Diggin' on Out

So, we've been getting a bit more snow the past several days

 

 

Review. Respond.

Me, I Tell Stories

Fred Pellerin, from a town not far from here. While at university here, he developed a thirst for stories, nostalgic for a time he did not know. Lulled by the stories of his grandmother, his neighbor Eugene, and his father, Pellerin has been recounting these older generations' memories and anecdotes, gossip and rumors of his village, Saint-Élie-de-Caxton.

The stories passed down to us tickle our curiosity about the past, resurrect early memories, make us think, make us laugh--stories we can still relate to--reminding us of who we are and where we came from, of those who preceded us, and the interest in hearing their stories retold.  I'd like to think that  those who follow us will pass our stories on as well.

"I am the son of a thousand fathers.
I did not come into the world.
It is the world that came to me.
And I was born yesterday."

______________________________________

*Quebec license plates say  Je me souviens ("I remember"), the official motto of the province.

Remembering the Dead Journalists

To all those writers imprisoned, kidnapped and permanently "disappeared", ordered assassinated and  brutally murdered, or slain in the field, for reporting the truth, from whichever country and whichever time, thank you for your courage and commitment.  Thank you for your stories and research and photos, and for your example.
 

One Day

Angels, make room

In his tree, a fish,
a bird,
a rocking horse,
a mini red/white balalaika,
a duck,
the Eiffel Tower!

At its top, a miniature
soccer ball.

Star of wonder,  star of light
Bless us heathens
this cold night.

Wine & cookies on the table
for 'ol St. Nick.

Walla!

That Time Again

awynfoto2016

Secular Inclusion

awynfoto2016

At the Basilica religious gift shoppe,

ceramic females -

glassed in, shelved.

Yours for a price.

awynfoto2016

These are decorative pieces, a celebration of ordinary women, as women, or mothers.
There's a whole section of Blessed Virgin, St. Joseph, and Baby Jesus statues in traditional pose,
adjacent to the rosary, crucifix and religious medal display cases. But these ceramic ladies caught my attention.

Mothers and babies, a child releasing a peace dove - or is she trying to capture it?  (Can one hold on to Peace?)

detail

Two quick snapshots taken during a visit to the Sanctuary with a friend recently.  'Tis the season -- Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men, and so forth.  Dove as the symbol of peace.  At what price, peace?  Can peace be bought?   I love the image, even without the symbolism - a child reaching towards (or releasing?)  a bird.  A reaching toward, and at the same time, a letting go. Metaphor for too many parallels.

And . . .

the need to . . . interpret what's seen.  Is that a choice, like holding onto, or letting go, of something? That you can see a thing (object, event, image) from different perspectives and attach (or dismiss) its perceived meaning.  Meanings are assigned (or taught); accepted or rejected.  If factory-produced, the packer just sees a fake-girl-with-bird statue, breakable.

I just really liked the image, regardless of what it may, or may not, mean.  If only I could figure out how to remove that price sign from the photograph. It protrudes, as a jarring distraction.

I re-looked at the photos and it occurred to me the figures might appreciate not being seen as a group, but individually. Ways of looking, where what initially draws is the whole picture (the group), but then you notice the details.  (Or it sometimes goes the other way, where you obsess over the details but fail to see the larger picture.  Both are ways of seeing, and not seeing; each enlightens in its own way.

Or not.  Sometimes an image is . . . just an image.   Girl. Bird. Price tag.

Interesting that the figures' faces are a blur, their individuality wiped out.  Commercialized art, portraying "types".  None had a mouth, yet they spoke to me, as being worthy of a second look.  (This propensity to anthropomorphize, another quirkery.)

My favorite remains the girl with the bird. 

Aleppo

Don't Go Small

OPOMENA                                                                 WARNING

Čovječe pazi da ne ideš malen                                    Man, take care, not to go small
ispod zvijezda.                                                              under the stars.
Pusti da cijelog tebe prođe                                         Let the star light
blaga svjetlost zvijezda!                                              pour right through you!
Da ni za čim ne žališ                                                   Regret nothing when you cast
kada se budeš zadnjim pogledima                              your last look
rastajao od zvijezda!                                                   at the stars!
Na svom koncu mjesto u prah                                   At the end, instead of dust,
prijeđi sav u zvijezde!                                                turn into stars!

     Antun Branko Šimić

 

poets, forever twinkling, blinking
attempting to express life's amazing inexpressables -
translators, readers, probing, listening

to get past the words to the awe

Scavenger Hunt

Morning visitors.

Gray found a hidden peanut.

Black's still searching.

It Is What It Is

awynart



awynart

When hope for change brings change for worse, and each new day another curse

is  heard across  the range;

a dozen here, a million there, drawn into war  --   It isn't fair.

The planet's gotten strange.

The sun comes up, the sun goes down for child and criminal and clown;

it  doesn't  need your vote.

Like Sisyphus, we roll that stone, to prove that life is more than moan;

that we still steer our boat.

Tears and anger are reactions that just trigger bigger factions -

where DO we go from here?

Forward, backward, or stay in place?  Stumble, crumble, or go retrace?

One  wants an end of  FEAR.

Halloweenities

Fogwatch

At the port, last week -

fog so thick the St. Lawrence River in front
completely disappeared

Imageblast

Sky Blot Out

The enormity of conformity -
a thousand windows look out and
down upon.

In this sea of concrete, where additions can only stretch vertical,
the tallest trees seem midget, shrub-type accessories,
still suitable for shade
and birds.

Clothesline

awynfoto2016

Seasonal reminder.

A neighbor's doll  -

the child she never had



__________________________________

Two years ago, this same clothesline gave me the inspiration for a little poem.

The clothing here appears to be for a different doll than the one of  that earlier poem.

I have no idea if my interpretation is correct.

Lots of people, young and old, have dolls.

They display them, they attend to them, they take care of them.

Beloved objects - like a writer's pen, a painter's favorite brush

that connect to us, and us to them.

 

Adieu Philip Dacey

  Philip Dacey

(1939-2016)

He once graciously allowed me to share one of his poems, then signed and sent me his (then) latest book. I learned recently that he passed away on July 7th.

I liked Philip Dacey's poems.  I wish I'd shared more of them.  I wish I'd had him--or someone like him--as a poetry teacher way back when.

In his poem "Reading a Book of Poems by a Friend Newly Dead", he talks about a dead poet slipping "from the words/  into the spaces between the lines/ and then into the margins." 

                    And lines keep revealing themselves
                    to be a goodbye wave, each a rehearsal
                    more for our sake than his. It is not
                    his fault that we missed the gesture.

I learned some things I never knew about  Philip Dacey before.  (He apparently quit piano lessons in grade school for the exact same reason I did--utter panic at recital time.)

In a 2014 interview where he was asked 10 questions by poet G. Emil Reutter, Dacey talked about the relevance of poetry (as well as the proliferation of poets), about poetry as "music",  and the importance of the process in producing it.

"There’s less time now to 'keep up' with new voices than to listen to old ones," he'd said two years ago.   "I wouldn’t presume to include myself in any literary lineage; I see my fate as that of compost in the vineyard where great writers have labored, a fate I’m happy to accept." 

"Less time now" -- Here was a poet battling leukemia, working for as long as he was able, on his creative "To Do" list, as evidenced by the work "in Progress" items on his web page. 

“My dad took the craft seriously,” said his son, Emmett. “But he didn’t take himself seriously. He wanted to emphasize the fun in poetry and imagination that drove his poetry.”

When people asked Dacey what he did, he would often reply, “Just working at the feed store.” But before he died July 7, at age 77, Dacey had taught poetry for 34 years at Southwest Minnesota State University in Marshall and authored 13 poetry books, with another coming out in the fall.

He didn't believe in writer's block, according to his son. “He said you may not like what you’re writing, but you can always write.”[source]

In a moving tribute to Dacey, his former student  Lisa Vihos wrote that he got her to think about how "creating a poem is like carving a sculpture, releasing the poem from its block of marble."  (If that were a writer's block, it means to keep chiseling).   "He also admonished me to always take criticism as a kind of  'structural stress test,' Lisa wrote.  "To look at the suggestion, weigh its merit, and make a decision based on what felt right to me, the poet."  I envy the students who had Dacey as a mentor.

Dacey likened the making of poetry to working in a vineyard, the ground from which he believed all poetry came.  I liked that his vineyard, and the poet himself, were so welcoming, not one-dimensional (as in, "Only this type of poem grown here"), offering humor as well as insight.  I like that he let the poems speak for themselves, that it was Poetry that mattered, not which vineyard it came from.

His poetry often resembled conversations one might have with oneself, accidentally overheard, in which the eavesdropper finds immediate resonance.

I am saddened to hear of his passing, more so that it has taken me so long to discover it.  To express, and accept, at life's end, that one's fate is to be "compost" in the particular vineyard in which one toils, that just having been part of the process, is its own reward, is as difficult for some as it is mind-altering and liberating for others.  Life as a process, destiny as . . .  "compost".  In an imaginary cartoon scenario I envisioned humans lining up to choose their workfield and accept (or reject) their suggested assignment: "Your job on earth is to enrich, aid with the growth of, help sustain ... [poetry]"  That's the thing about some of Dacey's influence:  it invites inquiry into meaning, tickles the imagination, encourages experimentation.

In this video from almost two years ago he recites some of his poems from memory--about working in the crucifix factory, about his brother the dancing cop, about Walt Whitman and death.  Long poems, short poems, structured, free form, "serious", whimsical -- Dacey's range of  subjects, themes, and ability to write in all forms of poetry manifested in imaginative, creative and skillfully harvested verses that illuminated, entertained, and resonated.

Rest in Peace, Philip Dacey, and thank you for your poems. Journey on.

Observerings

awynart

Attachment is the great fabricator of illusions;

reality can be attained only
 by someone who is 

detached.

~~  Simone Weil

awynfoto

Exploring our environs

Old village church, sharing its space recently with a local outdoor art exhibit. 
Afterwards we stopped at a nearby organic farm to sample varieties of goat cheese. 

Little summer weekend drive to "take the air" (or prendre l'air, as they say here).

What's their story?

awynart

people you see on benches
in bus stations
   at the park
       in pictures
           from memory
alone, or huddling,
as if in
      trenches

He Waits for Her

awynfoto2016

Visitor.

 

Usually there's two,

same kind, same color - they

chase one another;

sing from the cedars.