Year of the Snake

 

The falling snow says it’s okay to hide.

We have a blanket under which to consider

The extremity of our emergency –

An emergency of perception, of consciousness

And understanding –

Our human connection to all life

And even to each other

Now a topic for debate.

 

We’re watching a battle of storytellers

The eloquent and the unintelligible –

Given equal time by the conmen.

The most appalling thing is how well organized

And constructed the shell game was,

Each move calculated to hide the worst crimes

Amidst outrageous and unbelievable acts

That must be fought singly.

 

Meanwhile, they tighten their grip on us

In their aeries which we cannot enter,

Even with the tallest ladder.

Does that sound too abstract?

In fact, the stage of action happens

On the plane of imagination.

A battle of ideas where the key to winning

Is to link up soul to soul.

 

Keep reaching out to grab another hand,

And reunite,

Until our majority is too obvious to ignore.

And if they attempt to divide us,

We remerge, incorporate our limbs

Drawing into ourselves

New strength.

 

One act at a time, one hand at a time,

Even one poem at a time,

Until our long body of separate segments

Joins and begins to hum –

You can hear it like a song –

Beneath the snow,

Without words and more powerful for that.

 

Our one long body sheds its skin

Uncovering the deep and vibrant pattern

There all along –

Our deep mobility – now freed from

Counting steps.

We glide into our own future,

Orienting ourselves by

The heartbeat of the earth.

 

Zakir's Gift

 

 

1

 Each of us is a hollow bone

That can fill with the sublime truth of music,

And carried on that wind

Our rascal selves dissolve,

Our will-o’-wisp trails

Shimmer insubstantial,

Like motes in a rolling wave,

And when enticed again into form,

We know the miraculousness

Of simple acts.

 

Each step has rhythm if we can find it,

The call and response of life.

Each of us no more and no less vital

Than the notes within a symphony.

It is the counterpoint between us

That makes the harmony.

And shall we call down that wind of sound?

It only works through us if we hollow ourselves.

 

To find the common thread

In the frenecy of the marketplace

Is the gift of a master.

One needs a different ear

To find that melody.

Perhaps an old sense must be deadened.

The sound of birds in flight,

The cacophony of monsoon rain

No less than crickets murmuring in the night,

Or growing grass

Reaching for the sun.

 

It is a kindness (music)

Some may feel as touch.

(Music) shows the common taste

Of happiness and sadness.

The bottomless joy that is beyond

That great ground from which we spring.

We keep returning to this place

Because the ending always makes us want for more.

 

2

 

Zakir says “the second half will be …

The second half.”

 

And how can we not dance

When every part of us vibrates,

And how would the bird fly

Without the wind?

Oh, let me be the flute

Through which your wind blows,

And let me be the drum

On which your hands thump.

 

 

Zakir Hussain, master percussionist, inspired me to write this poem when I attended a free concert at Skinner Hall, Vassar College on October 7, 2012.

This incomparable musician just died December 15, 2024 at age 73. I will never forget hearing him play.

Mystery Writers

When I was a teenager, my mother introduced me to the writings of Agatha Christie. I spent many happy hours with a paperback from my Great Aunt Stella's bookshelf, curled up on the daybed, transported to some other country - mostly England. Mom and I would discuss who we thought "done it" later on.

Mom was a keen fan of mysteries and gave me books by Dorothy Sayers, P.D. James, and so many others through the years. The last one she gave me before she died at the age of 97 was Donna Leon's Death at La Fenice.

Death. Well, of course, that's the foundation of the mystery. And yet, there is nothing more comforting than a genre that gives the illusion of permanence amidst the uncertainties of life. Whatever the outcome, there will be an answer.

In my twenties and thirties, I devoured mostly science fiction and it wasn't until my forties that I went back to reading mysteries. Though there are brilliant writers in science fiction, including Ursula LeGuin, Isaac Asimov, and the incomparable Frank Herbert, I still rank mystery writers as some of the finest authors in print.

I have many, many favorites now.  One is Stuart MacBride, a Scottish author.  Another is Arnaldur Indridason, who is Icelandic.  And the moment Louise Penny releases a new book about her Canadian Inspector Gamache, I will even pay for it in hardback. 

Most of the time, though, I either pick up a book from the public library or download an audiobook. My favorite narrator is Angus King, whose Scottish accent absolutely slays me. He is so good at imparting an author's humor. Sometimes I laugh out loud and I'm sure people wonder if I'm on the phone with someone.

What brought me to write this blog post today, though, was while reading a book by Peter Robinson, Not Dark Yet. I just found myself stirred by his incandescent writing. I had to put the book down and close my eyes. 

This is the second time I've been stopped by his sheer mastery. Months ago, I laid aside Standing in the Shadows to copy a phrase that enchanted me. I don't think I am supposed to quote him here, as I respect copyright issues.

Anyway, I haven't touched my blog in months, but reading Robinson's prose inspired me. Maybe I will write a poem soon.

I hope you like the spooky picture that I took during a squall last summer. It would have been a perfect backdrop for one of Merry Folger's mysteries set in Nantucket.