Reflections in a Smoking Mirror

                               Reflections in a Smoking Mirror

                                                         From the first

                                                             Moctezuma feared it

                                                         and took such precautions as he could

                                                               against the end

                                                           of his world

                                                                           Crazy Horse

                                                                        perceived

                                                               they'd all die singing or fighting

                                                                    or ambushed

                                                                        in their sleep

                                                         Only the Peace Chiefs

                                                              among the Crow

                                                                  Cheyenne and Blackfoot decided to

                                                                            stand the slaughter

                                                                         unresisting

                                                                             in the belief

                                                                       that even the annihilation

                                                                  of their race

                                                           couldn't reduce the Great Spirit

                                                                    and might serve as a lesson

                                                                         for the minds

                                                                              of men

~ ~ Paul Pines

Paul Pines' newest book, Reflections in a Smoking Mirror: Poems of Mexico & Belize, arrived at a time when I was bombarded with work and so I put it aside to read when I got the chance.  Its true impact didn't manifest, however, until after I'd read the book in its entirety - and then gone back and read it again.

The power of words on a page, to tease or repel--or to invite to return for a deeper look.  The words drew me back, whispering there's more to this than one might imagine.

I'd only very recently discovered the work of Paul Pines and found that certain of his poems instantly resonated with me.  His latest publication, Reflections in a Smoking Mirror,  especially piqued my interest.

This book appealed to me on two levels:  one was its creative (almost experimental) format, i.e., you're reading a group of reflective poems about myth and conquest and journeys retraced; then  mid-book find yourself gently speed-bumped back in time.  The poet-voyager with whom you've been traveling recedes into the background and another, centuries' older voice emerges.  Presented with the translation of an ancient manuscript, you pause to examine its contents -- suddenly you're living a piece of history.  Then blip! - you're taken  back to the 21st century to rejoin the poet in Belize, with poems that accentuate the mesh of change and continuity.  New meanings emerge, the fog clears ...  you begin to really see.

 Its second appeal was the insight it imparted.  Merely stating that the book proved "insightful" doesn't do justice to the unexpected expansion of consciousness that results from reflecting on these parallel journeys--the poet's as narrator/ one's own as reader, "mirroring".  The poems themselves become the vehicle that awakens (or enlarges) this consciousness.  Granted, I'm relating a very personal, subjective response here, but I am not alone in noting that this book contains more than just--as its title suggests--a compilation of poetry and reflections.

The story of how this book came about is itself quite interesting.   Imagine you're wandering by a bookstall in Mexico City in 1962 and happen upon a copy of an account by a sixteenth-century cacique (provincial governor) whose  name translated into English sounds like your own - and five years later you inadvertently find yourself in what's left of his "once proud city, now just a few huts, reading his words" and that because of these seeming coincidences you embark on a decades' long journey that will open worlds of perception you never thought possible.

As the book opens, we find Pines at the Restaurant Villa Hermosa as he orders scrambled eggs, fried tortillas and Nescafé.  He observes "La Duena/ a beauty gone to seed".  She "sits by the register in a blue dress/ features flickering/ with the memory/ of loveliness/ as she pins back her hair":
                                                                                                

                            she knows that feelings become extinct

                            when we cease to use them,

                            how we change as creatures

                            once they are gone.

In Section One, Pines reflects on the Configurations of Conquest.  I especially liked the poem,
entitled  "Timepiece" :

Gucumatz, the Quiché Maya serpent god. 

                          What the Maya knew
                          was that every twenty years

                                               their calendars

                                               failed to mesh

                          as if the sun and moon

                          were gears disengaged

                                              on the cusp

                                              of life and death

                          where even the gods

                          fear a force beyond which

                          there is no force

                                             a vector

                                             nothing accounts for . . .

Lady Xoc.  Photo by  Dayna Bateman

                          what else can explain

                          the concept of zero

                                             in a jungle

                                             where orchids spill

                                             in flaming abundance

                                             from giant mahogany

                         as if to say

                         here

                        we cannot speak

                        of absence

In Section Two:  "Synchronicity,"  Pines lets the ancestors themselves speak.  It is only at the end of his journey, he writes in the preface, that their voices have reached him "in ways that have not always been apparent, except for the blood-smoke on these pages."

Through Pines' translation we get to meet his alter-ego, Nakuk Pech (baptismal name, "Pablo") , descendant of the first Conquistadors of Maxtunil, as Pech relates how they--he and his father--joined forces with the Spanish conquerors. A conquest by conversion, in Pablo's case; he watches the power of power, to subjugate, render powerless.

We went drunk on 'pinole' because everything seemed bitter and they ordered us about like masters of the earth.  For six months they rode and we followed on foot.  Many witnessed these events.  I am writing down for my children and those to come until death takes this land for its own.  Until then ...  I do not pay tribute--nor will my sons and daughters. 

Pech records the events as they happened.  "I place them here like heart beats,"   he says.

Just as Pablo Pech invites readers centuries later to understand what it was like to share his particular experience, so his contemporary alter-ego, author/poet Paul Pines, invites readers to join his journey of discovery and share his reflections connecting the past and the present, what has been preserved and what forgotten.

In the third and final section of the book, we are back in the 21st century again, this time in Belize, continuing our voyage along with Pines, in a  mirror travel where "half-way down the coast/ the Coxscomb Mts bleed into the sea".

                                                      

                                                                  I know the integuments

                                                                  of the soul are spun

                                                                  from images the eye

                                                                  records and nourishes

                                                                  to weave us back

                                                                  into the world ...

[Excerpt from the poem "Coastwise on the Fury"]

The impact of the fading threads of memory in the face of change is keenly felt, by participants and observer alike, echoed here in the poem "Dangriga":
   

                                                    The Maya of Santa Rosa

                                                    Wear long faces

                                                    come to town

                                                    still suffering from

                                                    a shock

                                                                      only half

                                                                      remembered

                                                   while Carib girls pace

                                                   the streets

                                                                     coal black

                                                                     in tight slacks

                                                                     hair in corn-rows

                                                  smile at me

                                                  by the River Front Hotel

                                                  where I wait for the truck

                                                  to Mango Creek,

                                                                     smile back

                                                                     and reconsider

                                                                     the conquest

                                                                     of the New World.

In sum, I found this book unexpectedly compelling, because it goes beyond consideration of what's remembered/what's lost -- it  gets you thinking about the depth of human resilience and spirit, and survival of myth in a  modern world "driven by time, instead of depth".  The author himself best describes, far better than I could, what readers slowly become aware of throughout:  images taking shape in the mind, "as in a polished obsidian mirror--smokey at first, then clear."  [p. 49].  A book worth reading - and then going back and reading again.

Reflections in a Smoking Mirror is available at Dos Madras Press.  To visit Paul Pines' website, click here.

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED 

 One and All

 to Open House again at 

Salamander Cove

 ENTER HERE

Poems by:

          Philip Quinlan (U.K.)
               Larry Sorkin (U.S.)
                    Philip Rowland (Japan)
                         John Levy (U.S.)
                              Bill Knott (U.S.)
                                    Chen-ou Liu (Canada)                                                                            
                                                                        
                                                         J.S.H. Bjerg (Denmark)
                                                              Grant Hackett (U.S.)
                                                                    Bob Arnold (U.S.)
                                                                            Ifigenija Simonovic (Slovenia)
                                                                                 Peter Greene (Canada)
                                                                                       Irina Moga (Canada)
                                                                                            Kiril Kadiiski (Bulgaria/France)                             
                                                                                                                                                    
Artwork by:              

                  Janet Brown-Dwehus (Germany)
                                           Lila Lewis Irving (Canada)


Photography by:         John Levy (U.S.)

Sisyphusal

neighbor's car is stuck in ice
guns the pedal
it won't move

Addapush's all it takes.

Yep.

Games and Stories: A Possible Vignette

He was eight years old, sitting on the living room floor playing a video war game when he heard his grandfather in the kitchen say the word warriors.  Only his grandfather wasn't taking about men at arms, he was remembering the war years, telling the boy's mother how hard it'd been for his parents, they'd nothing to eat, their small farm had been overrun, destroyed.  They had to go into hiding.  And then of course, came winter and for six months all they had to eat were onions saved from the root cellar.  Onion sandwiches, the boy's mom laughed, wincing.  The mother hated onions.

POW! POW!  the boy's digital soldier snipered the enemy into a spectacular red blotch on the screen (which didn't kill him - it took eight more thumb presses to blast the animation to death), while his mother in the kitchen remarked, "Oh that reminds me of that funny cookbook--the one where the author tells you how to cook in war time"; whereupon she straightened her back, cleared her throat, and began reciting in a faux British accent:  "How to Cook a Wolf" ...  and laughed some more but the grandfather just stared at her.  Its author M.F.K. Fisher was not British and the mother had never read the book, had only heard about it.  Perhaps she confused Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher with Julia Child, who wasn't British either but, no matter, the effect was the same: her comical performance made her sound authoritative.  Or so she pretended.

The grandfather's memories were subsiding; very few remained of his parents.  He kept them alive by repeating their stories - stories to which his American-born children and grandchildren could not relate. Nor could they speak or understand the language he'd been brought up in.  He didn't know who to blame for this.

Meanwhile, his electronic army, having now been decimated, the boy became bored, got up and went into the kitchen where he thought he'd heard somebody say something about Irish potatoes or wolf soup, he couldn't be sure.  His mother was painting her nails, his grandfather biting into a hunk of cheese, watching an imaginary sack of onions in the corner. "How'd your game go?" his big brother asked, coming down from upstairs. "Reach the next level yet?"  The boy squirmed, ducked the question, grabbed a cookie, ran outside.

Me, I hate onions, the mom said.   Me too, said the grandfather.  They had that, at least, in common.  The boy, now sprinting towards his friend's house, wondered what it'd be like to reach that highest game level.  One day he'd make it, he'd kill all the enemy and come out on top, be the best.  He wanted more than anything, to be the best at something.

________________

I had an onion/sardine sandwich for lunch today and it reminded me of something my late, former father-in-law once told me about his war years in Europe--that they then mostly lived on nothing but onions.  One day I decided to try an 'onion-only' sandwich.   (It's better if the bread is toasted, a bit of Dijon mustard added.  You can't kiss anyone afterwards, of course, they will run from you).  Onions (and garlic) in winter do wonders to keep you from getting a cold, so I eat them frequently.  Wolf stew, though--I don't think so!  I love wolves too much.  (The book's wolf referred to in the book above is metaphoric.)  If you can still find a copy around anywhere, M.F.K. Fisher's The Art of Eating is a pure delight to read. The title is misleading.  It's not just about food.  The perfect book to curl up with during the long, cold winter, to take your mind off the long, cold winter.  A definite 'keeper'.

I started out to forge a tiny poem about war time food, which slowly morphed into a story about loss, brought on by my reading this morning of some poems written by a Tibetan man in India, registered there as a refugee, who returned to his parents' former home only to be arrested and kicked out.  His poems spoke of confused and lost identity -  he is a citizen of no country, his parental homeland is no longer a country.  This is a recurrent theme in many of Erich Maria Remarque's novels, as I recall - the stateless man: individuals without 'papers', unable to prove who they are.  A generation later, how memories fade, how stories begin to unravel, get 'lost', the language forgotten.

My father-in-law's "we lived on onions" story stayed with me for some reason.  Present that idea to a child today and he will say "Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww", unable to imagine such a thing. A world in which one has only onion sandwiches to look forward to, all day, every day?  No way!!   A world without games, though -- now that's even scarier!  Ironic ... the 'game' is to survive.  But survival is not a game. 

 

This Ever Happen to You?

 In the wee hours of the morning, a brilliant idea

emerges from the netherworld of sleep

into your awakening consciousness

The words tumble forth, try to speak to you:

Hurry Up!!  Catch us!! We're important  ....  Hurry Up!!  Catch us!! We're important ... Hurry Up!!  Catch us!! We're important
  Here we come again.  WRITE. US. DOWN ! ... Here we come again.  WRITE. US. DOWN ! ... Here we come again.  WRITE. US. DOWN ! ...

You reach for your pen

rub the sleep from your eye - 

the perfectly crafted poem

now but fragment and blur

(and why is there no ink in this pen, you

filled it just two days ago!!!)

 Too late, we're gone now  ...   Too late, we're gone now ...   Too late, we're gone now...   Too late, we're gone now

 they mock

    the ink starts flowing again, but

the words have all

left

and you're left with:

 a   gpr   krd  ptuqxs krd  ptuqxs lgnvc mmiu  piyzf iqbxt iskkj mu zzzmmm a   gpr   krd  ptuqxs lgnvc mmiu  piyzf iqbxt iskkj mu zzzm mml gnvc mmiu  piyzf iqbxt iskkj mu zzzmmm  a   gpr   krd  ptuqxs lgnvc mmiu  piyzf iqbxt iskkj mu zzzmmm a   gpr   krd  ptuqxs lgnvc mmiu  piyzf iqbxt iskkj mu zzzmmm    krd  ptuqxs lgnvc mmiu  piyzf iqbxt iskkj mu tw iqbxt iskkj mu zzzmmm  a   gpr   krd  ptuqxs lgnvc mmiu a   gpr   krd  ptuqxs lgnvc mmiu  piyzf iqbxt iskkj mu zzzmm

But it was a brilliant poem. 

Honest. 

If only I could remember it.

Let there be dark

Last evening, around 9 p.m., in the process of finalizing a detailed reply to a fellow researcher, the lights suddenly snapped out, all sound disappeared, and everything went completely black. Neighborhood-wide power outage,  not the first time that's happened and rarely at night.  This one was completely disorienting.

First of all I couldn't see anything, not even my hand or the desk or even the contours of the room.  It was complete and total darkness.  I stumbled my way to the kitchen to the cabinet that houses the candles, then felt my way across to the drawer where we keep a box of matches.  Meanwhile my mate somehow located a mini flashlight, which helped because we'd been knocking things over or stepping on cat tails miscalculating which piece of furniture was exactly where.

"Where are you?"
-- "I'm here, where are you?!" 
"Over here."
-- "Where's 'here'?"

ha ha.

Three blocks away I could make out a faint light overhead from a streetlamp over the little baseball field, but apart from the occasional headlights of a passing car there was no light outside Anywhere.  I wondered what'd caused it and how long it would take HydroQuebec to fix it.  We lit a few candles and sat for a while playing a little film trivia game but after an hour it began getting noticeably colder.  No heat, no phone, and if this continued till morning, some stuff in the fridge might have to be thrown out. I put on an extra pair of socks.  We brought an extra blanket out, blew out the candles and decided let's go snuggle up in bed and hope the heat comes back on soon.

It did, eventually, and all was well.  But initially,  more than an hour having passed, the candles having burnt down to half, and nothing having changed, I began thinking how much we take for granted.  That energy can be had and maintained indefinitely (how could it not be?)  Remembering the big ice storm fourteen years ago, when parts of Quebec were without power for as long as a month, people now joke about it, bringing out their "I survived" T-shirts to prove their resilience.

I remember that storm.  It arrived the day I was moving all my belongings, including 25 boxes of books, in a creaky blue van whose driver had a broken foot, from Boston to Vermont.  I especially remember the trees, those beautiful, tall, elegantly simple white birch standing like sentinels along the highway,  encased in ice, horribly twisted and broken.   Every little village in southern Quebec looked like a war zone.  It was devastating.  You can still spot, today, some of those broken trees.

So it occurred to me last night, one of those uninvited little mental what-if's:  What if the national grid should suddenly permanently malfunction, thanks to a Stuxnet attack, and virtually the entire nation--any nation--were, in effect, "shut down".  Hospitals, of course, would have generators.  But imagine, being stuck inside an elevator on the 85th floor in a darkened city somewhere, for days, or without heat in the dead of winter for a week or more,  grocery stores having to throw out tons of spoiled produce, schools/offices/Everything closed, life as we're used to it, come to a standstill.   I think they call this sort of thing Worst Case Scenario:  a possibility, but something we don't think will actually really happen--to us.

It was the sudden, complete disorientation (Darkness. And Silence) that momentarily bolted me out of my complacency, like being zapped into Nothingness, struck momentarily blind and deaf all at once, not knowing where anything IS, every movement  a stumble forward, only to be blocked or thrown off balance.  Pretend this is not temporary.  How would you react?  What would you be thinking of?  It has all the makings of a possible science fiction thriller (or a 2020 survival guide), when we might have already begun running out of water, arable soil, non-polluted  air, sufficient food, available space.

But snap! Just as we're drifting off to sleep wrapped cocoon-like in a layer of blankets, the clock radio starts blinking, forced air begins hissing through the heating vents, a voice from a radio downstairs starts crooning out.  Power!!!!!  We've got Power!!

And today it's all forgotten, a blip in a day's existence.  Except that one little arrested moment that stays lodged in the back of the memory bin:  that tiny little uninvited 'what-if' consideration.  Okay - stock bigger candles. Get a proper flashlight.  Be better prepared  'case  it happens again. You get a whole new appreciation for modern-day conveniences.  I mean, try reading for hours by candle light - that's what our ancestors did.   Squint, squint.  You keep wanting to turn the candle brighter.

Am not saying we should "go back" to those days, just that we maybe get too dependent on certain habits and expectations.  Like that there always will be enough water, food or power at our disposal, etc.

A former acquaintance used to be fond of saying, "Never assume anything", and those words have kind of stuck with me.  Never assume that love will last,  that circumstances can't abruptly change, or that you will find all the answers in the end.  But I tell you, that abrupt jolt into silence and darkness, that sudden loss of real (and perceived) power, brought those thoughts to me again, what we're doing to the earth, how we cope when unexpectedly uprooted, so to speak.

It is snowing.  The weather channel predicts we'll go from zero to -15 C tomorrow.  And then it will snow some more. 

Ah, l'hiver.  :)

Dance it out

This is a Tajik Pamir dance.  Although it may share similarities with certain other familiar ethnic folk dances I have never seen this particular sequence before. Even the woman's dress dances!

Badakhshan (Persian: ببدخشان, Tajik: Бадахшон) is an historic region comprising parts of what is now northeastern Afghanistan and southeastern Tajikistan.

Tajiks, Uzbeks and Kyrgyzs live there, as well as speakers of several Pamir languages of the Eastern Iranian language group. . .   The people of this province have a rich cultural heritage and they have preserved unique ancient forms of music, poetry and dance. [Source]

Sometimes, to calm oneself down--or fire oneself up--or just to express one's sadness, happiness, or amazement at being alive--dance is the perfect vehicle. It has the capacity to induce euphoria, make one forget, for a time, the pain or weariness that existence sometimes brings. And--it costs nothing. You can lose yourself in the music, put your whole being into it. For a brief time, you go somewhere "else".

I sometimes wonder if we are born with certain rhythms carried forth, to which we seem inherently drawn.  They may or may not be from the culture we were born into   but when we hear them--the beat of an African drum, the haunting urgency of that gypsy violin, the call of an Andean flute, the teasing beckon of a Greek bazouki, the vibrations of distant ancestral voices, something awakens in us, a kind of re-cognition, and we stop to listen.

Feet with a Mind of Their Own:

Sometimes, in a public gathering, when a selection of lively music is being played, I sometimes notice people's feet. People who are sitting down, for example, engaged in conversation, half-listening to the music playing in the background. Some toes start tapping automatically, like unleashed puppies, unable to contain themselves. Other feet remain firmly planted, their owners' arms crossed, like stationed Observers (as opposed to TTIIPs (Toe-Tapping Involuntary Inadvertent Participants).

Then, there are some who just simply cannot stay seated; they immediately jump up and start dancing, oblivious to whether adequate space exists to perform such impulsive rhythmic gyrations. No matter. They compensate by what's known as standing there and dancing-in-place. We all know someone who fits this category. And the worst of it is, they try to get you to join them! (That they invite you in the first place means they think you're one of them. You should consider that a compliment. It means you understand how rhythm operates.) Never refuse to dance with this person, for fear of looking foolish.  This ultimate display of courage could open you up to a connection with openness (and fun) you never imagined possible.  Don't laugh.  Maybe you hear it, too, not just as background noise but a melodic reminder of states of feeling lately absent.

Not only feet respond sometimes without your consciously telling them to -- how many times have you listened to a particular loved classical recording and find your hands sweepingly "directing" along with the conductor, or find yourself humming along when a particular favorite aria flows out from a radio opera, or whistling a decades' old  rock tune.   All are spontaneous physical responses to rhythmic prompts or periodic replayings of mentally archived sounds whose which acts of engagement nurtures the spirit.   The perfect pill for what ails you! Stressed out? It calms you. Stuck in mental inertia? It energizes you. Need to be reminded of something? Its nostalgic recall helps preserve fond memories (or lets you deal with the bittersweet, regretful ones). In short, it's therapeutic.

So anyway, I stumbled on this Pamirian dance this morning, and right away saw a parallel in the graceful sweep of certain of the arm movements to reminiscent of certain Chi Gong positions.  Though I practice Tai Chi in silence, I feel its music.   Seeing this Pamirian dance reminded me of those forms.

Should we fear dilution?
People who study, teach or choreograph certain traditional dance forms are careful to preserve  "authenticity".  For example, in some cultures, although everyone does the same basic folk-step, the men are traditionally allowed to be more flamboyant; the women's foot movements, in contrast, are more contained, less pronounced. People learning or doing these dances sometimes append their own personal variations (e.g.,  you can always tell which ones have had ballet training).  As with language or tradition, a nation's dances evolve without compromising their essential character.  Its performers may not be native, nor the costumes always "authentic", but one still recognizes that distinctive heartbeat, so to speak.   What's fascinating is what each peoples and generation have done with this universal pastime we all share.

Though I enjoy occasional staged performances, I moreso love witnessing little spontaneous eruptions from random people in rhythmic response to "sudden music": Someone in the group pulls out a guitar, and everybody starts singing; one of the older kids plays a Bob Marley song and a younger one begins reggae-ing down the hall; people get together for coffee and music unexpectedly "breaks out". It's a language we all understand, without knowing the words.

All movement is a kind of dance. Kind of like life: Whether you move in lines, or circles, embedded in groups, or off in a corner, alone, we all hear its rhythm, and even when you don't actually hear it, it still plays out in your memory.  This can be a definition, for some, of joy.

Once a dancer, always a dancer, I think--even if your ancient feet no longer work and you can't keep up with the pace for fear of passing out.  I once saw a paralyzed ex-dancer in a wheelchair, watching, in rapture, a dance performance, her hand poised on her lap, executing the remembered steps with the second and third fingers of her right hand.  Like little miniaturized feet, they stepped, kicked, ran, jumped, and swirled.  Can you still sing if you've lost your voice? Can you "write" when you can no longer hold a pen? Can you play piano without a piano? Of course it's not the same.  (What is anymore?)  And yet ...

What a magnificent invention, dancing. It's like a gift.

Speaking of foot tapping:   :)

French Canadian/Metis-style foot tapping (taper du pieds) to accompany the fiddle.

If you have ever wanted to learn how to do this, you can get an introductory lesson here.  Just watch and imitate.  At some point you won't have to count; your feet will just automatically take over.  Or so they tell me.  :)

poeming the winter solstice

Winter solstice time again, the shortest day of the year, which means night comes sooner.

Blogger Sandy Brown Jensen, a writing teacher in Eugene, Oregon has restarted a personal tradition this year to write a poem about the winter solstice, because, she says, "It reminds me to be conscious of the season, the coming and going of the light."  Her poem was accompanied by an image of a V-shaped line of geese sailing past a crescent moon.

I miss those geese.  Kind of like old friends who only show up twice a year, honkily announce their presence, then speed on.  A funny kind of visit, so brief, yet looked forward to with such heightened expectation and delight.  It never gets old.

Jensen's remark about "the coming and going of the light" came to mind when I read teacher/writer Paul Martin's review yesterday of Joan Didion's new book, Blue Nights, about the death of Didion's daughter, Quintana.   "The Buddhists tell us that pain, suffering and loss are part of life, and must be accepted as such," he wrote.  "Still humans go on and on, raging against the dying of the light, reaching out to hold on for just one more second, the blue light of memory."

Consciousness of light and darkness (physical, emotional, perceived)--their (and our) arrivals, departures; memory; loss; renewal; and seeming constants, like the twice-annual crossing of those geese traversing the sky.   The conjunction resonated.

An excerpt from Sandy Brown Jensen's poem:

Now, in the dawn dark, I hear them high

up over the bike path cottonwoods,

coming my way. I imagine

what I cannot see–twenty four wings

beating tip to tip, veed out

like talkative angels. . . .

And I am only afraid when the honkers fly on silent,

intent wings, quieted by some collective

thought too large or moving for even geese

to talk about, even to each other,

in those black hours before the earth creaks

again toward the light, and we can breathe, and speak.

(A reader commented that those "geese inspire my wings to quiver, too."  Add me to the list, it inspires me as well, that graceful journey of barky "sky-voicers", sad to see them go in autumn  (because that signifies a kind of end); happy to see them return come spring (another beginning). 

I don't know if it was the image of that V-shaped crossing under the crescent moon, an awakened consciousness of the comings and goings of light (and darkness), or the reminder of the Sisyphus-like predilection of humankind to "go on and on"-- alternately celebrating--or raging against--life's coming, life's going.    If I were to attempt to poem it, it might come out something like:

 Solstice Whisperings

'Tis the season we commemorate

light's contract with the world; 

mid groans at start of winter's Dark

(here blanketed in white).

For some, a time of inner fire  -

peak yin, the muse awakened, lo

behold its quickening.
Illumination reborn, freeing our
quiet, unheard voicings.

Cycles repeating ... ad lucem, 

ad opscurum

Retreat, contract, 

be re-lit inside.
     Expand.

Cradled in life's fragile,
invisible hold, we
become its eternal
thread.

Hmmm....  seems less to do with solstice & ends up being a cryptic pseudo-meditation on cycles.  Or existential weaving.  And poem is not a verb, last time I checked.  No, I have not hit the eggnog a tad early.  Am on Day 8 of an annoyingly debilitative seasonal malady, kind of a cross between laryngitis, cold & flu (it can't seem to make up its mind) (flucolarnge? larngclflu?   sounds positively Lovecraftian) .

Taking 2 aspirin and going back to bed. 

More, less, & just enuff

Took Chekhov on the trip down to the States last week but no time to read; this rarely happens but on this trip it somehow did. My rideshare driver reminded me it was my ninth trek in the luxurious Phillipemobile (twelfth for Don, aged 77, up in the front seat regaling us with tales of his many travels and unusual adventures). Some border officials, believe it or not, have never heard of rideshare or craigslist, finding it difficult to understand why six or seven unrelated people would all be coming into the country together in the same vehicle, none heading to exactly the same destination, all returning on different dates. But you get there twice as fast at half the cost; a smooth, comfortable ride with interesting people, lively conversations, good music, what more could one ask.

It was wonderful to see the l'il grandbubs again.  While there, one night, on our way back from the grocery store, we drove through this quiet neighborhood of gigantic houses with enormous manicured lawns, when this light display suddenly shrieked out in brightness:

My daughter said it had won some kind of local competition. Between the "ohhhhhhs" and "ahhhhhhhs"of passersby, one also heard:  "Wonder what their electric bill will look like ..."

And for all those large, overly decorated Christmas trees, real or fake, there're also those scraggly, marked-down leftovers bargained for on Christmas eve, before the tree lot closes, by those who find the only thing they can afford this year is a Charlie Brown special or its scrawny equivalent. Less decoration, more spirit - that'll work!

"Christmas" has become so commercialized, it's sometimes met with dread instead of joy.  Joy, joyous, joyful - words we say or sing or write on a card this month that roll out as effortlessly as "Have a nice day.

For some, these holidays (Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, winter solstice), are a time of sadness, stress, or  creeping indifference.  What is there to celebrate? Some parents can't afford to put food on the table, as TV ads remind you how great it would be to be gifted with a diamond, expensive  appliance or spiffy new car with a big red ribbon tied 'round it. One is expected to honor family traditions even when it may be impossible to do so. Whatever cheer you might muster could suddenly wash right out of you by the proliferation of political correctness: saying "Happy Holidays", for example, you risk being lectured for not saying "Merry Christmas").

And yet . . . despite all the hype, and angst, and commercial shlock, families try to get together, spirits are lifted, people who wouldn't ordinarily, give. And there's the Peace-on-Earth thing. Which is another way of saying No More War, only quieter.

My dad was Smokey the Bear when I was in high school.  He used to go around to local elementary schools dressed as Smokey the Bear to teach kids about safety in the forest.  At Christmas time he'd make loaves and loaves of raisin-nut bread (the only thing he enjoyed cooking) and deliver them to certain families in the neighborhood.  I remember being impressed by his sheer enthusiasm -- none of my friends' fathers did these things--and regret that I never told him so while he was still alive.

What I like about the end of the year is that it's an End and you can imagine the new, coming year as an opportunity to correct/resolve/expand, whatever -- do things differently, or "better".  Which feeling sometimes evaporates as quickly as one's unmet New Year's resolutions, but at no other time of the year does that particular urge seem quite as strong. The older I get, the more inclined I am to just let some things go--habits, for example, that have run their course, worries that are not worth worrying over; and concentrate on those things that are important, or should be moreso.  Energy and focus squandered, a depletion you sometimes don't notice till it's too late. I have to remind myself to stop looking at some things as insurmountable obstacles; view them as challenges instead; think of creative ways to arrive at a solution, be more proactive, etc. Yeah, I know, buzzwords (like "Joyous"), but somehow simply waiting, and hoping for the best -- seems too lethargic.

So, onward and otherward 2012.  My grandson told me he watched a documentary on the Discovery channel last month which discussed the prediction that the world, as we know it, will end on December 21, 2012, when some catastrophic event will occur and "we'll all disappear".   Or not.  Living moment by moment begins to take on a whole new meaning, in light of that possibility, though. 

Anyway, glad to be back, though I wish I could have brought those Vermont mountains home with me. Seeing them again -- now that was pure heaven!

.  

Cat Photo Shoot

Part 1:  Choose subject 

"You want me to do WHAT?!!!"

Part 2: Consider asking Nikki

if this is how she wants to be portrayed.

I already know the answer.

What was I thinking?!

 She  prefers this one.

[The beach ball was unintended.

Not a prop.
It was just there.]

"Okay, enough. 

I'm done ..."

she heads back upstairs to snooze again.

Photoshoot Final Report:

1. Never attempt a contrived pose.
2.  What's a hug for one, may be a choke for others.
3.  Posing should always be voluntary.  Ask first.
4. Let sleeping cats be. They'll hear you if you try to sneak a
candid photo.  [If they want to be photo hams, of course --
well, that's a different story altogether.  Let 'em shine!]


Thanks, Nik, old girl.
You haven't aged a bit.

A Song for the Moon

Courtesy of Eden Ink Photography

Mi  Luna, written by the late Nicaraguan songwriter Salvador Cardenal Barquero.   Spanish guitar by Juan Benevides, sung by David LaMotte, harmony vocals by Tish Hinojosa (From David LaMotte's album "Change", which came out in 2006).

Mi luna

ha visto tanto

que cuando le canto su plata me acuna

como a los santos

y los prisioneros, los amantes

los locos errantes y los pordioseros

que amamantamos tu luz.

Cuando no hay amigos, pan ni dinero

solo la poesía que flota en el aire sincero

y en las bancas solas

que hay en los parques

que mueren de frío

esperando amores amanezqueros.

Ay mi luna llena, escucha la pena

cuando un hombre canta

al amor que quiere.

Ay mi luna llena, escucha la pena

cuando un hombre canta

al amor que espera.

Ay mi luna llena. . .

I know about five words in Spanish, and one of them is luna.  The music went straight to my heart but I wanted to know what the words meant - so I used the Google Translator.  That translation - literal, and lacking - didn't illuminate. How words miscommunicate and how we struggle to make sense of them, even when awkwardly expressed!  What does it mean, for example, to "float through the air, sincere"?  [poetry, that is.] 

My personal interpretation, humbly offered, based on my sense of the verbatim Spanish, and what the feelings the music and that photographic image combined, evoked:

My moon

you've seen so much,

heard the outpourings of saints,

prisoners, lovers, beggars,

wandering madmen -

we're all nurtured by your light.

Friendless, hungry, destitute -

only poetry truly permeates.

Alone on park benches

one can die of the cold,

waiting for love.

Ah, my full moon,  hear our pain

when we sing of our yearning, of

love wanted,

love hoped for.

_____________________
*Thanks to Abigail of Eden Ink Photography for her kind permission to share the above photo.

photopoesis

Photo by John Levy

Announcing my new photoblog, Photopoesis, launched this past weekend, which will function as a photo sharehouse for interesting, unusual and/or compelling photography. 

The first installment features the photos of John Levy, poet/writer/lawyer of Tucson, AZ.  Special thanks to John for sharing these magnificent images and for his collaborative input that resulted in my finally tackling this photo project I'd often thought about but never quite got around to doing.

Which photos to select, how and in what order to place them, etc., was a fun and intriguing process where size, color, subject, 'theme', shape, texture, angle, shadow, humor, irony, and visual impact all came into play.  Each photo tells its own 'story'.  For example:

** A newly hatched life says hello to existence.
** A wilted oleander, attack and death in the insect world,
      a skeleton eyeing a passerby, all remind viewers of life's
      cycle of impermanence.
** A spontaneous gesture from a biker in traffic aligns with fence
      shubbery  to point in the same direction, in perfect symmetry.
** A wall shadow spreads forth on a sunlit pavement.
** Stains on top a garbage can resemble the map of a distant blue
     world.
** A turtle watches a discarded slice of watermelon float by.
** A hummingbird is immortalized suspended in mid-flight.

Camera-captured moments that beckon and hold us.

Pop by if you've time, and take a peek. They are really worth a look!

Click here to enter the site.

Favorite benches

leaves gone now
i'm still
there

Show-time, share-time, again!!

                                                             

                                                                             nineteen

                                                                        NEW  POEMS 
                                                                                                                      up on 
                                                                        SALAMANDER  

                                                                               COVE         

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                                                                                   y                            
                                   <-- Joel E. Jacobson - Paul Pines  - Anna Swanson -->

                                                                       Meg Bateman 
                                                                       Zoe Skoulding     

                                                                      Alexei Tsvetkov

                                                              Sedley  Richard   Assonne

                                                                    t                         r

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                                                                  o                              j

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                                                                K                                   M

                                                           Bill                                      Alice    

ART by   Bill Knott                          Anthony Duce                                    Jean-Michel Ripaud                                                          Néle Azevedo PHOTOGRAPHY by Jonathan of Beeps & Chirps

   

Enter HERE