American Labor Day
Trees are screeching alive with birds at september’s dawn. We don’t know
Whether they are visiting or coming or going.
Snow will fall in the mountains, possibly. It’s strange
Georgie Girl died this year; Boy George finally out of prison. We sigh
To each other in text msgs, absent offspring grown now in a world so small
We touch each other w/ a single syllable. our children all seem
To be living in china, spain or brazil,
bemoaning the fates of fatted calves strengthened w/ carcinogenic hormones
& chickens raised in concentration camps, infants hosting & harboring tiny
microbes as yet unnamed,
& the challenges of losing weight on diets loaded with unseen killer carbohydrates.
From our foamy chaises on padded derrieres,
We still want to weep with maudlin self pity
over hard times we recall when someone from our neighborhood
Was killed in Vietnam over half a century ago
Tho between us, we can’t seem to remember his name now
in these groups where we each purchase our own perfectly brewed coffee, we
still manage to purge a puked up poem from our own ancient recollections. Back home, we turn on gas fireplaces for the first time this season, feel a newly
arthritic wrist, cry discreetly
over the stock market & conspiratorial candidacies.
We wonder if our banks hold water, or gold.
Hair replacement products are sold during tv network news, accompanying
sex enhancing chemicals, cholesterol controllers, a supplement guaranteed
to grow yr own eyelashes, some new abatement for
excessive pressure of the blood.
Every moment a miracle or two is stalking us on the internet.
Still, we sigh over electronic & environmental progress, & bitterly denounce
fortunes made & squandered by people a fraction of our age who drive foreign cars off their own hillside cliffs, taking wife & children with them, a perfect hole in one. Outside, under the hum of electric wires burdened with a trillion satellite signals carrying cacaphonous messages, earthquakes, floods, fires & rumors of war
Trees are screeching with birds
on overloaded wires that hum a loud blues dirge to a nonexistent & unhearing audience
Unmonitored by you tube or the 60 minute news
Even at the birth of September, a most glorious Labor day.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
इन india
in India, i learn in 2 weeks that after 55 years
there are no shortcuts
that the india of my girlhood dream had long ago evaporated
Vanished the fancy floating tent lids of various shade & hue
Trumped now by the cirque de soleil
Disappeared the snakecharming dhoti-clad noseflutists
Weaving mystical melodies on cobblestone corners
Now, the bindi laden overweight sullen desk clerks
That I possibly met in seattle
Forgoing namaste for a nod & expressing
The final holdout of a racist regime, calling me “mem”
Only for the sake of my unpronounceable Norwegian surname
& the slightest possibility that they have lost my reservation.
in India,i learn
That the moment i began to form suspicions, to hold
dark Judgments in my mind, a human being will explode it
a filthy, clear eyed child who offers me a rose, not having eaten
is called a worthless beggar
By people polishing off meat sandwiches
At a nearby subway franchise; & in an elevator,
a warm & smiling turbaned gentleman from Dubai
Tells me it’s even hotter at home.
“But it’s that dry heat,”
i gently refrain from reminding him.
In India, i learn
That there is no dodging the decades
Of karma you thought you’d released. The lens you want
To turn on others must be pointed back at Self; the old friends
you had mistaken for enemies, & avoided
Are waiting for you, sharpening knife blades in their skirts
As calmly they prepare for psychic surgery
The moment your head hits the pillow,
Hoping this time to open your life-veins for love.
in India, i learn again the things
that time & cultural complacency have caused me to forget.
That the value of a dollar is never fixed. Every scale is sliding
And yr price is determined, among other factors,
by the number of gold bangles you wrap around yr sleeve,
advertising to the world just what you’re worth, or at least
the estimated value of yr husband. in India, I learn
that some values are indeed without compromise.
The face of Ghandi, for example, adorns the currency in all denominations
down to & including the humble 5 rupee coin, and recollect how
“Mahatma” means “Great soul.”
In india, I learn
That I cannot learn India driving thru a couple of massive cities
On an air conditioned bus with double wide cushioned seats
To comfort american derrieres. That the story behind every ashram wall
might be the same, or very different, that some temples
will force you to doff your sandals; others want harder donations, &
the most sublime allow no photography, nor video, nor shoes.
in India, i learn
that the India you learn from travel agents is not real
But neither is the India you visited, however briefly
that the place you missed seeing is always right around the corner
from the place where you spent the entire afternoon
Having the time of your life, & that somehow
The Divine Cosmos ordered up the entire imagination.
In India, i learn that there are not as many curries as there are villages.
but there are as many curries as there are chefs
& every family has a secret recipe, that was not yet another gift
God mysteriously granted to your family alone. in India,
i learn that having failed to learn India,
My new great dream is to return, search again
go on looking in villages & mountain byways mist
to find the sacred dancing festivals & random holy men
& really this time see India, the one I know deep in my heart
still hides existing there, before (i)
[die]
there are no shortcuts
that the india of my girlhood dream had long ago evaporated
Vanished the fancy floating tent lids of various shade & hue
Trumped now by the cirque de soleil
Disappeared the snakecharming dhoti-clad noseflutists
Weaving mystical melodies on cobblestone corners
Now, the bindi laden overweight sullen desk clerks
That I possibly met in seattle
Forgoing namaste for a nod & expressing
The final holdout of a racist regime, calling me “mem”
Only for the sake of my unpronounceable Norwegian surname
& the slightest possibility that they have lost my reservation.
in India,i learn
That the moment i began to form suspicions, to hold
dark Judgments in my mind, a human being will explode it
a filthy, clear eyed child who offers me a rose, not having eaten
is called a worthless beggar
By people polishing off meat sandwiches
At a nearby subway franchise; & in an elevator,
a warm & smiling turbaned gentleman from Dubai
Tells me it’s even hotter at home.
“But it’s that dry heat,”
i gently refrain from reminding him.
In India, i learn
That there is no dodging the decades
Of karma you thought you’d released. The lens you want
To turn on others must be pointed back at Self; the old friends
you had mistaken for enemies, & avoided
Are waiting for you, sharpening knife blades in their skirts
As calmly they prepare for psychic surgery
The moment your head hits the pillow,
Hoping this time to open your life-veins for love.
in India, i learn again the things
that time & cultural complacency have caused me to forget.
That the value of a dollar is never fixed. Every scale is sliding
And yr price is determined, among other factors,
by the number of gold bangles you wrap around yr sleeve,
advertising to the world just what you’re worth, or at least
the estimated value of yr husband. in India, I learn
that some values are indeed without compromise.
The face of Ghandi, for example, adorns the currency in all denominations
down to & including the humble 5 rupee coin, and recollect how
“Mahatma” means “Great soul.”
In india, I learn
That I cannot learn India driving thru a couple of massive cities
On an air conditioned bus with double wide cushioned seats
To comfort american derrieres. That the story behind every ashram wall
might be the same, or very different, that some temples
will force you to doff your sandals; others want harder donations, &
the most sublime allow no photography, nor video, nor shoes.
in India, i learn
that the India you learn from travel agents is not real
But neither is the India you visited, however briefly
that the place you missed seeing is always right around the corner
from the place where you spent the entire afternoon
Having the time of your life, & that somehow
The Divine Cosmos ordered up the entire imagination.
In India, i learn that there are not as many curries as there are villages.
but there are as many curries as there are chefs
& every family has a secret recipe, that was not yet another gift
God mysteriously granted to your family alone. in India,
i learn that having failed to learn India,
My new great dream is to return, search again
go on looking in villages & mountain byways mist
to find the sacred dancing festivals & random holy men
& really this time see India, the one I know deep in my heart
still hides existing there, before (i)
[die]
Sunday, November 15, 2009
थे फर्स्ट हिडेन वर्ड
O Son of Spirit! My first counsel is this:
possess a pure, kindly & radiant heart
that thine may be a sovereignty
ancient, imperishable
and everlasting.
Baha'u'llah
میرزا حسینعلی نوری
possess a pure, kindly & radiant heart
that thine may be a sovereignty
ancient, imperishable
and everlasting.
Baha'u'llah
میرزا حسینعلی نوری
अल अबोअर्द
Follow the path to the place where you find your voice.
It’s right where the real-religious people hid it
Strangled under a fat white pillow, right where the
Teachers shredded it and threw the match
Over the whole smoking pile.
It’s somewhere in the middle of those mummified manuscripts
Thick with age and the blue crawly dust of insects.
Profane clichés and unfreudian slips
the undergarment articles of
a meaner time, after common ancestors
rough pioneer kids all
spent hard winters stitched into greasy long johns
and huddled their hoarded secret vices
under douvets sewed of ashy flannel pulled off the backs of sheep
and stuffed with straight wheat straw,
when mothers boiled soap to scrub the mouths of brats.
Still, they knew each tool each task required.
They never mistook an axiom for a saw.
Remember the German advices collected from old women:
Keep it simple. Cut the fat --but never the corners. Excise the extraneous.
Follow the steps on schedule, using the proper pattern
(counting stitches like syllables in sequences)
Eclipse the ordinary obvious, when possible,
& in boarding the train, buy a good seat to observe each inch of scenery.
Know when you are nearing your own country
By the color of the grass.
But speak up! if you hear a warning whistle
God knows, it just might be for you.
Along the way decipher shamelessly
Every bottle and bone left strewn by the seemingly random panhandler.
Search carefully for everything you lost along the way and you will find it.
Fly down the trail, breathless on your small excursions.
Observing every detail in the angle of the light.
Follow reverently the broken weeds to the place where your voice hides.
The meadow remembers no child’s temporary footprint
But the train tracks forge full circle every time
with or without their paying passengers.
And in rusted silence where the emptiness is wide,
Be comforted, the seeds left on the ground by squawking birds
making their wheeling spring migration
shall be the rising red flowers, long-necked, greedy, graceful
of a coming generation’s summer,
forever the same and new.
Listen now to the drumming message sent by your own heart.
The voice that you hear next will be your own.
It’s right where the real-religious people hid it
Strangled under a fat white pillow, right where the
Teachers shredded it and threw the match
Over the whole smoking pile.
It’s somewhere in the middle of those mummified manuscripts
Thick with age and the blue crawly dust of insects.
Profane clichés and unfreudian slips
the undergarment articles of
a meaner time, after common ancestors
rough pioneer kids all
spent hard winters stitched into greasy long johns
and huddled their hoarded secret vices
under douvets sewed of ashy flannel pulled off the backs of sheep
and stuffed with straight wheat straw,
when mothers boiled soap to scrub the mouths of brats.
Still, they knew each tool each task required.
They never mistook an axiom for a saw.
Remember the German advices collected from old women:
Keep it simple. Cut the fat --but never the corners. Excise the extraneous.
Follow the steps on schedule, using the proper pattern
(counting stitches like syllables in sequences)
Eclipse the ordinary obvious, when possible,
& in boarding the train, buy a good seat to observe each inch of scenery.
Know when you are nearing your own country
By the color of the grass.
But speak up! if you hear a warning whistle
God knows, it just might be for you.
Along the way decipher shamelessly
Every bottle and bone left strewn by the seemingly random panhandler.
Search carefully for everything you lost along the way and you will find it.
Fly down the trail, breathless on your small excursions.
Observing every detail in the angle of the light.
Follow reverently the broken weeds to the place where your voice hides.
The meadow remembers no child’s temporary footprint
But the train tracks forge full circle every time
with or without their paying passengers.
And in rusted silence where the emptiness is wide,
Be comforted, the seeds left on the ground by squawking birds
making their wheeling spring migration
shall be the rising red flowers, long-necked, greedy, graceful
of a coming generation’s summer,
forever the same and new.
Listen now to the drumming message sent by your own heart.
The voice that you hear next will be your own.
Friday, November 13, 2009
जोनाह'स Song
Jonah’s Song
Like Jesus himself he was three days in the whale
It seemed a lot longer down there
For a man on the run who wanted a gun but just needed some space
To flee to a dark place where no daylight
Plunged to give him up or change his destiny
A place to hide the very soul
That the damaged fists kept free.
He went down whole and locked inside
He knew he was in for a very wild ride
But what is a boy to do?
Jonah did not want to go to Ninevah
But he had to do what he had to do.
Just to tell those sinners to move it back
& return to the promised way
The Lord ain’t never gonna bless a household here
Til Jonah has his say.
Sitting at the table with the dark glasses on
And the black leather jacket too
Elusive and vague but insinuating
Before the night judge and the talk show king
Spitting out clues on the eve before
the Day of Reckoning.
Jonah himself was not a great man
Who could withstand scrutiny
On close inspection he was failed and scared
Angry at the closing deal.
But when the bell rang he took up the scroll
And he headed out to the floor
A purpose became a mission, the dove is over the river now
It’s all about who could be saved and how the peace can be won
Between the mother and father now, the holiness is in the son
He knew the only choice was how much distance he could put
Between himself and the door
But he could not ever run far enough
from her face or from his own
To take the reflection that he saw in the mirror
And sink it in the lake like a stone
So he warned the others and he kept his word
Or he tried to anyway
And he used his words to bring the truth
Of that great and mournful reckoning day.
Sitting at the table with the dark glasses on
And the black leather jacket too
Elusive and vague but insinuating
Before the night judge and the talk show king
Spitting out clues on the eve before
the Day of Reckoning.
Like Jesus himself he was three days in the whale
It seemed a lot longer down there
For a man on the run who wanted a gun but just needed some space
To flee to a dark place where no daylight
Plunged to give him up or change his destiny
A place to hide the very soul
That the damaged fists kept free.
He went down whole and locked inside
He knew he was in for a very wild ride
But what is a boy to do?
Jonah did not want to go to Ninevah
But he had to do what he had to do.
Just to tell those sinners to move it back
& return to the promised way
The Lord ain’t never gonna bless a household here
Til Jonah has his say.
Sitting at the table with the dark glasses on
And the black leather jacket too
Elusive and vague but insinuating
Before the night judge and the talk show king
Spitting out clues on the eve before
the Day of Reckoning.
Jonah himself was not a great man
Who could withstand scrutiny
On close inspection he was failed and scared
Angry at the closing deal.
But when the bell rang he took up the scroll
And he headed out to the floor
A purpose became a mission, the dove is over the river now
It’s all about who could be saved and how the peace can be won
Between the mother and father now, the holiness is in the son
He knew the only choice was how much distance he could put
Between himself and the door
But he could not ever run far enough
from her face or from his own
To take the reflection that he saw in the mirror
And sink it in the lake like a stone
So he warned the others and he kept his word
Or he tried to anyway
And he used his words to bring the truth
Of that great and mournful reckoning day.
Sitting at the table with the dark glasses on
And the black leather jacket too
Elusive and vague but insinuating
Before the night judge and the talk show king
Spitting out clues on the eve before
the Day of Reckoning.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
fantasies
When you are young, indulge no fantasies.
they'll corrupt the perfect dream you carry deep inside.
Intact, strong, purposeful as an arrow, don't let
the drag of smoke resist yr freedomflight, just
smirk when strange others confide their fantasies to you.
Live in the real world of yr perfect dream, breathing
nobody's sloppy second breath slow over your shoulder
in the dull dreamy snore of fantasy's warm seduction, keep your eyes
wide open on the roaring rushing racing road- the perfect dream
requires every secret centimeter of the summoned focus of
yr perfect world.
When you are middle aged, allow your fantasies to co exist.
The dream has faded, it is monday's laundry left out
to stiffen in the cold breeze of tuesday night, forgotten
arrow shirts and linen suits and underwear--so let the fantasies
remain, and let them in with gentle smiles. The man you married
still looks good from a distance, the girl you chose
still sounds sweet on the telephone, reminding you of other girls.
The children you bore becoming giants now, familiar
only in some nontouchable and distant way
but in their eyes are echoes of some early stardust, perhaps left over
from someone else's fantasy. and what of dreams--the screen door
screeches in the wind, the weekend's gone, the dream you chased is
chasing you, the fantasies will giggle in the clouds, it's monday morning
roaring up to pick you up -yet again.
But when you're old, bid, no, beg! fantasy to enter by your side.
Beckon & cajole the softness of the sidelong glance, look sweetly at the
crone you married, once your blushing bride and kiss her hand, some
dulcinea princess from far fantasy's bold landscape of the blind
and court the fantasies that tease from dusty corners where they fell.
Recall the ancient stooped man next to you as don quijote, comic knight
of all faith imagination love and high nobility, not this fainting
farting clown who rescues pillows as his favorite companions in the night
but all your own in this gentle kingdom of the kind, and hold his hand
next to your heart where sweet accordions once played poetic melodies
and tangos wild and mad, embrace the fantasy with all that's left inside
the magic throbbing dreaming core of soul, & heart & mind.
No, when you're young, don't let the fantasies that flirt take hold
and carry you far from the bold hallucination of the greatness of the personal. Don't let them show you all you are and all that you can never be, for that in middle age and elder hood and fantasy is still to learn,
& will be learned & must be sadly learned
all in the plenteous wisdom of the passages of other fantasies,
and whirling flow, relentless time. But blessed you'll be if after
all & all you still remain, with breath & bone
to indulge in life's most final passing stage: abandoned
to the child's own game, the knowledge that every step of every stage
along the way was even then and even now
yet but another breath of fantasy.
they'll corrupt the perfect dream you carry deep inside.
Intact, strong, purposeful as an arrow, don't let
the drag of smoke resist yr freedomflight, just
smirk when strange others confide their fantasies to you.
Live in the real world of yr perfect dream, breathing
nobody's sloppy second breath slow over your shoulder
in the dull dreamy snore of fantasy's warm seduction, keep your eyes
wide open on the roaring rushing racing road- the perfect dream
requires every secret centimeter of the summoned focus of
yr perfect world.
When you are middle aged, allow your fantasies to co exist.
The dream has faded, it is monday's laundry left out
to stiffen in the cold breeze of tuesday night, forgotten
arrow shirts and linen suits and underwear--so let the fantasies
remain, and let them in with gentle smiles. The man you married
still looks good from a distance, the girl you chose
still sounds sweet on the telephone, reminding you of other girls.
The children you bore becoming giants now, familiar
only in some nontouchable and distant way
but in their eyes are echoes of some early stardust, perhaps left over
from someone else's fantasy. and what of dreams--the screen door
screeches in the wind, the weekend's gone, the dream you chased is
chasing you, the fantasies will giggle in the clouds, it's monday morning
roaring up to pick you up -yet again.
But when you're old, bid, no, beg! fantasy to enter by your side.
Beckon & cajole the softness of the sidelong glance, look sweetly at the
crone you married, once your blushing bride and kiss her hand, some
dulcinea princess from far fantasy's bold landscape of the blind
and court the fantasies that tease from dusty corners where they fell.
Recall the ancient stooped man next to you as don quijote, comic knight
of all faith imagination love and high nobility, not this fainting
farting clown who rescues pillows as his favorite companions in the night
but all your own in this gentle kingdom of the kind, and hold his hand
next to your heart where sweet accordions once played poetic melodies
and tangos wild and mad, embrace the fantasy with all that's left inside
the magic throbbing dreaming core of soul, & heart & mind.
No, when you're young, don't let the fantasies that flirt take hold
and carry you far from the bold hallucination of the greatness of the personal. Don't let them show you all you are and all that you can never be, for that in middle age and elder hood and fantasy is still to learn,
& will be learned & must be sadly learned
all in the plenteous wisdom of the passages of other fantasies,
and whirling flow, relentless time. But blessed you'll be if after
all & all you still remain, with breath & bone
to indulge in life's most final passing stage: abandoned
to the child's own game, the knowledge that every step of every stage
along the way was even then and even now
yet but another breath of fantasy.
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