One of my students once wrote a very memorable phrase in English just bad enough to sound gnomically brilliant:
“Cake’s existence is have eat cake.”
I have never forgotten that phrase.
So today I made a chocolate cake. It came out pretty good.
Category: Not My Poetry
Caveat: será como cerrer el libro
Meditación de lo mortal
Morir será como cerrer el libro,
mas no será como apagar la luz
o beberse la última
bocanada.
Será
para quien va juntando
tanto disperso mundo,
no descansar, mas sí
dejar que otros reúnan
lo que juntó con lo que no se he juntado.
- Ángel Crespo (poeta español 1926-1995)
Caveat: The storm like people
The Storm Like people emerging from a steambath, bending over, steaming from their heads and shoulders, the ring of the mountains from the Chilkat Range to the Juneau ice field as if in steambath towels of snow flurries; at their feet are foaming white caps of sea like water thrown on rocks steaming from the heat. - Nora Marks Dauenhauer (Tlingit poet, 1927-2017)
Caveat: Я молодость свою переросла
ХВАЛА АФРОДИТЕ
1
Уже богов — не те уже щедроты
На берегах — не той уже реки.
В широкие закатные ворота
Венерины, летите, голубки!
Я ж на песках похолодевших лежа,
В день отойду, в котором нет числа…
Как змей на старую взирает кожу —
Я молодость свою переросла.
– Марина Цветаева (русская поэтесса, 1892-1941)
Praise to Aphrodite
1
No more so rich are the gifts of the Gods;
even the river is different now.
Through wide and widening sunset gates
the doves of Venus fly away.
And I, stretched out on cooling sand,
soon into numberless days go forth.
Like a snake, looking back at his old bright skin –
I have outgrown my youth.
– Marina Tsvetaeva (Russian poet, 1892-1941)
– Adapted by Rose Styron
Caveat: the bombastic intimations of winter
Contrary Theses (II)
One chemical afternoon in mid-autumn,
When the grand mechanics of earth and sky were near;
Even the leaves of the locust were yellow then,
He walked with his year-old boy on his shoulder.
The sun shone and the dog barked and the baby slept.
The leaves, even of the locust, the green locust.
He wanted and looked for a final refuge,
From the bombastic intimations of winter
And the martyrs a la mode. He walked toward
An abstract, of which the sun, the dog, the boy
Were contours. Cold was chilling the wide-moving swans.
The leaves were falling like notes from a piano.
The abstract was suddenly there and gone again.
The negroes were playing football in the park.
The abstract that he saw, like the locust-leaves, plainly:
The premiss from which all things were conclusions,
The noble, Alexandrine verve. The flies
And the bees still sought the chrysanthemums’ odor.
– Wallace Stevens (American poet, 1879-1955)
Caveat: back into clay
A Friend Hey! With the clay you dug out I fashioned a buddha. It rained. The buddha turned back into clay. Pointless as the clear skies after rain. - Ko Un (Korean poet, b. 1933)
I wish I had the Korean version, since this is a translation of the Korean. But this collection doesn’t have it and I can’t find it online.
Caveat: dinosaurs eating people
What I’m listening to right now.
Fenn Rosenthal, “Dinosaurs In Love.” Rosenthal is not quite 4 years old. She had help from her dad in production, but the composition is hers.
Lyrics.
dinosaurs eating people
dinosaurs in love
dinosaurs having a party
they eat fruit
and cucumber
they
fall in love
they say ‘thank you’
a big bang came
and they died
dinosaurs
dinosaurs fell in love
but they didn’t say good bye
but they didn’t
say good bye
Caveat: life is more than who we are
Arthur and I were in town, for our weekly Thursday shopping trip. This song came on the radio at Zat’s Pizza, where we almost always stop for lunch on our Thursday trips. Art doesn’t think much of the music there – he just tunes out and listens to his audiobooks. But I sometimes end up a bit nostalgic, as the music is often set to some “oldies” station. Music from particular eras in my life can end up being quite evocative.
I don’t know that I necessarily liked this song in any deep sense. But it was part of my “soundtrack” in 1995, when I was working nights at the UPS Package Sorting facility in Northeast Minneapolis and doing some graduate coursework (non-degree program, at that time) during the days. It was when Michelle and I were already married but still keeping it to ourselves, and living together in south Minneapolis, just off Franklin Avenue.
My commute up I-35W (across the bridge across the Mississippi that later famously collapsed from poor maintenance killing many people) to the UPS facility took about 30 minutes. So I would play the radio. And this was one of those songs on high rotation at that time. Since I was working the late shift, I would end up coming home during very low traffic at around 3 or 4 AM. The freeway was often completely empty.
So I ended up feeling nostalgic when I heard this song. It’s a very 90s song.
What I’m listening to right now.
Goo Goo Dolls, “Name.”
Lyrics.
And even though the moment passed me by
I still can’t turn away
‘Cause all the dreams you never thought you’d lose
Got tossed along the way
And letters that you never meant to send
Get lost or thrown away
And now we’re grown up orphans
That never knew their names
We don’t belong to no one
That’s a shame
If you could hide beside me
Maybe for a while
And I won’t tell no one your name
And I won’t tell ’em your name
And scars are souvenirs you never lose
The past is never far
Did you lose yourself somewhere out there
Did you get to be a star
And don’t it make you sad to know that life
Is more than who we are
We grew up way too fast
And now there’s nothing to believe
And reruns all become our history
A tired song keeps playing on a tired radio
And I won’t tell no one your name
And I won’t tell ’em your name
I won’t tell ’em your name
Mmm, mmm, mmm
I won’t tell ’em your name, ow
I think about you all the time
But I don’t need the same
It’s lonely where you are, come back down
And I won’t tell ’em your name
Caveat: tras años-luz de insomnio
Ofertorio (Número cero) Sin ti. Sin ti. Hora inviolable. Inescrutable sollozo. Fuga sagrada de lo que invado y destruyo. Mis piernas de tristeza golpean las estrellas. Navíos secretos de habitantes desnucados hunden odio amargo, sediento de dislocadas primaveras ciegas, donde se yergue el titán enano de la Vida vencido inmenso mar de donde surgen albas implacables como una mano tierna. Ciñéndome en la furiosa danza de este sangriento olvido, de este pozo espeso de agonía en cuyo fondo muere amanecer un despertar hermoso en antigua sonrisa de las Madres. Tu brisa dorada de muchachas me explica la lección conmovida Con el sublime ejemplo del pequeño escarabajo de los cementerios. ¡Conducta que no admite discordias! Pero yo rompo feroz todos tus espejos y con mis navajas de fósforo rasgo de punta a punta tu vientre de mentiras. Los Cielos se me derraman podridos límites. Hambrientos de corazón postrado me interrogan -acuchillan- piden limosna a ratos amorosos, tras años-luz de insomnio, donde los termómetros azules se convierten en sueño sin tormenta, aglomero a todos los innumerables muertos humanos ya galope tendido de tigres desbocados los conduzco hacia el fin de los mapas solares para pedirte cuentas por nuestra inconsolable voz acuchillada. - Miguel Labordeta (poeta español, 1921-1969)
Caveat: sin hallar el plomo
UNIDAD En esta noche mi reloj jadea junto a la sien oscurecida, como manzana de revólver que voltea bajo el gatillo sin hallar el plomo. La luna blanca, inmóvil, lagrimea, y es un ojo que apunta... Y siento cómo se acuña el gran Misterio en una idea hostil y ovoidea, en un bermejo plomo. Ah, mano que limita, que amenaza tras de todas las puertas, y que alienta en todos los relojes, cede y pasa! Sobre la araña gris de tu armazón, otra gran Mano hecha de luz sustenta un plomo en forma azul de corazón. - César Vallejo (poeta peruano, 1892-1938)
Caveat: each time a different way
My loyal blog reader (and once-upon-a-time college roommate in Saint Paul in the 1980s) David Dickerson writes songs sometimes. He forwarded this one to me, and granted me permission to publish the lyrics as one of my “not my poetry” poems. I like the idea that sometimes the poetry published on my blog is by people other than me, but whom I actually know.
Roadside Buddha Traveller, where are you going? May I help you find your way? Cause you have so many questions Written on your face I'm a roadside Buddha and might know the way Yes, I've been there many times But each time a different way So you'll have to ask again At the start of every day I'm a roadside Buddha in a world of change I regret I can't go with you If you look back, you'll see I'm stone (a weathered stone Buddha) I just wake the wisdom in you You must go your path alone I'm a roadside Buddha and here I'm home Carry me in your heart (In your heart, in your heart) Help others find their way (Help us shed the darkness) Give them sustenence and love (Give us love, give us love) You'll grow richer every day (Sharing makes us richer) Be a roadside Buddha who colors the gray And if you look into the future You'll see that I'm ahead Waiting by the roadside To lend a hand again (To lend a hand) I'm a roadside Buddha going your way
Above is a picture of a “roadside Buddha” whom I saw often in Korea. It’s along the trail at the Yeongcheon Temple (영천사) on the western flank of Gobong Mountain (고봉사), which I used to visit when living in Ilsan, Korea – it was the closest “traditional” Jogye Temple to where I lived (there were closer temples, but those were modern, urban temples, like the one behind the Cancer Center). It was about a 3 km walk. There was a very kind monk there with whom I sometimes spoke in my bad Korean. I believe one time I took my mother there and she met him, too.
Caveat: voters
Most of the people in this video vote – in case you wanted some understanding of the current American polity.
[Warning: quite NSFW]
Caveat: there is a bear in the wound
Sometimes a Wild God Sometimes a wild god comes to the table. He is awkward and does not know the ways Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver. His voice makes vinegar from wine. When the wild god arrives at the door, You will probably fear him. He reminds you of something dark That you might have dreamt, Or the secret you do not wish to be shared. He will not ring the doorbell; Instead he scrapes with his fingers Leaving blood on the paintwork, Though primroses grow In circles round his feet. You do not want to let him in. You are very busy. It is late, or early, and besides... You cannot look at him straight Because he makes you want to cry. The dog barks. The wild god smiles, Holds out his hand. The dog licks his wounds And leads him inside. The wild god stands in your kitchen. Ivy is taking over your sideboard; Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades And wrens have begun to sing An old song in the mouth of your kettle. 'I haven't much,' you say And give him the worst of your food. He sits at the table, bleeding. He coughs up foxes. There are otters in his eyes. When your wife calls down, You close the door and Tell her it's fine. You will not let her see The strange guest at your table. The wild god asks for whiskey And you pour a glass for him, Then a glass for yourself. Three snakes are beginning to nest In your voicebox. You cough. Oh, limitless space. Oh, eternal mystery. Oh, endless cycles of death and birth. Oh, miracle of life. Oh, the wondrous dance of it all. You cough again, Expectorate the snakes and Water down the whiskey, Wondering how you got so old And where your passion went. The wild god reaches into a bag Made of moles and nightingale-skin. He pulls out a two-reeded pipe, Raises an eyebrow And all the birds begin to sing. The fox leaps into your eyes. Otters rush from the darkness. The snakes pour through your body. Your dog howls and upstairs Your wife both exults and weeps at once. The wild god dances with your dog. You dance with the sparrows. A white stag pulls up a stool And bellows hymns to enchantments. A pelican leaps from chair to chair. In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs. Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields. Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs. The hills echo and grey stones ring With laughter and madness and pain. In the middle of the dance, The house takes off from the ground. Clouds climb through the windows; Lightning pounds its fists on the table. The moon leans in through the window. The wild god points to your side. You are bleeding heavily. You have been bleeding for a long time, Possibly since you were born. There is a bear in the wound. 'Why did you leave me to die?' Asks the wild god and you say: 'I was busy surviving. The shops were all closed; I didn't know how. I'm sorry.' Listen to them: The Fox in your neck and The snakes in your arms and The wren and the sparrow and the deer... The great un-nameable beasts In your liver and your kidneys and your heart... There is a symphony of howling. A cacophony of dissent. The wild god nods his head and You wake on the floor holding a knife, A bottle and a handful of black fur. Your dog is asleep on the table. Your wife is stirring, far above. Your cheeks are wet with tears; Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting. A black bear is sitting by the fire. Sometimes a wild god comes to the table. He is awkward and does not know the ways Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver. His voice makes vinegar from wine And brings the dead to life. -Tom Hirons (British poet, b?)
Caveat: toda de púrpura y nieve
Los Espinos
Verdor nuevo los espinos
tienen ya por la colina,
toda de púrpura y nieve
en el aire estremecida.
Cuántos cielos florecidos
les has visto; aunque a la cita
ellos serán siempre fieles,
tú no lo serás un día.
Antes que la sombra caiga,
aprende cómo es la dicha
ante los espinos blancos
y rojos en flor. Vé. Mira.
– Luis Cernuda (poeta español, 1902-1963)
Caveat: юу вэ юу вэ юув
There’s nothing like a bit of Mongolian nationalist heavy metal music to set the mood on a chilly January day.
What I’m listening to right now.
The Hu, “Yuve Yuve Yu.”
Lyrics.
Их л удаан идэж уугаад наргиж цэнгээд хачин юм бэ юу вэ юу вэ юув
Эцэг өвгөд Монгол гээд л цээжээ
дэлдэн худлаа орилох нь юу вэ юу вэ юув
Эргэж буцаад хэлсэн үгэндээ эзэн
болдоггүй андгай өргөдөг нь юу вэ юу вэ юув
Эцэг эхийн захиж хэлсэн үнэт сургааль
үнэгүй болдог нь юу вэ юу вэ юув, юу вэ юу вэ юув
Ээ дүлзэн сөгд сөгд
Ээ лүндэн бууг бууг, бууг бууг
Дээдсийн заяаг удамлаж төрчихөөд унтаж
хэвтээд сэрдэггүй юм бэ юу вэ юу вэ юув
Дэлхийд ганцхан Монгол гээд л амаа
хаттал худлаа ярьдаг нь юу вэ юу вэ юув
Дээдсээр амьдрах заяанд төрсөн Монгол
түмэн нэгдэж чаддаггүй нь юу вэ юу вэ юув
Дархан Монгол улсаа мандуулж өөд нь татаж
сэргээж чаддаггүй нь юу вэ юу вэ юув, юу вэ юу вэ юув
Ээ дүлзэн сөгд сөгд
Ээ лүндэн бууг бууг, бууг бууг
Өвөг дээдсийн өвлөж өгсөн газар
шороог хайрлаж чаддаггүй нь юу вэ юу вэ юув
Өтгөс буурлын захиж хэлсэн үнэт
сургааль худлаа болдог нь юу вэ юу вэ юув
Өнө л мөнхөд мандан бадрах чонон
сүлдэт Монгол түмэн тэнгэрийн тамгатай
Хөвчин дэлхийд нэрээ дуурсгах хүмүүн
тахилгат эзэн Чингис нартад залрана, нартад залрана
Ээ хар сүлд сэр сэр
Ээ хаан төр мөнх манд, мөнх манд
Юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ
Хачин юм бэ
юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ
Юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ
Хачин юм бэ
юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ юу вэ
Ээ хар сүлд сэр сэр
Ээ хаан төр мөнх манд, мөнх манд
Caveat: πoetry
I saw this at a blog I read, called JF Ptak Science Books. The guy is a dealer in old and rare books, with an emphasis on books related to the history of science and ideas. He often posts very interesting things.
He found a text of a poem published in 1905, which has an unusual constraint: each word in the poem has the same number of letters as a digit of the number π (3.141592653589793238462643383279), in order.
The poem’s text:
Sir, - I send a rhyme excelling
3 1 4 1 5 9
In sacred truth and rigid spelling.
2 6 5 3 5 8
Numerical sprites elucidate
9 7 9
For me the lexicon's dull weight.
3 2 3 8 4 6
If "Nature" gain,
2 6 4
Not you complain,
3 3 8
Tho' Dr. Johnson fulminate.
3 2 7 9
Most definitely a bit of oulipisme-avant-le-lettre.
Caveat: as fast as I can
I present a flashback to the mood of this blog 2 years ago – when I often posted contemporary songs I thought would resonate with my middle-schoolers.
I continue to believe Taylor Swift is one of the best songwriters of the current era in the pop genre.
What I’m listening to right now.
Taylor Swift, “The Man.” The context for this song, is, at least partly, her ongoing legal battles with the condescending record company execs who absconded with her intellectual property, and who are, perhaps not coincidentally, men.
Lyrics.
I would be complex
I would be cool
They’d say I played the field before
I found someone to commit to
And that would be okay
For me to do
Every conquest I had made
Would make me more of a boss to you
I’d be a fearless leader
I’d be an alpha type
When everyone believes ya
What’s that like?
I’m so sick of running
As fast as I can
Wondering if I’d get there quicker
If I was a man
And I’m so sick of them
Coming at me again
‘Cause if I was a man
Then I’d be the man
I’d be the man
I’d be the man
They’d say I hustled
Put in the work
They wouldn’t shake their heads
And question how much of this I deserve
What I was wearing, if I was rude
Could all be separated from my good ideas and power moves
And we would toast to me, oh, let the players play
I’d be just like Leo, in Saint-Tropez
I’m so sick of running
As fast as I can
Wondering if I’d get there quicker
If I was a man
And I’m so sick of them
Coming at me again
‘Cause if I was a man
Then I’d be the man
I’d be the man
I’d be the man
What’s it like to brag about raking in dollars
And getting bitches and models?
And it’s all good if you’re bad
And it’s okay if you’re mad
If I was out flashin’ my dollas
I’d be a bitch, not a baller
They’d paint me out to be bad
So it’s okay that I’m mad
I’m so sick of running
As fast as I can
Wondering if I’d get there quicker
If I was a man (you know that)
And I’m so sick of them
Coming at me again (coming at me again)
‘Cause if I was a man (if I was man)
Then I’d be the man (then I’d be the man)
I’m so sick of running
As fast as I can (as fast as I can)
Wondering if I’d get there quicker
If I was a man (hey!)
And I’m so sick of them
Coming at me again (coming at me again!)
‘Cause if I was a man (if I was man)
Then I’d be the man
I’d be the man
I’d be the man (oh)
I’d be the man (yeah)
I’d be the man (I’d be the man)
Caveat: hay montes
Penas (Verso XXXIV) ¡Penas! ¿Quién osa decir Que tengo yo penas? Luego, Después del rayo, y del fuego, Tendré tiempo de sufrir. Yo sé de un pesar profundo Entre las penas sin nombres: ¡La esclavitud de los hombres Es la gran pena del mundo! Hay montes, y hay que subir Los montes altos; ¡después Veremos, alma, quién es Quien te me ha puesto al morir! - Jose Marti (poeta cubano, 1853-1895)
This poem was recently brought to my attention because my friend Bob asked if I could provide some insight and translation for the poem, for a choral production he’s working on that includes this text set to music. It seems not that different from other things I’ve blogged, and given how sparse my blog has been intellectually, of late, I thought I might as well post what I gave him here.
It’s important to separate who Martí actually was from the mythical being he’s been made into by subsequent generations of Cubans of all political stripes. He was a classical liberal, and in an aesthetic school called “modernismo” -not exactly the same as “modernism” because of different circumstances. He spent a lot of time in the US during various exiles from Cuba, and was heavily influenced by US poets such as Walt Whitman. He was no communist, but he was aware of Marx and I believe may have interacted some with socialists and communists and anarchists in Europe – you take your allies where you can find them. He did believe in universal human rights as that doctrine emerged from the wake of the abolition movements of the 19th century.
I do believe this poem is political. He was fighting for Cuban independence from Spain, inspired by the liberal fantasies (ideals) exemplified to whatever degree of accuracy by the US, Mexico, Guatemala – all countries where he spent time. So what he’s saying is that the time for self-pity is over. Stop complaining and get up and fight for your freedom, fellow Cubans = fellow humans everywhere. That’s how I interpret it. There are mountains we should be climbing, now, battles to be fought. We’ll let God sort out later who was good and who was bad.
Versos was published in 1891, and Martí died while leading Cuban freedom fighters in Cuba in 1895. His political program was quite mature at that point, and it would be hard to read the poem any more innocently.
Here is my own word-for-word translation.
Problems! Who dares to say That I have problems? Later, after the lightning-bolt, and the fire, I'll have time to suffer. I know about a deep regret among the problems without names: The enslavement of men is the great regret of the world! There are mountains, and there's need to climb the high mountains; later we shall see, soul, who [it] is that has set you, for me, to die.
The key word, of course, is penas. I prefer the translation “problems” – it feels contemporarily idiomatic. Penas has a very wide semantic field: “pains” “sufferings” “sorrows” “guilt” “sins” “problems” etc. Especially in the context.
We deploy the word “problems” in modern English similarly. Cf rapper Jay-Z, “I got 99 problems ….”
I almost chose to translate it as “complaints” – to emphasize the fact that the tone of the poem (to me) is a bit of “Get off your butts, people, and DO something!”
Other vocabulary worth comment: pesar. Also fairly wide. I prefer “weight” to “regret” but that doesn’t work with the intensifier “deep”. Perhaps “heavy weight” rather than “deep regret.”
As a syntactician, I love the double (in)direct objects in the last line (“… te me …”) – what Spanish grammar is famous for, in stumping linguists and being a fairly famous example of something characteristically difficult about the language.
Caveat: Grinch
When I was a child, Arthur used to pretend to be Mr Grinch. He liked the schtick, and it suited his personality.
Keith’s family is very musical. So they come and perform music. Here is Keith’s sister, Michelle, her husband Tim, and Ky (sp?), who is Keith’s nephew (but not Michelle and Tim’s son). They are performing the song, Mr Grinch.
“Mr. Grinch,” written by Theodor Geisel (Dr Seuss).
Lyrics.
You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch
You really are a heel,
You’re as cuddly as a cactus, you’re as charming as an eel, Mr. Grinch,
You’re a bad banana with a greasy black peel!
You’re a monster, Mr. Grinch,
Your heart’s an empty hole,
Your brain is full of spiders, you have garlic in your soul, Mr. Grinch,
I wouldn’t touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole!
You’re a foul one, Mr. Grinch,
You have termites in your smile,
You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch,
Given a choice between the two of you’d take the seasick crocodile!
You’re a rotter, Mr. Grinch,
You’re the king of sinful sots,
Your heart’s a dead tomato splotched with moldy purple spots, Mr. Grinch,
You’re a three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce!
You nauseate me, Mr. Grinch,
With a nauseous super “naus”!,
You’re a crooked dirty jockey and you drive a crooked hoss, Mr. Grinch,
Your soul is an appalling dump heap overflowing with the most disgraceful
assortment of rubbish imaginable mangled up in tangled up knots!
You’re a foul one, Mr. Grinch,
You’re a nasty wasty skunk,
Your heart is full of unwashed socks, your soul is full of gunk, Mr. Grinch,
The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote,
“Stink, stank, stunk”!
Caveat: Summa Logicae
William of Ockham, Summa Logicae
Today universals are par for the course,
As when horseness is said of a horse.
And dogness is solemnly logged for a dog,
And logness is doggedly barked of a log.
And now the whole lot of us
Are expected to talk as though hippopotamateity inhered in a hippopotamus.
But all of these quiddity-quoddity hacks
Could not tell a duck from the fact that it quacks.
– Justin E.H. Smith (American essayist and philospher, b. 1972)
Caveat: en el centro de su olvido
ILUSIONES PERDIDAS
Hoja del árbol caída en infancia
hoja caída de rodillas
en el centro de su olvido
dulce juguete de esperanzas y relámpagos
sangrando la cabeza malherida
como las ilusiones ópticas
en su palacio de muerte inolvidable
constante barco de corazón doliente
entre naufragio y sombra apresurada.
Hoja del nudo caído en árbol caído en infancia
adónde te arrastran hoja de dulce corazón
y los excesos del fuego de las águilas visuales
hojas de las ramas calefaccionables
detenidas en el aire
prontas a podredumbre entre sus propios brazos
como las aguas embrujadas.
– Vicente Huidobro (poeta chileno, 1893-1948)
Caveat: in the system
Juneau School Inservice
--for Walter Soboleff
T'aawchán reads
how it feels to be
a Tlingit in the system
while a gauze of snow
winds past the windows
as if to cover up the problem.
– Nora Marks Dauenhauer (Tlingit poet, 1927-2017)
Caveat: Like Gideon’s fleece
Under Aldebaran
“The place, my lord, is much like Gideon’s fleece
The second time he laid it on the ground;
For by the will of God it has remained
Bone-dry itself, with water all around.
“Yet as a wheel that’s driven in the ruts,
It has a wet rim where the people clot
Like mud; and though they praise the inner spaces,
When asked to go themselves, They’d rather not.
“The men are brave, contentious, ignorant;
The women very much as one expects.
For their religion, I must be excused,
Having no stomach to observe their sects.
“You must be wary in your conversation;
For, seeing them thumb-high, you might suppose
They recognised their stature, but beware!
Their notion of themselves is grandiose.
-Alec Derwent Hope (Australian poet, 1907-2000)
This poem reminds me a bit in its mood to work by Robinson Jeffers. Clearly he is describing the Australian continent, and the residents’ odd relationship to it.
Caveat: the beauty of things is sufficient
It is a sort of tradition in this country not to talk about religion for fear of offending – I am still a little subject to the tradition, and rather dislike stating my “attitudes” except in the course of a poem. However, they are simple. I believe that the universe is one being, all its parts are different expressions of the same energy, and they are all in communication with each other, influencing each other, therefore parts of one organic whole. (This is physics, I believe, as well as religion.)
[…]
The parts change and pass, or die, people and races and rocks and stars, none of them seems to me important in itself, but only the whole. This whole is in all its parts so beautiful, and is felt by me to be so intensely in earnest, that I am compelled to love it, and to think of it as divine. It seems to me that this whole alone is worthy of the deeper sort of love; and that here is peace, freedom, I might say a kind of salvation.
[…]
I think that one may contribute (ever so slightly) to the beauty of things by making one’s own life and environment beautiful, so far as one’s power reaches. This includes moral beauty, one of the qualities of humanity, though it seems not to appear elsewhere in the universe. But I would have each person realize that his contribution is not important, its success not really a matter for exultation nor its failure for mourning; the beauty of things is sufficient without him.
– Robinson Jeffers (poet, 1887-1962)
Caveat: they are all cutten down
What I’m listening to right now.
Loreena McKennitt, “Bonny Portmore.” This song is not her composition, however – it’s a traditional Irish folk song, linked to a fallen oak tree at Lough Portmore, Country Antrim.
Lyrics.
O bonny Portmore, I am sorry to see
Such a woeful destruction of your ornament tree
For it stood on your shore for many’s the long day
Till the long boats from Antrim came to float it away.
O bonny Portmore, you shine where you stand
And the more I think on you the more I think long
If I had you now as I had once before
All the lords in Old England would not purchase Portmore.
All the birds in the forest they bitterly weep
Saying, “Where will we shelter or shall we sleep?”
For the Oak and the Ash, they are all cutten down
And the walls of bonny Portmore are all down to the ground.
O bonny Portmore, you shine where you stand
And the more I think on you the more I think long
If I had you now as I had once before
All the Lords of Old England would not purchase Portmore.
Caveat: Cake for Cake’s Sake
Arthur, on his own initiative, ordered a birthday cake for Juli. The thing is, Juli isn’t here – she’s down in Portland. I believe Arthur was mostly looking for an excuse to have some more chocolate cake, in the wake of the one we bought and ordered for our respective birthdays last month.
Anyway, in fact, Juli’s birthday not until two weeks from now. But we celebrated anyway.
Earlier we went into town for our Thursday shopping day. And we picked up the boat from where it was being serviced at the boat shop. Arthur surprised me, because as we were going to the boat launch area to put the boat in the water, out of the blue he said, so do you want to drive the boat back, or the car?
Our standard division of labor on these ventures has always been that Arthur drives the boat, while I drive the car. I couldn’t quite figure out the motivation behind this offer, but I often have found that when Arthur offers for me to do something that is normally his remit, it’s because he wants me to. So I took it to mean that he preferred that I drive the boat. So for the first time ever, I drove the boat alone, while Arthur drove the Blueberry home.
I did OK. I’m not as good as Arthur at backing the boat up – which I had to do when departing the boat launch. So it got a bit hairy when I was trying to go around another boat parked at the boat launch. But once on open water, I made my way home without incident. It was quite windy and choppy, this afternoon, on the open bay between Craig Harbor and the entrance to Port Saint Nicholas. Perhaps that’s why Arthur wanted me to drive the boat? I even managed to land and tie up the boat alone, at the dock at home, in a quite gusty east wind.
What I’m listening to right now.
Cake, “Comfort Eagle.”
Lyrics.
We are building a religion
We are building it bigger
We are widening the corridors
And adding more lanes
We are building a religion
A limited edition
We are now accepting callers
For these pendant key chains
To resist it is useless
It is useless to resist it
His cigarette is burning
But he never seems to ash
He is grooming his poodle
He is living comfort eagle
You can meet at his location
But you’d better come with cash
Now his hat is on backwards
He can show you his tattoos
He is in the music business
He is calling you “DUDE!”
Now today is tomorrow
And tomorrow today
And yesterday is weaving in and out
And the fluffy white lines
That the airplane leaves behind
Are drifting right in front
Of the waning of the moon
He is handling the money
He is serving the food
He knows about your party
He is calling you “DUDE!”
Now do you believe
In the one big sign
The double wide shine
On the boot heels of your prime
Doesn’t matter if you’re skinny
Doesn’t matter if you’re fat
You can dress up like a sultan
In your onion head hat
We are building a religion
We are making a brand
We’re the only ones to turn to
When your castles turn to sand
Take a bite of this apple
Mr. corporate events
Take a walk through the jungle
Of cardboard shanties and tents
Some people drink Pepsi
Some people drink Coke
The wacky morning DJ
Says democracy’s a joke
He says now do you believe
In the one big song
He’s now accepting callers
Who would like to sing along
He says, do you believe
In the one true edge
By fastening your safety belts
And stepping towards the ledge
He is handling the money
He is serving the food
He is now accepting callers
He is calling me “DUDE!”
He says now do you believe
In the one big sign
The double wide shine
On the boot heels of your prime
There’s no need to ask directions
If you ever lose your mind
We’re behind you
We’re behind you
And let us please remind you
We can send a car to find you
If you ever lose your way
We are building a religion
We are building it bigger
We are building
A religion
A limited
Edition
We are now accepting callers
For these beautiful
Pendant key chains
Caveat: Andar bien relajao
What I’m listening to right now.
Cimafunk, “Ponte pa’ lo tuyo (ft Juana Bacallao, El Tosco, Roberto Carcassés).” This is contemporary Cuban “tropicalized funk” genre, with video – an interesting window into Cuban culture right now.
Letra.
Con mi dinero
Yo hago lo que quiero
Si lo vacilo por aquí
Si lo derrito por allá
Eso es un problema mío caballero
Con mi dinero
Yo hago lo que quiero
Ponte pa’ lo tuyo
Y déjame tranquilo
No quieras que me ponga majadero
Hay gente que vive del chisme del mal ambiente
Y forma intriga por detrás y nunca te hablan de frente
Yo no me meto con nadie no no no no
Soy un chamaco tranquilo
Andar bien relajao, ser feliz, eso es lo mío
Me gustan las fiesta, las noches, las niñas
Farándula rica, hay días que ando al deroche (pero niño hum)
Pero lo mío es lo mío y yo a nadie le quito trabajo
Muy duro así que no quiero
reproches (andas a lo loco, andas a lo loco)
Y ahora andan diciendo por ahí que yo ando a lo loco
Lo que yo quiero es compartir y disfrutar un poco
Tu lo sabes mami
Con mi dinero
Yo hago lo que quiero
Si lo vacilo por aquí
Si lo derrito por allá
Eso es un problema mío caballero
Con mi dinero
Yo hago lo que quiero
Ponte pa’ lo tuyo
Y déjame tranquilo
No quieras que me ponga majadero
Yo suave resolviendo
Y tu perdiendo tu tiempo en brete
El ambiente lo tienes caliente
Tu sigue pegao a lo que hace la gente
No te preocupes más yo voy, yo vengo
Si yo traigo, saco si me falto, tengo
La única manera de yo hacerte caso
Es que te inventes algo rico como esto
Te duele que yo ande en mi salsa
Tirate unas pastillas a ver si se te pasa
Con mi dinero
Yo hago lo que quiero
Ponte pa’ lo tuyo
Recoge que te quedas
A dar el berro caballero
La calle cogió candela
Oye, tremenda sabrosura
Esto es música cubana oite
Te la voy a entregar viva, viva!
Ay ampárate, ampárate
Eheh ponte en la lista y pa la tropical
Maria Silvia carah!
Caveat: climb higher on the chain link fence
At Karma Academy in Korea I often used to teach a class to students (upper elementary and middle school levels) which involved repeatedly listening to and learning the lyrics for English language pop songs. The kids enjoyed it, and it was fun for me too.
As a result, I developed a habit of surfing the internet to find appropriate music to use for these classes. There were some criteria to be met: a catchy tune, not too old, inoffensive lyrics, an engaging video.
Sometimes, even though I no longer need to, I still find myself doing this, as a kind of lingering habit. I found a song earlier that is absolutely perfect for this type of class, and the video is ideal.
What I’m listening to right now.
Mates of State, “Staring Contest.”
Lyrics
Hey, I like it like this
I can’t tell if it’s early in the night
I left my phone on a step all night
I reach for the light, but I don’t turn on
Spend my day running on your lawn
I’m wild
Like I once was (I once was wild)
Heart stop, take me to the blacktop
Fear where I can find a place to stay
(Where I once was wild)
Climb higher on the chain link fence
It’s all about you, I’m wild about you
Eye to eye, it’s a game, it’s a contest
’94 I kissed you in the train park
I really needed you girl
I drive real slow past your house at night
You’re gonna be mine if you don’t hold tight
Like I once was (I once was wild)
Heart stop, take me to the blacktop
Fear where I can find a place to stay
(Where I once was wild)
Climb higher on the chain link fence
It’s all about you, I’m wild about you
Eye to eye, it’s a game, it’s a contest
Are you staring at me, ’cause we’re having a contest
You’re making my heart stop
And I ran (I once was wild)
Heart stop, take me to the blacktop
Fear where I can find a place to stay
(Where I once was wild)
Climb higher on the chain link fence
It’s all about you, I’m wild about you
Eye to eye, it’s a game, it’s a contest
Heart stop, take me to the blacktop
Fear where I can find a place to stay
(Where I once was wild)
Climb higher on the chain link fence
It’s all about you, I’m wild about you
Eye to eye, it’s a game, it’s a contest
Caveat: Their greenness is a kind of grief
The Trees The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too, Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
– Philip Larkin (British poet, 1922-1985)
Caveat: Una llovizna de diurna telepatía
LAS CEBRAS INHALANTES Era un día de verano Apretado Nadie vagaba en torno Las sonrisas peloteaban como en celo Las rosas eran Grandes cebras inhalantes Una llovizna de diurna telepatía Fue para muchos Un grito Yo vi entonces Que nadie caminaba derecho El cerebro apelotonado
– Teófilo Cid (poeta chileno, 1914-1964)
Caveat: Wagyaan giina gha naahlingaay da aasgii gwaayaay inggut ll qinsgaayan
Gaaysta ll qayits dluu
haw ising xhitiit ahlaang tsaagudan ghan ll qaattlagan.
Ll sghunsaangan.
Gam tlagw ll naahlingaay qanggaangan,
Stluuttsadang haw suugangan.
Xhitiit ga ghan ll qiingwas
gyaan llaga ttl gwawgangan.
Wadluu llagu ll naahlingaay gaws dluu
gwii tlakkwaan·gan ll xitgwan·gangan.
Wagyaan giina gha naahlingaay da aasgii gwaayaay inggut ll qinsgaayan.
Wadluu hin Yaahl {ll} suudayan,
"Hlaxaayik gha hl xit."
Giina guunaga Hlaxaayit ttaaya gyangan
ahljiiyahlu gha lla ll suudayani.
"Haw giina gunagaay gyans hl kkudii,
dang tsin isis ahla," hin lla ll suudayan.
Wakkyanan llaga ll hlghwagayan.
Llaga ll hlwaagas ghan aa
giina guunagas unsadalan dluu,
"Hahl gwaa ttakkanaay,
dii kkuuk gha hl naa," hin lla ll suudayan.
"Wagyaan dang giidalang gam tsaghagudangghang asga."
Ahljiiyahlu wiid llagha ll naagan
lla ll tsindas ahla.
- Kingagwaaw
When he [the Raven] left that place, here came another bird with no home of his own. He was all by himself. He had no place to live, the Sapsucker said. When he perched with other birds, they drove him away. And so, having no place to live, he kept flying all the time. And he searched the Islands for something to live in. Then the Raven said, "Fly to Hlaxaayik." He said it because something dead stood at Hlaxaayik. "Peck the standing dead thing with your beak. It's alright; it's your grandfather," he said to him. Nevertheless, he was afraid of it. When the dead thing understood that he was afraid of it, it said to him, "Grandson, come here. Live in my heart, and your children will not be left homeless." That's where he lives even now, because that is his grandfather. - Kingagwaaw (Haida storyteller, early 1900s), translated by Robert Bringhurst
The above fragment appears quoted in the footnotes of Bringhurst’s translation of the Qquuna Cycle by the Haida poet Skaay, in Bringhurst’s volume Being in Being.
Caveat: 사람들은 때때로 수평선 밖으로 뛰어내린다
삶
사람들은 때때로
수평선이 될 때가 있다
사람들은 때때로
수평선 밖으로 뛰어내릴 때가 있다
밤이 지나지 않고 새벽이 울 때
어머니를 땅에 묻고 산을 내려올 때
스스로 사랑이라고 부르던 것들이
모든 증오일 때
사람들은 때때로
수평선 밖으로 뛰어내린다
– 정호승 (한국시인 1950-)
Life
Occasionally there are times
when people turn into horizons.
Occasionally there are times
when people leap beyond the horizon.
When dawn arrives before night has passed,
when descending the hills after burying one’s mother,
When things that once called themselves love
are all of hatred,
Occasionally people
leap beyond the horizon.
– Jeong, Ho-seung (Korean poet, b 1950) (Translated by Anthony of Taizé and Susan Hwang)
Caveat: where is the man who lives out of himself?
Where is the Poet
The inky-garmented, truth-dead Cloud — woven by dumb ghost alone in
the darkness of phantasmal mountain-mouth — kidnapped the
maiden Moon, silence-faced, love-mannered, mirroring her golden
breast in silvery rivulets:
The Wind, her lover, grey-haired in one moment, crazes around the
Universe, hunting her dewy love-letters, strewn secretly upon the
oat-carpets of the open field.
O, drama! never performed, never gossiped, never rhymed! Behold — to
the blind beast, ever tearless, iron-hearted, the Heaven has no
mouth to interpret these tidings!
Ah, where is the man who lives out of himself? — the poet inspired often
to chronicle these things?
- Yone Noguchi (Japanese poet [composing in English], 1875-1947)