tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49868821813474146152024-02-02T01:51:31.261-05:00Just Fiddlefarting AroundPoems. Pictures. Other nondescript stuff.Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.comBlogger339125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-66126373498310017712014-07-04T11:23:00.000-04:002014-07-04T11:23:21.236-04:00ChangesFor the few people who have been paying attention, you may have noticed that I haven't been writing or posting much in the past few months. There are many reasons for this. Some of these reasons are out of my control, such as my current work schedule. But I have also kind of lost my way, my motivation, whatever it is that keeps me writing and posting things I think are worthwhile. In hopes of renewing some creative impulse I have decided a change of venue might be helpful. We'll see.<br />
<br />
You may now find me at my Wordpress site, <a href="http://mytinythroes.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">My Tiny Throes</a>. All of the content here has been imported over there, and I hope the new scenery will spur me on to keep writing and posting. (As an aside, I have reverted back to my given name, Jeff. I think the folks who were out to get me have been sufficiently thrown off my trail, so there is no reason to use a nickname to protect my identity.)Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-86707795446958207142014-07-04T08:55:00.000-04:002014-07-04T08:56:43.512-04:00Judson Mitcham: Before Prayer<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV5J9Wdez7KSqOwsC76mR-joOJEAFDVfNqNOXJQ48fwsjDBu3svlHvk2LVSPROWpIkMS1yymmwLxmfky34nuovhKk3kNtUN7Rgo3ccR9xGzoVs-Gf93nFHwaUgVGK3wmsjGJM6oHyDQwg/s1600/judson-mitcham.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV5J9Wdez7KSqOwsC76mR-joOJEAFDVfNqNOXJQ48fwsjDBu3svlHvk2LVSPROWpIkMS1yymmwLxmfky34nuovhKk3kNtUN7Rgo3ccR9xGzoVs-Gf93nFHwaUgVGK3wmsjGJM6oHyDQwg/s1600/judson-mitcham.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<a href="http://www.georgiawritershalloffame.org/honorees/biography.php?authorID=44" target="_blank">Judson Mitcham</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She curled up next to me on the Trailways,<br />
clutching her cigarettes and change.<br />
The light framed her face, while the bus<br />
idled under a streetlight in Ringgold,<br />
till it groaned on into the night,<br />
headed south down the two lane.<br />
<br />
I think of her often, this woman<br />
who appeared in the aisle like a nightmare<br />
somewhere in Tennessee, bits of weed<br />
in wild hair matted on one side.<br />
She lurched through the vacant bus<br />
toward the one seat where, by accident,<br />
she could touch someone.<br />
<br />
When the light left her face, it came,<br />
this ache I have felt all my life.<br />
Whatever is within us, it is not enough.<br />
<br />
--Judson Mitcham<br />
<br />
<br />Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-71441175768542791642014-06-21T15:04:00.001-04:002014-06-21T15:04:25.237-04:00David Wagoner: After the Point of No Return<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBZWyu6M5l0TjP9fPb0WAMbss1wP_5IlQbBc4GTjzalGrv8pL5cdswaRGRxrBOrA7vI8yDo3Ezi-6lJZKK14Z8KaUEpWXNT0oHWAL6gjp_IdskB0CkO1743vY1TO3-JfNQWpinN7gGTE/s1600/Wagoner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBZWyu6M5l0TjP9fPb0WAMbss1wP_5IlQbBc4GTjzalGrv8pL5cdswaRGRxrBOrA7vI8yDo3Ezi-6lJZKK14Z8KaUEpWXNT0oHWAL6gjp_IdskB0CkO1743vY1TO3-JfNQWpinN7gGTE/s1600/Wagoner.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David Wagoner</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After that moment when you've lost all reason<br />
for going back where you started, when going ahead<br />
is no longer a <i>Yes</i> or <i>No</i>, but a matter of fact,<br />
you'll need to weigh, on the one hand, what will seem,<br />
on the other, almost nothing against something<br />
slightly more than nothing and must choose<br />
again and again, at points of fewer and fewer<br />
chances to guess, when and which way to turn.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-4990906875554365152014-06-03T06:28:00.000-04:002014-06-03T06:28:24.872-04:00Tu Fu: Standing Alone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgouIOHa-KoXM-S7creq6B_3d71xiAKasVdWl9MLfF0-OwukJWPHkSPMfNXnaP2gnV6K1RiUAiTsjdZbUEaR_3NpvJgvjBH01zPOEed1cKFPmQ4UV1Bty-nuL-h8FwsAwKmNEWaG5Jo32U/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgouIOHa-KoXM-S7creq6B_3d71xiAKasVdWl9MLfF0-OwukJWPHkSPMfNXnaP2gnV6K1RiUAiTsjdZbUEaR_3NpvJgvjBH01zPOEed1cKFPmQ4UV1Bty-nuL-h8FwsAwKmNEWaG5Jo32U/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Empty skies. And beyond, one hawk.<br />
Between river banks, two white gulls<br />
Drift and flutter. Fit for an easy kill,<br />
To and fro, they follow contentment.<br />
<br />
Dew shrouds grasses. Spiderwebs are still<br />
Not gathered in. The purpose driving<br />
Heaven become human now, I stand where<br />
Uncounted sorrows begin beginning alone.<br />
<br />
--Tu Fu, trans. David Hinton<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-33026617096194552342014-06-01T09:47:00.001-04:002014-06-01T09:47:09.035-04:00Walt Whitman: Thought (Of persons arrived at high positions)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcAUb68GuBLlxV4JF3bTGkUMGIPb1KamGB64HuYhpGSGyac1ofKihuZj40WYMR4Hqfu_3yu9EqIXjmn4Trrmoe6hr09KNy8yTpxON37XqNicnVYYMCFohp4_4vk_SmRf8E7jOgShPWYwo/s1600/Walt_Whitman_-_George_Collins_Cox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcAUb68GuBLlxV4JF3bTGkUMGIPb1KamGB64HuYhpGSGyac1ofKihuZj40WYMR4Hqfu_3yu9EqIXjmn4Trrmoe6hr09KNy8yTpxON37XqNicnVYYMCFohp4_4vk_SmRf8E7jOgShPWYwo/s1600/Walt_Whitman_-_George_Collins_Cox.jpg" height="320" width="258" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Walt Whitman: May 31, 1819-March 26, 1892)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Of persons arrived at high positions, ceremonies, wealth,<br />
scholarships, and the like;<br />
(To me all that those persons have arrived at sinks away from<br />
them, except as it results to their bodies and souls,<br />
So that often to me they appear gaunt and naked,<br />
And often to me each one mocks the others, and mocks<br />
himself or herself,<br />
And of each one the core of life, namely happiness, is full of<br />
the rotten excrement of maggots,<br />
And often to me those men and women pass unwittingly the<br />
true realities of life, and go toward false realities,<br />
And often to me they are alive after what custom has served<br />
them, but nothing more,<br />
And often to me they are sad, hasty, unwaked<br />
sonnambules walking the dusk.)<br />
<br />
--Walt Whitman<br />
<br />
<br />Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-62275706756461386672014-05-25T08:52:00.001-04:002014-05-25T08:52:32.375-04:00Ralph Waldo Emerson: I Am Not Alone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgum6JqlGBM0fPpURT-0XcXIvWw4nwC9QPP2sNHYi0kJXPYjH04tPZNw4wXLncNExCF62VXk_kt6WEFgcdNU64b5cE0a7OeH6Z7dczfC1iT0BnBOqqfRIsQK7m7dB7U5VmzJsfvWCSiIt0/s1600/220px-RWEmerson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgum6JqlGBM0fPpURT-0XcXIvWw4nwC9QPP2sNHYi0kJXPYjH04tPZNw4wXLncNExCF62VXk_kt6WEFgcdNU64b5cE0a7OeH6Z7dczfC1iT0BnBOqqfRIsQK7m7dB7U5VmzJsfvWCSiIt0/s1600/220px-RWEmerson.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unaknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them. </span><br />
<br />
--Ralph Waldo Emerson, from "Nature"Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-36785179477834984652014-04-09T10:37:00.001-04:002014-04-09T10:37:46.347-04:00William Wordsworth: The Strength of Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6R5IqwGuRiODsQhSVCX7XSmNQXsZ4t3SCLhyurxO5IzHpigCOdZS80i146L5XKSKgDBDzYQcPpBPCQSbOyHxPHiFnWLv5teMf249NyeUZKOUf170uAuauTwpvzeMxGKZ8PEwqjRj4AgI/s1600/William_Wordsworth_001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6R5IqwGuRiODsQhSVCX7XSmNQXsZ4t3SCLhyurxO5IzHpigCOdZS80i146L5XKSKgDBDzYQcPpBPCQSbOyHxPHiFnWLv5teMf249NyeUZKOUf170uAuauTwpvzeMxGKZ8PEwqjRj4AgI/s1600/William_Wordsworth_001.jpg" height="320" width="256" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is a comfort in the strength of love;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">'Twill make a thing endurable, which else</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Would break the heart.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> --William Wordsworth, from "Michael"</span>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-89230044353478912192014-04-04T06:30:00.000-04:002014-04-04T06:31:01.311-04:00Walt Whitman: Thought (Of Equality)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6g0yUnFUgj6YDSSfnvuGxJKpYDa87UiD0ToeA09gQfYXG-hKGg84O6HeBsMpsy96pPc_Y05C2GO_WPwzGeklYIKiJZT_k7-8O2N6kyu9exLE7GsMYWiUfgRxAozqOzDuNZPuMnbozcY/s1600/Whitman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6g0yUnFUgj6YDSSfnvuGxJKpYDa87UiD0ToeA09gQfYXG-hKGg84O6HeBsMpsy96pPc_Y05C2GO_WPwzGeklYIKiJZT_k7-8O2N6kyu9exLE7GsMYWiUfgRxAozqOzDuNZPuMnbozcY/s1600/Whitman.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Credit: Ohio Wesleyan U., Bayley Collection)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Thought</b><br />
<br />
Of Equality--as if it harm'd me, giving others<br />
the same chances and rights as myself--<br />
as if it were not indispensable to my own<br />
rights that others possess the same.<br />
<br />
--Walt WhitmanJeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-42592430176121560602014-04-03T13:48:00.000-04:002014-04-03T13:48:16.278-04:00Stephen Crane: War Is Kind XXI<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXx9E5djq3S1dEvV0R4XPvOuD_QCr0mOAYGFuF5zfYbZPzpkhjD6vpP7YBd7f3pMnCZo2kl2bLN_5bJaELYSvqi4-zEhXxOi4KRxqbEEFZA5kCXkg5tnYm3DRqxcERtOAdZAluSLG55_E/s1600/220px-SCrane2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXx9E5djq3S1dEvV0R4XPvOuD_QCr0mOAYGFuF5zfYbZPzpkhjD6vpP7YBd7f3pMnCZo2kl2bLN_5bJaELYSvqi4-zEhXxOi4KRxqbEEFZA5kCXkg5tnYm3DRqxcERtOAdZAluSLG55_E/s1600/220px-SCrane2.JPG" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<b>XXI</b><br />
<br />
A man said to the universe:<br />
"Sir, I exist!"<br />
"However," replied the universe,<br />
"The fact has not created in me<br />
"A sense of obligation."<br />
<br />
--Stephen Crane, from <i>War Is Kind</i>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-56156292363519448792014-03-27T08:33:00.000-04:002014-03-27T08:35:38.837-04:00Amy Fleury: When at Last I Join<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSFUufEp_TVZXkxZ54a-pybH4878htCoC9OaDXzAlPPcwfG4Dp5fQSxTYFE-CM5FpW28S2gw0-JNvpv1fIZjtT0viZgcdu-94sNawlTdyPWw2oNgqsDuXC4LQ2uRjKvIAa8Nbrr1lgsH0/s1600/Amy.Fleury.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSFUufEp_TVZXkxZ54a-pybH4878htCoC9OaDXzAlPPcwfG4Dp5fQSxTYFE-CM5FpW28S2gw0-JNvpv1fIZjtT0viZgcdu-94sNawlTdyPWw2oNgqsDuXC4LQ2uRjKvIAa8Nbrr1lgsH0/s1600/Amy.Fleury.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<a href="https://www.mcneese.edu/enfl/mcneese_professor_publishes_poetry_book" target="_blank">Amy Fleury</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
A few weeks ago I read a poem in Ted Kooser's column. I liked the poem so much I looked up the poet, Amy Fleury, and bought her latest book, <i>Sympathetic Magic</i>. Every single poem is incredibly good. Seriously. I don't remember the last time I read a collection of poetry that didn't have even one weak poem. Here is one of my favorites:<br />
<br />
<b>When at Last I Join</b><br />
<br />
When at last I join the democracy of dirt,<br />
a tussock earthed over and grass healed,<br />
I'll gladly conspire in my own diminishment.<br />
<br />
Let a pink peony bloom from my chest<br />
and may it be visited by a charm of bees,<br />
who will then carry the talcum of pollen<br />
<br />
and nectar of clover to the grove where they hive.<br />
Let the honey they make be broken<br />
from comb, and release from its golden hold,<br />
<br />
onto some animal tongue, my soul.<br />
<br />
--Amy Fleury<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-3009554814696955732014-03-25T19:26:00.000-04:002014-03-25T19:26:11.546-04:00If I Could Have Any Wish<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left;">
There would be no blazing colors,</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
no deafening fireworks, </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
no boisterous milling crowds</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
of pleasure-seekers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
Only you and me</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
in a darkened room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
Only the electric touch</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
of your body and mine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
------------------------------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
Congrats to Abhra Pal on the occassion of his first <a href="http://dversepoets.com/2014/03/25/potics-the-color-festival/" target="_blank">dVerse </a>hosting! Abhra, using the joyous Hindu festival of Holi as inspiration, invites us to consider the combination of color and love. Contrarian that I am, I went colorless. Kind of. </div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-54217849964219246652014-03-22T13:44:00.002-04:002014-03-22T13:44:43.418-04:00Sara K.: In the Fall (Maggie's Dream)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/oLKd19g84nM" width="420"></iframe>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-31533514433168419442014-03-21T07:31:00.000-04:002014-03-21T07:31:15.222-04:00Walt Whitman: The Most Spiritual Poems<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7VVIs64FnJmBwbkPE1BBarR7fUPqSSTFc1fsrvThbL6D7YCL5Sj3DIdaleKVM1ckdthl04ecs3_z0MsJmLnc7uadJjRvPEj8Ewhxami-Qd6s_BMtsO5XKzq-2PWPSlzed0Cv0trC0CGo/s1600/Walt_Whitman_-_George_Collins_Cox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7VVIs64FnJmBwbkPE1BBarR7fUPqSSTFc1fsrvThbL6D7YCL5Sj3DIdaleKVM1ckdthl04ecs3_z0MsJmLnc7uadJjRvPEj8Ewhxami-Qd6s_BMtsO5XKzq-2PWPSlzed0Cv0trC0CGo/s1600/Walt_Whitman_-_George_Collins_Cox.jpg" height="320" width="258" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I will make the poems of materials, for I think they<br />
are to be the most spiritual poems,<br />
And I will make the poems<br />
of my body and of mortality,<br />
For I think I shall then supply myself with the poems<br />
of my soul and of immmortality.<br />
<br />
--Walt Whitman,<br />
from "Starting from Paumanok"Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-19502103825176969212014-03-19T08:41:00.000-04:002014-03-19T08:41:20.495-04:00Sindoor Sun<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-Cxia4lL3g6Zn9nBSG9xic8h74JxpkUtk9JOVlR485rsADCLRXonYOPWoVrh07GdtEP8CPDirmfvaQfKQhZvrWO1FOCD8hsZX0GVfX9w92goUWloSOq_QNEkhNQRVMsfRno9kal16YM/s1600/sunitakhedekar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-Cxia4lL3g6Zn9nBSG9xic8h74JxpkUtk9JOVlR485rsADCLRXonYOPWoVrh07GdtEP8CPDirmfvaQfKQhZvrWO1FOCD8hsZX0GVfX9w92goUWloSOq_QNEkhNQRVMsfRno9kal16YM/s1600/sunitakhedekar.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Painting by <a href="http://www.khedekars.com/" target="_blank">Sunita Khedekar</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Veiled from the setting sindoor sun</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by a charcoal roof </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and shaded downcast eyes, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I still feel your tears on my face—</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">what are these thoughts I think </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">in the gray of a fading day?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just to know, for my own sake,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I look from the window</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">as we used to do, to see</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">if the fishermen’s boats</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">still glistened in the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">setting sindoor sun.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">__________________________________</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">For <a href="http://dversepoets.com/2014/03/18/poetics/" target="_blank">dVerse</a>. Grace has us writing with color in mind, using artwork by <a href="http://www.khedekars.com/" target="_blank">Sunita Khedekar</a> for inspiration. It's been such a long while since I've posted anything, but Sunita's work is so powerful I just had to give this a go. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sindoor" target="_blank">Click here for info. on sindoor.</a> Please visit dVerse and write something you can share with us; at the very least, you owe it to yourself to check out Sunita's art. Incredible work!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com50tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-4742690178366009362014-02-01T14:26:00.001-05:002014-02-01T14:26:17.815-05:00Galway Kinnell: The Olive Wood Fire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-M_Hp0tPl0eSLm7zwm9DHIYdJGucc4NgXHChPBQUqG1X7n9kcJaW28u8vYRr88ke4_Gc0OPa9LSeI4CBKalitimlr5go8uQXRQ5R-0K7fxwZ0pGJvsWXXGsRRkP9jkPR171kRU3Z2P98/s1600/galway+kinnell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-M_Hp0tPl0eSLm7zwm9DHIYdJGucc4NgXHChPBQUqG1X7n9kcJaW28u8vYRr88ke4_Gc0OPa9LSeI4CBKalitimlr5go8uQXRQ5R-0K7fxwZ0pGJvsWXXGsRRkP9jkPR171kRU3Z2P98/s1600/galway+kinnell.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<b>The Olive Wood Fire</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
When Fergus woke crying at night</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I would carry him from his crib</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
to the rocking chair and sit holding him</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
before the fire of thousand-year-old olive wood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Sometimes, for reasons I never knew</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
and he has forgotten, even after his bottle the
big tears</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
would keep on rolling down his big cheeks</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
—the left cheek always more brilliant than the
right—</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
and we would sit, some nights for hours, rocking</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
in the light eking itself out of the ancient wood,</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
and hold each other against the darkness, </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
his close behind and far away in the future, </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
mine I imagined all around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
One such time, fallen half-asleep myself,</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I thought I heard a scream</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
—a flier crying out in horror </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
as he dropped fire on he didn’t know what or whom,</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
or else a child thus set aflame—</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
and sat up alert. The olive wood fire</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
had burned low. In my arms lay Fergus,</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
fast asleep, left cheek glowing, God.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
--Galway Kinnell</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-54280749145198131492014-01-10T08:35:00.000-05:002014-01-10T09:02:18.868-05:00Poppy's Brush Pile<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<b>Poppy’s
Brush Pile<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Poppy liked to tell the story </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
about the time he did a little </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
yard cleaning and had a grand old pile </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
of brush and leaves, probably </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
about ten feet high more than likely, </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
and reckoned he couldn’t </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
bag it all, that Ketchem’s </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
didn’t have enough bags to sell </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
even if he’d a-wanted to, so he </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
figured on it awhile and settled on </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
a big burning as the best way— </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
shortly the pile would be gone, </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
and while it was a-going he could </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
set on the porch and just watch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
So he took a dry bunch of leaves</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
up under the pile and dropped </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
his half-smoked Marlboro. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
One tiny spark and a smidgen </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
of smoke and nothing else. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Well, this ain’t working </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
worth shooting, he said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Then he went to the porch </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
and got a-hold of the morning paper,</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
crinkled it all up, stuffed it </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
in the pile and lit a match.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
The paper burnt quick</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
and awful hot but petered out</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
before doing its business—</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
‘bout like my pecker, Poppy said—</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
so he went back to figuring.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Then he remembered that five-gallon can </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
of regular gasoline he had sitting</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
in the shed, and he wasn’t about </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
to let a damned brush pile</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
make a fool of him. He took the can </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
and scrabbled to the top, standing </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
like the precious good Lord </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
come again on Mount Olive,</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
and dumped the gas all over the pile. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
‘Course it took awhile to pour</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
five gallons, so in the meantime</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
the fumes worked their way </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
all into the little pockets </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
of air. As you might guess</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
but Poppy didn’t, not quite yet, </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
when the match was dropped </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
the blast blowed him</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
clear into the flower bed,</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
heels heavenward. He said he smelt </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
singed ass-hairs for two weeks after.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
He liked to tell this story and say,</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
See there, honey, even if you reckon </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
you got the best idea, you still </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
might want to figure awhile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
------------------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
For <a href="http://dversepoets.com/2014/01/09/meeting-the-bar-looking-back-looking-ahead/" target="_blank">dVerse Meeting the Bar</a>. I have been absent from the bar for a few months, and sincerely missed everyone. Peak season at work, tons of overtime. I still was able to do a fair amount of reading, but very little writing. Just couldn't find the motivation, the inspiration, the whatever it is that makes me put pen to paper and try to make sense of my world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Anyway, our host Tony Maude has us hearkening back to previous prompts, and since I missed so many I felt a lot of freedom. This poem is meant for <a href="http://dversepoets.com/2013/12/12/hearth-home-and-the-common-tongue/" target="_blank">the prompt Victoria offered</a>, in which she invited us to write close to home, personal, in the common speech of daily life. I actually had another poem ready that I wrote last night, but things happened and I didn't submit. Then as I was falling asleep I thought about this story, so I wrote it out this morning.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-51590638284233494302014-01-08T14:56:00.000-05:002014-01-08T14:56:12.886-05:00Paulo Freire: Enemies Who Must Be Watched<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchfoRf8JNaYfgMbe0iSgaZaoh1sH5asSLr-FvlUa6S-FZxVBwWOm-d3xZCnx6b-ygnT9ldoFNcxtGYPVpd6CvudH94DedIRXiX1gN_jHynoPTfOo0dyM_wVDK8LgTsYlLevVxXZpAKTI/s1600/Paulo_Freire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchfoRf8JNaYfgMbe0iSgaZaoh1sH5asSLr-FvlUa6S-FZxVBwWOm-d3xZCnx6b-ygnT9ldoFNcxtGYPVpd6CvudH94DedIRXiX1gN_jHynoPTfOo0dyM_wVDK8LgTsYlLevVxXZpAKTI/s1600/Paulo_Freire.jpg" height="320" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Image credit: <span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px; text-align: start;">Slobodan Dimitrov)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The oppressors do not
perceive their monopoly on <i>having more </i>as a privilege which dehumanizes
others and themselves. They cannot see that, in the egoistic pursuit of <i>having
</i>as a possessing class, they suffocate in their own possessions and no
longer <i>are; </i>they merely <i>have. </i>For them, <i>having more </i>is an
inalienable right, a right they acquired through their own "effort,"
with their "courage to take risks." If others do not have more, it is
because they are incompetent and lazy, and worst of all is their unjustifiable
ingratitude towards the "generous gestures" of the dominant class.
Precisely because they are "ungrateful" and "envious," the
oppressed are regarded as potential enemies who must be watched.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">--Paulo Freire,<i> Pedagogy
of the Oppressed</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-40243486933570500402014-01-03T12:07:00.003-05:002014-01-03T12:07:44.484-05:00Maurice Manning: A Contemplation of the Celestial World<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxEV99MBbLP_n10KUnGxRxHdo3tYL4wZHYY3xz3w-mm8dOIALLdkwpwahCnVuoAoey3Uv70gE2PhitVjvrP4x69VfGGuNOcrq_etRwfnA6j4g_4S248LbrS1oE8sAGoM8oq-qwZ0vb5s/s1600/maurice-manning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxEV99MBbLP_n10KUnGxRxHdo3tYL4wZHYY3xz3w-mm8dOIALLdkwpwahCnVuoAoey3Uv70gE2PhitVjvrP4x69VfGGuNOcrq_etRwfnA6j4g_4S248LbrS1oE8sAGoM8oq-qwZ0vb5s/s320/maurice-manning.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Image from <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/maurice-manning" target="_blank">The Poetry Foundation</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>A Contemplation of
the Celestial World<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whoever had the thought to render bear fat<br />
and burn it in a lamp was touched a bit,<br />
or bored, or left alone to ponder light<br />
too long in some dank cabin: bear fat pops<br />
and stinks and brings no cheer to our condition.<br />
My brother Squire would burn such lamps to read<br />
the Scriptures: eyelids smudged, his head immersed<br />
in smoke; his Bible, like a gutted beast,<br />
spread open to Leviticus; his lips:<br />
for prayer. Then I would go outside to muse<br />
upon the many things which need no light,<br />
the chiefest being tears and copulation,<br />
then others, like remembering glad days<br />
or moments which occur without regard<br />
for stars or lamps—my thought: what matters most<br />
is borne of darkness then makes its own pure light.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
--Maurice
Manning</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-60290010419304743342014-01-01T19:35:00.001-05:002014-01-01T19:35:14.964-05:00Robert Hass: New Year's Morning<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3WDiyhq_JijM7lp_uxy8TqT5GjHx-Q-ovgaPSHFw7RkQStu4cY38zvyMKZON9Ury21rLlOUArUDe3sr1Fe4hsZgrHsf9ig2Xv0Yf1guITJXgxCMVn9NApNuSWWbLPy7WAqkwBqe61rNY/s1600/hass2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3WDiyhq_JijM7lp_uxy8TqT5GjHx-Q-ovgaPSHFw7RkQStu4cY38zvyMKZON9Ury21rLlOUArUDe3sr1Fe4hsZgrHsf9ig2Xv0Yf1guITJXgxCMVn9NApNuSWWbLPy7WAqkwBqe61rNY/s320/hass2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Image Credit: Chronicle/Chris Stewart)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<span style="font-size: large;">New Year’s morning—</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: large;"> everything is in blossom!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I feel
about average.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
-- Robert Hass, from </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
"After the Gentle Poet </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Kobayashi Issa"</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-44516775614804695082013-12-30T14:47:00.000-05:002013-12-30T14:47:27.663-05:00Stephen Crane: Black Riders XXVIII<b>XXVIII</b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEr9kFhyZKET-CK4Q1lYw-XdXYXC9MHXsjlMUK59s_sAwxCrmiDye3kujAcZ3IoqUX1i0BbmFLle5dfxA2408zCCKGjE-XXWPYLJi-V7VF-Db3dqUjhrLN6SBkjpMP2pU6tywgrpSBzh0/s1600/220px-SCrane2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEr9kFhyZKET-CK4Q1lYw-XdXYXC9MHXsjlMUK59s_sAwxCrmiDye3kujAcZ3IoqUX1i0BbmFLle5dfxA2408zCCKGjE-XXWPYLJi-V7VF-Db3dqUjhrLN6SBkjpMP2pU6tywgrpSBzh0/s1600/220px-SCrane2.JPG" /></a><br />
<br />
"Truth," said a traveller,<br />
"Is a rock, a mighty fortress;<br />
"Often have I been to it,<br />
"Even to its highest tower,<br />
"From whence the world looks black."<br />
<br />
"Truth," said a traveller,<br />
"Is a breath, a wind,<br />
"A shadow, a phantom;<br />
"Long have I pursued it,<br />
"But never have I touched<br />
"The hem of its garment."<br />
<br />
And I believed the second traveller;<br />
For truth was to me<br />
A breath, a wind,<br />
A shadow, a phantom,<br />
And never had I touched<br />
The hem of its garment.<br />
<br />
--Stephen Crane,<br />
from <i>Black Riders and Other Lines</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-77650360677692351032013-12-27T13:00:00.001-05:002013-12-27T13:00:37.623-05:00Karl Marx: Nothing to Expect but a Hiding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetMUh1CoyQs8uGZvVzZdZjtCxcAA3DFxKPxbxwTgAYnQi0_fYA_m54DEPlYGUyF1BsT70llhJqAeQzCLCn0wsIQn-aiBovB3lzusHwSY_sPFS1pFchrgDdFzrhIJ7L6tXEgwV1tyOcUQ/s1600/Karl_Marx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetMUh1CoyQs8uGZvVzZdZjtCxcAA3DFxKPxbxwTgAYnQi0_fYA_m54DEPlYGUyF1BsT70llhJqAeQzCLCn0wsIQn-aiBovB3lzusHwSY_sPFS1pFchrgDdFzrhIJ7L6tXEgwV1tyOcUQ/s320/Karl_Marx.jpg" width="292" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He, who before was the money owner, now strides in front as capitalist; the possessor of labour power follows as his labourer. The one with an air of importance, smirking, intent on business; the other, timid and holding back, like one who is bringing his own hide to market and has nothing to expect but--a hiding.<br />
<br />
--Karl Marx, from <i>Capital</i>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-5372713571920216552013-12-26T12:11:00.000-05:002013-12-26T12:11:13.232-05:00Rae Armantrout: Advent<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj84MypSEcUfHV7mb0TR_CRQjKJYBtSUCUrxSi2Pk49NkBNAC3295RwneRm_CoSmdpyWdp485UMij1fT4v0hoQ4KAU8NWNQfoIzoed14scofljLueOlFsCLwm_yOPD6Xd8pyVB97JTs4Lw/s1600/Armantrout-Rae_Ch-Bernstein_Penn_9-20-07.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj84MypSEcUfHV7mb0TR_CRQjKJYBtSUCUrxSi2Pk49NkBNAC3295RwneRm_CoSmdpyWdp485UMij1fT4v0hoQ4KAU8NWNQfoIzoed14scofljLueOlFsCLwm_yOPD6Xd8pyVB97JTs4Lw/s320/Armantrout-Rae_Ch-Bernstein_Penn_9-20-07.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Image Credit: Charles Bernstein/<a href="http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Armantrout.php" target="_blank">PennSound</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Advent</b><br />
<br />
In front of the craft shop,<br />
a small nativity,<br />
mother, baby, sheep<br />
made of white<br />
and blue balloons.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Sky<br />
god<br />
girl.<br />
<br />
Pick out the one<br />
that doesn't belong.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Some thing<br />
<br />
close to nothing<br />
flat<br />
from which,<br />
<br />
fatherless,<br />
everything has come.<br />
<br />
--Rae Armantrout<br />
<br />
<br />Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-10135038982826296042013-12-25T14:05:00.000-05:002013-12-25T14:06:10.142-05:00Wendell Berry: Landscape<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjawIpqJXZYte5bECkbrXfKSHHMJSvOXUL9kw1tTTuwKzFp6Rgzp5NWRBWDPGCgzRQaZrrtlgU-vZOYcptn7KkknEryhSUcK-54UMvpr5_eMjx1CwWEls5dnUYx8Lgtdacpx9SLaH5Z4_Y/s1600/wu+chen_fishing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjawIpqJXZYte5bECkbrXfKSHHMJSvOXUL9kw1tTTuwKzFp6Rgzp5NWRBWDPGCgzRQaZrrtlgU-vZOYcptn7KkknEryhSUcK-54UMvpr5_eMjx1CwWEls5dnUYx8Lgtdacpx9SLaH5Z4_Y/s400/wu+chen_fishing.jpg" width="182" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<i>Fishing Alone</i>. Wu Zhen, from <a href="http://www.chinaonlinemuseum.com/gallery-wu-zhen.php" target="_blank">here</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Landscape</b><br />
<br />
Winding out of the hills,<br />
the small stream enters the river.<br />
It began coming down<br />
long before these trees arrived.<br />
In his boat the fisherman waits<br />
like the hills along the stream<br />
for what will be brought to him<br />
and what will be taken away.<br />
<br />
<i>After the painting by Wu Chen</i><br />
<br />
--Wendell Berry, from <i>An Eastward Look</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-67732081754644182692013-12-24T08:10:00.000-05:002013-12-24T08:10:23.304-05:00Thomas Hardy: The Oxen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSojZhovjLm23I9nVhLtUd9qvygu1jtOn_hDaS3Fzqv_U9kTwvVQ5Q-svbMMBw6ld84G98VKQIHxmDt0zp95Ib3Q7WEBjrcqaP-wEq2yHw-IBjcIonZfJrvc2Iv0UY_FOKxO8H08kfoLI/s1600/Thomas+Hardy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSojZhovjLm23I9nVhLtUd9qvygu1jtOn_hDaS3Fzqv_U9kTwvVQ5Q-svbMMBw6ld84G98VKQIHxmDt0zp95Ib3Q7WEBjrcqaP-wEq2yHw-IBjcIonZfJrvc2Iv0UY_FOKxO8H08kfoLI/s320/Thomas+Hardy.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><b>The Oxen</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"Now they are all on their knees,"</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">An elder said as we sat in a flock</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">By the embers in hearthside ease.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">We pictured the meek mild creatures where</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">They dwelt in their strawy pen,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Nor did it occur to one of us there</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">To doubt they were kneeling then.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">So fair a fancy few would weave</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">In these years! Yet, I feel,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">If someone said on Christmas Eve,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"Come; see the oxen kneel</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"In the lonely barton by yonder coomb</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Our childhood used to know,"</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">I should go with him in the gloom,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Hoping it might be so.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">--Thomas Hardy</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4986882181347414615.post-32098187798217752942013-12-23T14:55:00.001-05:002013-12-23T14:55:40.022-05:00Robert Bly: Watering the Horse<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtU-PWAO3WCYceLqJkgmPzWpyomeiuzS1NZDfC-y79URFFu1X70ZCrgtoL-cJDRt4n0z6hpFubnyFzXrI_bi4owFF2V8IcJ-LuAwMmpRpusA7QhnNFggJCJFlbZ0rrMJIATaIR-mtnRLM/s1600/Robert+Bly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtU-PWAO3WCYceLqJkgmPzWpyomeiuzS1NZDfC-y79URFFu1X70ZCrgtoL-cJDRt4n0z6hpFubnyFzXrI_bi4owFF2V8IcJ-LuAwMmpRpusA7QhnNFggJCJFlbZ0rrMJIATaIR-mtnRLM/s200/Robert+Bly.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Image Credit: Nic McPhee)<br /><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Watering the Horse</b><br />
<br />
How strange to think of giving up all ambition!<br />
Suddenly I see with such clear eyes<br />
The white flake of snow<br />
That has just fallen in the horse's mane!<br />
--Robert BlyJeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10858791213787473858noreply@blogger.com0