Showing posts with label Henry Adams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Henry Adams. Show all posts

11.14.2018

like variations on a theme




FIRST SNOW

It was a first snow falling on your birthday, Alex
38 years ago.
Cesca’s labor so slow
& painful, there in Miriam Obstetrics

under the klieg lights & the surgeons
she took the C-section
at last (proud, stubborn
mother) while the soft newborn

stars sloped across the parking lot
in silent counterpoint.
The time was out of joint –
your father, too.  Every hamlet

screens its circular pilot plot
through every heart;
Henry left his hearth
to wander Cain-like into Camelot

(his Ars, his land of Nod).
The story is familiar.
Eros sparks war
for Adams unwilling to plow the meek sod,

buster.  Adonis was a narcissist.
Henry plucked his Clover
(tuneful Faustian lover)
& spun the wheel no heel resists –

the veils of Isis & Osiris (masonry,
mummified fire).
Venus, Morning Star
shone pallidly, across the whole country

                  *

a kind of Cairo-Poe magnet (wherever
you are).  Middle C
on the piano, tenderly
(Ravlin Princess, Ravel).  Life-saver

played out to Juliet, by Hart.
Like Bach, young Alex –
one sea-tempest X
along path P (where all the tempers start).

Grief comes in waves.  These little ripples
echo from the pangs
of Providence (where swings
a cosmic jewelry show).  Dilated pupils

merge in swarms of busy drones
(watch-birds for smoke-
signals).  Go for broke,
the Iago of the capital intones.

Unleash the dogs of war.  They hated
me without a cause...
Faust is no Santa Claus;
the raging boar will not be sated

‘til the last woman on earth
flees with her child
into that desert wild
nursing one lonely human birth.

11.14.18

7.20.2018

the axis of the earth




ACORN-DHOU

The river moving through the cottonwoods
inspires Hobo-composer
to exceed his Oeuvre
Clumpy-Cloddy in the key of C.  Buds

trace their roots down limestone crevices
to seek that cave-lake
where dark streams make
ripples in a mirror-image (Beatrice’s

triune goddess?) in a palimpsest
of light reflections.  Mother,
lover, friend... your sister-
dove.  Affectionate witness –

Akhmatova’s golub-golubyanka
(an undertone beneath
the granite banks).  The wreath
Natasha flung into Fontanka –

today an angel, tomorrow only a worm
in the grave... only a promise.
Mary, in her distress,
beholds the gardener beside the tomb.

Hobo digs deeper, down his own
dream-channel.  Almond
eyes... the veil of Isis
in West Branch... curtains for Henry’s own

Clover, in Washington (where Adam delved
while Eve spun vortex-grief).
Vertigo in high relief
on Henry’s charcoal Chartres – shelved

Synagogue laid low, below Ecclesia
belies a Nazarene concord
older than Byzantine crossword
shaded by almond-Hebrew Bona Dea.

Keep digging then, my clod.  You’ll find
the key, within a boxwood box
where lies a bunch of keys.
A black Egyptian Queequeg pine-

box, layered with tattoos
of hero-griffins – figures
of hexagonal stars
that shine like golden bees... Who’s

                    *

there?  Out of the mirror-wars
of courtly kangaroos,
through shady fig trees
shines her diamond Southern Cross –

the double trinity of Black Elk’s
six-way sign.  An acorn
emerald, lightly borne
as crown of Restoration Day : melek’s

JFK : Zion’s Nazir out of Galilee;
spume-signal from an Ocean
State – whale-oil ensign,
anointed Son... clé-figured Charity.

That old medieval Paris of Villon.
Pigments of blood, limestone
& sky.  Stained-glass zone
of intellectual Aquinas-light – reason

& faith cross-braided, interwoven
in the jewel-box of Suger,
in the emerald sepulcher
of Wolfram’s wayfaring communion-

wafer.  Omnipresent grail
of equal daughters, equal
sons... Love’s universal
sea-supremacy – each heart’s high sail.

So the rod of Aaron blossomed
over Nile sandbanks,
& a bronze serpent yanks
all eyes to Hobo’s Bottomland

Jonah.  Out of that Okie Okean,
out of that Osage eagle’s
den, your clay-born angels
rise to foot their river-span –

a bridge of International Orange
pillared like Jachin, Boaz
in wisdom’s corny maze
of adamantine joy.  So rich & strange!

Whispered by the Sybil through
these gold oak leaves,
for everyone who grieves.
A comfortable acorn-dhou

                   *

down Nile, or Mississippi, weaves
her zigzag victor-wake;
from Jordan to Lake
Galilee, her circle rings the sheaves.

7.20.18

6.29.2018

stone for bread, bread for stone




ANCIENT DATE

The soupy heat slouches toward
July.  Flesh sags &
drips, we’re breathing und-
erwater.  Jonah’s gone overboard.

A billion fins of fans rotate,
create more heat.  Hobo
lies flat under a willow.
He daydreams of an ancient date

by Highland Water Tower; the whole town
spread before them, just
beyond the graveyard.  Lost
her name somewhere.  Don’t drown

me in false memories, he begs.
Canova’s statue (broken)
of George Washington
writes its own ave over his crossed legs.

Farewell, Columbia.  Guard well
her statue in the harbor.
Beggar not they neighbor.
Muzzle Nero, tripping up from hell.

That shimmering seine, the veil of Isis
shrouds the face of Henry’s
Clover.  Out of bleakness
of the grave, young spring may rise;

beyond the azure of the Golden Gate
one facet of euphoria –
one artophoria
of stone – revives... brings light to fate.

6.29.18

6.11.2018

American Gothic




SPRING CLOVER

This light foam of wild spring clover
on a green hummock, like
a burial mound, back
to the river... O my Irish rover.

& only the plain brown smock
on a Quaker wife
(with the quincunx life-
crux) remains – to lead the flock

in a morris dance (slim track
to paradise).  American
Gothic.  Meridian
through cornland, by the clapboard shack

which was Birthplace of Herbert Hoover
where a Belgian oasis
for inscrutable Isis
echoes the cenotaph to Henry’s Clover

(the other Henry, in another city).
Wind wafts through green
montage like a has-been
Hobo, wheezing dew (for pity).

Hard to make a go of it, under
them glum St. Louee flying
spirit-flings!  Crying’s
no help – you have to be Apollinaire.

The spray, the veil, the rosy foam.
The train, the backward boots.
Minotaur, with his galoots.
Ariadne with her pigeon, humming home.

6.11.18

5.16.2017

a little air


ALMOND MEAL

A little air, a melody
out of Mendelssohn, maybe –
like a wisp of smoke you see
afloat above Red Wing one day.

Like pipes out of Apollinaire,
trompette marine – sole
zigzag rigmarole
of an enigma (serpent’s lair).

You walk the blank maze, Oedipus.
With ghost of Ariadne
by your side.  Keen
pal, forsaken thesis – surplus

collateral, original
betrayal.  Henry Adam’s
dusky twilight madam’s
mad, quiet... a virgin owl

nested in stone Columbia.
Only her bird’s eye
as the crow flies
correlates phantasmagoria

out of the desperate heart of Cain
into clay valves
where muddy stars revolve;
through the dawn labyrinth again

from light, toward light, with light
blazing mild power –
like some firefly bower
mowers glimpse of a summer night

                  *

beneath remote aurora-shower
bearing fathomless delight
miraculous & right
to chastened human hearts in flower.

So I behold Dante & Job,
David the King,
hedged by ironic ring
of instinctual violence – the mob

of envious, avaricious rivals
circling their prey
to make King for a Day
once more.  Florentine hovels

I see transposed to Catlin prairie,
vertiginous Beatrice
mingled with Platte clay.
To the horizon’s elegant Bluejay

molts saturnine Cawtantowwit
with amorous Jenny-
Jonah; they buried be
only to soar in monarch-flight

O harbingers of Milky Way
whose kingdom is an Ocean
Stream – salty communion,
sea-green flock of Liberté!

Out from the massive turning of the wheel,
where Miriam churns the cream
of every starfish dream
into her almond meal (Messiah-seal).

5.16.17

3.16.2017

Willow River twilight



ANOTHER YULE

Civilization is a natural good.
Valleys are honeycombed
with anthills – tombed
with moral titans (Lincoln would

live up to his Memorial).
Government’s innate,
then – our pleasant fate
to be so compagnevole,

says Alighieri (after Harry
Woodpecker).  D.C.
marbled with majesty
will have a double Jubilee

this year – May 29th (the K
of Camelot’s birthday);
crowds cry hurray
up to the pint of vanishing

& glory glory hallelujah.
I love my country too.
But pride, you know,
leads oft to suicide – King Saul,

alas, fell on his sword, & Henry’s
Clover (sad antithesis
of photosynthesis) was
mortised into concave penury

(her veil of Isis hoovered out
of Iowa).  Her star
twirls like Ishtar
above a Willow River twilight

               *

where gold prairie meets the far
horizon (at the green
mountain, where shriven
penitents climb to the door).

Pride be the world’s blockade.
Banners of orange black
& green (by Jasper Jack)
are complementary, not made

for nought.  Pete? Smoky Pete’s
still lively, though John’s
jotting paper crayons
with encaustic slivers now.  Wheat’s

blonde for Brother Jim’s Great
Purple Hairstreak – what
a butterfly!  Yet
there’s no sketchy moral shortcut

to self-centered celebrations
for a nation, in this world
of woolly worms curled
into cottonwood canyon-

cocoons.  No idle soul-solace
– an oxymoron in
the China cookie tin.
True penitence proceeds apace,

slowly, like Frank’s old shaky mule
inching to San Francisco.
Sorrow made your child go
sailing.  Grief tacks up another Yule.

3.16.17

1.30.2017

slab of puddingstone



ALMOND LEAF

My lovely Providence, a microcosm
in the ruins of modernity.
Gray pebble by the sea,
colonial casque.  Slow periplum

around a clamshell iron rim –
like horseshoe crab
with buttresses, or slab
of puddingstone Bermuda-dream.

Today’s your birthday, spiny Jenny.
Evergreen of grief
& joy – almond leaf
of love’s firm spiral (funny

soul’s integrity).  You showed me
Piero della Francesca –
candid paisan Maria
pendulous with incendiary

monochord (trompette marine).
You showed me Providence
over your mother’s dense
grass gravestone (swan depression).

April is your azimuth;
mine too.  The cave
where Earth’s a voided grave,
where Berryman’s a vernal mouth.

Cicadas of Apollinaire
buzz over Île-de-France.
The veil of Adams’ Isis
tears – Columbia croons everywhere.

1.30.17

Newport, RI (near Berkeley's Seat)

1.23.2017

poem in memory of Mark Baumer



DOVE’S FEET
                             i.m. Mark Baumer

The poem’s wobbly orrery
of airy ore is self-
correcting, like an elf
inside a gyroscope.  Unwary

cheerful troubadour, he walked
barefoot across these states
joking at potentates
to heal a hurt planet – balked

by Mammon, Moloch (vanity,
acedia).  The white van,
an indifference machine
in seething Florida... such petty

wreckage snaps a sapling tree.
The jungle broods, silent.
Her gentle ape’s extinct.
Minotaur mutters his poetry.

We have not learned the lesson of
the golden bowl.  We tread
the fractures on a head
of Incan stone (grey mourning dove).

Coatlicue is raging at
her funeral.  Splinters
of daylight almost pierce
the warped crossweave – chariot-

spokes of angry Manitou.
Thunder comes soon.
The light’s deep green.
The land is ripe for tornado

                  *

when Francis ambles right past you.
A river of pink peonies
surges through cities...
salty labyrinth in Dallas blue.

Her pillbox hat, his scattered bran.
Unnatural shocks (that flesh
is air, too).  Gold mesh
of tangled fleece... your Ariadne-

champion.  All-suffering rabbi
who declares : the violent
bear it away   rent
robes of kind Melchizedek   mild

eye of Isis   throned in adamant
warm heart of Magdalen
at almond gate   Open...
Joseph’s weathered rainbow-garment.

The poem’s just an ornery gray stone.
The slash of Cain that clouds
its brow irks human crowds –
has not been stitched til now.  Atone,

Adams.  Icons through unworthy
lips break into clay
rivulets & melt away –
your only balm is Charity,

sole antidote to Jealousy.
Spring comes on mild
dove’s feet... her wild
breeze from the open sea.

1.23.17

8.13.2016

let her skip


DAKOTA HEXAGON

This quiet August day toward
the cusp of autumn.  Green
vine-light in the cavern
where Henry hides his raven-word.

That empty chair in Dante’s sky-
deep rose, for all the hoped-
for prophets, emperors...
& here’s Sophia’s little throne (my

dancing-master’s rosy resting-
spot).  Let her skip
fearless across the ship
of state, her toy basilica, questing;

the Greyhound of the Lord, her
vengeance, comes to this –
gray clouds of Providence
replete with rain; a pregnant mother

radiant with clearing day; the shades
of persecution blown away
by ocarinas (clay-
shell turtledoves, dolphin parades).

Ineffable golden Hephaestus-net...
veil of corn fleece over
a West Branch face.  Her
sister in D.C. (Adams duet) –

icon of Miriam & Magdalen,
Dakota hexagon
implicit in the sun
of Washington... cartwheels, Columbian.

8.13.16

5.27.2016

the flute zigzags

Thus we bring to a close Book 6 of the great mumble-pilgrimage, in form of Cricket-Chirp Epic, which we call Ravenna Diagram.  Six books = about 340 poems already.  I do believe the sheer steadiness of this eccentric errand is beginning to garner a little more public notice.  Some batches have appeared here and there in Blackbox Manifold, in the U.K., the Journal of Poetics Research, in Australia, the Battersea Review, in the U.S., and also in Sweden, in a memorial anthology for world poet Regina Derieva.  One poem is forthcoming someday in the venerable & magnificent Poetry magazine, and the estimable Puncher & Wattman publishers, in Australia, have made a preliminary commitment to bring it forth in book form eventually.  For all this support, I am so grateful to the editors involved.  And special affection-rays beam out to those steadfast readers scattered about Rhode Island & elsewhere in the cosmic blogosphere... thank you, dear pals!

*Postscript, 5.28.16 : surprised to learn that this poem was written on the 79th anniversary of the opening of the Golden Gate Bridge (May 26, 1937).  The poem celebrates the Golden Gate in the final stanza.  The bridge is a recurrent whatnot throughout Ravenna Diagram.

WHISPER-DOOR

Walk back   through a rainy-day memoir
through the watercolor (Grace
Ravlin   Gloucester, Mass.)
over a fireplace   wherever you are

down the River Road   by the cottonwoods
through the rose garden   with
a quipu-thread   into depths
of summer   Willy’s hobo moods

when the eyes relax   deep into green
& a river flows   to the heart-
matrix (almond, athwart
twin orange trees)   your ascent   unseen

Father Hennepin   or St. Louis
by the Stone Arch Bridge
on   New World ridge
where Evening Star   harps Liberty

These harmonic  concordances
Apollinaire   à New Orleans
Ariadne’s  contra-dance
in sleepy Paree   sybilline séance

The flute zigzags   l’après-midi
sad Adams (Henry) perks
his ear   the password works
once more (Encore, encore!)   you see

twin gates rise   virginal   ange d’or
with safety net   one golden
thread   trompette marine
from Jessie O. to J.   soft whisper-door

5.27.16

4.14.2016

Inland sea


BREATHING SEA

Old Hobo glances back upstream
as the spring bluets form
an inland sea – a swarm
of peacock eyes (out of a dream-

song dome) across the autumn grass.
Retrospective.  Phoebus
in an ochre crevasse,
Magdalenian cave-compass.

Your yearning for Eurydice,
so youthful-hungry, Henry
out of want, not plenty
ignorant (in your blind way).

An oscillation of the sun
and moon.  The Q. of Heaven
looks out from her den,
mild lioness... dusky horizon.

Henry, by his veiled statue,
thinks on Beatrice
(pine-green eyes, sea-
grey).  His melancholy’s ocean-blue.

Jerusalem, JerusalemHow
I would have gathered you...
the soul’s an orphan zoo
without the smile of Manitou.

A little tree in Galilee
still rustles in the breeze
from a breathing sea.  She’s
calling you, sailor.  Be free.

4.14.16

4.05.2016

Icon Man

Note to reader : some of these poems are pretty darn obscure.  If you peruse this blog's web version (as opposed to mobile-phone version), you will find links, at the bottom of the page, to subject entries (labels) - which might be helpful in tracking down my footprints, or other footprints.  This holds true for all the Ravenna Diagram posts on this here blog.

MOSAIC SHEPHERD

The knot in the heart is a universal
wedding ring, wherever
you are.  Heavier
than iron, ce diamant mondial

de l’amande.  Bright orange lozenge-
mandorla, shedding leaves
of tears – vicarious
miniature trees (strange

fruit).  Like the shady crossroads
with the Dead End sign –
a little Chinese lantern
(glass by LaFarge).  Six nodes

in one honeycomb eye – melodious
riddle of light & shade.
Henry & John, a cannonade
off Sydney Harbor... looming ficus

guarding Southern Cross.  They sought
a figure for relief –
hoopoe... cloverleaf...
barely-veiled grief.  Stray mote

of dark December.  Henry looks up
through rose window.
A rim around the chi-rho,
hint of shining salt.  Red stop

sign on the dynamo, outlined
in cedar-glow (Mosaic
Shepherd Stands in Lake).
What the heart seek she shall find.

4.5.16

4.04.2016

We Were There


PSYCHE-GLOW
                                      i.m. MLK

That other Henry, in seclusion
(District of Columbia).
Mourning Eurydice
veiled, so – Isis in stone.

The chaos of the dynamo,
the violence of men
(Mont St.-Michel)... sun
clouded by confusion.  Apollo

camouflaged as Hobo now
flickering cigarettes
into the Seine – alights
in Memphis, on a garbage scow.

Columbia, Columbia, murmurs
the mourning dove, come back.
Gray sketch in black
& white, along the watchtower.

One ghost dance treads this lambent maze
draws wool into a knot
or chord of charity.
Her milky Manitou is wise.

The profane land, amnesiac
is lifted into tune
by memory of one
who went before – his trouble on his back

your trouble too.  A Psyche-glow
to orient the west
toward east, the past
into a future peace – heart’s overflow.

4.4.16

In the summer of 1968, my father took me with him on a trip to D.C., where we went down to the National Mall to be part of the crowd at "Resurrection City" - the encampment of the Poor People's Campaign, which had been initiated by MLK.  I went through some of my dad's papers after he passed away last spring, and found this pennant.

6.30.2015

Ravenna Diagram

As testified by both Annie Akhmatovy & Wheelliam Bootler Yeats (not to mention Wally Stuyvens), nobody knows like they do how much poetry depends upon the foul rag-&-bone shop of the dump.  So I confess I am very obscurely fixated on a work of probable horoscopic Masonic garbage (if seemingly very diligently researched) by one David Ovason, titled The Secret Architecture of our Nation's Capital.  Ovason appears to have turned poor Henry Adams on his Educational head.

Adams, scion of the original American Presidential-Egyptian dynasty, built his own historical philosophy on the contrast, the dialectic, between the Virgin & the Dynamo : the feminine-poetic-Christian heritage of the Middle Ages (Chartres, Notre Dame) vs. the technical-scientific Chaos of modern Power (Washington, Chicago...).    Yet according to Ovason, the landscape, architecture & sculpture of Washington, D.C. emanate a controlling hermetic geomantic pattern, overlaid on the nation's capital by the Masons - a radiance of the constellation Virgo, or the Virgin - the Corn Maiden, the Rite of Spring, Pocahontas, the Statue of Liberty... all those images & psychic icons certain ecstatic-Platonic poets (unacknowledged legislators) like Hart Crane articulated and defended as embattled (in prosaic America).  Somehow the Corn Maiden got in on the ground floor of the national grain elevator.

So I wrote in previous blog post about my personal affinity for ut pictura poiesis - the idea that at the heart of poetry is this visionary-shaping painterly dimension.  Poetry, by way of its rhythmic sonic mesmerism, communicates wave-lengths of vivid images - drawn from life and adequately mirroring living (as opposed to absent, detached, prosaic, humdrum, depersonalized) reality.  In the long-poem project Ravenna Diagram, I reckon that, for me, Ravenna represents a kind of civilizational matrix for this particular sense of incarnational iconophilia.  The "venn diagram" of Ravenna Diagram is a visual image of the union of two-in-one, the sacred marriage of spirit & flesh.  As an historical phenomenon : as a pivotal event which frames one's sense of the direction of our future world.

There are lots of things going in today's excerpt, which cluster around these ideas, along with others... I can't go into them all.  The idea of the "lattice" and the "Path P" are allusions to the chi-rho symbol : the pneuma (Spirit) P rising (like the Ghost Dance) over the lattice of the "X"... the "Path P" also refers to "poetry", thinking of Dante, buried in Ravenna - whose masterwork was completed in Ravenna, and which features, at its very end, another venn diagram (Dante's vision of the Trinity as a mysterious set of interlocking rainbow circles).

CLAY LIPS

If I whisper out of this backyard garden
& word went forth from Ramah
Rachel weeps... no more
a cricket shuttles through the iron

lattice – churring chi-rho, chi-rho
a pigeon croons là-bas
là-bas... labarum... abba...
baa... lambs on a radius go

round, skip stones, elliptical
(up to the mountaintop).
Rough clay lips elope
for steppes, ignite pyramidical

lens – Nile coming-forth-of-July
in one almond canoe;
wooden frame for yew
rainbow (adieu beyond river-eye).

Beneath an avalanche of violence
the lattice rusts, the eye
corrodes.  Still clay
will coalesce, in tinder hands;

Giuliana in her mossy coat
& frowning eye signal
another way; lips channel
shapes (mosaic, inchoate)...

Ravenna diagram, vertiginous cross-
road into Washington.
Path P, star-tangled almond
tree – here chariots bloom (manes toss).

6.30.15





6.06.2015

Deep lands

Home again in Providence.  Tucked into the old house, with the dogwood & the weedy patio in the backyard, the books upstairs.  I realize after 25 years how much I have become an appendage of this appanage.  I'm part of the local landscape.  May have to leave it soon.

Driving non-mindedly through springtime Wisconsin, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania... wide fields, deep lands, prim farms... trying to keep things going.  The banks of weeds & flocks of trees along the roadside (somebody's Rock Candy Mountain).  The beckoning earth.  (Burchfield's Ohio.)

"Beauty will save the world."  (Dostoevsky)  Reading The Education of Henry Adams.  Adams' quasi-Buddhist passivity.  He understands the futility of late-Darwinian naturalism - yet scrambles around without finding an alternative.

Faith, from the naturalist view, seems an expression of bad faith - a deliberate shuttering of the rational mind.  Mantra for closed eyes.

My whole focus an attempt to justify another view : one which has grown on me over time, prompted by a sort of unconscious prescience, an adolescent St. Vitus' mime of my own future orientation.

The naturalist reads the universe in a context of shock - the shock of recognition of the unknown.  This is the real psycho-cultural after-effect of the development of modern science.  Thanks to the Hubble Telescope et al., we see the universe more immediately, more concretely - an incalculably immense wasteland of burning stars & circling rocks.

The religionist sees the universe as a metaphor, an allegory, a sign.  This kind of seeing is now judged, by the scientific mind, to be the most egregious & central scandal.  It's a kind of evasion, an idealistic feint - as fiction, myth-making.

The poet (arch-Romantic) believes in a vitalist, personal, Reality.  The poem is a document of this faith : a vivid speech, a living voice evoking a living world of living beings.

I can't convince you of what I believe - I can't even enunciate it.  I'm trying, but I fall short.

"Beauty will save the world."  This is Dostoevsky's version of what was once (back in medieval times) understood as "the economy of salvation".  Divine Providence has a plan for the redemption of the earth.

The story of Christ's death & resurrection is a kind of metaphor.  A mystery play.  A symbol, a sign of the "Son of Man" : that is, a representative image of the destiny of the human race as a whole on earth, and of the fortitude of the individual person enmeshed in same.  We die, yet we live again.  We overcome evil through love.  We redeem the earth.  This is "Man's" project here, "Man's" goal.  Joseph Brodsky : "Man was put on this earth for one purpose : to make civilization."  I would revise this formula, however.  Man was put on this earth to discover the love of God (which is really the same thing).

All these phrases of mine are completely useless.  I can't put into words what I really sense & know.

I helped bury my loving, steadfast father last month.  He went into ashes by Minnehaha Creek.  Yet he lives.  He leaves an outline of the Son of Man, a fulfillment of one local corner of the creation, where he shone like a star.

"Ariel was glad he had written his poems..."

"A Tear is an Intellectual Thing,
& a Sigh is the Sword of an Angel King."

Beauty will save the world.  There is a harmony to the whole of life which no artist or scientist has been able to express.  It is "grace", it is "love".  It will overcome evil & will make all things new.

It is personal beyond our understanding of the visible person.  It is whispering to you.

Which reminds me of this little poem I wrote about 30 yrs ago :

from a cave

Such a small voice,
I would not stop to hear;
the sun was going down, and
there were no houses near.

Such a strange voice,
whispering out of the ground -
familiar, though it seemed
unearthly, utterly profound.

Such a sweet voice,
twining my cavern ear;
a vine for water jars, when
all the wedding guests are here.



6.02.2015

The other Henry

Driving home to Providence tomorrow.  The route (Providence-CT-NY-NJ-Mercer, PA-Elkhart, IN-Chicago-Wisconsin-Minneapolis, and flip/reverse) takes about two and a half days.  U.S. 80 etch-a-sketched on my brain, as by a no.2 lead pencil.  I've seen the heartland, from winter to summer - busy old world of pasture, trucks, silos.  Roadsigns.  Burning machines, fleeting memory, archaic billboards.  Sunny green slopes & wide, sly streams.  Beef jerky.  Construction fellas from Tennessee & Missouri, families back home, playing beanbag in the motel parking lot night after night (beer & barbecue).

The little witches' hat of the water tank on Tower Hill (only high point in the metro area).  Conical green cap peeking up in the exiled distance from my mother's balcony (steadfast old Southeast lady, shipped to the old folks' home over in St. Paul).

These past 9-12 months, very rattling for me.  Change in the air.  I retire from ye olde library at Brown, I go back home to help my Dad in the throes of dying, & deviously the life he's made is snarled, inwoven again with the so-called life I made.  This is going home, I guess.  I'm reading The Education of Henry Adams in my off-time.  Watching the early swallows from my mother's strange new balcony, I think : Henry could have been a poet, if he'd listened more carefully.

The Big River, with its screech of pileated woodpecker, & ghost of Berryman, is listening.

I mean Henry Adams, the other Henry.  A sort of translucent mind & heart, plangent & sad.  He never did get it.  It wasn't up to him.  (I mean that other Henry.)

I, me, this Henry, will get back to poetry, though.  I've made a vow on my father's strong handshake (as I quote Ecclesiastes in the obit : "Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your strength.")  My father was a mighty man, a righteous man.  My mother has a fine hand too (artist, through & through).

I have this sense that America doesn't quite understand itself or its own poetry yet.  Poetry is a spiritual discipline, a trial by fire.  That lead pencil pressed down by the 2-yr-old - that US 80 with the green-gray "Venus Wins All" down the margins - is an ash-trail of a blue-bright flame (world-shaping metamorph).

5.11.2015

Elkhart octahedron

Greetings, old-time friends.  Once more I am ensconced in my usual way station in Elkhart, Indiana, on the road again between Providence & Minnesota.  Pleasant spring rain falling outside open motel window, sound of U.S. 80 & robins in background.  On the turnpike I try to turn off the radio, re-invigorate ancient gray matter with thoughts down usual off-ramps & blue highways.  Today (between Mercer, PA & Elkhart) the Great Mind bent its mighty focus yet once more to Poetry - what it means, & what the heck I'm doing there...

Struck once again by the sense of being so off the grid, off the contemporary map.  This is not another complaint about neglect.  What I mean is that my personal pointe-de-vue on the whole dang subject seems to be so idiosyncratic.  This itself is probably an error on my part; I'm not as solitary as I imagine. But it feels that way here in mid-America at the moment.  Poetry as a contemporary cultural phenom in the U.S. appears in some ways to have "matured" : it doesn't have to explain itself or account for itself.  In fact, it can't - it's too pervasive, shifty and diverse.  It just is, and being just itself, has embedded itself (to a small distinct degree anyway) as a part of the present scene & structural interface of society (come again?).  Poets are those who react to the common life in the form of poems, and they are accepted & sometimes appreciated for that.  Thank you, America.  No, thank you, Poet.

But this is not my approach or situation.  Gradually over decades it seems like my track has led through certain landscapes of poetry as a world tradition, and through the channel of what we call the "long poem", to a place where for me poetry & thought, poetry & worldview, have become entangled.  & the worldview feels "embattled".  This I admit could be evidence of a fatal mis-step or pitfall - one has the sense that "embattled" could just be a way of either missing something (a failure of imagination) or avoiding something (say, the Reality Principle so to speak).  But then again, maybe not, maybe not.  As Mandelstam told an interviewer once who asked him (pertly) for a definition of poetry : "It is the poet's sense of being right."

So I'm driving west on U.S. 80 this morning, and once again for the millionth time am sketching out very provisionally, while trying not to back-end any giant trucks, what is the whatness of it all...

Have been reading of late in the remarkable anthropologist Roy Wagner (Symbols that stand for themselves, et al.).  Wagner's a very provocative thinker, a sort of cross between Spengler & Bergson & Hocart.  He rejects the Saussurian/structuralist concept of "the sign", & folds language into a more fundamental symbol-making human process, essentially a dialectical means of joining "microcosm & macrocosm" (word & image) to shape human culture(s).  His background study was in New Guinea; he traces how marriage rites & death rites etc. hold society together, while at the same time evolving into these strangely self-standing & self-canceling & totalizing myths (a process he calls "obviation").  Wagner loves little charts, & I do too.  These dialectical diamond shapes or octahedrons which illustrate the strangely diagrammatic shifts in a culture's self-definition & worldview.  Then he does the same for the Modern and Medieval West, seen as a long-playing chronological working out of these culture shifts between a God-centered balance ("the eucharist") and a human-centered system (Descartes, "I think therefore I am").  I'm drastically oversimplifying.  Wagner also has this very thought-provoking perspective on the nature of Time - there are these "now" epochs of human time, self-defining, which are distinct (as Bergson's & Spengler's ideas are distinct) from the "clock-time" which we manage & which manages us (really a convenient abstraction of the "epoch" into measurable "coffee-spoon" space).

Please consider the previous paragraph as a digression.  But Wagner's dialectic schema of Medieval & Modern (think Henry Adams) is interesting for a poet working on a vast mental project titled Ravenna Diagram (think of a venn diagram overlapping "now & then").  Wagner's "eucharist-centered" Middle Age, however, is shifted or complexified in my own way of thinking.  Neither theism in general nor the Abrahamic religions are pure products of Western civilization (in Wagner's neo-Spenglerian sense).  Their roots lie elsewhere, which suggests that their ultimate fruits might also.  They are not fully "explained" by the Medieval/Modern dialectic.

Please consider the previous paragraph as a second digression.  Hey, I'm digressing because my worldview is embattled!

I'm tooling down U.S. 80.  I see a vague sort of diamond shape or octahedron in my mind.  These are the facets of a worldview or a vision which perhaps underwrites what I think of as poetry, or my motives for making it.  There is a vanishing point at the end of this road, where all the facets meet.

1. One facet let's call "consciousness".  Consciousness itself I think of in terms of a kind of infinite regress or vanishing point.  We have the immense incomprehensible material universe, of burning stars & some other phenomena, whirling & whirling in vast rings.  & we have consciousness.  Everything material is filtered through this human lens, this mirror of comprehension.  So the material world is terrible & humbling... yet it is known only in the mind.  This inward infinity comes to bear no matter how solid the outer phenomena.  The mind is unavoidable : it's "always there".  This is a mystery.

2. Another facet : "something from nothing".  That Henri Rousseau who wrote Genesis narrates a deity who "speaks" the cosmos from nothing (how He did this on certain "days", when days weren't invented yet, is part of his charm).  But it's the principle of the thing that counts.  However it happened, the underlying idea here is of the visible cosmos as a consequence of some shaping, forming architectural aim.  This leads to the third facet, which is

3.  "the beautiful".  Natural beauty & the harmony of planetary growth, along with the distinctive beauty of distinct things, along again with the "spiritual"-moral beauty of certain true renderings of human actions (love, freedom, kindness, devotion, selflessness, originality, etc.)... these are understood as ends in themselves.  The phenomena we call beautiful are encountered in a dimension which remains undefined by scientific causality.  I know I'm being sloppy here but I'm writing from a motel & scribbling this diamond cartoon in the most provisional way.

4. "the incarnational".  This facet follows from a very basic Trinitarian triangle at the edge of our diamond.  The "I am" of consciousness who stands mysteriously behind (in a creative mode) the visible universe is here mirrored in person.  Adjacent thus to the previous facet, the divine-human person is recognized in the form of the beautiful as an end-in-herself or -himself.  History, time, & cosmos take on the outline of the person, as a kind of natural fulfillment of creation.  But this is only the Alpha, the beginning, leading to

5. "the providential".  Let's go back to the previous remark noting that Judeo-Christianity is rooted outside & prior to the history of the West.  An almond tree grows in Galilee.  In the Biblical sense, the historical act of Jesus on earth was represented as a provisional fulfillment of the more ancient "promise" of the Promised Land.  & we can read the Jewish destiny here as itself a representation of the destiny of the species and the planet as a whole.  As a whole (holism is important).  "Divine providence" declares that the whole earth, the planet as a whole, will "return" to that future, promissory state of being a peaceful & blessed home (the promised land).  This is the promised end for which the Messiah performs his role.

6.  The "familial".  But such a vision implies a regeneration of "familial love" in the broadest sense - a kind of moral & spiritual reform of the person & the community.  A renewal motivated by a sense of the whole, the purpose of life & the beauty of the cosmos.

7. which brings us back again to "creation".  The most basic, most foundational root idea is that of creatio ex nihilo.  This way of thinking of reality, most deeply considered, leads the mind to joy.  This spark of light, this sense of reality as conditioned by an order of love, is the whole ground of a peaceful response, a normal "gratitude for existence" (Joseph Brodsky's phrase).  So the facets meet at their matrix, the vanishing point.

Now this kind of thinking today is "embattled", as I said.  I'm not going to battle over it here, though.  The reader may take it or leave it.  For me, in any case, this general view of things enacts a kind of pivoting dance with poetry as an activity, an art.  The joy of poetry is an expression of the joy of this worldview.  This is the substance of poetry's difference from prose.  The difference is harmony : some kind of cosmic harmony.