A Momentary Taste of Being

Human and Humane Sometimes in the face of such evil the only human response is apology, is listening to the stories you do not want to hear or believe and accepting them as part of the world you do not know and then making amends--truly setting things to rights, truly liberating the captive who has been so long languishing through a sin-- not commission, not truly omission, but complete inattention, indifference. It is indifference that robs us of any trace of humanity-- the willingness to allow things to be, so long as they don't affect me or mine. Indifference tamps down the cobbles with which hate paves the pathway to hell for all of us. Indifference is an invitation to inhumanity.

Standing at the bathroom sink brushing my teeth I think about the time my brother pulled the golden glass-domed clock from her desk and she cried and said because it wasn't cylindrical but more oval, the glass couldn't be replaced. And I felt her pain and said I'm sorry, and felt that moment that I was really talking to her wherever she might be, but she was for certain with me and without her I am not and then spoke the truth I saw "But you had some share of the blame-- putting a thirteen year old boy who wanted nothing more than to be left alone in charge of his little brothers." And I still love you.

Your annual reminder that Ulysses is for everyone:  Will you read it? “and yes I said yes I will Yes.” Longer excerpt: “I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.” Joyce was absolutely terrible at formal poetry, because his poetry is in his writing. ReadJoyce!

I I had a sandwich there And read the window and bronze plaque but it was not Gorgonzola. II I passed the siren's tavern which I did not see and crossed quietly over the placid Liffey. III You would have laughed to see my thrill at finding old Tommy Moore and his once-urinal. IV Out past Dun Laoghaire where the chill North Sea meets the Forty Foot--the Martello Tower. V James Joyce hopscotched every brick in Dublin to celebrate the date of his love. VI Sirens and Cyclopes and Wandering Rocks all for a beer and some cheese. VII Breakfast kidneys and chemist and Leopold leaves Molly abed. VIII he thinks fine day for a funeral even if I flee and find my father. XI A fine edifice and fancy facade for mothering maters about to bear. X Ah rejoyce and rejoyce again that we readjoyce for doubling our Dublin. XI While just inside Stephen proves by algebra he is the ghost of his own father, ...

Did you hear me when I whispered your name to the dew that had not yet formed? When I stirred the clear water of a sticky stream and found in the eddies and whirls a language only I could read? I carried you like the single breath of an ancient bird preserved in lithographic limestone, like all the salt of the sea bound and floating.

I read a poem and set the book down in front of the fan that is never off and I let it turn a few pages before I pick it up and read another poem May Sarton "Salt Lick" and it's time to go to work so I close the book and write this poem.

Their majesties--three Sandhill Cranes, parents and a chick, step out to survey their domain, and pause their stately strut to nod (noblesse oblige) at doting subjects in their stopped cars.

When you look at the beautiful things of the world, what do you see? How do they speak? What language is whispered in your ear? How do you know the loveliness of the turquoise wave, of the pebbled shore, of a marble in a vacant park relaxing her robust nakedness against the manicured green?

Like the dragonfly trapped in my car I beat against the windshield uncomprehendingly seeking the light but barred from it by some barrier I cannot see. Sometimes flying the length of the window, sometimes perched an inch from freedom, ignoring the indraft. Oh for a Hand to guide me to open air!

How we feel Is an illusion we choose

Today I saw sea eagle piercing the blue sky silver glinting from his talons promises there will be a tomorrow.

Not first upon the Cross God let Himself be slain, For see! He lieth dead there at the feet of Cain. --Angelus Silesius ***** Goodness this is a powerful reminder and brings forward what it means to be in the image and likeness of God. When we lay violent hands on any person, we lay violent hands on God himself--Matthew 25:40: "And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

On Looking at the Columns in the Temple of Hathor What dim, flickering, ageless age you speak to us--an ageless age that changes in the mind of the one who sees it. How many worked for how long to make these columns and friezes to tell us what story? How much shadowed labor in what heat and weather? How many working here and how many others to support the work they did?                  It beggars the imagination to think--no outlets, no switches nothing but the muscled labor of men and women and beasts. No eight-hour day and then off to be with family, no unions, no protection from elements or random anger.  And yet all done all to glorify a silent goddess--joy and a mother's abiding love.                                          What connection have I now to what this meant to you when it was new--when groun...

This is the problem with today, we look to the future and the past, we're taught to do it from the time we can think, and here we look to both ways-- To the future that we are building memories (the past) for, with not so much as a sidelong glance to the fact that when we live Romantic nows the past and the future take care of themselves.

Instead of focusing on the outer cosmos, Socrates focused primarily on human beings and their cosmos within, utilizing his method to open up new realms of self-knowledge while at the same time exposing a great deal of error, superstition, and dogmatic nonsense. The Spanish-born American philosopher and poet George Santayana said that Socrates knew that “the foreground of human life is necessarily moral and practical” and that “it is so even so for artists”—and even for scientists, try as some might to divorce their work from these dimensions of human existence.

"From the moment of inception a poem must be driven by the meaning you would give to it" "Oh Tom, not this again, please-- look at the ocean, the sun just reflecting, the pelican raising his head to swallow a fish." "That's it! That's it exactly! The three persons of the trinity-- the Holy Ghost present to all equally, the Father Ocean in whom we live and move and have our being and most of all the Pelican Christ, who moves on the surface of the Father and engulfs sinners to their salvation. " "Eh," I say, "can't the ocean be the ocean and the waves just waves? Can't sand be sand no matter how we sculpt it?" "Poetry isn't for the faint of heart or the weak of will, its for men of stout heart and strong mind who know what they mean and say it with full force of their words." "Why can't poetry just be beautiful. . ." "It must be beautiful but not just, it must ...

I just read this poem and fell in love with it. A picture rather than a typescript because you have to see it for it to mean. I first read it in a Keillor collection where all design was removed and it still entranced me, but now even more properly arrayed.  As set in Keillor's book, the poem is rather like pâté de foie gras, sans pâté, pas de gras.   Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Central Park West.

And when you write, write. one word in front of another your meaning, your meaning their meaning, their meaning expanding the boundary to bursting, and who cares? Because now it is one word one word one word a pile of words.

I truly love your energy efficient high green grass-covered hut with fake fireplace and long bench with chairs heavy as thrones for overlooking the lake some people made to build things on while watching the tethered balloon reel in and out like some giant fishing rod pulling people out of the cerulean dyed blue. Even more I love the people who try to please with smooth and carefully trained efficiency who have to deal with idiots like me who refuse to conform to your tone-y café lingo and who instead ask for the biggest or the next size down or the smallest. But truth to tell I'd rather go to Panera, McDonald's Dunkin Donuts, the local sinkhole or frogpond to find something to drink Despite your colorful and sometimes insipidly controversial cups.

Can you imagine! He was looking for a sphere with one handle and all he could find was his hidden wife's Japanese Tea ceremony set minus the pot-- cups so delicate and thin you could breathe through them. ***** note: while this may seem to be needlessly obscure it helps to know that a sphere with one handle (or even with a hole in it) is topologically identical to a coffee cup. More or less.