My Last Poem

My last poem
will walk under storm-green skies
past haunted duplexes
through echoing culverts
through knee-high grass.
It will walk from New Jersey Pine Barrons
and coast up Gravity Hill;
it will walk from mother's horror
to father's death;
it will walk from the myth of Saturn
to the mouth of the whirlwind.
It will walk all this way
to sit on my chest,
some cat-like Buddha,
to flip through the uneven pages
of my unjustified heart.

My last poem and my first poem
will sit on the front porch
and tell tall tales
about the neighbors.
They'll compare rhetoric
and the scope of their rhythm.
"You've got a charming rhyme scheme,"
my last poem will say;
"You've got a mysterious metaphysic,"
my first poem will reply.
And they'll write sketches of the wind
while drinking green tea
with a pinch of fresh mint
and a spoon-full of local honey.

My last poem
may have forgotten every cherished image;
it may have lost
its connection to each borrowed symbol
and 40 years worth of repetends.
It may find itself confronted
by each unfinished stanza,
every half-begun epic,
each muse in passing
and muse in waiting -
each shopgirl, waitress,
movie star, pew mate,
class mate, anima projection -
all the false goddesses
and true harridans,
all the true goddesses
and faithless lovers.
It may have forgotten
their names in eternity.
It may have lost its breath
and its measured lines.
It may not want a song
or need one more sip of beer.

My last poem
will shake your hand and greet you.
It will welcome you like an old friend.
It will walk with you anywhere.

Idée d’jour

God must have loved the people in power, for he made them so much like their own image of him.
— Kenneth Patchen, poet and novelist (1911-1972)

The Biggest Lie

"The biggest lie of our low dishonest decade is that we are doing so much better now than [arbitrary date in the last five years]. Casualties are down from [day/month/year arbitrarily chosen to make this point.] Now that [Bush lands on aircraft carrier / Saddam is captured / executed/ elections are held / one particular group is not attacking Americans as often], we have proved how wrong opponents of the war really were all this time. This lie gets repeated over and over again, with the bracketed parts changing. Sure, we messed it up for the first [one, two, three, four, five, six] years, but NOW things are going our way, and it's unpatriotic to suggest otherwise!"
— Jonathan, at Bemsha Swing!

This Week's Cat

The lady poses for her close-up.

ISO 1600; f.5.0 @ 1/10; flash

Worst President? Ask the Twins

Idée d’jour

The flowers fall, for all our yearning; weeds grow, regardless of our dislike.
— Zen saying

Another variant of this wisdom is found in Judeo-Christian Scripture: It rains upon the just and the unjust.

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Photo details: ISO 200, f/7.1 @ 1/400; cloudy, natural light

April 4

The moon hauls in the water
the wind tears up the street
the stars hail down

The weather vane lost true north
the mailbox flag is frozen
the robin is far from home

She opens the drowsy window
watches rain wash the screen
she dreams her morning fog
in the swirl of her morning coffee

Day Job

To pick up on how my employment situation has affected my blog/creative output:
My primary function (assisting with grant applications) is very seasonal. Plus, there is a limited amount I can do without information from the applicant. So, even when a grant is due, I have a considerable amount of "free" time. During which I would edit photographs, craft essays, and go surfing for topics or supporting evidence.

Until fairly recently, grant applications have been paper-based. Then, about three years ago, a number of agencies switched to electronic submission. Most NIH grants are now electronic submission only. Which means that there is even less for a secretary to do.

Finally, there are only three researchers who use my services on a regular basis. Even though I assisted with a grant application every month but three last year, there still was not enough for me to do.

Now, the average manager would probably respond, "There's always something to do." I accept that; but it doesn't necessarily mean that I would know what else needs to be done.

In any case, our primary boss started noticing. I do my best to be discrete in my surfing (mostly work-safe sites), and I typically have a "boss key" handy, but I was occasionally caught surfing. So, the boss said something to my immediate supervisor. A caution which was repeated to me twice – once in '06 and once in '07.

The first time my supervisor reported this caution, I responded with my view of the situation - pretty much as I've detailed above. My supervisor responded by saying it seemed like I needed to transition to another function. But nothing more was said.

When she repeated the caution in '07, I responded by listing the things I am doing, and how I spend my down time. I solicited ideas for other things to do, but she had none.

That's the point at which I started to apply for other positions. About the same time, I noticed the department was hiring part-time personnel to assist in our billing area. I immediately began researching whether this might be a function I could take on.

To make a long story less long, I sold management on the idea that I could serve the same function as the part-timer while continuing with my grant-support functions (as well as my web master job).

I'm not getting paid more for this (at present), but I do believe there is greater job security. Our business manager (who joined the department late last year)was especially impressed that I took the initiative. She has also told me several times what a good job I'm doing, and how glad the people in the billing area are that I have joined that corner.

So, now I have fairly full days at work. While I miss the opportunity to indulge in my creative pursuits, I do feel less anxious about being caught or being in a situation where I might lose my job. I feel more useful, as well, which has given my self-image a shot in the arm.

State of the Blog

I have been unusually quiet. If not for a few "Idée d’jour" and photographs, you might think I fell off the earth. You might think, as Brother Dave possibly did, that I was seriously depressed.

I was moderately depressed, something that seems to be common for me in the dark months. I was under the weather for over a month. The two combined for a greater depression.

But I was also tired of the sound of my own voice. I didn't have anything to say. What little I did have to say, I couldn't think of new ways to say it. There are, after all, a limited number of ways to say "I hate Bush".

There is another reason I've had less to say — I seem to have less time to say anything. Over the past few years, I've written an embarrassing amount at work. I'll have more to say about my work situation in a different post.

I intend to maintain this space. I know I will be glad of the creative outlet once the quality of light springs my seratonin level back to normal. I won't make promises, but you're likely to hear from me more often.

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Picture details: ISO 100; f/8.0 @1/60; zoom lens, 150mm; taken ~ 5:30 p.m., 14.Mar.08

Jonquil 08Mar17

This was a bud on Friday. Now, it opens to welcome the predicted rain.

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Shot details:
ISO 100 f/6.3 @ 1/100; 95 mm

Ideé d’jour

Lose your mind and come to your senses.
— Fritz Perls

Idée d’jour

The more intelligent and cultured a man is, the more subtly he can humbug himself.
– Carl Jung

Idée d’jour

Cold you may be
but don't warm yourself by the fire,
Buddha of snow!
— Sokan

Cat Friday

Ideé d’jour

Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?
— Thomas Wolfe

Something

. . . about a stone, found along an unkempt path. Something about the striations of gray and white. Something about the path, unattended for more than a decade. Something about the lightning-felled tree. Something about the moss on the tree. Something about winter, and the new moon.

The stone is smoothed by wind and rain. I hold it in my hand and feel the weight of forgotten mountains. I perceive the ocean. I hear the waters rise and fall. I feel the mammoth's delicate tread. The stone knows more than I.

The stone now lies in the bottom of a double-wall basket. The reeds come all the way from China. The stone remembers the Cherokee women who originally wove this type of basket. The stone ponders, but does not compare.

There is something about a stone's wisdom which causes the clouds to part.

Friday Cat

Idée d’jour

The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed -- and hence clamorous to be led to safety -- by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary.
— H.L. Mencken, writer, editor, and critic (1880-1956)

Ideé d’jour

... those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.
— Friedrich Nietzsche

Cat Friday

This picture confirms DJ's solemn belief that the world revolves around her.