Browsing Category

Poetry

Wanderlust

Essential Meaning of Wanderlusta strong desire to travel.

Full Definition of Wanderlust: strong longing for or impulse toward wandering. – Merriam Webster

If you check the definition for wandering on Merriam Webster you’ll notice that it includes “meandering, not keeping a rational or sensible course, or movement away from the proper, normal, or usual course or place.” Anything but hiking which the original German term “wandern” refers to.

Wanderlust was at its root about hiking, a desire to get back into nature, explore the natural world during the period of German romanticism. Artists from the 18th century on tried to find new inspiration beyond the cities and experience or express their feelings rather than simply depict scenes. That was true for visual artist as much as composers and authors. The fear of nature, as represented by forbidding mountains or cliffs or the vagaries of the seas transformed into fascination, even awe.

Thomas Cole A View of 2 Lakes and Mountain House, Catskill Mountains, Morning. (1844)

Later, and perhaps connected to the European system of artisan apprenticeships and journeymen, Wanderlust took on the meaning, probably more familiar to us, of the urge to roam anywhere but home, the longing for seeing the world at large and confronting unforeseen challenges.

Albert Bierstadt Giant Redwood Trees of California (1874)

It was all about the hero in nature, made small by awe (just look at these tiny figures in their immense surroundings), or seen big as conquering the obstacles encountered. It was about deceleration and a certain longing for glorified older times. It was also about the larger story of finding meaning in life, or allegories of a life’s progression, or expressing one’s relative take or standing in the natural order of things, a rise in individualism. And often it was linked to nationalism and pride of the beauty of one’s country.

Gustave Castan Landscape with Hiker (1870s)
Gustave Castan Gewitterstimmung im Rosenlauital (date unknown)

The quotes convey it well: “The things one experiences alone with oneself are very much stronger and purer.” (Eugene Delacroix.) “Amid those scenes of solitude… the mind is cast into the contemplation of eternal things.” (Thomas Cole.) “I must stay alone and know that I am alone to contemplate and feel nature in full. I hav to surrender myself to what encircles me, I have to merge with my clouds and rocks in order to be what I am.” (Caspar David Friedrich.)

Karl Eduard Biermann Das Wetterhorn (1830)

A few years back Berlin’s Alte National Gallerie had an exhibition of paintings ranging from romanticism to expressionism that focused on landscape and the wanderers within. Some of today’s paintings are from that show, some are personal picks from other encounters, and they leave out the more familiar ones. They do show a trajectory, though from the early romantic leanings to more expressionist offerings that de-emphasize the human/landscape interaction. This was the first painting you saw when you entered – and the only woman of the bunch…

Jens Ferdinand Willumsen Die Bergsteigerin (1912)

However you frame it, I was bit by the Wanderlust bug since early childhood, and felt suffocatingly stifled when first Covid made travel impossible in 2020, and then health issues put a curb on hiking as well in 2021.

Vincent Van Gogh Man with Backpack (1888)

I am therefor thrilled to report that on the very first day of 2022 I managed part of a hike, in snow no less, that reprised my last one in 2020 before things fell apart. I had reported on it here.

Emil Nolde Der alte Wanderer (1936)

Today’s images are a comparison between July and January conditions of the very same sights on the trail up to Mirror Lake, OR (I did not do the full hike up to the top of the Tom Dick and Harry mountain on New Year’s Day.) Or I would have looked like this.

Ferdinand Hodler Der Lebensmüde (1887)

It is hard to explain why hiking feels so empowering – beyond the stress relief of physical exertion and the pride to pull it off (even in slo-mo and across much diminished distances.) I have no spiritual inklings when out in nature (have I ever?) but an endless appreciation for the beauty around me and the sensory input that reaches from smell to sound to visual reflections of light and shadow. I cherish the resilience of the landscape that surrounds me and, I guess, take it as a model. I like to observe change, when revisiting familiar sights over and over again, as long as that change is natural and not imposed by human interference. Drives me up a wall, when parks are closed for remodel…. no matter how much environmentally sensitive reconstructions are warranted – I feel deprived! And, I admit it, I like the “hunt” with my camera for wildlife of all sorts, the sudden gift of sightings, hoped for, but never guaranteed. I hiked long before I took up photography, though, so that’s just a bonus. Maybe it is the freedom that Hardy (below) describes, to move away from daily anchoring by duty.

So grateful that at least day hikes are back on the menu!

——————————-

———————————

——————————————

———————————-

——————————————

—————————————–

Freedom 

Give me the long, straight road before me, 

A clear, cold day with a nipping air, 

Tall, bare trees to run on beside me, 

A heart that is light and free from care. 

Then let me go! – I care not whither 

My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be 

Free as the brook that flows to the river, 

Free as the river that flows to the sea. 

by Thomas Hardy (1840 – 1928)

I’ll hike to that! While singing Schubert’s ” Der Wanderer.

One should not forget, though that there are serious alternatives to hiking, in case you are housebound – read this fascinating piece and consider!

New Year’s Resolutions.

2022. Welcome to a glut of grim as NYT editorialist Frank Bruni put it so aptly a few days ago.

Let’s ignore it and focus on New Year’s resolutions instead.

Which happen to be the same as the Old Year resolutions…. well, mine anyway.

What have we got?

A deep urge to bear witness, even if it hurts so often, since it is about the only thing I can do these days with times of active protesting gone the same way as has my unwrinkled skin, my youthful energy (hah), my casual risk taking.

Bearing witness can come in a number of ways – one is not to look away when confronted with the misery or injustices of the world, the plight of the houseless and incarcerated, for example. Another is to seek out facts that truly inform us, when those facts are often conveniently stashed out of sight.

Which brings me to the second resolution: staying grounded in observation and reason, not believing with “blind faith” or falling for “alternative truths.” Two plus two equals four. Wishing otherwise doesn’t make it so. Neither does claiming so. In a world where fear and unpredictability have given rise to unprecedented amounts of conspiracy theories, let’s focus on scientific expertise.

Add to that a third resolution: let’s practice courage. Courage to live, to resist, to speak up, to goof off on tangents because they bring pleasure. Courage to chronicle, knowing full well that we are witnesses in the shadow of death around us. Courage to turn to both: the historians and the poets. Historians because they tell us about those in power and what they do with it, crimes and lies included. Poets because they often convey the essence of history from the perspective of the victims – suffering and humiliation.

And no poet did this better than Zbigniew Herbert. I want to start 2022 with the poem I have offered here before – it just remains one of my favorites of all time, and encapsulates all I have listed above. His words infuse me with courage, remind me of the power of faith (in whatever you happen to believe) and point to our moral obligations even when the going gets rough. It sings a quiet defiance to historical facts of oppression and manipulation.

The Envoy of Mr Cogito 
                   by Zbigniew Herbert

                   Go where those others went to the dark boundary 
                   for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize

                   go upright among those who are on their knees 
                   among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust

                   you were saved not in order to live 
                   you have little time you must give testimony

                   be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous 
                   in the final account only this is important

                   and let your helpless Anger be like the sea 
                   whenever your hear the voice of the insulted and beaten

                   let you sister Scorn not leave you 
                   for the informers executioners cowards – they will win 
                   they will go to your funeral with relief will throw a lump of earth 
                   the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography

                   and do not forgive truly it is not in your power 
                   to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn

                   beware however of unnecessary pride 
                   keep looking at your clown’s face in the mirror 
                   repeat: I was called – weren’t there better ones than I

                   beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring 
                   the bird with an unknown name the winter oak 
                   light on a wall the splendour of the sky 
                   they don’t need your warm breath 
                   they are there to say: no one will console you

                   be vigilant – when the light on the mountains gives the sign- arise and 
                   go 
                   as long as blood turns in the breast your dark star

                   repeat old incantations of humanity fables and legends 
                   because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain 
                   repeat great words repeat them stubbornly 
                   like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand

                   and they will reward you with what they have at hand 
                   with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap

                   go because only in this way you will be admitted to the company of cold 
                   skulls 
                   to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland 
                   the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes

                   Be faithful Go

  
                                                               translated by John Carpenter & Bogdana Carpenter 

Counterbalancing the gravity of the resolutions and the darkness of the season I offer you colorful brooms – someone reminded me that tradition forbids to sweep and clean on the first day of the New Year. Now where did that myth come from? Found that and other New Year’s old wives’ tales on Maids.com, no less.

Or brooms used for flying, another myth, I’m told. One first mentioned in 1451. Here is a fascinating account of the history associated with witches and brooms. Told you, I’d dig out the fact! Even the facts of the origins of myths…

OK, let’s just remember what sunlight does to color – and that it will surround us again, eventually, sweeping clean the last cobwebs of superstition.

Music today is a reference to the energy which I hope fills the new year and gives you an idea of my kind of house cleaning….

This Season’s Gift

In true appreciation of your continued reading, encouragement and critical interaction my gift to you for the holidays is:

No politics today.

No social justice issues today.

Nothing complicated or sad today.

A poem about how to be hopeful with the help of nature.

Here’s a collection of images from a hike up Wahkeena Falls last week, into the mist with a sprinkling of snow. There was beauty and the reminder that there are always more chances. If you had told me in the hospital at the beginning of the year that I would hike some miles up the steep hills of the Gorge by the end of it, I would have declared you insane.

Mist

It amazes me when mist 
chloroforms the fields 
and wipes out whatever world  exists 


and walkers wade through coma 
                              shouting 
and close to but curtained from each other 


sometimes there’s a second river 
lying asleep along the river 
where the sun rises 
               sunk in thought 


and my soul gets caught in it 
               hung by the heels 
               in water 


it amazes me when mist 
                             weeps as it lifts 

 
                 and a crow 
calls down to me in its treetop voice 
       that there are webs and drips 
and actualities up there 


and in my fog-self shocked and grey 
               it startles me to see the sky

by Alice Oswald (elected as the first female professor of poetry at the University of Oxford in 2019)

Here is to crows, blue skies and actualities. I will see you in the – happy – new year.

———————————

And in case you still need more support to get through these next weeks, I urge you to try the following relaxation exercises. If Bruno Pontiroli’s models can do it, so can you! Possibilities abound!

That’ll be me!

Since all the animals reminded me of Camille Saint-Saëns’ Carnival, here is his Christmas Oratorio, equally enchanting. Merry Christmas.

Hunger

When I was young and impressionable I had to read a book titled Hunger by Knut Hamsun. Why they would serve us literary fare by a Norwegian Nazi remains a mystery. Maybe my German high school teacher was as enamored by the Nobel Prize author as were many others, more famous people: Maxim Gorky, Thomas Mann, and Isaac Bashevis Singer. The book explores the psychological decline of a pretty asocial character who is driven almost mad by hunger, but as a consequence of refusing available food, fully in line with Hamsun’s celebration of individualism and freedom to choose. In the end the protagonist escapes his woes by hiring on to a ship and sail the seas, being fed, presumably, three meals a day. It felt odd, even to a 15-year old, that hunger was not presented as an inescapable scourge for the many who lack access to food, but as a choice. Some of my thoughts on the issue of food insecurity you’ve read in earlier blogs.

Decades later, I came across this:

Hunger Camp at Jaslo

by Wislawa Szymborska

Write it. Write. In ordinary ink 
on ordinary paper: they were given no food, 
they all died of hunger. “All. How many? 
It’s a big meadow. How much grass 
for each one?” Write: I don’t know. 
History counts its skeletons in round numbers. 
A thousand and one remains a thousand, 
as though the one had never existed: 
an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle, 
an ABC never read, 
air that laughs, cries, grows, 
emptiness running down steps toward the garden, 
nobody’s place in the line. 

We stand in the meadow where it became flesh, 
and the meadow is silent as a false witness. 
Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest 
with wood for chewing and water under the bark- 
every day a full ration of the view 
until you go blind. Overhead, a bird- 
the shadow of its life-giving wings 
brushed their lips. Their jaws opened. 
Teeth clacked against teeth. 
At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky 
and reaped wheat for their bread. 
Hands came floating from blackened icons, 
empty cups in their fingers. 
On a spit of barbed wire, 
a man was turning. 
They sang with their mouths full of earth. 
“A lovely song of how war strikes straight 
at the heart.” Write: how silent. 
“Yes.” 

Translated by Grazyna Drabik and Austin Flint 

I know, it’s the week of Christmas. Visions of food associated with the occasion, pungent smells permeating houses, meals shared with loved ones, unusual things like goose or carp (if you are German,) gingerbread and Stollen (a baked Marzipani concoction of about a million calories per slice,) all mouthwatering and sweet. Now why do I have to ruin that by reminding us of hunger as a weapon, an instrument of torture, a tool of extermination? Yes, a whole region of Jews were killed by being driven into a corral near the town of Jaslo and refused food and water. Can’t we let the past rest, at least during this week of celebration?

I would, if it were only the past. Just as Szymborska exhorts us to keep the memory alive – Write it. Write. – I cannot but say it, say: we are faced with hunger by design, here and now, in our American Prison system. There a few who bear witness. Last week this singular report was published by the ACLU of Southern California in cooperation with various other organizations. It “combines testimonies from people who were incarcerated in the Orange County jails during the pandemic with public records. Nutrition facts, menu items, and budget information gathered from the Orange County Sheriff’s Department through Public Records Act request.”

For almost two years now the thousands of inmates in this system have not had a hot meal. The three meals they get are mostly inedible sack lunches that contain moldy bread, spoiled slices of meat, and an occasional apple or orange. It is not enough food, particularly if you cannot eat it if it’s rotting, and it is so unhealthy that food-related illnesses have skyrocketed. Food poisoning from the spoiled food is one thing; the high sodium and carbohydrate contents have increased heart disease, diabetes-related problems, and circulatory system illness.

The situation has gotten so bad, that even the Board of State and Community Corrections asked the jails to add hot meals after their inspection revealed the horror of the situation. What happened? Hot cereal was added to breakfast, but soon after refused again. Soup was added to dinner (high-sodium broth with floating onion and tomatoes to be found with a magnifying glass.) However, the soup was put on the floor in front of the cells, often only accessible after an hour when it had become cold and by now detected by bugs that live in the shadows of the prison hallways, equally desperate to improve their food intake.

Kitchen closures where justified with Covid-19. The closures saved a good amount of money to the prison system, none of which has been re-invested into better nutrition for the inmates. In addition, the system has made a significant amount of revenue on items that incarcerated people can purchase through commissary (some $10.000.000 a year.) That kind of food might be more edible than bug-infested soup, but it is also not healthy, like most items that come out of dispenser. Medical and religious diets have been denied due to Covid restrictions, or so it is claimed.

“If a budget recipient spends less than its predicted budget, the surplus rolls over or goes towards other department expenses. That means that when OCSD receives a budget for food services and ultimately spends less than was budgeted, the remainder rolls over and can be used for other expenses like staff salaries. That is what happened when OCSD shut down the hot kitchens.”

These are the numbers that show the development during the Covid years, all on the backs of the inmates.

I”n 2018, OCSD rolled over just $72,000 from the food budget to use on other OCSD expenses; in 2019, OCSD rolled over $90,000. In 2020, after OCSD stopped serving hot food, they rolled over $963,013. In 2021, OCSD is on track to rollover $656,472.”

You can find all the details and art work and experiential testimony by the inmates in the report. Images today were created by the prisoners.

I do not know if the situation is any different in Oregon. But I do feel that we are ignorant of all of it unless we happen to have our noses pushed into it. Without knowing, of course, there will be no memory, no transmission of the horrors of one’s times to future generations as a warning. And poets will have to dig up a past that we failed to change in our present. Spread the word, if you can. The link to the report, again, is here.

Music by Bob Marley.

Reminder

If you happen to get hectic around holiday preparations, desperately scrambling for gifts, trying to figure out how to maneuver family gatherings safely (physically re: Covid and emotionally re: we all know what…) let me remind you of something. There are existential woes out there that require attention, terrors that put our minuscule worries in context, but also simple joys that suffice, and plain determinations that move us forward rather than in circles driven by habit. Or by threat.

Shelter (The Refugees’ Dreams – 2016)

Aideed Medina, a poet from Fresno, CA and a member of Mothers Helping Mothers, an organization that helps people affected by political and environmental disasters, put it into words that guide me through this season of consumerism on steroids. Her phrases model courage, making me want to join these strong women’s dance in the face of inescapable truth. The poem is set in one of the (real-life)shelters for asylum seeking women in Tijuana, perhaps La Casa de Paso.

Repatriation (The Refugees’ Dreams – 2016)

Stone

By Aideed Medina

De piedra, sangre.

I make my own heaven. I drag it out of the streets, and inhospitable terrains.    I mixed “tabique”, brick, mortar with my hands, kneading,

I need, to make my own heaven.


It is clandestine, in broad daylight.
 

It’s microwave popcorn, from Costco, because Costco can cross the border as many times as it wants and it has never been asked to go back to where it came from. Not in this kitchen, scrubbed so clean, with bleach, that the roaches have to ask permission to scatter out onto the floor.

Sulema and I, don’t flinch. She has figured me out. We know we have lived some shit and now, it takes more than a cockroach to keep us from moving, forward.

Fuck the roaches, the military, the long nights and even longer days. There is popcorn to be made,

a courtyard of children waiting for it.

Baby girl walks in to check on our progress. She is waiting impatiently for popcorn, the smell of butter making its way around the shelter, La Casa.

The house is built on a solid foundation of Goodyear tires, and unpacked, repacked, suitcases, unpacked, repacked plans.

Today, there is popcorn.

All that matters is today.

For my sake, not Sulema’s


The flowerbeds, and the upside-down Christmas trees, drying out in the sun are beautiful.

I will remember them, when I am warm by a campfire, watching my children for signs of a chill.

I will remember them,

determined,

uneven steps, protruding out of a hillside, going wherever they need to go.

Wherever they need to go.

There is no going back.

Sulema and I both know this, standing in the hot kitchen of the TJ shelter, it is obvious.

It is a beautiful truth, it takes hesitation and beats it down, into the floor.


We danced on it.

Seeking Shelter (The Refugees’ Dreams – 2016)

No need to explain the message. But one of the secondary reasons I picked this poem has to do with the fact that the punctuation is even crazier than mine, although in her case probably intended while mine is simple ignorance…

Another reason for my choice was the name of the speaker’s partner, Sulema. It is a variant on Solomon, derived from the biblical Hebrew male name Shlomo, meaning “man of peace.” Just a reminder, that the season is theoretically centered around the birth of another bringer of peace. Not presents.

And lastly, the poem reminded me of the just opened exhibition at the Oregon Jewish Museum and Center for Holocaust Education, To Bear Witness – Extraordinary Lives, which describes the fates of people who had to leave their countries and found safety here. Refugees from Austria, Bosnia, Myanmar, Cambodia, Germany, Hungary, Rwanda, Sudan, Syria, and Tibet witnessed the atrocities of war, genocide, and the Holocaust. The museum, working together with The Immigrant Story, in collaboration with Jim Lommasson and NW Documentary, tells their individual stories in a multimedia show. I am unable to review it due to renewed instructions by my oncologist to avoid public spaces, but I have previously reviewed and praised the work of the Immigrant Story folks. Check it out if you’re in town.

Integration (The Refugees’ Dreams – 2016)

Music today speaks its own language(s) on the topic.

In any event, if you still can’t get away from the gift giving or receiving scramble, here is a suggestion: Explore your local Buy Nothing network. Founded 7 years ago by two women in Seattle, the idea, based on longing for community, has spread across the country. It works with hyperlocal sites that allows people to give or receive things that are (no longer) needed, providing a direct line of help to your neighbors, friends, and other people you care for. Everything is freely given, “no money, no barter, no strings.”

On Buy Nothing, you can post three things:

  • GIFTS of items or services that others can use
  • ASKS for things you could use
  • GRATITUDES to show appreciation and thanks

If you type “buy nothing” into your Facebook Search function, it will immediately come up with local options. For us here in PDX there are multiple choices, divided by neighborhoods, or for the region as a whole. All you have to do is click “join the group” and you will see what is on offer or can offer something yourselves. All year long.

And then there is always popcorn…..

Flares at Lampedusa (The Refugees’ Dreams – 2016)

Montages are from my 2016 series The Refugees’ Dreams .

Hope is a discipline

Hope doesn’t preclude feeling sadness or fear or anger or any other emotion that makes total sense. Hope isn’t an emotion, you know? Hope is not optimism. Hope is a discipline… we have to practice it every single day.” – Mariame Kaba

I will write about the amazing scholar, prison abolitionist and activist Kaba on another occasion. Today I want to use her guidance, quoted above, to offer a few recent examples out of my “hope exercise bag,” so we can enter this week with a smile on our faces.

  • Over 40 camels barred from Saudi “beauty contest” over Botox! Organizers of the 6-year old competition are on top of tampering! All 143 attempts! No more inflated body parts, stretched with injections or rubber bands! No more braiding, or cutting, or dying the tail of the camel! Camels were x-rayed, subjected to ultra sounds and genetic analysis, to ensure true beauty wins fairly (to the tune of $ 66.000.000 no less.) There’s hope!

  • Delay wins the day! Hundreds of thousands of bees survived being buried under volcanic ash for over 50 days after the volcanic eruptions on the Canary island of La Palma. The owner of the hives had not yet collected the summer honey before the volcano erupted last September. The bees were able to sustain themselves with their own honey, after sealing themselves in by creating a resinous material called propolis. This “glue” is created by mixing saliva and beeswax with secretions from sap and other plant parts. There’s hope ! Procrastination isn’t always bad and spit, wax and honey can save you. Be prepared!
  • The cure for seasonal depression discovered! Acquire a Moomin rug and all else will fall into place (or at least you land on something soft if you fall…) There’s hope! My Moomin addiction is constantly served by new creations. (And no, I do not own this rug; it was meant symbolically. I do have a Moomin bag, though!)
  • The antidote to hate in this world is remembering its victims as one way to prevent more harm. This is not the funny kind of hope, but the real hope I strive for when practicing the discipline. In awe of the film maker Güzin Kar, with gratitude to the New Yorker that picked the short film up in this country. There is hope when people remember. (And this one probably one that Mariame Kaba would approve of.)
Remembrance (The Refugees’ Dreams – 2016)

Or at least there are glimpses that we can, should, must hold onto until real hope returns, as instructed by Adam Zagajewski, who died last March. A huge loss to the poetry community.

Try to Praise the Mutilated World

BY ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI

TRANSLATED BY CLARE CAVANAGH

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees going nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

What’s Left Behind (The Refugees’ Dreams – 2016)

There is your Monday grab bag, now go and look for the silver lining, your song of the day!

Hierarchies

I’ve never been sold on much of Elizabeth Bishop’s poetry, and not for lack of trying, from sellers and buyer alike. She was a poet who lived a passionate life, transgressing boundaries of her time, struggling with addiction, childhood abuse, rootless-, restlessness and infidelity. Yet her words mask rather than reveal, rarely allow a glimpse of vulnerability.

Please don’t lecture me on the right of people to their privacy, or the value of reticence, I get it. I just describe my emotional reaction to people feeling compelled to hide something essential under the armor of protection of privacy. In any case, today is not about the poet, it’s about the thoughts that a particular poem of her’s elicited.

The Daughter – Tied to the Moon – 2018

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

by Elizabeth Bishop

The Rivals – Tied to the Moon – 2018

This is probably one of, if not THE most famous poems on loss around within contemporary poetry. Strange villanelle, the faster, fluster, master, disaster racing each other through ever widening losses, until the very end of a relationship that’s severed. Whether through abandonment or death remains unspoken.

Apparently the poem went through 17 drafts, each successive one eliminating more details that could tie it to the personal experiences that purportedly gave rise to the poem itself: the suicide of Bishop’s former long-time partner Lota de Macendo Soares after the poet had left her, and the abandonment by her subsequent lover, Alice Methfessel, a woman some 30 years her junior. She eventually returned to Bishop, staying with her until Bishop’s death at age 68 in 1979. Maybe that personal distancing by removing identifiable details protected her. it certainly raised the possibility for the poem’s readers to project their own losses into the lines.

The Lovers – Tied to the Moon – 2018

Here is what really interests me, though. The poet, in her repetition of “the art of losing isn’t hard to master,” and the title – One Art – suggests that all losses are on somewhat equal footing, all can be tucked away, no matter if it’s a key, a library book, a friendship or a country. Even with the loss of a person the catastrophe gets only acknowledged in parentheses, (Write it!) and as a conditional – it may look like – instead of an acknowledgement – it IS a disaster.

Of course no-one doubts for an instant that the death of a person can or should be equated with the loss of a pair of sunglasses, or that Bishop really meant that. Glasses can be replaced, the dead cannot. We have a hierarchy of the severity of our losses; they might vary in some details, but the overarching arc is probably the same for much of humanity. The poem likely expressed the desperate wish that the “one art” assumption could help to ignore the reality of true disasters, losses that will haunt us.

The Photographer – Tied to the Moon – 2018

What then if something utterly new appears on the horizon, a loss that we have not contemplated before, that we lack rituals for, that we cannot even judge for its long-term consequences, where do we stack that in this hierarchy? And stack we want, since a relative placement could help us modulate our reactions.

And how do we learn to master those losses, when we can’t even categorize them? What do you call being isolated from human contact, as you knew it, during a pandemic? What do you name the feeling that danger lurks behind every human interaction and if in doubt, you need to distance yourself? How do you adapt to a situation where your general assumptions about health and medicine’s magical rescue kit are turned upside down? How do you predict the damage wrought on us essentially social creatures, when socialization during appropriate developmental stages (nursery school!) is not happening? How do you integrate the opportunity cost when teenagers can’t “try out” relationships at a time where hurt does not leave extensive scars? Will their loneliness push them into clinging relationships too early?

The New World – Tied to the Moon – 2018

How will we be affected when the restrictions of rights or the expansion of duties create violent reactions in large parts of the population? How are we able to tolerate a sense of unpredictability regarding time frames – not knowing which loss is temporary, however long, or which is final – we will never and nowhere escape a pandemic due to constant mutations? Are we talking a few more months, years, decades? How do we sort the moral implications of property rights vs. inoculating the world populations on a large scale? Or the moral implications of some of us being able to take safety measures vs. others who cannot afford to?

The Musician – Tied to the Moon – 2018

I sometimes think the hardest losses to accept are those that defied expectations. Children should not die before their parents, a knee replacement should not put you into an irreversible coma, a right that you and your country fought for and cherished should not simply be ripped away from you by some empowered few.

And now we have a situation where not only our (naive) expectations that a Western, developed country should be able to escape a deadly disease, are defied. We also experience that the precautions against the threat themselves are causing harm. Covid isolation led to depression, anxiety and increased substance abuse, as well as overdose deaths. (Ref.) We are facing a complete reversal of what we thought was an overall given: a life expectancy extending easily into our seventies and eighties for most, a continuance of communal experience.

“The art of losing isn’t hard to master…” well, I am at a loss. Translated into German: Ich bin ratlos, which means literally “without advice.” Unable to give advice, or not having received any, the phrasing doesn’t tell. Not exactly a disaster, but a rather anguished way of being.

Longing for Home – Tied to the Moon – 2018

Here is a trailer for Reaching for the Moon, a (mediocre) film made about Bishop’s time in Brazil and cheerful music from Brazil to get us into the weekend.

Images today from the 2018 series Tied to the Moon about women’s experiences shared across history.

The Birth – Tied to the Moon – 2018

May Their Memory Be For A Blessing

My mother’s Jahrzeit returns this weekend for the 38. time, she did not even reach 60 years of age. Neither did another, even younger woman, artist Dorothy Goode, who died this week last year. Also a year ago we lost Ruth Bader Ginsburg, going on 90. My mother-in-law died at the beginning of this month, well into her 90s. Two years ago the poet Mary Oliver was taken from us in her 80s, her incomparable sensitivity to and insight about nature now restricted to the work she left behind. Uncountable numbers of souls departed as a result of a pandemic that could have been stemmed during the last two years. Uncounted humans were erased by climate catastrophes, poverty and violence, children among them. May they all rest in power.

Jewish custom has us say “May their memory be for a blessing” after someone’s passing, often expressed as (z”l) or in Hebrew (ז”ל) after their name, which stands for zikhronah livrakha, blessed memory, in the shorthand form. The phrase refers to the blessing a person leaves behind, from a life lived in ways that reverberate, an impact that continues to flow. Whether goodness, creativity, love, justice or any other positive mark they left on the world, the point is that something lives on, blessing future generations.

In this regard, it does not matter how many years you are granted. The issue is what you make of them, or as someone said “your legacy of righteousness,” a term deeply settled in my soul, cliché be damned.

The poet Mary Oliver resonates for me over and over again by her ability to reconstruct the familiar, give it a twist or open it to questions that reveal reversed perspectives. Couldn’t think of a better legacy. The poem I chose for today, in memory of my mother who loved all things owl, helps us to move from visions of death as something dark and frightful to the opposite:

but so much light wrapping itself around us — as soft as feathers —

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field

by Mary Oliver

Let yourself be carried, is the transcendent metaphor in the poem, without fear.

Until then let us carry others, without hesitation.

It’s the one legacy we all can leave behind.

Photographs today are of some of the postcards sent to me throughout the last 18 months of what turned out to be among the hardest times of our family’s life, by a dear friend who knows what owls stand for in my universe. The constant stream, tucked up on the fridge, has sustained me.

Music also dedicated to my mother, an anxious rebel and a Stevie Wonder fan, who never stopped trying to reach her highest ground.

Stones on the Heart

Once you have crossed Portland’s Burnside Bridge you will encounter a building on the Eastside that has large sheets of paper hanging in its windows. They are printed with a poem by Oregon’s current poet laureate, Anis Mojgani. It is an appeal which addresses us with loving flattery, perceptive about potential burdens we might carry, and enthusiastic in its belief that there are remedies that can help you drop the stones of your heart, as he puts it.

The suggestions made me smile, made me frown, made me feel seen as one of the multitudes who experience themselves these days as “dark and angsty” as he says. (The word angsty, by the way, from the German word Angst (anxiety) was introduced as early as 1849 by English writer George Eliot. But it became popular in the 1940s when translations of Freud’s work promoted it in the context of neurotic fear, guilt and remorse.)

I was in a dark mood indeed, having been accused of neurotic fear, well, not in those words, but in a closely related term, namely being prone to conspiracy theories. Heated voices had been raised over an essay that I tried to summarize and that found nothing but scorn in the ear of my listener. The essay was published by Timothy Snyder, author of an interesting series of essays currently on the web, Thinking Aloud. He teaches history at Yale, and is a tenured fellow at the Institute for Human Sciences in Vienna. His work concerns East European history, the Holocaust, the history of the Soviet Union, and the history of Ukraine, and he has been published in the NYT, the L.A.Times, the Guardian, Christian Science Monitor and many more. I dwell on the pedigree so we can agree this is not some random fantasist, dabbling in pseudo-Freudian analysis, or simply a moron (one of the less condescending terms emerging in our “debate.”) Not that learned people cannot be idiots, but I think there is something else going on here. Hear me out.

The essay is titled Killing Parents in Bad Faith. – How historians will remember the pandemic.The main argument offered is that reckless behavior of maskless younger people endangering their older relatives, or reckless refusal of politicians to implement measures that protect the elderly and anyone else against the ravages of the virus is not simply based on stupidity. Instead it is a return to the (falsely applied) maxim of the survival of the fittest with the added benefit that it triggers wealth transfer that is direly needed by a younger generation who has seen the promise of upward mobility ground into the dust by decades of Republican politics. The author goes so far to talk about elder cleansing and generational harvesting, which would be clearly revealed in retrospect by future historians.

An extreme position, not backed up by empirical evidence, yes, I understand the varied reactions ranging from crap to idiocy I have heard when I talked about it with people. So why do I, not the most irrational person on the planet, see reason to keep an eye on the argument with a possibility that it might be true? Why do people who fully acknowledge that Republicans have embraced Social Darwinism, have refused vaccinations on the basis of non-scientific, ideologically driven beliefs, have shown publicly a willingness to sacrifice older generations, can’t go as far as acknowledging that there might be a condoning acceptance of lethal consequences when younger folks expose their elders to the virus,(if intentional parricide is a step too far?)

I wonder if Snyder’s arguments are deeply influenced by his immersion into Holocaust research, and my openness to them affected by being German. The US Holocaust Memorial Museum has a whole section devoted to the way Nazism, German people, average citizens like you and I, betrayed people deemed unworthy of life in ways that insured economic benefit to the perpetrators. As early as 1933, laws were established to force the sterilization of all persons who lived with diseases considered hereditary, such as mental illness, learning disabilities, physical deformity, epilepsy, blindness, deafness, and severe alcoholism. These people were colloquially called useless eaters.

Daily cost of feeding a disabled person and a healthy family.

The program escalated but 6 years later with Operation T 4, which instated “mercy death” of non-Jewish German and Austrian citizens by gassing. By the end of the war an estimated 275.000 people living with disabilities had been murdered. These included people who were brought to the authorities by their families for no other reason than being “difficult” spouses or defiant daughters (blamed to have mental illness) or elders who did not want to dish out an early inheritance. The euthanasia program explicitly included incurably ill, physically or mentally disabled, emotionally distraught, and elderly people.

There has been a lot of psychological research looking at how the elderly are valued over younger lives, with decisions made by participants across the world that IF they have to sacrifice some life, it will be the elderly over the teens. Those sentiments are enhanced during times of crisis. Public discourse during the epidemic (social media content analyzed by scientists) showed an increasing amount of ageism with some proportion alluding to senicide (the killing of or abandoning to death of the elderly.) Real life scenarios certainly happened in several countries across the pandemic where a lack of ventilators forced doctors to do triage with a cut-off of age as low as 65 in some places where you were no longer eligible to have your life saved. Princeton Psychologist Susan Fiske who studies prejudice and ageism finds in her surveys that “younger people want to be sure that the elderly don’t hog a disproportionate amount of time and resources. Older people are expected to step aside.” The only American cultures that have consistently positive views of the elderly are African Americans and Native Americans.

Prejudice against old people is of course a far cry away from stepping up and actually killing the old by active measures. One can look at the moral deprivation of murder at one extreme of the scale. On the other end of the continuum would be the morally justified decisions by doctors to grant survival to those who benefit most of it, the young, when means to ensure survival are limited. Then there is the vast area in-between. There is morally unacceptable action – the decision to expose vulnerable populations to maskless visitors, say or state decrees forbidding mask mandates. Or equally debatable inaction of the authorities to demand protective devices or order vaccinations mandates for people who come in contact with vulnerable populations, or the personal decisions by police, firefighters or nurses not to get vaccinated.

To get back to Snyder’s Covid scenario, yes, it might be .0002 % or whatever tiny proportion of maskless visitors to retirement homes who have consciously nefarious motives. Bad apples, etc. pp. Once a political administration justifies the sacrificing of this or that constituency under the mantle of Social Darwinism, however, personal motives can find political backing, ruthlessness can be uncorked, as history has shown. And we are very few steps away from such an administration in the years to come. Looking at some State governments, we are there already.

Stones on my heart, indeed.

Music more representative of fall than spring, but there’s still hope that spring might be rushing back….

Shared Knowledge

Stunningly original and haunting, the voices of Mrs. Midas, Queen Kong, and Frau Freud, to say nothing of the Devil’s Wife herself, startle us with their wit, imagination, and incisiveness in this collection of poems written from the perspectives of the wives, sisters, or girlfris of famous — and infamous — male personages. Carol Ann Duffy is a master at drawing on myth and history, then subverting them in a vivid and surprising way to create poems that have the pull of the past and the crack of the contemporary.

So said the MacMillan publishers’ website blurb. I say amen.

The World’s Wife was sent to me as a surprise gift by a reader who had been taken by my blog about the invisibility of George Orwell’s wife. I have been reading the poems for a week now, spaced out so I could enjoy each unique, snappy, bright and at times sarcastic voice of the many wives and lovers:

Snooping around a bit on the net to see who the poet is – I had not encountered her before – I found numerous reviews that were of the “I’m a feminist, but …” kind, lamenting the sharp message that there comes a point where woman should not take it any more. Then again they came from sources such as the Literary Wives Club who read only books that have wife in the title and stress that marriages might be difficult at times, but hush, it’s all good. This collection of poems did not sit well with them, which is of course all the more reason to go and read it yourself – you will be amazed and amused, if I am your yardstick instead of the literary wives….

Made me also think, though, about the fact that the majority if not all of these poems are only comprehensible if you know the literary texts or historical and cultural events they are based on; in other words you had to have had a solid education rooted in the Western canon of Greek mythology, the bible, some basic science (Darwin) and psychology (Freud,)the occasional folk tale and a movie. Poetry for the initiated, then, and a case of the rich get richer, since these poems do enrich when compared to the narrative templates which they turn upside down – IF you get the jokes.

College curriculum-change debates about the value of teaching the writings of dead White men aside, the issue really goes back to the fact how we can have a common dialogue when education is so unevenly distributed in this country, with states deciding what materials are appropriate or to be shunned, with economic short-falls forcing so many schools to forgo anything unessential, and with American elementary and middle school readers consistently loosing ground in their ability to read literature. (The data in the link are from 2019, I shudder to think how assessments look after the pandemic.) It goes, of course, beyond discussion of poetry. Any public debate about any issue at all depends on shared assumptions, shared assessment of what the facts are, and a shared language.

Age is another factor that impedes shared understanding. I was stunned to learn – pre-Covid- during guided tours of graffiti in several countries, how this or that word or symbol means something that I had no clue about. A (visual) language I have little exposure to.

(Photographs today from a single building in NE Portland near MLK, seen last week.)

Took me years to figure out what ACAB stood for, a shorthand you see around the world. Never mind the 3 or 4 letter abbreviations that float around social media and that, beyond lol, I have trouble deciphering. Socio-cultural language changes have naturally occurred as long as new generations have been talking and trying to find their own style of communication. It is always those in power or those who fear changes to the status quo who react with horror. In fact in the recent German election campaign, the conservative party made the topic of creating new gender neutral language (a complicated construction when endings for each noun differ according to gender) a campaign issue, signaling high value of preservation over change. But this is about how something is expressed rather than lacking a shared knowledge base about what is referred to in the first place.

Here is one of my favorite poems of the collection, which includes stabs at gender fluidity, mansplaining, erotic satisfaction found in same-sex unions, and the fact that stodgy male personality characteristics will not be left behind, even when you are punished to be a woman for 7 years because you killed a female snake! Love the ‘from’ in the title, too, yet another letter to The Times reporting on more than the first cuckoo of spring. It all makes me wonder how men will read these poems compared to women. Wives or not.

from Mrs. Tiresias

by Carol Ann Duffy

All I know is this:
he went out for his walk a man
and came home female.

Out the back gate with his stick,
the dog;
wearing his gardening kecks,
an open-necked shirt,
and a jacket in Harris tweed I’d patched at the elbows myself.

Whistling.

He liked to hear
the first cuckoo of spring
then write to The Times.
I’d usually heard it
days before him
but I never let on.

I’d heard one that morning
while he was asleep;
just as I heard,
at about 6 p.m.,
a faint sneer of thunder up in the woods
and felt
a sudden heat
at the back of my knees.

He was late getting back.

I was brushing my hair at the mirror
and running a bath
when a face
swam into view
next to my own.

The eyes were the same.
But in the shocking V of the shirt were breasts.
When he uttered my name in his woman’s voice I passed out

*

Life has to go on.

I put it about that he was a twin
and this was his sister
come down to live
while he himself
was working abroad.

And at first I tried to be kind;
blow-drying his hair till he learnt to do it himself,
lending him clothes till he started to shop for his own,
sisterly, holding his soft new shape in my arms all night.

Then he started his period.

One week in bed.
Two doctors in.
Three painkillers four times a day.
And later
a letter
to the powers that be
demanding full-paid menstrual leave twelve weeks per year.
I see him still,
his selfish pale facepeering at the moon
through the bathroom window.
The curse, he said, the curse.

Don’t kiss me in public,
he snapped the next day,
I don’t want folk getting the wrong idea.

It got worse.

After the split I would glimpse him
out and about,
entering glitzy restaurants
on the arms of powerful men –
though I knew for sure
there’d be nothing of that
going on
if he had his way –
or on TV
telling the women out there
how, as a woman himself,
he knew how we felt.

His flirt’s smile.

The one thing he never got right
was the voice.
A cling peach slithering out from its tin.

I gritted my teeth.

And this is my lover, I said,
the one time we met
at a glittering ball
under the lights,
among tinkling glass,
and watched the way he stared
at her violet eyes,
at the blaze of her skin,
at the slow caress of her hand on the back of my neck;
and saw him picture
her bite,
her bite at the fruit of my lips,
and hear
my red wet cry in the night
as she shook his hand
saying How do you do:
and I noticed then his hands, her hands,
the clash of their sparkling rings and their painted nails.

Music today is the overture to the Merry Wives of Windsor – maybe I should only listen to music with wife in the title? But then I come across songs like this one….