America, I Don't Know You Anymore

My country, ‘tis of thee

Goodbye Tranquility …

So far off track.

No more great pride to flaunt,

Just hateful words that haunt

Oh please can you give me

My country back.

-- An anonymous, disgruntled citizen substitutes his own words for those of the American patriotic song, "My Country Tis of Thee".

Glenn Beck, conservative talk-show host, saying he wanted to bring back a feeling of unity in the nation after 9/11, called for a rally the day after the 8th anniversary of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks. Tens of thousands of supporters showed up in Washington, D.C.  wearing T-shirts and carrying signs and placards whose messages implied the emphasis was not on unity but on maintaining Divisiveness.

In America, we have freedom of speech. You can stand in a public place and carry a sign advocating the torture of the President and you won't be put in jail.

When George W.  Bush was president, if you attended one of his public appearances wearing a T-shirt that said "Impeach Bush", you risked being  forcibly removed,  told to go stand in the Free Speech Zone (behind a wire fence or cage), or possibly arrested.  But apparently, people in a public place calling for Obama to be tortured are free to spread this chilling message without interference. 

That may be because the word "waterboard" is perceived by some as somehow in the same category as "surfboard" or "skateboard", which terms evoke images of "sport" and "pleasure".  For some people, the jury's still out on whether waterboarding is actually torture.  Some have gone so far as to hire lawyers to define it to more conveniently fit their moral comfort zone.  But that's neither here nor there.  The point is, this fellow feels Obama deserves to be given the "let's-make-you-think-you're-drowning" treatment.  Then maybe Obama will tell us whatever it is the man doesn't think Obama is telling us--it's not clear what, exactly.  Its meaning eludes me.  I'm not sure the man himself knows.  If he knows, he's not telling.  Maybe he should be waterboarded.  (Words!  See what I mean?)

Obama, to one particular citizen, is an "Oppressive, Bloodsucking, Arrogant, Muslim Alien."  How cute. As opposed to George Bush, I suppose, that Brilliant, Upstanding, Superior Human, who in the course of only eight years got us into a never-ending war, tripled the national debt, illegally spied on the populace, cut taxes for the rich and discontinued programs for the poor, bringing the country closer to ruin.  (Now, now, show some respect for the guy; after all, he was the President.)

These people are said to be here ostensibly to oppose increased taxes, Obama's plan for health reform, and to "feel united."  But mostly they seem to be here to show how much they hate Obama.

Obama's "arrogant."  His middle name is Hussein--he must be a Muslim! He's not White.  
He's not Black, either.  He's of mixed breed (i.e., not PURE-blooded. ) 

Notice no one has called him "stupid" or "inarticulate" or "incompetent".
All the labels focus on attacking his lineage, his suspected religious affiliation and--his Foreignness.  He's "Not Us".


 

These conservatives are proud of who they are and what they represent. As this man's T-shirt boldly proclaims:

CHRISTIAN, AMERICAN, HETEROSEXUAL, PRO-GUN, CONFEDERATE. 
"Any Questions?" 
(Translation:  "You got a problem with that?")
Er.. no, but how is that relevant to "unity", the so-called theme of the gathering?

 

He equates Fox News with the Freedom Rider, Paul Revere.  Fox News will be the 21st century's mouthpiece for the coming revolution.  Militias are forming as we speak.

Last week scores of American parents refused to let their children attend or listen to the President's speech, in which he encouraged students to finish school and use their knowledge to contribute to their country's future.  The parents termed this message "brainwashing our kids."

Instead they bring their children to rallies such as this one, to advocate a return to McCarthyism, no less, to combat what they see as  "Obama Communism".

They tell their children that Obama is a racist.  This they don't consider brainwashing, though.

One protester wants to do away with the United States Post Office, Am Trac [sic], Medicare and Social Security.

That's because they're all "run by the government."

Anything run by the government is SOCIALISM.

Socialism is ...  COMMUNISM!!

Obama is a COMMUNIST.

This anger seems directed more at who Obama isn't (i.e., "Not-Us"), than anything to do with taxes, health care, or wanting unity.

Calling for your President to be tortured--excuse me, waterboarded--and comparing him to Hitler (implying he's a Fascist) while at the same time expressing a desire for the return of McCarthyism (where you could be rounded up and brought in for questioning based solely on someone's anonymous tip), is ludicrous.  Of course, the fact that we do an enormous amount of business with China--which is Communist, by the way--is irrelevant.  You are allowed to visit China if you're an American citizen.  You can't, however, visit Cuba, because... well, they're Communists. 

It is the absence of real dialogue--a conversation where each side listens to the other and carefully considers both viewpoints, whether the subject is health care reform, one's religious beliefs, or politics in general--the U.S. is becoming more and more a  nation deeply, DEEPLY divided.  It has become a nation now of the Us's and the Thems.  Echoing the former President, "You're either with us or against us."  (The Thems, of course, are all the people who fall into the category of  the "Not-Us's." )

What is evident here, it seems to me, in all these spiteful personal attacks and in some cases, suppressed rage, is lack of either reason or tolerance.  No one is listening, truly listening any more.  One automatically assumes that because a person is a Not-Us, that everything that comes out of his/her mouth must therefore be suspect.  One comes to a discussion, not to seek understanding or to find a solution,  but to bombard the other party with one's arsenal of accumulated diatribes.  "This is who I am," these protesters seem to be saying.  "And Obama is NOT one of Us." 


"He has to be stopped", says the poster at the top of this page.


Stopped how?  In the next election?  By ensuring that his programs never get passed?  By assassinating him?  To me, the words "Stop him before it's too late" sounds urgent.  Like you have to do something NOW.   ("I don't understand why everyone is so upset," said the man outside the ripped off doors of the collapsing movie theatre as scores of ambulances cart away the mangled bodies of the panicked patrons. "All I did was yell FIRE.  I thought I smelled smoke. We could have all been in danger.   What would you have done?")


Do people not realize how powerful certain words and images are?  What they mean, how and when they're said, what they suggest?!

According to an observer at the Glenn Beck rally, there were signs calling Obama "Hitler, Bin Laden, Saddam Hussein, Stalin, the Anti-Christ, Socialist, Communist, Marxist, Fascist, Nazi, Tyrant, Traitor, Thief, Lier, Racist, Puppet, False Messiah, Proponent of Eugenics, Un-American, Russian, Musslim, Jew, Terrorist."  (Have they left anything out?)  It boggles the mind.


"When we smell the burning flesh from the ovens, it will be to [sic] late for us all, says that poster.   An image of the Joker is superimposed onto Obama's face.  His eyes are blackened, his face suddenly all chaulky white.  The "burning flesh from the ovens" -- I guess that means Obama intends to send "us all" to the gas chambers--why he's just as power-mad as Hitler. You can see the connection, right?  Hitler--ovens--Obama?  See?

The problem with these mixed, hateful messages is they are absorbed, uncritically, lock, stock and barrel by those who have absolutely no idea what the real issue is, or in fact, the meaning of the words they so unconsciously bandy about.  They simply repeat them, for anything that has to do with Obama, on cue.

"Do away with Social Security!  No more government-run programs!" Uh, you sure you got a plan in mind for when your Social Security check stops coming?  How about your Medicare?  

How about your mail?  You sure you want the entire national postal system to dissolve and go to private companies?  No more uniform stamp prices--you'd have to shop around for the one that sells the cheapest stamps and offers the best mail delivery.  Maybe you live in a state where mail would only be delivered twice a week now due to decreasing profits. 

But hey, at least it's not "government run."

To be fair, not everyone who goes to these gatherings or demonstrations is  in an angry, hateful mood.  Some of them are quite festive.  And if you stand politely holding up a sign advocating that someone be waterboarded, or even hung, you're still peacefully protesting.  It's only the printed words, and the meaning they portend, that hint of untapped rage.  


Humor surfaces occasionally, though, to remind us that there are other ways to get one's message across.  Not to be outdone by the hordes of naysayers to Obama's proposed health plan, a small group of Billionaires for Wealthcare, the men dressed in tuxedos, holding glasses of champaigne and smoking Havana cigars; the women dressed fashionably, wearing high heels and pearls, carried signs that said:

"Fight socialism--end Medicare now!" 

"Do no harm to our bottom line"
"Nothing says 'Freedom' like denying claims"
"Warning:  Affordable Healthcare may cause severe loss of profit".
"CIGNA-Palin, 2012"


Satire on a stick.  Obviously from the lunatic frindge, ha ha.
Look at the picture (below).  They're all smiling.

Nobody's advocating torture or calling anyone names.  They have, well, "class."  They actually seem--happy.  This group chose to voice their opinions and stage a counter protest by putting on a one-act, silent comedy.  They were, understandably, in the minority, representing those who believe that the U.S. should at least consider talking seriously about adopting universal health care for its citizens, a benefit enjoyed by countless other countries.  But last I heard, it was actually something like 50-50, in that regard.  Or maybe it was 70-30.  (Or was it 60-40?  It's hard to keep up with all the polls.  But a significant number of the populace want it at least discussed.)


Note, they're not there to scream at, raise their fists or hurl obscenities at the persons holding an opposite view at this demonstration.  They prefer slinging irony.  Contrast that with how Glenn Beck's 9/12 rally supporters treated this lone individual, in the blue cap and white shirt, simply trying to hold up a sign saying "Public Option Now".  He is followed, loudly booed, circled, and surrounded by people shouting with megaphones into his face as five security guards arrive behind, in front and to the side of him, to try to ward off them off. 




 

 One wonders if those security guards had not shown up to escort him off onto the sidewalk, if he would not have been accosted and trampled, or worse.  Think about it--all he's doing is holding up a sign saying he's FOR having a public option in the proposed health care reform.  Meaning  the public should have a  choice about what health care program they get.  That's all. That's what public option means.  And for this, he is the object of rudeness and scorn--because his viewpoint is different from theirs.  (Some commenters to the video add that he is "old" and "fat" and just did this for attention, i.e., walking around with his sign "instead of just standing there."  Never a dull moment in Comment Land.)



I happen to think the public option should be included in health care reform discussions as well.  This could be anyone, with a similar sign.  This could be me, had I gone to participate.  I can't even imagine how fearful this would be, to be the brunt of such intolerant reaction simply for expressing an opinion.  What if there were no security guards around to keep the crowd from closing in?  Is this an isolated incident?  Perhaps. But I suspect it may be more common than not. 

It's not about taking sides here.  It's not about Us versus Them.  At least it shouldn't be. But that is the impression I get at seeing photos and videos like this.  (Note the snarky caption for the video above:  "Teabaggers can't handle a little dissent."  Obviously the person captioning this intended irony, but note the generalization re:Teabaggers.  Teabaggers, Birthers, Confederates, Gun-Nuts--they're all just labels.  What would we do without our labels to define ourselves?)


Unfortunately, this (reaction to a Not-Us in the crowd)  is an example of what happens, at certain times and places in the United States today, when you publicly reveal what you believe or how you think.  It happens  in conversations, where you might simply repeat a verifiable fact, only to be met with an instant hostile reaction, and told "If you don't like it here, then get the hell out." This tone and these words seem to crop up regularly as well, in the comment sections appearing under certain news articles, for example where one commenter simply writes, "I agree with this", only to be blasted with the most venomous rebuttals, called obscene, viscious names, and again ... told to leave the country.  "If you're not with us, you're against us."  (Thank you Mr. Bush, for making those words a lasting legacy from your administration.)  These angry, visceral  reactions, to another's merely expressing an opinion, seem to be increasing, and the media stokes the fires by continually showcasing the frenzy.  You're not, you suddenly realize, getting a balanced view of things. 


Playing the devil's advocate:  

"But you're painting a one-sided picture," one might argue.  "You only highlight one side's activities here--the mostly Conservative citizens.  What about the wacky Liberals and all their demonstrations?  Didn't they call George Bush a liar, tyrant, traitor, Hitler, the anti-Christ too?  And you're saying one can't say that about Obama?"  

Well, there's a difference.  In some cases, the accusations leveled against George W. Bush were true. ( Instituting a program to illegally spy on one's own citizens, launching an unnecessary war, come to mind.)  When there were massive demonstrations against the war and Bush's policies, millions took to the streets.  The media yawned. European newspapers carried more coverage than American ones, where protests were consistently underreported, and when they were reported, protesters were often referred to as radicals or anarchists.   Contrast that with the current media mantra that Americans are angry (implying all Americans) at Obama, where the message of only one segment of the population (albeit a large one) is portrayed:  as the man's T-shirt proclaims--they are mostly white, Christian, heterosexual and pro-gun advocates.  It's hard not to draw the conclusion that if your views are liberal, you're a "radical anarchist socialist"; if you're a Conservative, you're a Patriot.  Period.  This is the impression one gets from the way certain news stories are slanted.


It's okay to get angry.  Especially when one feels that nobody in one's government is listening, and not just re: health-care,  education, the economy and the War--but the choice of certain advisors in the President's cabinet.  I, too, am a little disappointed in Obama, for continuing some of the policies he campaigned promising to change, for some of the decisions he's made that seem unwise.  But hate him?  Call for him to be waterboarded?  Come on, people, get real.  Or was that meant as a joke, that sign.  Something tells me the sign-carrier meant it:  Waterboard him. 

My point is that meaningful dialogue seems to have stopped and raw emotions have taken over.  The country seems more and more divided.  We're in another war, but this time the enemy is a domestic one, a war of words, of gestures, ridiculing and threatening being the preferred methods of expression.  This is what Isee, even when I'm not looking.  It just kind of jumps out at me, breaking into my consciousness in the most unlikely instances.  In words and images, a visual and audial cacophany that arrives like an insidious silent siren (and yes, that contradiction is intentional) as if someone snuck up and thrust a needle dispensing the Fear virus into your arm while you were sleeping).

Today words,
tomorrow, guns.

How did we get to this point ... and how can we change it?  CAN we change it? ("Why can't we all just get along?")

I began this posting saying I don't know America anymore.  Maybe it was always like this but I was less aware of it. Or maybe, it's not as pervasive as I perceive it to be and I am succumbing to alarmism.  One can only determine that, I supposed, by examining its history and following its growth and decline, its triumphs and setbacks, its stated purposes and its real actions.  I only know I, personally, am disappointed, distrustful and greatly concerned about what's happening to and in the U.S. these days.  Perhaps my views would alter somewhat were I still living there.  Perhaps, because of that fact, I have no right to speak, that I'm now what one would call an outsider.  But one needn't BE a cucumber to talk credibly about cucumbers, right? 


I love the idea of America.  I hate that in a country that was founded on the principle of equality and freedom that there's so much fear and distrust, so much hatred and intolerance for the views of another. It's become like a schoolyard full of angry children, acting out by bullying and name calling, who have no idea how to manage the chaos their existence has become.


So what is the solution?  Stay out of it and just go about your normal routine and hope it'll all sort itself out eventually. Tend to your garden and focus only on what's positive and shut it all out, because really, what can one person do anyway.  Stand on a soapbox and scream to the heavens about the world's injustice. (Are you upset about what's going on in that one particular country, or the madness in the world in general?)    Put your money where your mouth is and go out and try to DO something about it.  Write your thoughts on your blog in an effort to make more sense of it?  All or none of the above, depending on the day.



If only things were that simple.  But perhaps they are.  Maybe the answer's there and just no one's come up with it yet.  Meanwhile the circus continues.  It would be comical if it weren't so serious.  At least it seems to me, to be rather serious.  Citizens of a country shouldn't be at each others' throats, shouldn't be attacking one other so visciously, verbally or otherwise.  We are not the enemies of each other.  How sad that for some, a feeling of worthiness can only arise when there's an enemy to defeat.  And if none exists, one manufactures one.  What a mindset.


I don't think it manifests only in public demonstrations, though.  That's just the more visible part of it.  It's its subtle permeation in other areas that is disconcerting.  In who we choose to marry, hire, spend time with, confide in, trust with our lives.  First question:  Are they a "Them" or an "Us"?  And if a Not-Us, how do we act towards them?  It is the answer to this question that forms the basis of who we are, I think.  And it can't be neatly lumped into the simple categories of  "Tolerant" and "Intolerant".  Welcome to the Gray Zone.  But we might at least acknowledge who the true enemy is, and what we mean by the word "enemy." 



I remain, unconvincingly, optimistic--that things will somehow sort themselves out and sanity will reign again.  It is so counterproductive to dwell on, highlight, encourage and perpetrate such ... explosive hatred.  For ALL sides.  It sounds so corny, but ...   how about a little peace and love for a change?

Or if not love yet--then just ... peace.
It's time.

Big bunch of words.  I could have just shown the pictures and let them speak for themselves.  
Why didn't I.  Sometimes I talk too much.  
It's a curse.

___________________________________

Photos of the Glenn Beck 9/12 project demonstration in Washington D.C.  can be seen  here, and  here.

Men at Sea, in verse and art

Verdigris —  Man at the Wheel

Blessed by your unwavering gaze
faithful fleets steer a course
long known to the fishermen of Gloucester.

At the helm, bronzed hands grip a spoked wheel,
sou'wester and visage age to a patina.
My father was one who sailed from this harbor

and returned with a trip of fish
all but one voyage, but you take note
of they that go down to the sea in ships.

See, you seek them even now.
Fog horn moans, salt waves sigh.
Light encompasses a churning dark sea.

Steadfast through nor'easters, winter's ice,
you emerge in summer's green, sparkling sky,
flowers at your feet, dedications

ringed around you, children perched
on your shoulder, grandmothers posed for
portraits and fathers making a pilgrimage to recall

fresh sea breezes and spin fishing tales and speak of
those now permanently cast in bronze tablets,
immortalizing the single memory of each man gone.

We say their names knowing but a few of their stories -
their perfect storm of ironies so nearly shared.
Troubles, fate, one last trip on board

an ill-fated vessel. Yet, you glorify them
and we cannot help but look out to sea
following your gaze to herald their safe return.

--- Pamela Mansfield

The above is the winning poem for Quarterdeck's recent civic poetry contest.  The event in question was  Massachusetts's decision to put The Man at the Wheel--the Craske sculpture that centers the Gloucester Fisherman's Memorial--on the next series of twenty-five-cent U.S. State commemorative coins.[1]

John J. Ronan, poet laureate for the city of Gloucester, Massachusetts (pronounced "GLOSS-ter" -- or, if you're from Beantown, "GLOSS-tah"), wonders why civic poetry is not more common.  One reason, he thinks, is that "Too many modern poets look down on civic, occasional poetry." [2]   Perhaps more people who otherwise wouldn't ever pick up a book of poetry, might, after reading or hearing a poem written in a civic context, change their minds about hating poetry.

Maybe it's not the venue or subject matter that invites some poets' disdain for civic poetry so much as the perception that authentic poems cannot be written about a thing unless one has some personal, important connection to it . One might, for example, wax poetic about a lover, favorite place, poignant memory or material object that carries specific relevance, yet balk at the idea of a poem penned for a public event, finding it too pedestrian and unworthy of consideration. (Might the discomfort have anything to do with a poem's being assigned or commissioned--as opposed to writing engendered by a genuine interest in the subject or as an act of spontaneity? Some of the world's greatest masterpieces of art,--for example, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel--were commissioned works.)

A poet need not be limited by a lack of enthusiasm for a particular subject or event to create a meaningful civic poem.  He can suggest parallels to something universal to which everyone can relate.  Last year one of the requirements for the commissioned poem for the opening of the new Leamington Spa Railway Station in Warwick, England was that one out of four submitted entries had to have been inspired by that year's National Poetry Day theme, which was "Dreams." Absent a suggested poetic theme, however, what could one say, poetically, about a railroad station opening?  I believe there are no non-poetic themes, and whether by inspiration or demand, there is Nothing about which one can't write a good poem.

Poet Robert Pinsky believed that poetry didn't just belong to poets, that it is also civic:  "Poetry month and the posting of poems on subway cars may violate some notion of the form's intimate quality. But the civic space is where language and makers live."[3]  At any rate, civic poetry is definitely alive in Gloucester, Massachusetts.

Ms. Mansfield addresses her poem to the statue ("Flowers at your feet, dedications ringed around you, children perched over your shoulder..."), a revered public icon and symbolic reminder of the human drawn to, dependent on, and often at the mercy of the mighty sea.  Gloucester's Wheel Man still watches as its fishermen go to sea, immortalizing those who didn't return.

Homage on a bronze tablet for fishermen lost at sea, names on a wall honoring dead soldiers--such carved memorials, chiselled reminders of the absence of the persons honored, bring forth harbored memories of beloved faces, remembered conversations--in the case of the fishermen, of  their love and fear of the sea--reminders of their many journeys out and back with their nets, their endless stories.  These are what people think of when they see this Man at the Wheel sculpture.
 
John Masefield, poet laureate of the UK from 1930 to his death in 1967, also wrote about men at sea, immortalizing them in verse, as Gloucester's Man at the Wheel immortalizes them in stone:

The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout,
The chantyman bent at the halliards putting a tune to the shout,
The drowsy man at the wheel and the tired lookout...
...
THEIRs be the music, the colour, the glory, the gold;
Mine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mould.
Of the maimed, of the halt and the blind in the rain and the cold --
Of these shall my songs be fashioned, my tales be told.[4]

Ah, the many tales of the sea in fiction and poetry and pictures, the exhilaration of being out adrift on the vast ocean, alone with the fish and the white-capped waves and the sky; the terror of an approaching storm, thoughts of loved ones back on shore--a wealth of material for writers and poets and artists to weave into creative outpourings about ordinary individuals battling the elements in an unpredictable universe.

There are countless poems about man and the sea, expressing awe, exhilaration, fear, despair, loneliness, or inner peace. The fisherman's wife will tell you the fish smell in her husband's hands, his hair, and his clothes never leaves no matter how hard she scrubs, and wonders why no one ever writes a poem about THAT.  (Monuments honor those who descend into earth's caverns to mine for coal and never return; why are there not more poems about them, not only the lost, trapped ones but those who return with Death implanted in the black dust in their lungs?  Are they not also brave souls worthy of  civic tribute and immortalization in poetry?)

Men and women of the sea and earth, and those who write about them, sing about them, or paint their images, like ocean waves that never cease, like winds that whisper untold stories--are the threads that form the fabric of the universe. Some live the life; others merely record it, define or magnify it; and some make of it a metaphor for something larger and more compelling--extraordinary, even--enabling others to experience something that transcends their everyday world, in a never-ending flow of ... connection.

It is this connection I feel when I see the boats in the photo above of Gloucester Harbor; when I imagine all men at the wheel; when I read the words of those who also, for whatever reason, find something that resonates with them about the men at sea.
____________________________

Many thanks to Jonathan, a Massachusetts beekeeper and photoblogger at Beeps and Chirps for his kind permission to post the two photos shown here on my blog today.

Moon on Cedars

If I were a cedar tree
if you were one, too
we might by some enormous
stroke of luck have been planted
side by side
and then one night
when all was still
we'd watch night fall
together,
our limbs intertwined,
an indulgent moon
smiling down,
a gentle wind
nudging your branches
nearer to mine.

-- Annie Wyndham

____________________________

* Photo I took in my back yard a few years ago

Potato People

When I was a child my mother showed me how to make a potato animal. It was simple--you lay the potato on its side, insert four toothpicks (for the legs), then stand it upright. Voila, it's now a cow (minus the head and tail of course, but with a child's imagination, it can be any four-legged animal you want it to be.) At the time I thought that potato-toothpick cow was the coollest thing ever.

Lebanese artist Ginou Choueiri has taken it a step farther and concentrated on showing us what can be done creatively to make of common potatoes a very realistic portrait of people's faces.

"Potatoes and human heads are quite similar," she says.

"Not only is their skin porous like ours but they also come in different colors, shapes and sizes. Potato heads grow, sprout, age, and then decay ... but they refuse to go without a trace!"

You can visit Ginou's potato people gallery here.

Oh, and she doesn't just do potato faces--check out her other artwork here, and on her blog here.

____________________

*Many thanks for the artist's permission to display her potato people on my blog today.

Our August Gardens

Mini Garden report:


The garden manager posted a sign warning trespassers not to try stealing our veggies. $100 fine, it says, if you get caught. No such surveillance camera, of course, exists. You can tell that immediately just by looking. It's just a little wooden shed with some garden tools inside.


So few people signed up for a garden this year that a tract of land that would have supported six more gardens was left completely fallow. Of the 11 plots that were assigned, three have already been abandoned. The owners planted and never came back.


Andre, who has a corner plot, planted only onions and cucumbers. Hundreds of onions, and he ate every one of them, raked the soil, and planted more.

This was the first year I've tried growing radishes. They came out fine but tasted different from the ones I usually like--the only adjective that comes to mind to describe it is: too "boingy". Some tomato leaves turned yellow, looked blotchy & dried up. Some tomatoes are still tiny, rock hard, and green. Not nearly the crop that I produced last year, with half the effort. We've had so much rain this summer, and this was my first garden in a new terrain.

The peppers are coming along nicely. Wish I had planted more of them. My garden produced exactly three cucumbers so far. One was over a foot and a half long. When I showed it to Andre, he laughed. Said it might not taste as good as it looks. If cukes could talk, I imagine it'd say: "I'm too special to eat. You should stuff and mount me, put me on display. People would marvel." When pigs fly, Cucumber, ha ha.

This is my Brazilian friend Antonia's garden scarecrow. -->
An imposing presence wearing her husband's workshirt and a baseball cap. To tell the truth, he looks too kindly to be much of a real threat to anyone. He is over six feet tall and no wind has yet blown him down, a testiment to his stalwartness.



The beets and carrots are growing well. They like the cooller weather and will still be around after many of their companion veggies have long been picked and eaten. Ate some beet greens in a stir fry with onions and tofu the other day. Yum.

These are not my cabbages at the right. They belong to the plot adjacent to mine and seem to get bigger every day.

The green beans came and went. Ate some. Froze some. I didn't do yellow beans this season. Or eggplants. Or lettuce.

I definitely planted too much chard: 3 rows, with dozens of plants. What was I thinking?! No chance anyone will steal it -- most people I offered it to don't know what it is, or what to do with it. It doesn't often appear in our supermarkets, and even more rarely, kale. Which is surprising because it's so easy to grow. Perhaps it's an acquired taste. I had never eaten it before moving to Vermont.
Filled two large bags full twice in 3 days and I didn't even make a dent, it seems. Chard, anyone? Anyone? I can't even GIVE it away! ha ha.

The weeds in these plots were horrendous the first several weeks.
The soil there is different from that of my home garden--more sandy. Next year I'm only taking one plot instead of two. They're so large it's like having a mini-farm.

The cappucines did me proud this year. The cosmos are only just blooming. The marigolds sit, like bold little sentinels, at the base of each tomato plant, to ward off certain insects with their pungent aroma.

That's it for Summer 2009 at the "Garden of Friends" community garden at our quartier. I hope more people sign up next year. It's so ridiculously inexpensive--a mere $10.00 a year, and all the support and free tools you need. Now if only the weather would cooperate more, what great little crops we could all produce.

Am already planning for next year!

Naming our Meds

Ever wonder how they come up with the names for the meds pharmaceuticals develop and market?

My fun wordplay for the day is to concoct a pharmictionary describing the meanings that immediately come to mind when I hear the names of certain drugs.

Okay, here goes:

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Abilify = The capacity to construct and mail out an invoice.

Prozac = Everybody who’s not against Zack.

Accutane = An additive that keeps your car from coughing.

Allegra = Increases music appreciation in haters of classical music.

Amerge = What they call the fusion of two lanes into one on the highway.

Botox = What happens when the interrogator threatens Beau.

Antivert = An opponent of the Green Movement.

Bleph = Noun generally applied to persons endowed with excessive blandness.

Celebrex = What divorcees do when the papers become final.

Cialis? = You'll find her at her restaurant, of course.

Dynapen = A large, enclosed structure used to protect the bones of prehistoric animals from museum-goers wishing to touch them.

Femring = A group of women knitting squares for a quilt; or the hum of your cell phone indicating a woman is calling you.

Flomax = The result of taking too many laxatives.

Gardasil = A protective covering for window ledges.

Lipitor = Guided visit to a lipstick factory.

Lunesta = Annual festival to honor the moon.

Lyrica = Popular name often adopted by some female singers.

Macrobid = A huge amount of money offered for an item at an auction

MiraLAX= Used by lazy people reluctant to clean their mirrors.

Maxair = What an air conditioner will give you if you push the right button.

Mentax = Not the same as Femtax, but both payable at the end of the year regardless of gender.

Pataday = What you should give yourself if you keep to your daily writing schedule.

Prepidil = The act of getting a certain type pickle ready to be sliced.

Remicade = Name for the section of the mall where former research subjects congregate to relive their REM sleep-study experiences.

Requip = A rejoinder by someone who just has to get the last word in.

Toradol = A small stuffed animal sold as a souvenir to tourists exiting the Spanish bullfight arena.

And finally, a made-up one: Darpacet = A defense-related project go-ahead, as in, “All set”. (DARPA = Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency).

As if I have nothing else to do today, ha ha.

My all-time-favorite on this list is the first one: "Abilify." All the other terms could pass as nouns. Abilify is the only one that sounds like a verb. In keeping with former pharmtrends they should have nounified it. But it would sound ridiculous:

"I'm taking Viagra. What do you take?"

-- "Me? I got something called Abilification."

"Oh jeez, I hope it's nothing serious, man."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I rest my case, LOL.

Away from home

So the other night we were nine. Yes, nine. Four adults and five children, crammed into a tiny living room, on one of the hottest and most humid nights of the summer.

It's because my daughter, who herself is not well, graciously offered to help out a friend in need, who needed to work till after midnight and so there were five children to put to bed, instead of only three. Ages 7, 5, 4, 2, and 8 months. A most interesting two days. I'd forgotten how exhausting raising small beings can be--there is so little time for the caretaker and when it finally does become available, one is too tired to profit from it.

The littlest one has taken to me, a complete stranger. We stood at the kitchen window and watched the morning birds descending in a swoop on the concrete steps of the courtyard as a squirrel raced by on a fence top.

I've been down in Beantown, visiting, and landed in the middle of a sweltering heat wave, which promises to be somewhat alleviated perhaps with the arrival of Hurricane Bill, who may or may not hit inland from the coast, but for sure there will be wind and rain. There have also been periodic tornado warnings but nothing came of it.

Not a lot of time or opportunity to blog this time. Leaving here Sunday, with more luggage than I came down with, thanks to Bookcrossing, which I'll write about when I get back home.

Essays, Anyone?

The impertinence of Bartleby: he does not negotiate the terms of his employment; he decides and acts off his own bat. Despite his mildness, his is the grossest kind of insubordination. Subordinates who take their own preferences in hand and follow them up challenge the legitimacy of authority. Thus the latent, nearly extinguished utopianism of "Bartleby": what would be if all the wretched of the earth declared, "I prefer not to"?[1]


The essay from which this is quoted (in the February 18, 2008 issue of "Identity Theory"--"a literary website, sort of"--was then part of a book-length manuscript that was published in the Spring under the title After Paradise: Essays on the Fate of American Writing.

Part cultural reflection, part lyrical criticism, part idiosyncratic literary history, After Paradise attempts to restore a sense of the original strangeness of American literature and culture by pushing the boundaries of the essay form. [2]

I have not yet read it but intend to pick up a copy when I'm down in the States next week. I am a sucker for good essays. And I'm especially drawn to discussions about ol' Bartleby, whose "I prefer not to" principle, has unfortunately sometimes been added to many an arsenal of excuses for non-action by those who have never even read this Melville story--i.e., the predilecton to abstain, sit on the fence and let others make the decisions, do the hard work, etc. Bartleby wasn't about cowardice or arrogance, and though fictional, he had his real-life counterparts in preferring not to eat, resulting in death--never mind the reason: out of compassion for others (Simone Weil), political protest (Bobby Sands) or despair (writer Jim Thompson).

Another one on my must-get list is the "never-before published" essays of Mark Twain, in Who is Mark Twain?, also published this past Spring.

You can read page-long samples of the 55 essays and stories contained in this book by clicking here.

To hear John Lithgow reading Twain's "Whenever I am About to Publish a Book", check out Flash Rosenberg's animation of a hand with a pencil sketching Twain's 'characters' as Lithgow reads: here. (The full text can be found here.)

My list of Must-Gets is growing (groan). Add to that Henry Petroski's biography of The Pencil, Carlos Ruiz Zafón's The Shadow of the Wind, and Maryanne Wolf's Proust and the Squid: The Story and Science of the Reading Brain. And if I hit the used book stores in Harvard, Porter and Davis Square--whoa, better bring a second suitcase!

I'm dreaming, of course. I may actually have neither the time nor the funds to add to my book wish-list this time. If I had to pick just one, though, which one would it be? Argghhhhhhhh. Okay, which TWO, then? :)

Afternoon Ride Across the Bridge

We went for a little ride yesterday afternoon, my mate and I, to get out of the house and go "take some air", as they say here--that is, find some woods and walk around a bit, visit some trees, check out a farmers' market, just get out of the house and "go" someplace.

I notice the Googlebot has been poaching some of the photos I place on my blog and posting them in their public Google Images archives. Go ahead and take these if you want, Google--they're from the Mauricie region of Québec (the middle part, between Montréal and Québec City), in case anyone wants to travel here vicariously or come check it out in person.

This (below) is the Pont Laviolette, the bridge that crosses over the St. Lawrence river from Trois-Rivière to Bécancour.



First stop, Marché Godefroy, a farmers' cooperative that sells locally grown and hand-crafted products: organic flour, goat yogurt/cheese/soap, cranberry honey, "ice wine"; Belgian-chocolate-covered strawberries and blueberries; bins of fresh eggplant, cauliflower and broccoli; bags of unripened cheese curd, which is so popular here but which I can never find, anywhere, when I visit the States.




I found this woman literally dancing in the aisles. The spontaneous song of a vegetable seller.


This fellow agreed to pose for me, in front of the wine stand. I'm not sure what his costume represents and perhaps they took me for an out-of-town tourist. (I'm sure the locals don't come to this market toting a camera--I took mine today because I wanted to get nature shots for the planned trip after the market stop.)

By the way, if you're going to be in the area later his fall by any chance, you might like to check out their Beer and Sausage Festival, 12-13 September; Apple Festival, 24-27 September; or Cranberry Festival, 10-11 October.

Next stop, the little ecological park just a few minutes down the road from the market--a quiet, pleasant walk in the paths surrounded by unbelievably tall, thin, or thick, old majestic trees. At one point you'll come across a wooden barn in the woods, which looks abandoned but there's a huge, shiny, new looking vat alongside it, as well as stacks of freshly cut wood. Aha! It's a sugar house!! (cabane à sucre) Come spring, you'll see a lot of these sugar on snow parties here and in certain parts of New England. If you've never tasted maple syrup on snow, you're in for a treat. (Just make sure the snow is clean first.)


The path in the woods at the start of our walk. Look how thin some of these trees are, without a speck of foliage, climbing so far skyward you can barely find their tops. Amazingly sturdy for as fragile as they look.


Looking up, I couldn't find the top on this one. Perhaps it's in the clouds already.


This poor darling exhibits the ravages of nature, the scars of its life. It's its character, marking it off from the rest of its companions. I will know it again when next I visit here.

Unlike the tree below, which has been carved into by people wishing to proclaim their love for someone, or just plain leave their mark: "I was here."

What IS this human tendency we have to want to mark our passage somewhere, make sure it's noted that we were here, we passed through here, we existed. Some people do it by writing poems. Others spraypaint their logos on a building or carve their initials into a tree. This is not a judgment, just an observation. The tree in this photo seems to be saying, "See my scars." Or perhaps it doesn't mind, in which case it might be proclaiming: "Look who was here." Who knows. Anthropomorphizing nature won't really tell us, and the tree is silent.


And so that was our little day trip yesterday afternoon, over to Bécancour.

I love it that you can go downtown and stand at the port and watch the big ships arrive on the St. Lawrence, turn around and walk down the street and visit a museum and the beautiful, large public library, hop in your car and in ten minutes be deep in the countryside, traipsing among acres of blueberries or walking a path in the woods surrounded by silence.

Yes, we are a heavily industrial city here. Yes we have pollution from the adjacent paper mills spewing their toxic particulates across our gardens. Yes, we get an enormous amount of snow for five months of the year (which for me is kind of a plus, but I am in the minority, I think). But there are so many good things about this area. I admit I miss the rolling green mountains of Vermont, I miss swimming in Lake Champlain, my "other" home; I miss the woods of Pennsylvania, where I grew up. I miss here, too, whenever I'm away from it too long.

Anyway, should you ever decide to visit the Mauricie region of Québec , you won't be disappointed. There is something for everyone. For those who can't do so in person, I will from time to time post pictures of other places of interest--for example, the Moulin at Pointe-du-Lac, and a snowfall in March, and you can be a vicarious visitor, an armchair traveler as it were, which is not the same but oftentimes rewarding nevertheless.

Clouds today, and a bit chilly. Very strange weather for almost mid-August. The public swimming pools close here next week--way too early in my opinion--I guess because the lifeguards, who are mostly college students, will be returning to school soon. I would go swim in the St. Lawrence but the last time I tried that I got carried away by an incredibly strong current, so fast it took my breath away, and in a mere minute landed up so far past my starting point I had a stroke of panic. (I wondered why everyone else was sitting on the beach, not swimming, ha ha. Shoulda paid more attention.)

Sibel Edmonds Finally Gets to Speak

Sibel Edmonds, former FBI language specialist, was subpoened to testify today, in a closed door session, in Washington, DC. Most Americans don't even know who Sibel Edmonds is. What's so special about her testifying at a hearing today? It's because up to now, she's been gagged from speaking publicly about certain events which transpired while she was a contract translator for the FBI.

Sibel Edmonds claims to have discovered serious security breaches and attempts to cover them up, as well as the intentional blocking of incoming intelligence. She reported this to her superiors at the FBI. Instead of immediately looking into the matter, they harassed, intimidated and then fired her. That was in 2002--seven years ago. Since then, she has been effectively prevented from publicly discussing the case.

This brave woman has been repeatedly gagged from speaking in detail about her discoveries. And as of two days ago she has been unable to post anything to her blog. It has been blocked by Google, who informed her that it will be deleted within 20 days unless she fills out a special form and returns it to them to be reviewed for being a "potential spam blog". Two days before her testimony, her blog suddenly blocks her from posting anything. How interesting.

Sibel planned to talk today about "how certain Turkish entities had illegally infiltrated and influenced various U.S. government agencies and officials, including but not limited to the Department of State, the Department of Defense and individual members of the United States Congress" ... and "how certain Turkish American cultural and business lobby groups conduct their illegal operations with direct and indirect support from the foreign governments."[1]

Certain entities would prefer that Sibel Edmonds not have brought this and other information to light. Which is why many of her supporters are concerned for her safety. One of them, a teacher currently on vacation in Washington, even offered to act as a body guard today while she was en route to give testimony, saying he "would take a bullet to keep her speaking out." [Comments section on her blog]

Why did I choose Sibel Edmonds as the topic for today's posting (apart from its timeliness)? Irony. I find it ironic that the U.S. is so concerned about security that it recently found it necessary to remove a sign with bright, yellow 6.4-metre-high letters that spell out "United States" from the border crossing at Massena, NY (just across the way from Cornwall, Ontario, Canada) as a security concern. (The reason? "The sign could be a huge target and attract undue attention," says a spokesman for the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Agency" [2]. Here they sensed a perceived security threat and acted.) It struck me as ironic that they're more concerned, apparently, with a sign identifying a U.S. border post, for fear someone might try to "target it" (throw eggs at the sign?) or attract attention to the fact that yes, this is, indeed, the U.S. border, than with a report from one of its translators about a serious internal breach of security in its own ranks, attempted cover up, and intentional blocking of intelligence. Their reaction to the second incident?--the whistleblower (Sibel Edmonds) was ridiculed, harassed, fired, and forbidden to discuss it. What's WRONG with this picture??!!

One would think, despite any possible embarassment resulting from the acknowledgment that elements of a government agency were or are incompetent, corrupt or in violation of the law (or might deliberately, for whatever reason, allow entities that normally would constitute a security risk to escape accountability or continue to operate undeterred), that concrete steps might be taken to immediately address and deal with the matter. But no, their solution is to ... punish the whistleblower, with smear campaigns, intimidation, and termination. Instead of a "Thank you for calling this to our attention," whistleblowers are told, "You're fired."

Maybe it's not a question of merely wanting to save face. Maybe there's more at stake than having to admit to a security lapse and correcting it. (Er... HAS it been corrected? Or have certain players simply been reshuffled?)

The Brad Blog has been following reports of Sibel's deposition today, where according to information from people emerging from inside the closed-door hearing, Sibel has been able to say "everything that she hasn't been able to say so far, implicating many members of Congress in a criminal conspiracy."( "Many"?? This could be potentially explosive.) I wonder if the mainstream media will pick up on it. (When pigs fly maybe.)

In short, Sibel Edmonds, a credible witness, testified today, under oath, implicating members of the U.S. Congress in acts of bribery and espionage.

What to make of all this? The media has been strangely silent on this news.

[For more on Sibel Edmonds's story, see these videos here, here, and here; and articles here and here.]

Simon's Crazy Cat

Bloggers Weigh in on Today's Poetry Scene

A friend recently voiced his utter frustration at the type of poetry that gets selected for publication in the journals and magazines to which he's been submitting his work lately, many of which some people would give their right arm to be published in. Is it just me, or does it seem to be getting harder and harder to find really good poetry being written in and/or published today in America? (By that I mean poems that offer more than chaotic emotional eruptions or deliberate wordmangle "just because one can"). Why are there not more insightful, meaningful poems that actually SAY something--rather than just confuse, irritate, "entertain" or bore?

Hybrids in corn produce interesting, and sometimes alarming, results. The same can be said for hybrids in poetry. Norton’s Anthology of New Poetry, titled American Hybrid, focuses on the blend of traditional and experimental poetry by today's poets, constituting what they deem is a new hybrid. One blogger calls it "a textbook of bland self-absorption" and "a sad case that unknowingly expresses the malaise of our time's poetry." He finds very few poems in the book worth a second look. "If this is the best writing of our era ... then we are in an era of shit."[1] He is referring to the books' poems representing 70 of today's published American poets.

Johannes Göransson over at Exoskeleton gives a less blunt and more detailed review of American Hybrid, beginning with their premise: "In order to have a 'hybrid' of two kinds of poetry, you must subscribe to the two-camp structure; viewing the proliferation of styles and aesthetics as more complicated disturbs the attempt to create a synthesis." For him, "American Hybrid merely proves that 'indeterminate' poetics has shaped the tradition, leaving it as high-minded and ambiguous as ever."[2]

Gary Charles Wilkens questions the book's calling American poetry today a hybridization, saying it's "too slip-shod to call [it] a way, or a movement or a style." The book is "simply the numerical collection of isolated writers plugging away at doing what they want." He nevertheless recommends reading it, because he says it's like looking in the mirror at how "American poetry is slowly, painfully, changing."[3]

One of the newer trends in poetry that some find painful, is flarf, which Meg, another poetry-loving blogger believes exists "because the language of poetry has become dismal." [For more recent flarfspew, see Poetry Mag's July/August 2009 edition.] Could new and better technology have anything to do with that?

"What does it mean to be a poet in the Internet age?" asks Kenneth Goldsmith in discussing flarf and conceptual writing in his "Introduction to the 21st Century's Most Controversial Poetry Movements".[4] The Internet makes poetry infinitely more accessible. More poetry can be shared, and published. Start a personal blog, fill it with your poems, and that's "publishing" them.
That way you're not at the mercy of publishing trends. (A number of years ago the proliferation of fiction written in the present tense was an unnerving trend. If you submitted fiction written in the present tense you'd have had 80 times more chance of getting published than had you not, for example.)

Poems that have survived the centuries that are still being read today, quietly watch as each generation attempts to stretch its voice. What would anthropomorphized Grandfather Poem say to Young Flarf, I wonder. Like a tasty watermelon, great for the moment, but it's not got much shelf life. (Into the Tortured Metaphor bin with you for that one, ha ha). Seriously, apart from intentional shock or clever word positioning or high entertainment, what does flarf offer to the reader other than novelty? What's my beef with it, then? (playing the Devil's advocate here). Is it that it dares to call itself Poetry? Well but it is-- poetry. It's a part of what constitutes poetry today and it's claiming its place. (Define Poetry.)

Granted, much of what is being written today is a mixture of the old and the new. No matter what they label the evolution of poetry from generation to generation, it's not the method, process, or end product as product that interests me so much as the content. Why is there not more really GOOD poetry being published, whatever its lineage? Is there "good" flarf poetry? (Define good.)

I admit I'm not very well acquainted with the trends and movements re: poetry, past or present, much less to which school(s) a poet might or might not belong. My interest in a poem lies not to which school a poet belongs nor to what movement he/she represents, but what a particular poem "says" to me. It's entirely subjective. Do the words mean something to me, do they resonate, does the poem awaken something in me that prompts me to say: "Wow, this is REALLY GOOD!!!" Does it draw me to read it again and again and again, savoring its words, its images, the sense it gives me that something really important is being expressed here. That sometimes happens for me with a single poem from someone whose writings I wouldn't ordinarily spend much time on. So I guess, for me, the WORDS and their impact are their true measure of worth.

I am late for Mado's 86th birthday party--gotta go. Just some random jottings re: fellow bloggers weighing in on the state of poetry today. The discussion will continue ...

The Littlest One

When I transplanted this little guy he was the puniest of all the others.
By the second week he had gone all wimpy and lost most of his leaves.
Some bug had gnawed at his stem. He was leaning precipitously close to falling over. He didn't look... healthy.

I considered yanking him out. What kind of tomato plant, with only one offshoot, four times smaller than any of the others, would produce anything at all?

He looked so pathetic. I reached for my trowel and took a second look. He seemed to be saying, Ah c'mon, gimme a chance. Leave me be.

So I did.

I don't get over to the community garden as often as I should.
A kazillion mauvaises herbes invaded and I spent 3-1/2 hours weeding and working the soil. Then I saw it--my first tomato! Out of 17 of his other, far sturdier and much larger companions, this little bugger produced the first tomato!! The first one!!! How about that!!!

We've had so much rain this summer the tomatoes in general are not doing very well. Ditto for strawberries and blueberries (so the farmers tell me).

Later this week I'll post some updates on the other 'crops' over there. But I just had to show this little guy. So glad I listened to my inner voice and let him grow at his own rate. And hot damn, if he didn't come in first in the tomato production department.

Lessons nature teaches us: Don't give up on a thing (or person). You never know when they might far exceed your expectations.

Gleneden Beach, vicariously

Some places you have never gone
and yet you must have ...
otherwise how would they seem
so hauntingly
familiar?

________________________

Thanks to Chris and Tina Pfeiffer of Pfeiffer Photos for permission to post their photograph of Gleneden Beach, OR here. [Printed cards of this image can be had by contacting them through their web site.]

Singing with the Greeks

Greek poet Seferis (1900-1971) wrote a poem that Theodorakis put to music, sung in the above video by Maria Farantouri (Version #1).

People all over the world are singing this song.

Version #2:
Wrazas, Kaminski and Koscielniak sing and dance it here
in Polish.

Version #3:
Jocyln P. Smith, a jazz singer from Queens, NY sings it here
in English.

Version #4:
Finnish singer and human rights activist Arja Saijonmaa sings it here
in Swedish.

Version #5:
It's sung here as background in Jules Dassin's film "The Rehearsal" ("I Dokimi", 1974).

Version #6:
Here's Mihalis Rizes's version, where he gives us a mini visual tour of Greece.

Version #7:
Here is Grigoris Bithikotsis singing it.

Version #8:
Here finally, a room full of people at a reception belt it out, while the text in the original Greek is displayed on the screen.

I love this song. I remember the first time I heard it, wanting so much to be able to sing it in the original Greek but I was still struggling to learn and pronounce the Greek alphabet.

For anybody who has happened on my blog today who would like to join in and sing along (oh come on, plunge in and give it a try, all three of you!), here's a crude phonetic helper that you might find useful. I emphasize the word crude, ha ha. Some syllables are drawn out when sung, which accounts for the ah-ah-ah's and o-o-o-ee's, etc. My apologies to Greeks (and linguists) everywhere.

Sto pair-ee-YAH-ah-ah-lee DOH-kree-fo
k’YAS-pro sahn PAIR-e stair-ee-air-ee.
Theep-SAH sa-meh toh-mess-ee mair-ah-air-ah-air-ee
Ma-DOH nair-o-o glee-ee-ee fo
Theep-SAH sa-meh toh-mess-ee mair-ah-air-ah-air-ee
Ma-DOH nair-o-o glee-ee-ee fo.

Pahn-oh stin ah-ah-ah mo TEEN ZAHN-THEE
GRAHP-SAH-meh Toh-no-ma-ah-ah-teece
o-RAY-a poo fiz-eek-seh o bah-ah-ah-ah-ah-teece
Kay zfis-tee-kee ee gra-ah-ah fee
o-RAY-a poo fiz-eek-seh o bah-ah-ah-ah-ah-teece
Kay zfis-tee-kee ee gra-ah-ah fee.

Meh tee kardia-ah-ah meh TEE pno-ee
TEE POTH-os keh-tee pa-ah-ah-thos
PEER-a-meh TEE zo-ee-maz LA-ah-ah-ah-ah-thos
K’yah-LAK sah-meh-eh zo-o-o-ee
PEER-a-meh TEE zo-ee-maz LA-ah-ah-ah-ah-thos
K’yah-LAK sah-meh-eh zo-o-o-ee.

I realize few readers will actually take the time to click on and listen to all eight versions listed above. But I'm keeping them anyway in case I ever want to hear any of them again. Blogs as personal music archives (for those without an IPod), accessible at the click of a mouse (provided you can locate a computer).

Music connects us all. Understanding the words takes us deeper into a people's culture where we don't just feel their joy or pain, we begin to comprehend it. Life without words or music--unimaginable. Whatever would we do without our poets and musicians!

In case anyone is curious, here are the words in the original Greek, followed by an English translation. It's a good way to learn a language, by the way. Listen to Versions #1, #5, #6, #7 and #8 sung in Greek, for example, while looking at the original Greek text below. Your brain will begin to associate the letters with the sung sounds, which recognition may later prompt you to want to say--go and learn Greek--("Your personal challenge for the year is to ... learn a new language!").

You can use this method, not only for Greek but to introduce yourself to ANY other language. Heck, why not. You never know, it might open up a door to surprising new insights re: language and culture and the written word. It did for me. Anyway here it is:

ΑΡΝΗΣΗ [a/k/a Στο περιγιάλι το κρυφό]

Στο περιγιάλι το κρυφό
κι άσπρο σαν περιστέρι
διψάσαμε το μεσημέρι•
μα το νερό γλυφό.

Πάνω στην άμμο την ξανθή
γράψαμε τ' όνομά της•
ωραία που φύσηξεν ο μπάτης
και σβύστηκε η γραφή.

Mε τι καρδιά, με τι πνοή,
τι πόθους και τι πάθος,
πήραμε τη ζωή μας; λάθος!
κι αλλάξαμε ζωή.

Here is an English translation:

DENIAL [a/k/a On the Secret Seashore]

On the secret seashore
white like a pigeon
we thirsted at noon;
but the water was brackish.

On the golden sand
we wrote her name;
but the sea-breeze blew
and the writing vanished.

With what spirit, what heart,
what desire and passion
we lived our life; a mistake!
So we changed our life... [1]

[English translation by Edmund Keeley and Phillip Sherrard]