Poem: A birth, and a death

 -

-

A birth, and a death

for Lister Matheson

No snow, and little
to speak of this warm winter;
ochre moss in laced stars
below small knobs of dried, dun
prairie fleabane,

planetary in death,
trembling in the circle of wind.

O my friend you are dead
and traveling
even while all for me is reborn

long before spring
in this non-winter of brown nothing
that is even so

beautiful, from the trodden meadow path
to the slim trees grown tall,
black, and sunlit by morning's horizon.

January 2012

Poetry should be heard.

Postscript: This small poem should be considered a momentary and brief snapshot in a series of poetic responses in these early days of my grandson's life. It cannot suffice as a fitting tribute or memorial to Lister, whose expanse of life, work and persona would need several volumes of momentary—and epic—responses. My thanks to Brendan for his comments, which helped me to realize that I needed to say this here in the post.

-

-

poem: little tree

-

-

little tree

for my newborn grandson, James

(I cannot speak this directly to him.
It must be in the second person.
What would happen if I told him what is here?

I am not ready to break anything
that is not yet broken open.
The world has just begun.)

His head is in my hands, mouth open,
eyes half-stupored. He is breathing me,
as if I am winter, to warm in his mouth.
He exhales me back to me.
My voice is a silver blue bead he fingers
with a perfect tongue.

He has not learned to forget
that the earth always has her mouth open,
holding the sea and not swallowing,
nesting the trees for their nesting birds,
breathing the sky and not throwing anything away.


January 2012

Poetry should be heard. Perhaps listen to me read while playing a song for Egon Schiele, below.

Painting "Little Tree (Chestnut Tree at Lake Constance)" by Egon Schiele

Listen to Rachel's song Egon & Gertie. . . .

-

-

My new life

-

-

I type this with one finger while James sleeps on my chest. We are at home in his apartment on his fifth day of life, with his mommy and daddy. Daddy goes back to teaching today. Mommy will have a visit from a nurse to check in.

I have been living in the organic multi-day emergence of a new human being. In some ways it is a blur of minutes, hours and days, without clear delineation of what happened when. Yet we are constantly counting, in the way of civilized humans. The number of hours in labor, of hours pushing, inventory of fingers and toes, how many minutes at the breast, how many poos and pees in 24 hours. Time with its quantities is our way of measuring health and wellbeing, and with the major systems of eating and digestion well established, and my daughter’s healing underway, we ease into the stream and rippling flow of the journey.

All this amid the unspeakable wonder of exquisitely intense intimacy. The now-ness of every second. His phenomenal beauty of face and body. His peaceful countenance. His downy and fragrant temple against my lips. The whisper of his breath, the snuffles and squeaks of his voice, and the quiet smacks of his lips. I have plenty of photos to take with me today when I leave him for home and work. But the feel of his weight on my chest, the sounds of his breath and sighing voice, the scent of his warm head—these will be swaddled in the memory of my senses for a few days, until I snuggle with him again.

I am saturated and unsatiated in love. Yet there is a growing awareness that time and work call me back to their necessities. Just as James will grow past these first days of utter dependence—so beautiful and desirable to me now—I, too, will grow into my life, with new tendrils sprouting from the grafted stem.

-

-

Announcing: my first grandchild

-

-

name: James Lawrence

born: January 18, 2012 (his due date)
Time: 11:17pm

labor: 22 1/2 hours

health: excellent

weight: 6 lbs. 11 oz.

length: 18 inches

energy/personality: still, gentle, graceful

parents: strong, exhausted, besotted

grammy: in love, speechless, listening

New v@!ce re(0gn+ion $oƒtware

-

-

screenshot of the PDF manual for Dragon dictate

and at the right, the Available Commands window,

which goes on and on into eternity

If you can't read the title of this blog post, or if you understand it after studying it for a minute, then you get an idea of what it's like to learn the commands of voice recognition software. Typing is pretty easy. But figuring out how to use the mouse, how to type diacritical's (letters with accents, etc.), how to open and close applications, how to send e-mail, and all the myriad of commands to do what I need to do on my laptop with minimal use of my hands, has presented a whole new set of challenges. I was relieved to get the Dragon dictate software in the mail at work. But in the hours since then, the reality of learning this and how far I have to go is overwhelming.

The time spent this weekend studying and practicing will hopefully pay off over the days and weeks ahead.

I “typed” everything in this post by dictating it. See that apostrophe in the word diacritical's above? It is driving me crazy! It doesn't need one. But it is too much work to get back there with voice commands and fix it (and I want to resist the urge to do it manually, which really messes everything up). Just when I was learning to relax my shoulders . . . Ha!

These changes mean that I will be back to visiting you at your place more regularly. I look forward to it.

-

-

Poem: Free

 -

-

free

In the mist

around the rising sun

a bird

also rises. The wood fire

clicks in the iron box.

Are the bird,

the sun,

and the fire

confined at all?

Or do they simply

move their breath

freely
for interpretation

within the medium

of each other’s worlds?

January 2012

Painting "Mist" by Nicholas Roerich

-

-

Poem: Cactus bloom . . .

-

-

Cactus bloom picks up where the moon leaves off

Pink spark rising
after the sleepless Night
upheld the moon
(her shield d’amour).
Now, hold the field of day.

Then, at day's end,
dive like Joan with sword,
immanently mortal,
perpetually young,
softly arcing to earth
like the moon along her
battle for the night sky.



January 2012

-

-

My first blog friend, M.A. Rauf

-

-

I am one who knows how this blogging experience can change a person, for I have been profoundly changed. Later this month it will be six years since I began synch-ro-ni-zing. While it is my spiritual practice to write, and my creative play to take photographs, is it also an act of rapt listening to sit in the blog "theater" where you, my blog friends, share your own explorations. I evolve, much as a result of our engagement with one another.

Within just a couple of months of starting synch-ro-ni-zing, my outlook was transformed by one blogger. When I had just a couple of family members reading my blog, including my sister Ginnie who explained to me the ways of blogs, having published at In Soul for a year already, M.A. Rauf stopped in from India for a warm and welcoming visit. Ginnie had taught me to reciprocate blog visits as part of bloggy etiquette, and so I visited Rauf's Daylight Again after that first greeting from him. ("Rauf" — or "rauf" as he prefers — is pronounced "rah-oof.")

There isn't a way to summarize Rauf, or his blog! But I can say that he is a stunning photographer with heart, a writer with compassion and deep respect for those who are "untouchable" or otherwise downtrodden (you will see this for women in his photography), a lover of science, and a fervent lover of his India, with all her complex layers and intricate arts. He opened my eyes to atrocities; he encouraged me to think for myself. His humor, honesty, irony and sometimes outrage over what humans do to each other—including at home in India, and in the U.S.— shook me out of comfort. His love and compassion taught me to see people differently. He took over where my big brother Bennett left off when he passed away, whose worldview had shaped my own, environmentally and politically. He teaches me tips about photography, too, like Bennett.

Rauf doesn't blog much now, a real loss to me and his many followers from all four corners of the world. But he still takes photographs on his travels around India, and he still rages against agri-businesses that threaten not only all of our health, but the very lives of farmers in India who literally cannot survive financially and consequently commit suicide as families. When you watch this YouTube slideshow I made of a sampling of Rauf's images (please watch, it's just six minutes), observe the faces of his subjects, who cannot resist his charm: even Mother Earth smiles when Rauf lifts his camera.

Today is Rauf's birthday (January 8; it's already the 8th in India). Even though he and I have never met in person, and may never meet (though I hope that one day Don and I will get to India to meet him!), he is my brother. Happy Birthday, Rauf! This is a small "thank you" for the gift you are to all who know you. Watch full screen to be wrapped in the photos, and listen to "Time Remembered" by the Bill Evans Trio.

Photos by Rauf

 -

-

Poem: Winter blur

-

-

Winter blur

I
How strange suddenly
to read the word ermine
and think of a
woman’s neck,

warmed, blurred
with white fur, and not
to see the long stoat’s
winter skin—alive, bounding;

II
O marquise winter moon,
rustle of skirt on the balcony,
and the agony to fly;

when a man feels your whiteness,
he soars; toward what, I wonder:
the sun’s reflection, or some
other light, conquering within?


January 2012

Poetry should be heard.

Notes:
stoat: mustela ermenia, or ermine
marquise: this shape, a cut of a diamond 

-

-

A new blog in a new year: sparks and mirrors

 for a -

-

“Go into yourself and see
how deep the place is from which your life flows.”

~ Rainer Maria Rilke 

Some of you found me, with Lorenzo (of The Alchemist's Pillow blog), at our year-long blog where we posted readings from the book A Year with Rilke in 2011. It feels impossible to summarize the year there, much as it did after I finished RUMI DAYS, another such blog of soul and spirit the year before. I know that I have been changed as a result of those daily readings, and the interactive commentary from readers. It was deep and wondrous, opening doors and windows onto light I had not imagined existed. Sometimes I think we created light, together, following Rilke on his path. And now, I can't recall what or who I was before these transformations.

In a letter to Witold Hulewicz Rilke wrote:

All the worlds of the universe plunge into the Invisible as into a yet deeper reality. Certain stars increase in intensity and extinguish themselves in the angels' endless awareness. Others move toward transformation slowly and with great effort, and their next self-realization occurs in fear and terror.

We are the transformers of Earth. Our whole being, and the flights and falls of our love, enable us to undertake this task.

Because of that power of transformation, and the joy of community Lorenzo and I found with our friends at AYWR, we have launched another such blog called sparks and mirrors. We didn't want it to end, that daily dive into waters of discovery, truth and beauty. We want the practice to continue. We will post at our new blog every few days, mostly passages from authors who have themselves opened windows onto the universe within and without, with a few words about how and why they have inspired us. We would love for you to dive in with us there, with a hearty and warmly welcoming splash. (Swimsuits optional.)

I will, of course, continue here with poems, photos, art, music, and whatever else wants to be shared. I am so very grateful that you are in my life, and how we learn from one another.

May the year ahead be awake and alive for you!

-

-