Poem: The body elastic

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The body elastic

On a day too hot to walk the asphalt
of the outdoor city, we maneuver
through the cool black of museum rooms
where human cadavers — preserved
in polymer — stretch and bend in elegant
leanness, all musculature and bone.

As I examine a half-skinned woman
kneeling on one knee, her other leg bent
and poised forward, toes pointed,
I touch the wave of my clavicle involuntarily.

Her breasts thrust ahead — full, nippled,
intact, sheathing her torso like a vest,
while the rest of her is naked muscle,
ligament, ribcage, spine, and behind

her sacrum the phalanges — still
fingernailed — trickling breezily from her
backward-flowing arms, curved
like the winged Nike of Samothrace.

The pointing finger of my splayed hand
supports the jugular notch of my sternum
while I lean toward the pink beltstrap
muscles of her neck. Her head arcs back,
eyes watching into stars to join the far-flung
head of her petrified sister, the Victory.

After the exhibit we emerge from the
museum’s stone passage into a sea of heat.
Trees stand masted and green against the blue
sky, and behind them the towering skyline
of man’s intransigence, where we are attracted
irresistibly, on the tide of our humanness.

Listen to a podcast of this poem here.

The exhibit we saw was "Body Worlds" by Gunther von Hagens at the Museum of Science and Industry. It was a transforming experience, to see bodies at various stages of aging, and organs in states of disease and health. Please go if it comes near you. The Kneeling Woman can be found here. This page shows where Body Worlds exhibits are and will be.

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Poem: In the heat

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no, it's not raining here, this is a memory

In the heat

       I remember
the smother of hot nights,
the dark shiftless touch
of maple leaves palmed against the screen
of my second storey window, the street
light outshining the fingernail moon,

      the whole damp town
a small comfort, clapboard houses
porched and facelit, parked cars
hulking shadows sleeping along
to the church, like everyone
but me

               and falling back onto moist
sheets where I imagined hovering
like a cloud, lit from within
by lightning’s quick but
far-fingering promise,
unafraid of distant thunder,
believing he spoke of rain.

Goldenrod, by Mary Oliver

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Goldenrod

On roadsides,
    in fall fields,
      in rumpy branches,
          saffron and orange and pale gold,

in little towers,
    soft as mash,
        sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,
             full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerets

and orange butterflies.
    I don't suppose
       much notice comes of it, except for honey,
            and how it heartens the heart with its

blank blaze.
    I don't suppose anything loves it except, perhaps,
         the rocky voids
              filled by its dumb dazzle.

For myself,
    I was just passing by, when the wind flared
        and the blossoms rustled,
             and the glittering pandemonium

leaned on me.
    I was just minding my own business
          when I found myself on their straw hillsides,
              citron and butter-colored,

and was happy, and why not?
    Are not the difficult labors of our lives
        full of dark hours?
           And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,

that is better than these light-filled bodies?
    All day
         on their airy backbones
             they toss in the wind,

they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend,
    they rise in a stiff sweetness,
         in the pure peace of giving
            one's gold away.

~ Mary Oliver

The poem "Goldenrod" was published in New and Selected Poems, Beacon Press, 1992.

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End of August

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end of August

under juice, over fire
up the melon and down the peach

heat lightning, bug elated
passing the torch to sunflower’s wick

corn rows, wide-mouthed mile
top of the stalk frizz hair style

Ferris wheel, window peeled
ice cream drip upon the lip

bareskin toes, laundry snap
goldenrod and dragonfly zip

rose of dawn, the horse's laugh
life is far too short--by half!

garden gate, husband's whistle

ducks squat by the Canada thistle

naked arms, cotton skirt
wind blows (it's such a flirt)

drooling cat, summer fur
lazy nap, beating purr

tomato cheeks, basil nose
wilting thyme, Get the hose!

juice the veggies, sun the grill
summer’s here, still, still, still

~ Ruth

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teacups & raspberries

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While I am here at the farm with family for a few days, playing, leaping, tossing, eating, talking, laughing, watching fireflies high in the poplars and bonfire sparks mimicking them, please help yourself to a cup of tea or coffee, some raspberries, and a ride on this sweet poem steered by Elliot Figman. Oh, and listen to Lord Huron go wild on my sidebar, the band Peter is playing with this weekend in LA, far away from Farm Day.

Riding In

by Elliot Figman

raven hair
held by
a silver pin
something turn
of century about
the elegant curve
of cheek
the way she
turns easily
away her small
hand gripping
the bright chromium
pole a raspberry
scarf wound
loosely round
her neck she
will say
nothing I
will say
nothing back
as she moves
through the door
a lovely
white boat lifted
by a gentle wave
gently further out

From Big Spring by Elliot Figman. Copyright © 2003 by Elliot Figman.

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Ready to dance

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One summer you're madly sprucing up the farm for your daughter's wedding. You think you're not going to get everything done, even though your husband is a teacher with summers off and is devoting every hour of sunlight to wedding preparation. And not just him. You can still see Nancy on her knees scraping and painting the porch, Bootsie in her farmy bib shorts staining four Adirondack chairs Don built, Jennifer meditatively pulling weeds around the veggies and flowers and painting your studio roof, Peter shoveling dirt bare chested or bending over his Macbook creating the dance music play list, Don planting, grooming, tango-ing with sunflowers to get them to bloom, and promenading to and fro orchestrating all the activity according to Lesley's creative direction from a distance in NYC. You -- you do laundry, lend a hand here and there, throw pasta with tomatoes and basil onto white plates alfresco like a swing dancer throws a jitterbug. It takes months of love and help, last minute flourishes and light-hanging by Don's sisters and brothers, and in the end - twist and shout! - the occasion is beyond wonderful.

Comes fall. Maple leaves dervish around the barns. Then winter, and snow fills up the bowl of the meadow. You watch red and brown cardinals ornamenting the big spruce from your red chair. Then spring, and velvet lilacs welcome you home from work with their French blue waltz in the driveway. Now, with summer almost completely open, a perfect dress for a wedding appears ON SALE for $39 (it was $150), and yet there are . . . . . no wedding invitations in your country mailbox. You could wear the dress Farm Day August 7, but it would be over the top more than just a tad. You and Don could groove up your farm life a little bit in the Great Hall of the Wharton Center listening to Joe Lovano for a couple hours, and go dancing after. Wait a minute, is there any place to go dancing around here?

The dress is a wall flower, waiting to be asked.

On the other hand, there is no wedding to plan -- Woohoo!

Oh dear, there is no wedding to plan. Boohoo.

But no worries, you can come on over to my place, 'cause
. . . . everybody gonna dance tonight . . .





Lorenzo of The Alchemist's Pillow - an excellent blog with art, music, beautiful poetry and humor - pointed a nice finger at RUMI DAYS. Go see who dances on his shoulders.

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harvest

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It doesn't seem to matter what I give the Earth - discarded knobs and knuckles of bone from our table, cucumber peels, broken eggshells, or used coffee grounds that look and feel like the black sand of Kailua-Kona, even invisible and toxic things, such as fears that swirl through my brain synapses - whatever little deaths I dump into Her lap, She absorbs them.

Some days, understandably, She explodes in a torrent of wind or water, or fire borrowed from the Sun. But reguarly what She returns is purified, through some filigree filter (think mycelium and earthworms) that cleans up what I give thoughtlessly. She gives back another day of Life.

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Postscript: To answer Ann, we have a hard time letting our tomatoes ripen, because we pick them green and Don fries them. Mmm, fried green tomatoes - a little tart, very savory, crisp outside and tender inside.

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Chef Don's Recipe for Fried Green Tomatoes (for Judy and y'all):

Slice green tomatoes about 3/8" thick.
Pour some milk in a shallow dish.
Place flour in a bag (some use cornmeal, or breadcrumbs; we prefer flour).

Cover the bottom of a fry skillet with olive oil and heat over med-high (on the low side of med-high) heat. Add 1 T. butter.

Dip tomato slices in milk, then dredge in flour and place in hot oil. Season with salt and pepper to taste. If heat is too high, tomatoes will brown but the center will be raw. Tomatoes should cook 5-7 minutes per side. When you see oil bubbling through holes near the edges of the tomatoes, lift the slice to see if it is brown. Flip when brown on first side and brown the second side. Enjoy, my friends, enjoy.

flaxination

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After months of bundling up, it's comforting to look ahead to summer when I'll be skipping to the laundry line in loose linen clothes. I know, I know, I've been posting lots of winter praise, but I confess my shoulders ache with tension from bracing for the outdoors. This is my Filene's Basement $7 linen skirt, which I wore hanging laundry last summer for Peter to shoot a laundry line series on my first Holga film roll.

The linen for those summer clothes is made from flax of course. I didn't realize what a labor intensive process flax-to-linen is until I read about pulling, stacking, swingling, rippling, retting, scutching, heckling, spinning and weaving here. It's done mostly by machine now, but you can see Egyptians in these images growing and processing flax for linen. Do you suppose they ironed their linen garments? That would be an interesting frame added to these Egyptian collages.

We will be using another product made from flax when we install old fashioned linoleum squares in our bathroom. What appealed to us about linoleum (unlike vinyl) is that it is made from linseed - flax - and is natural and biodegradable.

Ingesting flax is good for you too. I take flax seed oil supplements for their high levels of lignans (chemicals that act as antioxidants) and Omega 3 fatty acids. There are wide-ranging health benefits against diabetes, heart disease, cancer and maybe Crohn's disease.

I was surprised to read about the "This Way" bike at boingboing. It's made from flax, but it looks like wood. I can just see myself riding this Big Wheel for adults on country roads to work. Nice thought actually.

I am humbled by new technologies as well as ancient processes that I know nothing about from experience. Friends like Gwen have sheered sheep and spun the fleece into wool, then knitted it into garments. She would not surprise me at all if she told me she has processed flax into linen.

Hands, hands, what are you doing? I think I live too much in my head.

glory

This was our first year with morning glories, although they should always be a staple at a farm if you ask me. Now as summer softens into autumn and before cold nights make the silk of these blooms wither, I want to publish this gallery.

We have at least a half dozen varieties all mixed together in our 'polka-star' drape of morning glories.

This bloom has two varieties mixed in itself!

When sweet Lesley planted the seeds under the picket fence Memorial Day weekend, we didn't envision that the skilfull tendrils would grow up over the two posts, and meet and weave in the middle into a perfect "M" - for our last name. (That white tank visible behind the "M" is our propane tank, for our furnace. We supplement with a wood burning stove.)

Below is Lesley's foot on Memorial Day weekend. In her jammies she drank coffee with her papa in the Adirondack chairs, after she had picked some honeysuckle for me, and before she planted morning glory seeds, and also radish and carrot seeds in the veggie garden. Her jammies fabric looks like morning glories wove it. Ahh - she's the best morning glory of all.





















Here is a blossom before opening. Don't worry, those wrinkles and crinkles will iron themselves out smooth in the sun, just like laundry on the line.

The delicacy and spiky leaves of this magenta variety astonished me the other day. I've never seen those before.

Lesley minored in fibers at art school, but I don't think she studied how to make a draped curtain of morning glories, although she did make dye from poke berries for one of her projects. I'll tell you about that another day.

morning glory

Ipomoea

atumnal equinox tomorrow

On this last day of summer, I'm sharing a poem I wrote in 1994 at the same time of year. It's strange to remember how it was when the kids were home, at the start of a new school year.

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Also, today is the International Day of Peace. See my sidebar and click for more information.

Tomatoes

The tomatoes are sagging to the ground,
red and accusing.
I already had to refrigerate
some overripe ones that stared
at me red-eyed
for a week from the formica.
It is a sin to refrigerate tomatoes
and worse
to allow them to putrefy
on the vine.

For a few brilliant weeks of August
I did my duty to Italian and Mexican sauces,
to Turkish village salad with cucumber
and tomato cubes, onions, parsley, olive oil and lemon juice,
to warm tortillas with scallions,
tomatoes, mushrooms and cheese.
They didn’t ripen quickly enough.
And hadn’t I waited all winter,
spring and summer for this?

But now it is mid-September.
The slanting sun is curling the leaves
of the six tomato plants up
to the sky
like Sunday School children
raising hands for recognition,
not subtly, but nonetheless
ignored in a corner
of the backyard fence.

Today, Saturday, after
a 40-hour week in the office,
the sun insists with all its
clear forgiveness
that I should sit outside,
not out front with the neighbors,
but out back inside the cedar fence
under the mesh umbrella with my back
to the tomatoes.

September is a strangely mixed
month of re-boxing routines
of work, school buses, piano lessons and doctor appointments
into calendar squares
while the air outside is wearing
amber, as if, like honey
it would slow down
the process
if it could.
Flowers are full, better really
than they were all summer when we kept them in order.
And the heavy disarray of ripe tomatoes begs
for indolent days
when stuffing manicotti shells
might fill a morning.

I wonder why someone
would even grow tomatoes
without the permission of Italian, Greek,
Mexican or Turkish time.
Tomatoes aren’t meant
to be rushed
in ripening,
in cooking,
in eating. They are
intended for moussaka and lasagna
and paste that is stored
in a gallon jar under the sink
without a chance of molding:
fresh paste is spooned off every day for a recipe
and a new layer exposed to the air.
In a month the jar is empty.

I deposited six little plants
in June, hoping for a taste, a return
to the old country.
Any old country.
I forgot that behind every taste
hides a little woman or man with shiny red round
fingers.
The old fruit is bursting the skin
and I am not watching.

- Ruth M. 1994

the sun is always shining, somewhere

blueberry kuchen

Blueberry Kuchen (or for peach kuchen use 8-10 peach halves)

Serves 6 (or two piggy types for a couple of sittings)

Preheat oven to 400°.

Combine in bowl:
1 1/3 c. sifted flour
1/4 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt
2 T. sugar

Cut in:

1/3 c. butter

Pat mixture over bottom and sides of a 9" pie pan or skillet.

Arrange in pastry:
3 c. blueberries (? I'm guessing)

Sprinkle over:
1/4 c. sugar

Bake 15 minutes.

Combine:

1 egg, beaten (or 4 quail eggs)
1 c. sour cream, sour milk, plain yogurt, or combination (I used yogurt)

Pour over blueberries (or peaches) and bake 30 minutes longer.

I'm off work for two weeks!

(Recipe from the Mennonite More with Less cookbook; don't know what year, the book is so old and worn I don't have the copyright page.)

Herb bed full

Why does everything have to be so full at the end of summer? The nasturtium leaves are piled high like lily pads overlapped.

The purple pole beans have pulled down the weather vane. He's buried, I can't even show him to you, the little sawyer. But here is an old picture before the onslaught.

The dill is as high as me.

And poor Phoebe is drowning in basil.

What is there to do but make pesto and take some to Sapphos tomorrow night for pasta, place a nasturtium blossom on each plate for garnish, share the beauty and bounty with my lovely poetry writing friends?

Oh, and I'll freeze some too, pesto that is.

There is a satisfying sadness at the end of summer. I'm trying to write a poem about it, but it's difficult to put into words.

in the garden

Saturday and Sunday were days straight out of the halcyon definition in the dictionary:

hal·cy·on /ˈhælsiən/ [hal-see-uhn] –adjective

1. calm; peaceful; tranquil: halcyon weather.
2. rich; wealthy; prosperous: halcyon times of peace.
3. happy; joyful; carefree: halcyon days of youth.


I potted flowers.

We installed a birdbath in the herb bed. I suddenly thought of putting in stones from my collection, many of them from Inge, two of them gray spotted Petosky stones. We haven't seen any birds take advantage yet.

We planted 18 lavender plants. The sight and scent of lavender part the curtain into a universal place of beauty. Don, who thinks he is not an artist, made the half moon sculpture last year.

The Adirondack chairs we built our first year on the farm (2003). Good place to sit after working in the yard.

Or lie on the hammock and rest.


Or sit on the side porch and watch "Pipsqueak," our resident hummingbird. (No photo yet!)