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Poetry

The Bigger Picture

I’ve concentrated on detail for most of the week, so today I thought we’d look at landscapes to get the bigger picture. The photographs were taken in the Gorge in 2016 before the fires of this year, in the coast range and recently on Sauvie Island, now familiar to my faithful readers!

I picked the poem The Silent Heavens by Victorian poet Richard Watson Dixon shortly after the news of yet another mass shooting, this time in Texas. It reflects a sense of loss, not just of youth, of faith, of lives, but of the ability to connect; to connect in order to find answers. In secular terms perhaps even answers that could be pragmatically turned into political action.

 

For a long and insightful analysis that places the poem and the poet in their historical context as well go here:

https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2017/sep/25/poem-of-the-week-the-silent-heavens-by-richard-watson-dixon

 

I explore nature to escape thinking, more often than not. The part of me that “sees” the world, in ever lasting gratitude for the beauty around us, is mostly able to shut out the part of me that “thinks” about the world. Until it isn’t.

 

Taking pictures along the Columbia river, for example, makes my heart beat faster, first in awe, and then in anger, because I remember this: http://www.miamiherald.com/news/politics-government/national-politics/article181771226.html

It brings back the theme of the poem, translated into our modern, secular realm – the lack of humanity when we ignore the faces of the dispossessed.

 

Captured, of course, by Mahler im Lied der Erde, at his best: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PeghTtEcreM

 

 

Root Vegetables

We had yellow leaves, white pumpkins and red rose hips this week. Time to expand the palette. Root vegetables (and other fall crop) will lend their saturated colors, providing opportunity to go the farmer’s market to photograph and to share a poem that spoke to me for years.

If you ever need a thoughtful gift for a friend struck with serious illness I recommend Tisha Turk’s small volume of poetry Coming out Alive. Turk teaches at the University of Minnesota with a research focus on popular videography; a life threatening illness in 2003 produced her first volume of poems; they tell stories.

https://www.library.wisc.edu/parallelpress/pp-catalog/poetry-series/2003-2/getting-out-alive/

Some are directly related to issues of how to cope with illness, some are indirectly related to themes of how to survive any number of psychological or physical impairments. They are pragmatic, hopeful, sometimes wise.  (I realize that just like I prefer paintings that tell stories I also tend towards narrative poetry. I wonder what’s that all about.)

In any case, here’s to root vegetables. And toughness. And shared pain. To those who listen.

 

And here comes the fun part:

Go make that soup!!!

Autumn Rose Hips

Rose Hips also known as Apothecary Rose, Cynorhodon, Cynorhodons, Cynosbatos, Dog Rose, Dog Rose Hips, Églantier, Fruit de l’Églantier, Gulab, Heps, Hip, Hip Fruit, Hip Sweet, Hipberry, Hop Fruit, Persian Rose, Phool Gulab, Pink Rose, Poire d’oiseaux, Rosa alba, Rosa centifolia, Rosa damascena, Rosa de castillo, Rosa gallica, Rosa Mosqueta, Rosa provincialis, Rosa canina, Rosa lutetiana, Rosa pomifera, Rosa rugosa, Rosa villosa, Satapatri, Rosae pseudofructus cum semen, Rosehip, Rosehips, Rose des Apothicaires, Rose de Provins, Rose Rouge de Lancaster, Rosier de Provence, Satapatrika, Shatpari, Wild Boar Fruit are THE best thing to make jam with.

Or so I thought when arriving in a small bed&breakfast in some remote part of Southern Argentina, after months of being deprived of sugar, an essential, perhaps the essential staple of my diet…. I might have told the story before, but I could not stop eating that jam, generously supplied at the breakfast table, by the spoonful.  (These days I favor currant jam, not easily found here, and a special sour treat when done right.)

Rose Hips are visually enticing, providing such saturated color in fall, red to black splashes in the fading landscape. High in Vitamin C they are also recommended to be taken as a supplement (although as it turns out, when you process them and dry them yourself, almost all the Vitamin C disappears.)

Here is the deal, though: just because rose hip supplements are “natural” it does not mean they don’t have possible interactions with other medications or certain ailments. The assumption that things that are plant-based are safe is one of my pet peeves.

Just a few pointers, before you mega dose on natural Vitamin C in this cold season: Rose Hips increase how much estrogen your body absorbs; if at risk for cancer you don’t want to up the amount of estrogen floating around. Rose Hips interact with aluminum, (found in most antacids) increasing the amount the body stores. If you are on lithium, Rose Hips interfere with getting rid of the drug, leading to side effects. If you are on Coumadin, which is used to slow blood clotting, Rose Hips decrease the effectiveness of the drug. If you are diabetic they interfere with blood sugar regulation. And last but not least there are some data that point to the possibility of developing kidney stones if you eat large amounts of the Vitamin C in Rose Hips.

I guess it’s better to stick to the visual beauty and leave them as food for the birds…. and listen to folk songs about them https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ETQTDMP17Ks

Or read poems about them that are deliciously subversive.

This young poet, by the way, is a force to be reckoned with. My kind of approach to nature…..

http://sorlil.wixsite.com/mmccready

 

And here is a vibrant red matching the vibrant wins of the Democrats in last night’s election – what  a ray of hope.

 

Pumpkins

I had not known that pumpkins come in colors other than orange. The white ones are particularly photogenic, not sure if they are equally suited for soup compared to the ones more familiar to me. I like pumpkin soup, and do not like pumpkin pie – riddle me that. Then again, pumpkin bread is a constant fall companion as my ever increasing hip volume can testify.

The poem I chose for today mentions pumpkin bread – as a kind, if futile, gesture towards someone struck by tragedy. I was caught by the poem as a “matter of fact, don’t really spell it out, let the insight hit a moment later” – piece of writing.

The music matches the mood.

 

Let me counterbalance the sadness with some of the most exuberant art currently on the scene:

https://www.dma.org/kusama

Yayoi Kusama is something else altogether, whether she applies her polka dots to pumpkins or anything else. The woman is creativity incarnate. I’m drooling over her energy…. https://www.nytimes.com/2017/11/03/arts/design/yayoi-kusama-david-zwirner-festival-of-life-review.html

 

 

Better get back drooling over the pumpkin bread….

 

Herbst

Some thoughts on autumn this week.

Yellow thoughts. 

Leaf thoughts. Soon to be falling, dropping, gliding, twirling, rustling and all around in motion – thoughts. Or hanging in suspension thoughts.

Here is Autumn, a Rilke poem in the original German, read by one of my favorites, Otto Sanders, speaking to the matter of falling leaves. (Rilke’s poem An Autumn Day is probably better known, but honestly borders on clichee for those of us who had to recite it during all of their childhood school years….)

I am attaching a couple of translations which go to show how hard it is to capture poetry in a different language. None of them comes close to the original which has a sense of futility and hope rolled all in one.

Photograph are from the last weeks in and around Portland.

Prelude to fall is behind us – we are in it; but here is a beautiful musical reminder of how it felt…..

Chance Encounters

If, by chance, you walk through the wealthy neighborhood of Irvington in late October, you’re in for a visual treat. Old established trees rain red and gold leaves, historic houses, lovingly restored, sport pumpkins and colorful mums on wooden porches and Halloween decorations multiply by the minute.

Skeletons are popping out from the ground, ghouls are lurking in the hedges, witches are flying (they really should re-vamp the flight lessons, mind you.)

 

It’s all there: charm, color, creativity, and celebration of the season. The one thing missing is what’s supposedly to be conjured: the element of fear. Which brings me to today’s phrase which is really an entire poem:  Our Fear by Zbigniew Herbert.

 

The props of Gothic Tales and horror movies are such welcome distraction from the real fears, aren’t they? Those fears evoked by non-mythical events like war, displacement and injustice; diffuse threats in the air perhaps even for those who move their BMWs in tennis clothes so the hired help can get to work with the leaf blowers. But I am speculating.

What I do know is that for me there is one element that conjures up dread more successfully than any other: the element of blind chance. It started already in childhood with the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales (the real ones not the happified Disney versions.) If you look at them closely (now with an adults’s eye) they brim with coincidence that leads to catastrophe (or in some cases, as in The  Snow Queen, to rescue – but note when the kids are reunited and the boy’s heart melted, the Queen happens to be away, unpunished, with evil thus lurking out there in the wide world for time to come….)

Harold Bloom, (https://news.yale.edu/2005/03/09/harold-bloom-be-given-hans-christian-andersen-award-2005,)in some or another introduction to Andersen, that lonely queer writer born into the wrong century, wrote:“Andersen was a visionary tale-teller, but his fairy-realm was malign.” I don’t know what he meant, precisely, but certainly many of the tales’ environments were hostile and governed by chance. And that idea, applied to the real world, is frightening even to the child, never mind the adult, who sees the danger to the world determined by the chance of timing of a Comey letter, or the chance of a few re-districted vote outcomes in an antiquated voting system, or the chance of spiteful, anti-science curtailing of research funds coinciding with the rise of unknown epidemics.

Herbert’s body of work contains that very theme as well: our absolute helplessness in the face of coincidence. Worse, blind chance does not allow us the psychological comfort of its historic predecessor: fate. Acts of divine providence at least suggest a sense of control and intent, albeit by some higher power, even if we don’t like their outcome. Chance is random, any prediction futile. A terrifying thought that much of Herbert’s poetry brings to light.  (There is a terrific book that helped me understand this: A fugitive from Utopia: the poetry of Zbigniew Herbert by Stanislaw Baranczak.) Maybe I should go and dispel these lurking thoughts with tons of Halloween candy. Or hop on a free broom ride. Ignoring the history of broomstick illustrations…. https://hyperallergic.com/332222/first-known-depiction-witch-broomstick/

Happy trick or treat, everyone!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dust and other Particles of Consciousness

Here is Wednesday’s phrase: “He is deeply allusive … and fitfully allegorical, but he seems drawn first and formost to emotional complication, to the pulses of our thinking.

I wish these words described my art. They are, however, about a remarkable author. In a rare confluence of opinions every person in our household liked the same trilogy some 15 years ago: His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman, who is of course the subject of the remarks above. The trilogy was an astounding feat of writing that combined straight forward story telling with elements of adventure tales, coming-of-age novels, Bildungsroman and Science Fiction; more importantly, it had enough ideas to keep children and adults on their toes, trying to understand what these books were about, how they placed in the canon of literature with their endless allusions and references, and how to understand them in the context of what is currently happening in the real world.

It didn’t hurt that the main opponents in the story recruited their armies from the religious Right (bordering on the Inquisition) and Science, respectively, with a few undecided characters thrown in. By now there are probably dissertations written on these books, but here is a good review of the early trilogy and the author – for those who have lived under a rock, being left out of the Pullman craze.

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2005/12/26/far-from-narnia

The reason all this comes up is the fact that I have sacrificed my beloved sleep to devour Pullman’s new book La Belle Sauvage (hello, Rousseau),the first in another trilogy, The Book of Dust, that was just published. I am obviously not the only one interested: reviews are in from the NYT, VOX, The Independent, The Guardian, NPR, WaPo, but also the Wall Street Journal and The New Statesman, to name a few. I found the last one particularly illuminating.

https://www.newstatesman.com/culture/books/2017/10/book-dust-philip-pullman-might-not-be-fond-church-he-intensely-spiritual

Details of plot and discussion of deeper meanings can be found there. In a nutshell, anti-science, oppressive religious fanaticism plays a leading role, but also the possibility that scientific overreach leads to potential catastrophe. Our manipulation of nature is shown to have dire consequences, and our ecological survival might depend on resistance.Particles of dust spreading consciousness play a role. All written in simple words that children understand and cherish.

I do want to offer one of my own observations, though. In the parallel world of those epic tales, set in the familiar surrounds of Great Britain, humans have an extension of themselves, their soul, whatever. These daemons, animal alter egos with whom you can talk and who never leave your side, can shift shape long into puberty. So the daemon of a 12 year-old might one minute be a bird, then a mouse, then a cheetah, whatever mood and environmental task requires, you get the idea. With the onset of adulthood they become fixed and settle into a form that bears an (often witty) resemblance to their owner.

What a concept – an externalized version of Self, eternally attached to you, so you are never alone, and communicating with the world, when you are disinclined to do so directly. I find most interesting, however, the ideas of shifting Selves before maturity. You can try on different personae all you want, you can reinvent yourself by the minute, you can explore what fits and what doesn’t, as we probably all did in one fashion or another in our younger years. And then it’s gone, you’re stuck.

I believe, that truly great artists, in all fields, somehow managed to maintain a shape shifting mode represented in their own daemons, their Selves’ extensions known as works of art. Somehow an experimental mode, a curiosity for alter egos, a drive to invent new expressions of Self escaped the petrifying powers of maturity and enabled ever changing externalization of their consciousness.

Pullman’s new trilogy is set in the same geographic location, with many of the same characters playing a role, just a decade or so earlier. When asked if it was a prequel, he dryly commented, “No, it’s an equel.” That alone should make you curious about the book!

Poem for today is Paul Celan’s Psalm referencing another kind of dust.

Read in German, English translation below.

Yeats Season

Geflügelte Worte is a term in the German language that refers to aphorisms, bon mots or figures of speech that have made their way into common use. Literally it means something like words with wings. This week I’ll devote time to some rather memorable phrases in the news and commentaries that caught my eye and ear. They might not have wings quite yet, but they fluttered a bit in my brain.

They were all over the map, as is my reading these days. The first of these phrases was found on Daily Kos, the progressive website that has a tendency towards high decibel levels and the use of exclamation marks:

Forget rabbit season and duck season, this is YEATS season; the season of searching out fresh metaphors for ruin when your greatest fears have long been surpassed! 

Never mind the hyperbole of “greatest fears long been surpassed.” I’d say our greatest fears are still in front of us. But as it turns out Yeats has been cited more often in the last 18 months than in three decades before combined. And it is one poem that comes up repeatedly  – its third line in particular – capturing visions of ruin indeed. 

The poem was published two years after World War I had ended; it was read by many as rather prophetic once fascism rose, more so than as an account of the terrors of the war Europe had just experienced. Opinions were also divided on whether the poem was a call to return to traditional structures and values, or whether it pointed toward the need for revolution. Regardless, it sure manages to instill a sense of ominous threat, of fear, with its hints at the Apocalypse (which is the title of the biblical chapter that predicts the second coming of Christ, also known as the Book of Revelation.)

The poet communicates the feelings; leave it to the scientists to determine the content of our fears. A group of sociologists from Chapman University is currently engaged in a longitudinal study of what it is that Americans are most afraid of. They had of course some assumptions about what fear- and grievance-mongering from above will do to the rest of us, but they surely wove a wide net for possible fears to be caught:

The poster below gives you a current assessment, the article spells out the change that has happened over the last years since they started the survey.

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/2014-americans-feared-walking-alone-night-now-theyre-worried-about-government-corruption-180965332/

I found the fact that American involvement in war and climate changed ranked equally high particularly stunning. And would never have dreamt that government corruption is high on the list. Which makes me wonder if people interpret the question of “fear” as one of experiencing anxiety or the more colloquial use of “I fear it’s true that….”

As a known worrier-in-chief I can assure you Yeat’s words somehow have more of an impact than those Chapman numbers.

Photographs are from murals at the Groote Kerk in Alkmaar, NL, depicting the day of reckoning. Title image was from a 2012 exhibit of Greek sculpture at the Portland Art Museum.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sweat

Where I come from, sweating was something a young lady did not do much less display.  Sweat rings under your arms were cause for intense shame and elicited something akin to disgust when seen in others. Sweat was something reserved for workers or athletes, in any other context it was gauche. It took me years to get accustomed to the fact that you can no longer use deodorant after they have removed your lymph nodes in your armpits during cancer surgery. What do you call then that feeling of doing something wrong when – really – it is  just declared right or wrong by decree of a certain class?

How empowering to come across the poem below by a Spanish poet who died way too young, but who had his politics right – or left, as the case may be. As a communist he fought for the Republic during the Spanish Civil war, addressing the troops with his poetry (and the rest of us, now, with the merger of sweat and solidarity). He was caught after the Republic’s surrender and sentenced to death, a sentence commuted to 30 years in prison, where he was tortured and miserably died of tuberculosis.

106 degrees pales in comparison. Photographs of some of my favorite dancers and actors in town, in action.

Sweat

Water drinks its paradise in the sea,
and sweat finds horizon, uproar, crest.
Sweat is a brimming salty tree,
a greedy surf.

To offer the land its trembling cup
sweat reaches from earth’s farthest age,
feeds thirst and salt drop by drop,
to kindle life.

Sun’s cousin, tear’s brother, motion’s child,
April to October, winter to summer,
it goes rolling through the field
in golden vines.

As peasants pass through dawn
behind the plough that uproots their sleep,
they each wear a silent workshirt brown
with mute sweat.

The workers’ golden robe,
jewel of the hands and eyes as well,
through the haze the axilla’s shower
spreads a fecund smell.

The land’s flavour grows ripe and rich:
flakes that hardworking, pungent weeping yields,
manna of the men and fields,
my forehead’s drink.

You who never feel stiff or sweat,
at leisure with no arms, music, pores,
will never feel the open pores’ wet
halo, or the power of the bulls.

You will live stinking, die snuffed out:
fiery beauty takes up life in the heels
of bodies whose working limbs shift about
like constellations.

Comrades, surrender your foreheads to work:
sweat, with its sword of tasty crystal,
with its sticky flood, makes you transparent,
lucky, equal.

Miguel Hernandez
(Spain 1910 -1942)

The Other Forest

 

The hike report of this week ends with a poem by one of my favorite poets of all times. The WW I site he refers to is of course far from here, but our land, too, has seen its share of death inflicted by the colonialists.(Although I say with teary relief, there will be fewer dead after the Senate vote less night sunk the American Healthcare Freedom Act….. )

The Ardennes Forest

Cup your hands to scoop up sleep
as you would draw a grain of water
and the forest will come: a green cloud
a birch trunk like a chord of light
and a thousand eyelids fluttering
with forgotten leafy speech
then you will recall the white morning
when you waited for the opening of the gates

you know this land is opened by a bird
that sleeps in a tree and the tree in the earth
but here is a spring of new questions
underfoot the currents of bad roots
look at the pattern on the bark where
a chord of music tightens
the lute player who presses the frets
so the silent resounds

push away leaves: a wild strawberry
dew on a leaf the comb of grass
further a wing of a yellow damselfly
and an ant burying its sister
a wild pear sweetly ripens
above the treacheries of belladonnas
without waiting for greater rewards
sit under the tree

cup your hands to draw up memory
of the dead names dried grain
again the forest: a charred cloud
forehead branded by black light
and a thousand lids pressed
tightly on motionless eyeballs
a tree and the air broken
betrayed faith of empty shelters

that other forest is for us is for you
the dead also ask for fairy tales
for a handful of herbs water of memories
therefore by needles by rustling
and faint threads of fragrances–
no matter that a branch stops you
a shadow leads you through winding passages–
you will find and open
our Ardennes Forest

Zbigniew Herbert