Nuance

 

As he softly lays down his honed voice,

In grooves that give him room to improvise

From tenor to bass.

He turns so pretty like a young man with a looking glass.

Whispers, mumbles, flies the kite of song

In a signature growl and sage lullaby.

 

When he raises the volume, it feels like he’s

Letting us in on a secret.

Sincere and still full of surprises.

 

Some lines I've never heard before,

Like getting a letter from an old friend.

A man who knows even his stumbles are adorable.

 

Love me lightly, let the wind blow high …

I forgot how he laughs and sings

At the same time.

Midnight’s broken tongue … 

A phrase floats into mind

From a kaleidoscope of memory.

 

Harmonica like a hug.

Or a good meal.

Medicine for our blues.

***

I wrote this while listening to my first Bob Dylan concert a few weeks ago. Though he'd been a part of my life since 1964, I had never seen him in person. It was a memorable experience.

 

Ephemera

Poetry isn't a task, a chore, or project.

It's a joyful moment,

An ephemeral process of

Reaching up into the ethers

And grasping whatever is there. 

Looking at it,

Witnessing it,

Having a conversation with it.

Poems are like birds,

Each with its own flight,

Nest and favorite tree.

Each with its own version of song.

Birds occasionally flock together

On the lawn to gather food

Or fly away for

The winter.

Do poems?

 

Thoughts Before Sleep

 

Beautiful anonymity.

That’s what I’m feeling.

The sense of being one with the night, the plunk of rain,

Muted cricket symphony fills my inner ear,

The magical quiet of aloneness.

With nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Freedom bathed in cosmic love.

 

The joy of breathing in a body.

The ecstasy of communion with life.

Still in the cocoon.

Not finished yet.

Freeze Frame

 
I don’t know what drew me here. Something mysterious. Maybe the specter of death? That breathing presence behind me? It doesn’t feel like anything that benign or cosmic. I think it’s the constant fear of being criticized. I can’t say “no hope, no fear” in my personal relationships. I’m always afraid I’m going to be accused of breaking some social rule.  Like in high school. Some rule I didn’t agree to. Some rule I didn’t even know about.

A friend pokes me with her sword from time to time, as if my amorphous mass of feelings and thoughts aren’t enough – or aren't inviolate. I’m always slightly horrified and guilty to be awakened from my beautiful slumber – that crucible or slurry of dreams and portents never far from my consciousness.

I wanted to write about this. And about missing my soulmate. Not him the person but him the presence – my lover in the ethers. Where is he now, and who is he now? Is he happy? Is he safe? I reach out with my timeless love and invincible care.

I leave a fingerprint just to mark my place, with an old sketch when I was creating affirmations to prod me into making art, like a frog being pushed by its fond parent to slide into the pond and kick. You don't know you can swim until you try. Now that my memoir is out in the world, I feel like that frog, slowly floating down while the fragments of lilies and minnows settle around me.

Aphantasia

 

The fog of colors has bright edges

In clearly delineated fragments of memory

Like friendly snapshots come to call.

 

In my early days they were paintings

Rivalling Rembrandt and Rousseau

Phantasmagorical dioramas.

 

I learned a new word today – aphantasia

For the loss of that clarity,

That magical realism.

 

Was it the head trauma

Of a shattered browbone

Or a desire to blanket the moments of disaster?

 

Did the cheekbone collude with the

Eye socket and ravaged jaw

To let those nerve endings die without rebirth?

 

It helps to have those bright fragments

Outlining the mysterious fog

And the occasional vivid dream.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Aphantasia is the inability or difficulty to voluntarily generate visual mental imagery. It can be caused by genetics, brain injury, neurological issues or psychological trauma in some cases. The image shown is my surrealistic painting of a woman in Mcleod Ganj, northern India.

Soul Person

Last night I dreamed I was a high school English teacher who'd seduced another middle-aged teacher, a brilliant artist named Lewis. We're alone in my empty classroom having an intimate conversation about books and art. He's totally my type. First of all, Black, but not too handsome. More James Baldwin than Idris.

Secondly, he's brilliant - caustic and witty with an underlying vulnerability that sends me. We're having our first kiss when there's a knock on the door, or rather a scraping noise.

Lewis pulls away. "What's that?"

I laugh. "Probably a cat." But I know it's probably a student so I get up and open the door.

It's Felix, one of the coolest kids in school - a senior. He's tall, looks multi-racial with a sculpted, quizzical face. He's also gay and has a prosthetic left arm from the elbow down. I don't know how he lost it.

Anyway, he comes in and says, "What month is it?"

"September."

"Oh, good. Another Virgo." (How does he know that?)

He has an extra fake hand with a cigarette attached to his prosthetic arm, and he pulls it to his lips and starts to smoke. The fingernails of the fake hand are painted white. Smoking is forbidden but no one has been bold enough to stop him, and I don't try.

I say, "Maybe it's rude of me to say, but the way you use your hand is so beautiful."

He laughs. "You know, most people are too scared to mention it. They can't process two things at the same time. They suddenly blurt out - 'Oh, you're a queer...'" 

I laugh, too.

Lewis has walked a distance away to give us some privacy because he really is special.

I tell Felix, "You know what? I'm a very loving person." I tip my head toward Lewis. "Just ask him ...

"But underneath, I think I'm cold. Really dispassionate."

Felix's eyes widen and his gaze intensifies. I close my eyes.

"I've never told anyone that before, but you're such a genius, I felt like I could tell you."

He says, "You're smiling."

My eyes are still closed to keep from crying. "I know."

I say, "You're a good writer now, but wait 'til you're 65. You're going to be a cynical fucking bastard, but you'll be an amazing writer. I wish I could be around."

He says, "You're my soul person."

"I know."

***

I actually wrote all this down the moment I woke up because it was so clear.

What the Tree Told Me

Remember to stop, breathe, look, listen, feel...breathe...appreciate...

Close your eyes and reach out with your mind, your breath, and listen deeper...feel gentler...be at peace...

Other poets, artists, thinkers are questing for solidarity from all planes and dimensions...

Welcome them, living and dead, one heart beating in tune with the beyond, the universal wordlessness...

Empty of goals because all has been accomplished...

Even as we are continually evolving.

Parallel Dimensions

 

She gazes at the breathing trees

The voices in her head a distant hum

Inconsequential words

Dissolving quietly

 

The summer breeze

Herds leaves like schools of fish

A deep peace stretches out

And rests its eyes in all directions.

 

What about Africa? What about the Oceans?

 

We cry for Ukraine and beg Russia to stop.

We agonize for Gaza and beg Israel and Hamas to stop.

We pray daily.

But what about Africa? What about the health centers destroyed, women and girls at risk of rape and murder? Children dying of hunger? Aid workers forced to leave and food programs, vaccination efforts and HIV prevention ended?

 

We fight for our endangered species and forests.

We beg for habitats to be left alone.

We beg to keep our national parks and protected lands free from pipelines and drills.

We demand clean air and forests.  We write letters and march.

But what about the ocean? What about the dying coral reefs? What about the beached whales, dolphins and sea lions? What about the fish swimming north to colder waters?

 

Africa, you are enormous, with scores of countries – each with its own resources, needs and priorities.  Why are we leaving you vulnerable to exploiters?

Mother Ocean, you are the source of all life.  Hidden.  Mysterious and Inviolate.  Until now. Why are we polluting you and heating you and overfishing you to the point of no return?

Africa and the Ocean.

This is a short love letter.

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

Of our true design –

With full 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.

Art

 

The next time I struggle with creation, let me
remember these things.

The nature and the goal of art is to remind us
that we have nothing to live up to.

Like this field, what is tops all my
efforts to be something I'm not.

Wallowing in anxiety about the reality of my
suffering is more injurious than embracing it.

In the end, living is so much more than we give
ourselves credit for.

New Moon

 

The Farmer's Almanac tell us to plant
When the moon is new
Water the seeds with your spontaneous tears
Pray for the merciful sunlight
Know that insects burrow from below
And birds watch for the fruit
Rabbits and deer will nibble
And new shoots will emerge from the snow
Long after, when you've almost forgotten
You'll look up at the full golden moon
Amid her billowing skirts of clouds
And remember to harvest.

Holding Pattern

Myriad designs appear

        shifting,

Impossible to predict,

        their scope or temperature,

            mood or longevity.

How capricious

        our elusive, ephemeral life.

That much we 

        can depend on.

Burning Questions

Can we be friends?
Can we survive?
Can we agree?
Can we believe and disbelieve
And still agree
And still be friends
And still survive?

The thread between
You (the big you) and
Me (the whole me)
Feels strong and insubstantial,
Like the air we breathe,
The inscrutable sea.

Smoke drifts down from Canada,
Refugees from Kiev,
Great white sharks upon our shores,
Arctic curlews leave.
I dream of flooded floors
In a second story home.

When the smell of fire
Decorates the yellow sky,
These uninvited facts
Creep in and multiply.
I wake and rub my eyes
While the birds cry.

Portal

In the stream of my day
ripples cause barely a stir;
contentment is tangible.

Sun on the water
spreads like a blanket.
Nothing new or exclusive.

Time has no relevance.
We only give names
for efficiency.

To clasp mental hands
and smile at the same
wind in the trees.

Still, I try to memorize
this feeling moment -
Save it like a favorite movie.

To run in that space
between waking and sleep
when I sync to the heartbeat of the world.

The Life You Carved Out

 

I love the summertime, Grandma.

I love the life you carved out.

I love the summertime, Grandma.

I love the life you carved out.

I love the summertime, Grandma.

I love the life you carved out.

I love you, Grandma.

I love the life you created.

Thank you for letting me laugh with you at the end ...

When they told you, "Welcome home."

Nocturnal Visitors

I dreamed I had three pets.  Two cats and a dog.  They were all accidental / rescues - animals who had either come to me or been given to me (in the case of the dog temporarily), and then just stayed.  I had the same condo, but I was able to lean out the window and talk to the people in the next house.  A man asked me if my water bill had been high.  His wife came into my house out of curiosity.

I'm reading Parable of the Sower and it's a revelation.  Written in 1993, it's so prescient.  I realized from looking at the flyleaf that Octavia Butler was someone I should have discovered long ago, and would have loved.  I mourned the fact that she died young in 2006.  But now there are all the other books she wrote that I can explore.  She had such a sharp mind and wonderful imagination.

Back to the dream, though, dreaming of pets leaves me with a comforting spiritual residue.  The purity of animal's souls is so reassuring.

I don't know if anybody even reads my blog anymore.  I haven't tended it in a long time.  It's like a neglected garden that has turned to weeds and stick-like skeletons of previous plants.

But there's something different about blogging than journaling.  It bypasses the mundane.  It gives the other parts of my brain a voice.

It snowed this morning.  Wind-blown flakes that left little handkerchief patterns on the gray wooden slats of the porch.  But now it seems to be finished, and the grass is still that combination of tough, green grass and the dead brown leaves that have fallen off my neighbor's tall trees.

I love those trees almost as much as the plants on my kitchen shelves.  I think it might be time for the geraniums to bloom again.  The red one first.  Then the white.

There's no point to this, obviously.  I just wanted to mark the place where the two cats and dog appeared.  One of the cats was a brown and gray tiger.  She was curled purring at my feet.  The other cat was black and white with a patch of white over one eye.  He was young and active, always chasing some invisible creature around the rooms.  And the dog was a small brown and white mutt with soft fur and a sweet, imploring face.  He was sitting with his head on his front paws, looking up at me under those expressive doggy eyebrows.

They didn't have names in the dream.  And aren't all names just incidental?

The dog in the photo is Iggy, my son's dog.

Outside

 

The cold crisp air

Gray sturdy trees

Straight pathway

Beckons faithfully

 

Any declaration

Bold or timid

Is a flag waved

To the winds of karma

 

Life and breath

Are more than automatic

Each moment we sip

The wondrous oxygen

 

We know our debt

While energy bubbles

In our veins

We take a step

 

Along this faithful path

Among these valiant trees

One reality giving way

To the next unknown.

 

11/30/2021.  I’ve been more and more aware that we are living in a new reality. We cannot pretend to know what’s coming.  It’s all new.  How we navigate it is all we really control.  Even going outside is brave.  What I find interesting is how similar this poem is to the one I wrote in August.