Poem: Dancers

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Dorothea and Francesca, by Cecilia Beaux, 1898

Dancers

inspired by the painting "Dorothea and Francesca"
by Cecilia Beaux

I am dancing like that.
I am there
in the pink satin folds
of their blousing
though not the blouse or skirt
themselves
but riding them
as a cork
rides waves
just dipped under the silk.
I am the curl
of the mother’s hair
as if I were smoke
and she the fire.
I am the rubbed flower
their shoes
point to outside the frame,
fragrance alone.
I am the rain
outside the house,
my drops
traipsing down
inside the silver of each
blade of grass,
imperceptible.
I am dancing like that.

Listen to a podcast of this poem here.

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My response to the killing of Osama bin Laden

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What color is prayer?

In December we saw an installation by visual artist Jitish Kallat at The Art Institute of Chicago called Public Notice 3. (The Art Institute's page about it is here.)

In thousands of LED lights, Kallat spells out words on the risers of the stairs in the Woman's Board Grand Staircase — an open, radiant space. The brightly lit words were intentionally designed in the five colors of the United States Department of Homeland Security alert system. At first, seeing the neon-like letters mounted on the Beaux-Arts stairs felt jarring. The Art Institute is my favorite museum, and the multi-directional staircase under a skylight has always been a magnetic center of the million-square-foot building where I love to sit and watch people, listening to the echo of voices and footsteps. Once I learned the content of the words illuminating the risers, I read up and down and watched people climb, descend, sit, stand, and snap pictures. We were surrounded by words like stock exchange tickers (though not in motion, and not driven by commerce).

Kallat said,  "Treating the museum’s Grand Staircase almost like a notepad, the 118 step-risers receive the refracted text of the speech. I see Public Notice 3 as an experiential and contemplative transit space; the text of the speech is doubled at the two entry points on the lower levels of the staircase and quadrupled at the four exit points at the top, multiplying like a visual echo."

 This photo from the Art Institute of Chicago web site;

more photos here

What speech? The words Kallat mounted on the stairs were spoken by Hindu monk Swami Vivekananda to 7,000 delegates more than 100 years ago, in the first attempt to address religious tolerance worldwide: the First World Parliament of Religions, held in conjunction with the 1893 Chicago World's Fair. (Detailed synopsis of the Parliament at Boston University's Encyclopedia of Western Theology's site here.) This art installation was opened last year on the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attack, September 11, 2010. Part of what captured Jitish Kallat's imagination was the fact that the gathering of delegates of different faiths in 1893 in the museum's Fullerton Hall happened also to be on September 11 that year. Below is Vivekananda's speech, words that light the steps of the grand staircase like prayers rising and falling, adjacent to the hall where he addressed the hopeful delegates. (The building of the Art Institute was built for the 1893 Chicago World's Fair — officially the World's Fair: Columbian Exposition — with the agreement that it would house the Art Institute thereafter).

When you get to the last sentence of his speech, what do you feel?

Swami Vivekananda's speech to the First World Parliament of Religions, September 11, 1893 in the Art Institute of Chicago's Fullerton Hall:

Sisters and Brothers of America,

It fills my heart with joy unspeakable to rise in response to the warm and cordial welcome which you have given us. I thank you in the name of the most ancient order of monks in the world; I thank you in the name of the mother of religions, and I thank you in the name of millions and millions of Hindu people of all classes and sects.

My thanks, also, to some of the speakers on this platform who, referring to the delegates from the Orient, have told you that these men from far-off nations may well claim the honor of bearing to different lands the idea of toleration. I am proud to belong to a religion which has taught the world both tolerance and universal acceptance. We believe not only in universal toleration, but we accept all religions as true. I am proud to belong to a nation which has sheltered the persecuted and the refugees of all religions and all nations of the earth. I am proud to tell you that we have gathered in our bosom the purest remnant of the Israelites, who came to Southern India and took refuge with us in the very year in which their holy temple was shattered to pieces by Roman tyranny. I am proud to belong to the religion which has sheltered and is still fostering the remnant of the grand Zoroastrian nation. I will quote to you, brethren, a few lines from a hymn which I remember to have repeated from my earliest boyhood, which is every day repeated by millions of human beings: "As the different streams having their sources in different paths which men take through different tendencies, various though they appear, crooked or straight, all lead to Thee."

The present convention, which is one of the most august assemblies ever held, is in itself a vindication, a declaration to the world of the wonderful doctrine preached in the Gita: "Whosoever comes to Me, through whatsoever form, I reach him; all men are struggling through paths which in the end lead to me." Sectarianism, bigotry, and its horrible descendant, fanaticism, have long possessed this beautiful earth. They have filled the earth with violence, drenched it often and often with human blood, destroyed civilization and sent whole nations to despair. Had it not been for these horrible demons, human society would be far more advanced than it is now. But their time is come; and I fervently hope that the bell that tolled this morning in honor of this convention may be the death-knell of all fanaticism, of all persecutions with the sword or with the pen, and of all uncharitable feelings between persons wending their way to the same goal.

After reading this speech, I feel as I did when I woke up early Monday morning, before Don, to his hand written note from the night before after he'd heard the news and I was in bed. I feel: empty. Not joyful. Not sad exactly. Not hopeful, not hopeless. I'm somewhere floating in a noxious ether of mystery. How have we come to this? How did we get even further away from Vivekananda's closing wishes in these decades since he spoke them?

To watch and listen to an 8-minute video of artist Jitish Kallat's interview with the museum curator about his installation, go here.

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Nouvelle 55: The Girl by the Window

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The Girl by the Window, 1893
by Edvard Munch

Art Institute of Chicago

The Girl by the Window

Afraid, gulping bitterness,
she padded to the windowed moonlight,
to see if it were really so.

“You see? She is leaving. Look at her trunk.”
Grandmother’s voice was a triumph, like a horn.
Grandmother didn’t know her own trunk
was packed for just such a night as this.

She was afraid she would never leave.

This is my first nouvelle 55, a flash fiction.

I wonder if you're like me at the moment. My attention span is shorter than ever. I feel restless. I can barely make it through a news article or op-ed without feeling that there is something else I should be doing, thinking or saying. Living in the moment, this moment, now, has never been more difficult. Strangely though, yesterday I read longer in War & Peace than I have up until now, go figure. I had my laptop open, looking up facts about the Napoleonic Wars. I couldn't get enough. Tolstoy's beautiful writing, where I ride each sentence like I'm tubing a slow-moving river, kept me riveted for hours. It also inspired me to write fiction. Very, very short fiction.

Flash fiction, micro fiction, what the French call nouvelle. Steve Moss challenged people to write them in 55 words, no more, no less. I'm in the mood for Paris, so I made up this genre: nouvelle 55, which is flash fiction, based on a piece of art, in 55 words. This particular nouvelle 55 is a meditation on Edvard Munch's painting "The Girl by the Window." I'd love it if you'd try one. There are helpful tips for micro fiction at Heelstone here. Go ahead, find a piece of art for inspiration, and write a nouvelle 55.

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Meditation: Corner of a table

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Still Life: Corner of a Table, by Henri Fantin-Latour, 1873
Art Institute of Chicago

The following poem is not a judgment on this gorgeous painting by Henri Fantin-Latour, who is famous for paintings of flower arrangements. It is just a meditation prompted by the painting, that went off in a certain direction, deflected by a splinter in my head. As much as I love wabi-sabi pine, earthenware and distressed linen, I also love silver, crystal, damask and mahogany. And wine? Yes. And the yellow of lemons or pears that smiles upon us in a room when outside March rains darken the sky. I do love magnificence like this. It just becomes less savory knowing that not all can taste it. I know this is a bit heavy again. Don't worry, I don't feel morose, and I hope it doesn't make you feel that. As Shaista reminded me of Paul Simon's words in her comment in the last post, which was a reminder from my post before that, These are the days of miracle and wonder. Keep the cycle going.

Enough

A meditation on the painting "Still Life: Corner of a Table"

by Henri Fantin-Latour

Spare me the entire
table spread like a paragraph
of Henry James
unpacked from a sea-going trunk

Don't even think that presenting
just the princess sugar bowl, arms butterflied
and head dropping in shyness, will not be too much

And god no,
not the full
goblet of wine, so blood-rich it has all but disappeared
into the genealogy of the glass

Hide, please hide
the vinegar cruet
better than that
I can’t bear its amber-gold liquidity!

What do you mean
exposing the skins of those plump lemons
as if the white compote
lessened them with her modesty?

What do you think
the empty elegance of a cup and saucer
on glimmering damask

can do to transcend the lace
of rhododendrons
like foam from waves of the sea

reaching up to wash
the fruits and bones and porcelain sand
from the table

all under a furtive crescent moon
peering from her crystal pitcher of Bordeaux
I beg you

spare me all
but the empty corner of a frame
on a dirt-brown wall

We have had quite enough
magnificence for a century or two
And by "we" I mean just us here
at this corner of the table

Listen to a podcast of this poem here.

Listen to Joni Mitchell sing "Banquet" from her 1972 album "For the Roses" in the Grooveshark widget below the lyrics, about the imbalance of greed and need on our planet.

Banquet

by Joni Mitchell

Come to the dinner gong

The table is laden high

Fat bellies and hungry little ones

Tuck your napkins in

And take your share

Some get the gravy

And some get the gristle

Some get the marrow bone

And some get nothing

Though there's plenty to spare

I took my share down by the sea

Paper plates and Javex bottles on the tide

Seagulls come down and they squawk at me

Down where the water skiers glide

Some turn to Jesus

And some turn to heroin

Some turn to rambling round

Looking for a clean sky

And a drinking stream

Some watch the paint peel off

Some watch their kids grow up

Some watch their stocks and bonds

Waiting for that big deal American Dream

I took my dream down by the sea

Yankee yachts and lobster pots and sunshine

And logs and sails

And Shell Oil pails

Dogs and tugs and summertime

Back in the banquet line

Angry young people crying

Who let the greedy in

And who left the needy out

Who made this salty soup

Tell him we're very hungry now

For a sweeter fare

In the cookie I read

"Some get the gravy

And some get the gristle

Some get the marrow bone

And some get nothing

Though there's plenty to spare

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Meditation: The Song of the Lark

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The Song of the Lark, by Jules Adolphe Breton

The Song of the Lark

a meditation on the painting

by Jules Adolphe Breton

At the bottom of the sky

an orange sun

meets the field

arranging

a constellation

with her sickle.

The trees, the house,

silo and barns

bind

her body,

her hands

mown with labor, her feet

like stones in the dirt,

her breasts: fruit

in peeling skins.

Her body

rises

from the ground

ground

ground

And her face

blossoms

in the patulous sky

like the song
song
song

of the lark

Listen to a podcast of this poem here.

I had searched for an audio of a lark, without any satisfying results. Now, after Lorenzo's comment about "The Lark Ascending" by Ralph Vaughan Williams, I am posting a recording of it. I listened to it for the first time today. It is so incredibly beautiful, I just sort of sit speechless, in tears of listening. Please give it your rapt attention if you can take the time for all fifteen minutes.

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The Interior Castle: Chagall, Rilke & a new Rilke Blog

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Segment 1 of "America Windows" by Marc Chagall, Art Institute of Chicago

In this late afternoon blue winter light, as the window of one year is being shuttered and a new one about to be opened with the flare of a candle, thoughts about an artist and a poet are synchronizing in me.

Segment 2 of "America Windows" by Marc Chagall, Art Institute of Chicago

Wednesday I had the mighty joy of standing in the radiance of Marc Chagall’s stained glass "America Windows" at the Art Institute of Chicago, which he created expressly for the museum out of appreciation. Newly cleaned and returned to the Art Institute in its new modern wing, Chagall’s blues, reds, yellows and pink are as resplendent as they must have been when he completed them in 1977. (If you are interested in learning more about the windows and how Chagall created them out of gratitude for the Art Institute's dedication of a gallery to him, go here; if you ever make it to the Midwest, I feel a trip to the Art Institute is worthwhile for these windows alone.)

Segment 3 of "America Windows" by Marc Chagall, Art Institute of Chicago

"America Windows" by Marc Chagall, Art Institute of Chicago 

(this photo from The History Blog)

As you may have noticed I have been posting a lot of poems by German poet Rainer Maria Rilke these last few months. His focus on the inner landscape is right up my alley, and with every new poem I read, my heart expands a bit more.

What came together for me as Don and I walked the streets of Chicago were the parallels between Marc Chagall and Rainer Maria Rilke. For both men, Russia is incredibly important. Chagall was born there (in Vitebsk, Belarus, in 1887 – he died in 1985), and Rilke (born in Prague in 1875, and died December 29 in 1926 in Switzerland) spent many months there with his dear friend Lou Andreas-Salomé. For Chagall, though he left Vitebsk for Paris and other parts of the world for good when he was 36, Russia remained his soul’s home throughout his 97 years of life. For Rilke, after just a few months in Russia, he claimed it as his heartland and felt that no people understood spirituality more than the Russians. Both men lived through World War I and struggled to make sense of a world in which such a war could happen. Both men migrated to Paris and found intense inspiration from artists there. For both of them, angels populate their work. Chagall’s windows and paintings are sprinkled with angels flying in the skies. For ten years Rilke wrote the Duino Elegies, of which angels are a central theme.

What most impresses me in connecting Chagall and Rilke is how they carried the world consciously in their souls. Chagall left his hometown of Vitebsk, but it was so dear to him that he kept painting it in signs and symbols in many of his paintings, often with his beloved wife Bella as a personal representation of Russia, his soul’s home. Rilke too transformed the stuff of life – things -- into inner material that could remain with him always. And always he was trying to reconcile the true and even dark facts of the world into a harmony of the soul. You can see what I mean in the poem of his I’m posting, below.

In the mind-boggling and cumbersome intensity of the world’s problems bending the corner with us into the new year, I am inspired by these two who continually processed and transformed the facts of the world into the truth of the soul, where our response to the world is what matters. Through creative expressions, we can love this place of ours.

Out of the deep admiration that my friend Lorenzo of The Alchemist’s Pillow and I feel for Rilke’s poetry, and because there is a new volume of daily readings titled A Year with Rilke (translated and edited by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows), we are launching a new blog containing these daily passages, much like my blog RUMI DAYS, which shares readings from another HarperOne publication, A Year With Rumi. Our blog A Year With Rilke will offer passages of letters, prose and poems of Rainer Maria Rilke exactly as published in that book, except that we will add images to the readings. The blog is live, and daily postings will begin January 1. The following poem will be featured at the blog March 18 and expresses what I have shared today.




The Interior Castle

by Rainer Maria Rilke

Nowhere, Beloved, will the world exist, but within us.

Our lives are constant transformations. The external

grows ever smaller. Where a solid house once stood,

now a mental image takes its place,

almost as if it were all in the imagination.

Our era has created vast reservoirs of power,

as formless as the currents of energy they transmit.

Temples are no longer known. In our hearts

these can be secretly saved. Where one survives—

a Thing once prayed to, worshipped, knelt before—

its true nature seems already to have passed

into the Invisible. Many no longer take it for real,

and do not seize the chance to build it

inwardly, and yet more vividly, with all its pillars and statues.

~ from the Seventh Duino Elegy 

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