Tuesday, June 30, 2009

The Nevada Poems: Secular Grace



         Secular Grace

See this snapshot
of an aluminum lawn chair
at dusk?

Late evening light
especially in summer
dignifies plastic chairs,
rusted cars, the bloated cow
on the hill killed by lightening.

People, too, gain radiance
this time of day.  The homeless pair 
walking toward their rag nest,
the child playing with dust balls
on the linoleum floor.

To me, it is a true light,
as true as the sun at noon,
 but cruel the way 
midsummer minutes
sanctify the mass of flies, 
the wretched couple,
the unloved, untended child.

War photographers
 know this phenomenon. 
 I wonder what they call it.




Monday, June 29, 2009

The Nevada Poems: The Tuscarora Painter Makes a Request



The Tuscarora Painter Makes a Request

Will you fix the distance for me?
Hold it down with a horse and rider.
They appear to know where they're going.
Or the dust plume of a pickup truck
a dilapidated building,
a fenced graveyard, the gate unhinged.

I desperately need a foreground.
Perhaps you could stand 
about, say, fifty feet from me,
angled toward,
away.

Truthfully, it doesn't matter.
I know affection from proximity.
Just stay there, please.

Otherwise, I spend days staring
at the blue-gray haze
of the Independence Range.
The vague light, way too vague,
keeps me from my work.



Friday, June 26, 2009

The Nevada Poems: Epitaph for a Mountain



Epitaph for a Mountain

I wonder what the dead think of the traffic on the road to Tuscarora.
Do they feel blessed by the dust of the living,
the pickups, vans, campers,
the mail truck, drillers' rigs, occasional sedan?

I know the dead don't think.
Nor did most chose to rest
a hundred feet from a county road.
It is my pathetic fallacy.

Comforting, though, to look east
and see the cemetery at dusk,
wrought iron fences, marble pillars,
a mother's grave where roses bloom in June.

Then to gaze beyond.
Between the windswept valley and heaven's vault,
a pious eye beholds eternity in the purple range.
Just don't look at noon.

In stronger light,  only the dead can avoid the bare mountain, 
a monumental headstone
blasted, bulldozed, and boldly inscribed
"Here lies our beloved gold."


Thursday, June 25, 2009

The Nevada Poems: Seeing Red



Seeing Red

"...when something stops your mind, catch that moment...of big space, that moment of bewilderment...
from Start Where You Are by Pema Chodron


Stare straight ahead,
tire tracks on the county road
gray as gunmetal.

Glance into the rear view mirror,
the neighbor's hayfield 
suicidal yellow.

Without looking, I know
your white knuckles
on the steering wheel 
want to be around my throat.

You know the blood-colored
willows choking the creek?
Finally I see--
No red is the same.

I thank you for that.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

The Nevada Poems: Memento Mori in Five Syllables



Memento Mori in Five Syllables

Something awful may
happen tomorrow.
Some terrible thing
may be waiting for
mourning.  Think on this:

The car you leave in
never arrives.  The
voices you hear are
whispering lies.  The
hankie you touch to
you lips fills with blood.

Think of the skull on
the mantle.  Ponder
Boethius et al.
Turn Terror away.
Make today quiet,
humorous and good.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

The Nevada Poems: I Will Know When I Get There



You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace
The mountains and hills will burst into song before you
And all the trees of the field will clap their hands.
Isaiah 55:12


I Will Know When I Get There

A strange land lies ahead
And when I arrive, a voyeur
with second sight, I will see
what I have wished for.

Suitcases out of storage
are packed with bright clothing.
Whatever I bring will be
what I need when I get there.

I have detained myself
half a hundred years.
Now is the time to go, 
such joyful wonders await me.

A strange land lies ahead
and when I arrive I will see
warm red Herefords graze
near the wheels of wrecked trucks.
The wind will sing to the hayfields 
while hawks swirl in exultation.



Monday, June 22, 2009

The Nevada Poems: Lucretius Visits Tuscarora


Lucretius Visits Tuscarora

In Tuscarora no one cares about
the ways in which you spend your nights and days.
The curtains stay untouched if someone shouts
your name in frank despair or drunken haze.

In Tuscarora rust and age conceal
your tales of travels far away and great.
The license plates are gone and can't reveal
the truth of how you came to your estate.

In Tuscarora saints and blasted souls
inhabit every street, their virtues burned
away.  Disdainful of your lofty goals--
God's grand indifference, that's what they have learned.

Forget your need for glory, love, and fame.
The hawk above the graveyard sings your name.


Thursday, June 18, 2009

Sonnet for Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Sonnet for Charlotte Perkins Gilman

She hears it whirring in the darkened room
and knows another summer bat has found
its passage to her tangled August dream
of fruit and worm.  Ignoring furry sound,

she pulls the woolen blanket over her,
afraid the bat will suck her blood, although
she knows it is irrational, the fear.
Engulfed by fetid smells of bed, and so

humiliated she could die, she hears
him say, "You goose!  To fear the little bat
who always flies at night this time of year.
Grotesque!--your shadowed fear.  And that is that."

My dear, the shape of what you love or dread
depends upon your age and stage and bed.


Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Get to Work

"If I insist that my work be rewarding, that it mustn't be tedious or monotonous, I'm in trouble.

... Time after time it fails to become so.  So I get more agitated about it.  I fight with people about it.  I make more demands about it... It's ridiculous to demand that work always be pleasurable, because work is not necessarily pleasing; sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't.  If we're detached and simply pick up the job we have to do and go ahead and do it, it's usually fairly satisfying.  Even jobs that are repugnant or dull or tedious tend to be quite satisfying, once we get right down to doing them... This happens when we just do what we have to do.

Thomas Merton from The Springs of Contemplation:  A Retreat at the Abbey of Gethsemani.


Tuesday, June 16, 2009

The Upside of Down

"I've observed that every time I'm depressed it's a prelude to some kind of good idea.  So I'm always very happy to be depressed."

Charles Webb, author of The Graduate, in an interview

Monday, June 15, 2009

Staying Put

"One of the big changes made in mid-nineteenth century biology was the notion that natural selection is a force for change.  It's not.  Natural selection is a force for staying put... What you've got to do is change in such a way that the system of changing has a certain steadiness, a certain balance."

Gregory Bateson (1904-1980) in Sacred Unity:  Further Steps to an Ecology of Mind.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Willa Cather said...




"Artistic growth is a refining of the sense of truthfulness.  The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy, but only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is."

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Did you ever read Love's Executioner?

"'Once I understood that I must wrestle with the real enemy--time, aging, death--then I came to realize that Mathilde is neither adversary or rescuer, but simply a fellow traveler trudging through the cycle of life.' Breuer says.  To see your partner in this deceptively simple way.  Yalom believes, is to open the door to meaning and happiness in a world without guarantees of either."

Irving Yalom, Love's Executioner 

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Have You Read Antigone Lately?

 

Chorus:  Can't you see?/ If a man could wail his own dirge before he dies/ he'd never finish.

from Antigone

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Psychic Distance

Psychic Distance

"All of us find comfort in seeing the world either from a great distance, at arm's length, or in close-up."

from Twyla Tharp's book on creativity

Monday, June 8, 2009

I (Heart) Mondays, really

I (Heart) Mondays, really

    Of course, to make the most of my Mondays, I must make sure the subsequent days are incremental disappointments.

Friday, June 5, 2009

I'm back, with an aching back...(Going Through Pain)

Going Through Pain

As if it were a town in Texas,
no way around that hell hole.
You have to go through it.
Of course you don't want to live there.

This metaphor is a dead end.
You don't leave Pain
a better person.

It's still you
if it didn''t kill you.