways;
O my voice knows the way to your house.
My voice soared with windmills along the sacred hills,
The echoing hills the resounding plains,
The day my voice was born.
My voice aims true whether it soars above the clouds
or dives behind the secret waves.
My voice aims true, gathers the fire of the spirit,
aims true, gathers the heavens.
My voice gathers the seven winds;
gathers the twilight hours;
gathers the seventy joyful sorrows;
gathers the elders & their childhood dreams.
My voice aims for your heart.
My voice longs to speak soul to soul
My voice longs to strike sparks in your hair.
My voice lingers at your ear
gentle & bold in equal measure.
That is why my voice was born.
My voice embraces the 64 colors and
the infinite tones of the aurora borealis.
My voice rejoices every minute
for the hour it was born.

The Seven Voices of Your Name

It is your Name I would use in the ceremony. Before I am a vacancy. It is your Name I will teach to be a modern novel bout the wearisome uselessness of men and the casual fragility of women. Your Name, which you hide in your hand, shall become the Word. And the Word engenders a long list of words. These words will lead me back to your unspoken Name. The Name which I will be unable to speak until I am a vacancy.

Perhaps we met in a Garden, or a forest clearing. It was possibly Spring. Perhaps it was a dream. But I am convinced that we met, and you whispered your Name to a pond. But you would not tell me your Name. Because you knew I would use it in a ritual to invoke your Love.

Your Name will be an instrument of my peace. An instrument, like the pen with which I write. An instrument whose chords I cannot finger. The melody it plays is of the Word. I could teach your name to shame the Angels.

Your Name will force me into exile.

Because your Name has chosen not to love me. Because it would leave me as a vacancy. I know I am a stranger in the House of your Name. If I could find that House, I would humble myself before your Name.

The ritual was abandoned by the dreamers, but I proceed in a sense of futile nostalgia. This ritual teaches us to call upon the seven voices of your Name. This is why I must know your Name. This is why you must never tell me your Name: it should come to me of its own bidding. Then it will tell me its secret, and lead me to the sanctuary. There, I will be a priest in service to the mystery of your Name.

My face has grown old in the shadow of your Name. My face has grown too old to love. I should hide my face and cover my head in the House of your Name. I was a fool to think I could learn your Name. Because it is hidden.

I will continue this chant until it has conjured the mystery of your Name. I have faith in your Name. I have studied the rhythmic barks of trees for miracles. I have dissected the alphabet for your Name. I have called forth all the demons of Heaven to reveal your Name.

Your Name will punish me at last with its secret. In the end, your Name will teach me to be content as a vacancy. And once I am a vacancy, I shall know your Name.

19–21.Oct.1979 Revised

Idée d’jour

Where it is a duty to worship the sun, it is pretty sure to be a crime to examine the laws of heat.
— John Morley

Idée d’jour

It may sound trite, but using the weapons of the enemy, no matter how good one’s intentions, makes one the enemy.
— Charles de Lint

Haiku Conversation

I weave webs of words;
clouds caress dust-yellow moon.
Which speaks more clearly?
Revised from ~1985

Larry G. responds:
From this web of words,
the caress of something said,
nothing else in mind.

Idée d’jour

I'd rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on Earth.
Steve McQueen

Idée d’jour

The more I think about it, the more I realize there is nothing more artistic than to love others.
— Vincent van Gogh

Idée d’jour

Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.
Twyla Tharp

Idée d’jour

As societies grow decadent, the language grows decadent, too. Words are used to disguise, not to illuminate, action: you liberate a city by destroying it. Words are to confuse, so that at election time people will solemnly vote against their own interests.
— Gore Vidal

Idée d’jour

If you can't get rid of the skeleton in your closet, best teach it how to dance.
— George Bernard Shaw

Idée d’jour

Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.
— Elie Wiesel

Idée d’jour

Let us not look back in anger or forward in fear, but around in awareness.
— James Thurber

Happy Birthday, St. Leonard

Revised version of previous post

Today is Leonard Cohen's 80th Birthday.

Shortly after he returned from 'Nam, Brother Dave brought several lps to the house to share with Padre and I. I especially remember Jefferson Airplane's Crown of Creation and Coltrane's Favorite Things and Other Songs. When he put the Cohen disc on the turntable, Dave told Padre and I that we'd need to listen carefully to the words.

I was immediately struck by the cover of Songs of Leonard Cohen: that black background; the machine photo brazenly addressing the viewer; the back cover art of a woman in chains being engulfed by flames. I was intrigued by these images alone, and knew something unique was in store. Songs from that album that still linger in my memory include "The Master Song", "The Stranger Song", and "Sisters of Mercy". I can sing snippets of these (and all of "Suzanne", of course) without reference to the lyric sheet or song book.

I had probably already heard Judy Collins' famous version of "Suzanne" by this point. I think I already had a copy of Judy's excellent live album, Living, which includes "Famous Blue Raincoat" and "Joan of Arc". But to hear that fractured voice sing his own words was like setting up camp in them, and learning to live there.

Sometime after Brother Dave introduced us to Cohen's debut album, I bought Songs of Love and Death. I believe that was the same year my stepmother attempted suicide. I was the first one home the day WL took her brand-new steak knife set into the master bathroom and cut both her wrists, length-wise, several times. The song "Dress Rehearsal Rag" from Love and Death soon became my theme song, although I did not catch the underlying humor of the song.

This was the summer between junior high and high school. I was around 16. WL's attempted suicide was probably too big for me to handle, but I counseled and comforted her until Padre got home. Leonard Cohen's songs taught me the language of the territory, so I could find the means to process the horror I had witnessed.

A number of other factors contributed to my use of poetry for self-expression, but WL's suicide attempt, and Cohen's profound linguistic cartography, were the primary catalysts.

Now, I sing so many of his songs, but not Dress Rehearsal Rag. Those days are so many years behind me. I much prefer "Hallelujah" or "The Guests". Or, a perfect psalm titled "If It Be Your Will":

If it be your will
That I speak no more
And my voice be still
As it was before
   I will speak no more
   I shall abide until
    I am spoken for
If it be your will

If it be your will
That a voice be true
From this broken hill
I will sing to you
   From this broken hill
   All your praises they shall ring
   If it be your will
To let me sing

If it be your will
If there is a choice
Let the rivers fill
Let the hills rejoice
   Let your mercy spill
   On all these burning hearts in hell
   If it be your will
to make us well

And draw us near
And bind us tight
All your children here
In their rags of light
   In our rags of light
   All dressed to kill
   And end this night
   If it be your will
If it be your will.

© 1984, Stranger Music

Idée d’jour

It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
— William Carlos Williams

Idée d’jour

If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.
— Will Rogers

Idée d’jour

To argue with a person who has renounced the use of reason is like administering medicine to the dead
Thomas Paine

A Founding Father, predicting the level of discourse on most social media sites.

Idée d’jour

Today I have grown taller from walking with the trees.
— Karle Wilson Baker

Alienation of Time

Eternal swinging of loose clock
hands like mirrors of broken
emptiness as in an endless lake
or swift leggéd horse of life
dream in nightmare
unknown in time.

A bleeding heart of time
drips on the face of the clock
as it hides in a nightmare
which has been broken
by the reality of life
shone in ripples of a lake.

For more, see Alienation of Time

---

This is a slightly revised high school poem (circa 1974-75); it won a competition for high school poets held by the Poetry Society of Oklahoma. Retyping it now, almost 30 years later, I see a lot of flaws.  Kind of amazed it won an award; might have been an "A for effort" in recognition of my attempt to write a sestina.

The school administration learned of the award through a blurb in the local paper.  I was essentially strong-armed into bringing the award (a small certificate in a plastic holder) to school so the principal could hand it to me at a school awards assembly.

Idée d’jour

When eating a fruit, think of the person who planted the tree.
— Vietnamese Proverb

Idée d’jour

Sometimes I think I'm diagonally parked in a parallel universe.
Diana Britt

Idée d’jour

Nothing is more real than nothing.
Samuel Beckett

Idée d’jour

If you want your dreams to come true, don't oversleep.
— Yiddish Proverb

Idée d’jour

If cats could talk, they wouldn't.
— Nan Porter

05.VII.2014

Overcast sky
yardwork done
still praying for rain

Buffer Zones

In view of the Supreme Court recent ruling on "buffer zones", I'm thinking about harassing people as they enter gun shops. Call ’em kid killers.

Anyone care to join me?

She's Been Waiting

She could have been
waiting for you ages
at the stop sign
or some nameless doorway

— Diana, our Lady
of the Moon Waves.
She's reciting your horoscope.
She has tied your dreams
in the long tresses of her hair.

— Diana, the lady of water
and lights on the water.
She's mesmerized the cars on Canal Street —
now they're a painting:
white shimmering circles
on a black background.

— Diana, our lady of rain;
and she's waiting for you, brother.
She's been waiting for you
since the dragons were born.

The moon rises behind her head
there's a stop sign behind her left shoulder
and at her right, hidden in her hair,
is a dark angel.

And though half her face
is hidden in shadow,
you know it's her.
You know she's been waiting for you
for ages now
with her arms folded beneath her breasts.

Her face has never grown old
since the river
first learned to speak.

Go now, brother, go to her now —
she's been waiting for you.

1-3.X.81
Begun on a bus from NYC to Princeton, NJ

Art by Drew Curtis

Tanka

This clear season
engulfs you like regal robes.
Do you know this time?
Have you held rain's memory?
Do you know what your father dreams?
21.II.1983

Idée d’jour

A note of music gains significance from the silence on either side.
— Anne Morrow Lindbergh

The Secret Box

For Patti & Robert

What secret box must I steal to rediscover the timeless space?
Shall I befriend the angel of light
or the dark voices only I can hear?

The secret of improvisation is to always say yes,
to always gratefully accept whatever is offered;
my life is a long improvisation

And the dark voices offer their dark critiques
but the angel of light will never whisper 'no'

I improvise my sacred love
over the random jazz heart
and the discordant nerves

Practice the timeless breath
out by breathless mesas
red hawks riding thermals

Compassion for the angel of light
Compassion means presence
but does not require deep listening
Attend the feelings, but walk beside
keep your distance from the darkness

There are no wrong lines in improvisation —
There's the footlights, and the outer darkness;
There's the darkness & void where a world is created
and the light where the world begins

The box has pearlised inlay:
young artist as crow
in his black fedora
and his morning ritual

Open the curtains: let the jazz begin.

Two Haiku: 14.VI.14

Sweet steam
stings the tongue
green tea morning

---

Brown mug
faint jasmine incense
kitchen altar

Written during Clear Water workshop led by Jeannie Martin

Before the deluge

Rather resent that the
fresh mown lawn
feeds the grackles

Rush to mow
before the deluge

On the death of Henry Miller

Well, Henry Miller died June 7, 1980, at 4 pm Pacific Palisades time. It would be too much to hope that flags would be lowered to mark this loss. At best, America has taken her writers for granted; at worst, she has ignored them or maligned them. Henry Miller is certainly a case in point.

There are few books by Henry Miller which have not been banned in America, as well as many other countries around the world. Among these are the Tropic of Cancer, the Tropic of Capricorn, and his trilogy, The Rosy Crucifixion. Why have these books been banned? Supposedly due to their explicit sexual content. But sex scenes are brief in Miller, and are certainly the least important elements of his books. No, his books are dangerous, like Catcher in the Rye or Huckleberry Finn, because they are full of life, full of living ideas. And as a self-admitted anarchist, Miller is especially threatening to those our love our status quo institutions.

Henry Miller has been accused, and justly so, of writing exclusively about himself. Even his study of Rimbaud, Time of the Assassins, is really about Henry Miller. He agreed with Thoreau, who said he'd write about anything else if he knew as much about it as he did about himself. If there were any justice, Henry Miller would be remembered for his epic autobiographies rather than as the author of “dirty” books.

If you asked me where to start reading Henry Miller, I'd suggest his little book Quiet Days in Clichey, then — if you like that — the Tropics and Black Spring. After that, you'll probably want to read everything he's written.

His books, for me, have been a thrilling adventure. I shall miss him, though I never met him. His death is a great loss to the world of letters. Even so, his books remain for us to enjoy. As he said, “The dream lives on after the body is buried.” With Walt Whitman, he is waiting for us to join him on the tour of life.

Originally published in 1980, shortly after Miller's death.

Idée d’jour

He who wants to do good knocks at the gate: he who loves finds the door open.
— Rabindranath Tagore

Idée d’jour

Seen on t-shirt:
Work hard
Play hard
Do good

Idée d’jour

I care not much for a man's religion whose dog and cat are not the better for it.
— Abraham Lincoln

A Boy and his cat

Also known as "DJ on my shoulders"

Idée d’jour

There are few things in life more heartwarming than to be welcomed by a cat.
— Tay Hohoff

Idée d’jour

The true miracle is not walking on water or walking in air, but simply walking on this earth.
— Thich Nhat Hanh

Zorba the Buddha

Recently finished reading an interview with Tom Robbins by Mara Altman. She asked him if there was anyone in his life he considered a mentor. "No one living," he said; then, went on:

Oh, maybe Leonard Cohen. Leonard Cohen is my hero. He’s like Zorba the Buddha. Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, the Indian guru ... who later changed his name to Osho, he had this notion of a character called Zorba the Buddha who — we’ll say a man, but it could be a woman too — who was contemplative, led a serene spiritual life, meditated a lot, was a nonviolent, placid person who lived in the spirit but who also knew how to work and make money, knew how to utilize the Internet, knew how much to tip a maître d’ in a Paris nightclub, who was of the world and enjoyed the world and all of its sensual pleasures in terms of food, sex, drink, color, art, but also at the same time was deeply spiritual. And I’ve kind of superimposed that Zorba the Buddha figure onto Leonard Cohen, perhaps unfairly, but he strikes me as someone who is close to that figure. I like the fact that he meditates, that he has spent time alone — a lot of it in anguish in a Buddhist monastery — that he is so adept with language and loves women and wears beautiful Armani suits and will sit and sip wine at a sidewalk café with beautiful girls and yet be able to have this rich inner life, not just creatively but also spiritually.

I remember Dr. Omed once telling me I needed to learn how to be in the world, but not of it. I imagine he meant something like this. Combining, as it were, the exuberance of Kazantzakis' Zorba with the supposed serenity of a Zen master.

Whether Leonard Cohen is that Zen master is another question. He's on the record of saying his interest in Zen was primarily motivated by the teacher, though he's also expressed an admiration for the strict discipline. I imagine he would be amused by Robbins' description, perhaps even flattered. He'd likely find it as amusing as his image as a lady's man.

For myself, it's my hope to live the words I pray. It's a daily struggle to practice the peace I seek. To find the joy in life, even in the darkness. I don't know that I have Zorba's lust for life, or the Zen master's discipline. I'm decidedly no lady's man, nor fashion plate. I'm a middle class guy, with no greater American dream than keeping my head above water while managing my consumer debt. I'm dazzled by things, and tempted by what they promise. I'm easily cut by the side-ways glance, or snide tone. I'm too nervous, too fearful, to wear the world as a loose garment.

Leonard wrote: “I practiced on my sainthood.” I think I know what he meant. My struggle and striving to live with integrity are that practice. It's not sainthood I seek, exactly: it's a spirit that is calm.

I'm no saint. I'm no Zorba. I'm certainly not Zen Master Cohen. I'm only Jac. I might as well begin with a song.

Idée d’jour

If you are not allowed to laugh in heaven, I do not want to go there.
— Martin Luther

Idée d’jour

Who thinks that they can kill time without injuring eternity?
— Henry David Thoreau

Jonquils wake late

Jonquils wake late
from a storm
of helvetica dreams

Thunder from the porch
a wandering wasp
diving the blossoms

Sun blinks behind
morse code clouds
over coffee streets

Response to In hepatica time, by Dave Bonta

Idée d’jour

Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads
— Henry David Thoreau

Krista Tippett on Civility

The following are notes from a presentation given by Krista Tippett, the host of "On Being", on April 8, 2014, at the Mayflower Congregational Church in Oklahoma City, OK. These notes are a reflection of what impressed me in her presentation, and are not expected to be an accurate representation of what she said.

We need to make a distinction between public life and political life. The word “civility” is inadequate, for it seems too demure, prim and proper; but it's better than “tolerance,” the word much in favor from the 60s. Tolerance is passive; what is needed is an active engagement with, and acceptance of, our fellow terrestrial travelers.

We find the big questions of the 20^th century are being re-imagined for the 21^st century; e.g., marriage, beginning of life, etc.

This requires the reformation of all institutions

The most needed innovation is to recognize how our individual vulnerability is linked with others on the planet (all beings, all creation)

Anxiety about change in public life looks like anger (especially via "news" media) rather than fear.

The next needed innovation is to be conversational entrepreneurs; to see conversation as means to seek shared values rather than means to persuade, to win. This will plant seeds of the civil society we long for.

FOUR ENCOURAGEMENTS

• Words Matter
  • Share how we understand ourselves & perceive how others move through the world
  • Navigate pluralistic society through acceptance of diff rather than tolerance
  • Which is too cerebral
  • Never asked to be engaged or be curious about the Other
  • Find shimmering words to share the essence of ourselves
  • "Are we not of interest to each other"
  • Ground virtues rather than ground rules
• Questions
  • Elicit answers in their likeness
  • Ideal is to avoid yes or no, or leading questions
  • Remember, it's hard to resist a generous question, which invites dignity & honor
  • Seek the animating question, rather than simplistic. Seek what lies beneath.
  • Good question does not seek common ground or resolution
    • Pressure of agreement works against understanding each other
  • Questions are powerful within themselves — don't worry about the answers
• Honor difficulty of being human — starting small, as beginners
  • Which reminded me of the book Always We Begin Again, on Benedictine Practice
  • Change evolves slowly in the human heart
  • Conversation is a tool to make human connection (not change hearts and minds)
  • Be hospitable
  • We need critical yeast; that is, an unlikely combination of people
  • The radar (news media) is broken — if it ever existed
    • Change from public service to one more part of profit-seeking industry
• Develop eyes to see and ears to hear; for example
  • Civil rights movement sought to create a beloved humanity
  • We are in the midst of a long-term project; all of us are involved
  • We can be sources of social healing; again, to plant seeds of a civil society
  • Long term, seek to transform conflict rather than resolve it
    • If not transformed, the conflict will go underground (like repressed emotion) and rise again
    • However, transformation is a long term project; a minimum of 10 years
  • We are called to the inner work of integrity
  • Because, in the growing global community, it's about the other. Or, more practically, the person across town
  • In the words of Civil Rights leader and Congressman John Lewis, “When you pray, move your feet”

Peace to those who mourn

Went to a funeral for a friend's son yesterday. He died a week ago, at a relatively young 35. I knew him only as a small boy; there's a chunk of his life unknown to me. Just hints from the slide show displayed on the church wall, and comments from the minister.

I went as a support to his mother, who I haven't seen in almost 30 years. She looks much the same; I have less hair.

As I held her after the funeral, she kept saying how kind I was to drive 30 minutes south to attend the funeral. Don't know if it was kind; it was the right thing to do.

Saw a few old poetry friends at the ceremony. Somehow, seeing those people, and seeing the photos of the young boy I briefly knew, conjured ghosts of a sort. I felt haunted and on edge the rest of the day. There are echoes this morning.

Pray for Blake; pray for his father, currently in a far distant land and unable to be at the service. Pray peace to Lissa, the mother who has survived her only son.

Idée d’jour

I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.
— Galileo Galilei

Idée d’jour

Imagination is the key to my lyrics. The rest is painted with a little science fiction.
— Jimi Hendrix

Finger Labyrinth

I have a finger labyrinth
which I trace
from time to time
circling into the darkness
into the cave
where ego dwells
circling circling
a cosmos collapsing
into the darkness
where I am empty

I'm not here
but I'm not gone

I have Celtic prayer beads
upon which I count the weeks
a circle of stones
I trace the perimeter
I pray the center
I bless the days
the days bless me

I'm not gone
but I'm not here

I trace my return
from the labyrinth's dark center
I count the courses
the expanding universe
circling stars
greeted here by Whitman
embracing dark & light
greeted here by the angel
with fiery sword
welcomed to new light

What Was Said

What the turnstile said
to the whirlwind
under the snow-full moon

where the pilgrim's eyes
were opened
Jacob's well

Standing stone
infinite circle
where water overflows

Sunset a door
a thin line
on the horizon

Dreams beyond the beyond
an infinite circle
in the pilgrim's eyes

A thin skyline
a bottomless well
echoing whirlwind

Idée d’jour

An ounce of mother is worth a pound of clergy.
— Spanish proverb

Each can do an equal amount of good, or ill.

Finding Humility After a Sacred Walk

St. Jerome, that great holy crank, is often pictured with a lion. The Desert Fathers welcomed cats to their loosely aligned communities. It's likely the cat was useful for reducing vermin, but I think those felines great and small were also prized for another reason: humility. A cat teaches its human companion humility better than any other creature I know.

Living in community can also be humbling. If done with honesty, clear self-assessment, and integrity, it can be a spiritual discipline. Always I find myself balancing my needs against those of others. The goal, on the sacred path, is to put the needs of others first. But this is balanced by recognizing my own needs. For example, my need for alone time with God — just as Jesus would often step away for private prayer.

As an introvert, it's quite challenging to strike that balance. I'm most comfortable alone, with my own thoughts. The delusion of my perceptions, the delusion of self.

This is part of what I brought with me when I went to walk the labyrinth last Saturday at a Quiet Day at St. Paul's.

I had actually been on the fence as to whether to participate. I had, after all, walked the Healing Path just a few months ago. The deciding factor came on Ash Wednesday. No acolytes had been scheduled for the 7:00 p.m. service, so the Eucharistic Ministers were pressed into service. When I arrived — about 10 minutes before service — I was informed that I had been volunteered to carry the Gospel book.

I don't think I've ever carried the Gospel before; if I have, it was when I was a teenager, over forty years ago. Carrying the Gospel involves bearing it in procession — both at the beginning & end of the service — and holding it for the deacon as s/he reads from it. The Gospel book used at St. Paul's Cathedral is oversized — about as big as the average coffee-table book — and bound by an engraved metal cover. It's surprisingly heavy.

The Gospel expresses an ideal of human living. The life story of Jesus is a plumb line, against which the faithful measure their own manner of living. It calls the listener to judgment. This is why, in our faith tradition, we stand when the Gospel is read.

A hymn is traditionally sung as the Gospel is brought into the midst of the congregation. The crucifix and a pair of torches proceed the deacon and Gospel. The book is presented to the deacon, who finds her place then hands the book back to the acolyte. The acolyte holds the book as the hymn is sung. On this occasion, the hymn seemed especially long, at least six verses.

I stood there, facing the deacon, as the Book grew increasingly heavy. And I was struck by what an honor it is to carry this particular book. How I so often fall short of the ideal, yet am still worthy to hold and carry it in religious ceremony. It was a prayerful moment.

That feeling of prayer was a thin place; a moment when I was aware of the divine. I longed to return to that place, and knew the labyrinth was a way to enter a similar thin place.

I was one of the last ones to enter the labyrinth Saturday morning. I was taking my time. I was praying an Anglican rosary, using a prayer a friend had shared on Facebook: “Keep darkness out, keep light within; keep fear without, keep peace within; keep hatred without, keep love within.” I was two-thirds through the rosary when I noticed I was among the last pilgrims, and decided to complete the rosary as I walked the labyrinth's circuits.

As I've said before, one often meets the companions one needs on the Path. On this day, the first person I met was John, a Viet Nam vet who, I believe, suffers from PTSD. I stepped to one side so he could pass; we bowed to each other as he walked by: “The sacred in me recognizes the sacred in you,” to paraphrase the Hindu prayer.

This stepping to one side to let others pass was something I frequently did that day, mostly as a courtesy. It was also a way to honor my sense of personal space — to allow a bit of breathing room between my body and all those other bodies. The lanes were narrow, and only once did I turn to one side to walk the same circuit as another person — who was walking the opposite direction.

In time, I was the last person in the labyrinth. In time, most of the other pilgrims were heading downstairs for lunch. There were three facilitators walking at the edges of the labyrinth to support our prayer with their own. In time, I came to believe people were waiting for me – possibly my fellow pilgrims, certainly those three facilitators. There was also the possibility I'd be late for lunch, and would not know where it was being served. I was very near the entrance; no more than two or three circuits to go. I was at point where I could easily step over one border and enter the lane leading out.

So I did. I walked back to my chair, quickly jotted down a few notes, and put my shoes back on. I started to join the others, but as I walked down the stairs, I was aware the noise was painful. I had to admit I needed a few more minutes to transition from the sacred to the mundane.

I didn't think much one way or the other about my actions. I wasn't consciously thinking, “Man, I'm a really spiritual person. I've spent all this time in prayer, and I've been so considerate of my fellow pilgrims!”

I suppose that element of pride was there though, lurking in my subconscious.

I drove straight from church to the grocery store. It didn't take long to collect and purchase my paltry supplies — no more than 15-20 minutes. Returned to the car, put the bag in the trunk, started the car.

I couldn't pull out because another car was directly behind me. The driver, a woman with a young child, was waiting for a car on the opposite side to pull out. I wasn't really feeling impatient. I was listening to This American Life as my car ran, and was relatively content. I looked in the rear-view every so often to see if the woman had moved yet.

Our interaction became a silent movie, with each of us projecting dark voices (I suppose) onto the other. At some point the woman saw my eyes reflected in my rearview. I didn't think I was looking that often, but perhaps she thought I was getting impatient. She might have in my place, as I had no way of leaving (there was a car parked in front of me).

I don't know why she didn't pull back so I could exit; then she could have pulled into my former parking space. There was no way to communicate that option.

I was aware of her looking back at me, noticing my eyes in the rear view. I tried to think of a way to communicate I was in no hurry. So I drummed my fingers. Mistake — she read that as greater impatience. I could see her lips move; she was gesticulating to the space she'd been waiting for. Her lips moved some more.

I can't read lips, and that's the point I which I did become impatient. I unbuckled my belt and left the car, hoping we could speak like adults. However, she wouldn't roll down her window. All I could do is say, almost at a shout, “I'm just waiting, like you. What's your problem? There's no problem.” Felt altogether impotent and silly. I returned to my car.

Clearly, I had not made a full return from the mountain top. I was not ready to deal with other people. It's well and good to be courteous to people in your faith community, people you've come to know and care for. But the real test is how you treat the stranger.

I'm not sure I earned a passing grade as I confronted that woman in the grocery store parking lot. I went home, so my cat could teach me greater humility.

Bukowski on Writing

There's nothing to stop a man from writing unless that man stops himself. If a man truly desires to write, then he will. Rejection and ridicule will only strengthen him. And the longer he is held back the stronger he will become, like a mass of rising water against a dam. There is no losing in writing; it will make your toes laugh as you sleep; it will make you stride like a tiger; it will fire the eye and put you face to face with Death. You will die a fighter, you will be honored in hell. The luck of the word. Go with it, send it. Be the Clown in the Darkness. It's funny. It's funny. One more new line ...
— from The Captain is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship

Idée d’jour

Humans think they are smarter than dolphins because we build cars and buildings and start wars, etc., and all that dolphins do is swim in the water, eat fish, and play around. Dolphins believe that they are smarter for exactly the same reasons.
— Douglas Adams

Idée d’jour

Conceive of Nothing While you live And I give you Heaven.
— Jack Kerouac
Happy Birthday, Ti Jean

Idée d’jour

What is wanted now is not simply the Christian who takes an inner complacency in the words & example of Christ, but who seek to follow Christ perfectly, not only in his personal life, not only in prayer & penitence, but also in his political commitments and in all social responsibilities.
— Thomas Merton

Idée d’jour

To draw, you must close your eyes and sing.
— Pablo Picasso

Playing on the Old Banjo

Consider, for a moment, the humble banjo. Folk I travel with are fond of such jokes as “You know what you got when you throw a hundred banjos in the ocean?” The banjo is almost ridiculous in appearance, when compared with its cousins, the guitar & mandolin (add a bass, and you've got a bluegrass group). It has a loud brash sound, which cuts across the dreadnought guitar, chopping mandolin, and the dancers' feet.

Dave Bonta considers the banjo with just the right mix of seriousness and humor in his latest chapbook, Breakdown: Banjo Poems (Seven Kitchens Press). These poems take the reader on a little history of the instrument, both literal and imaginative.

The collection begins with the ominous sounding “Banjo Apocalypse,” which borrows heavily from the Book of Revelation. This may seem irreverent, and the more tender and easily offended reader may close the book immediately. It would be a shame if you did; you not only miss the fun of this first poem, but the fun journey of the poems which follow.

An “apocalypse”, of course, is a story of the end times (I write this on the supposed date of Ragnarok). And it seems odd to begin a collection with thoughts of the end times. The poem begins by giving the angels of John's vision seven banjos rather than seven trumpets; this seems right — the banjo blares & blasts (in its way) like a trumpet. After an imaginative breakdown of the banjo's construction, the poem closes with these lines:

And the seven angels
which had the seven banjos
prepared themselves
to sound.

This suggests that what is to follow are the sounds of those banjos, for the angels' trumpets sound in John's vision prior to the opening of the scrolls which describe end time events. Immediately, the collection turns from future end times to history — the fraught history of the banjo, which reflects our American history.

For we can't fully consider the banjo's history without addressing the issue of slavery. The banjo was stolen, in a sense, with its owners when European nations kidnapped people from Africa and brought them to the U.S. It's a troubling history; this collection does not shy away from it.

The fourth poem, “Catskin Banjo” is especially telling and (compared to other poems in the collection) relatively graphic. The narrative revolves around a cat, but it could also be about a female slave. The cat's fear could also be a slave's fear.

I don't want to give the impression that the collection dwells on this early history — just the first few poems directly reference the banjo as a slave's instrument. Other poems reference early minstrel days (five have “Medicine Show” in the title). One of the poems in the “Medicine Show” set reminds us that Shackleton took a banjo & banjo player to the Antarctic.

As a watch-repairman's son, I especially enjoyed “Open-Backed Banjo”, which compares it to “our only god the clock”, asking

Where's the balance wheel?
The escapement?
The gear train?

There's nothing there “... but a bare rod / & the smell of rain.” The ghost in its machine calls the narrator to make his hands those of this time-keeping machine, to

Play it, son!
Make it ring like a hammer on steel
& rattle like a Gatling gun
until it smokes.

Bonta's irreverent sense of fun returns with “Banjo Proverbs”, which "steals" from the KJV translation of the Book of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes, substituting "banjo" for "fool" or "foolish" in the original. Perhaps it's just me, but the banjo here seems more than merely foolish — it “mocks at sin”. A player returns to it as a dog returns to his vomit. “Forsake the banjo,” we're told in the final stanza, “and live”.

Many poems deal with the origins of the banjo, from the gourd in “How Jefferson Heard Banjar” to the mechanisms detailed in the opening poem and “Open-Backed Banjo”. One of my favorites is “Banjo Origins (3): Jesusland”, a playful imagining of how banjos might grow on trees. And how the banjo once followed the Grateful Dead. Side note: Jerry Garcia was a bluegrass fan, as detailed in the documentary “Grateful Dawg”.

Although the collection is headed “Breakdown” there is no other reference to bluegrass in the collection. Elsewhere, Dave has said he prefers the claw-hammer style to Earl Scruggs' new-fangled style. Earl Scruggs is best known for his partnership with Lester Flatt, but he began his career with Bill Monroe's Blue Grass Boys; it was Scruggs' banjo which gave the genre its distinctive sound.

A breakdown may be an instrumental (e.g., Foggy Mt Breakdown) or a break in a vocal song. This collection is an extended piece, with theme & variation — history, dream, myth, wonder. It's a charming collection, a worthy co-winner of the Keystone Chapbook Prize.

The chapbook is worth its $9 cover price. I also encourage you to preview the series on Dave Bonta's Via Negativa site, where they are prefaced (or presaged) by a series of Moving Poems.

Order a copy of Breakdown: Banjo Poems from Seven Kitchens Press.

Haiku: 5.Feb.14

Crystalline breath
Lingers on western sky
Quiet pink sunset

Thanks for our senses

Blessed are you, Lord God, for the gift of our senses; you fill creation with delight. We hear your word above the storm; we feel your voice behind the wind. We hear your word in stirring leaves; we feel your voice with every heartbeat. Grant we train our senses to perceive your good news in all creation. Grant we share your delight with all your creatures.

---

I am facilitating a class that uses haiku as a spiritual discipline to be fully present to God's creation. We are using the book Clear Water by Jeannie Martin as a guide. Tomorrow will be the third meeting of the group. I have asked the group to journal on a different set of senses each week. The prayer above is my response to tomorrow's assignment: hearing & touch.

27.I.14

Shock the tongue
jump start the nerves
coffee's first sip

25.I.14

Bitter dreams
soured moon
bitter morning

Literary Cat

On the meditative benefits of befriending a cat, from Muriel Spark, A Far Cry from Kensington :

If you want to concentrate deeply on some problem, and especially some piece of writing or paper-work, you should acquire a cat. Alone with the cat in the room where you work … the cat will invariably get up on your desk and settle placidly under the desk lamp. The light from a desk lamp … gives a cat great satisfaction. The cat will settle down and be serene, with a serenity that passes all understanding. And the tranquility of the cat will gradually come to affect you, sitting there at your desk, so that all the excitable qualities that impede your concentration compose themselves and give your mind back the self-command it has lost. You need not watch the cat all the time. Its presence alone is enough. The effect of a cat on your concentration is remarkable, very mysterious.

Courtesy Maria Popova's Brain Pickings site.

Bring Your Own God

Review of Bring Your Own God: The Spirituality of Woody Guthrie by Rev. Steve Edington; 3.5 stars

This book covers an aspect of Woody's life no other biography spends much time on: his spirituality. The basic case is made in the first chapter; the remaining chapters strive to support the argument. The author is a Unitarian minister, and possibly reflects some preference toward portraying Woody as a self-taught Unitarian. Having read much of Woody's writing beyond Bound For Glory, however, I agree with this portrayal.

The author's approach is not chronological, which I found interesting — though I was not sure why he approached the topic in this fashion. It certainly helped that I was already familiar with Guthrie's biography from three other sources (Bound for Glory, and Woody Guthrie: A Life by Joe Klein & Ramblin' Man: The Life and Times of Woody Guthrie by Ed Cray).

The book includes much of Woody's writing that I have not seen elsewhere, especially letters he wrote in response to condolence letters after the death of Cathy ("Stackabones"), and much of a play written after he was hospitalized with Huntington's. For me, these selections were worth the $4 for the Kindle edition.

The book does become repetitive in the last few chapters, which is the main reason it falls short of a four-star review. Otherwise, I would definitely recommend someone read this as a supplement with Klein or Cary's biographies to get a full picture of the man.

Idée d’jour

The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.
— Pablo Picasso

Idée d’jour

The rich have everything they want except happiness, and the poor are sacrificed to the unhappiness of the rich.
— Thomas Merton