Ah Portland!

Late Autumn in Portland, Oregon

Now, what does that sign say?

As we know, all too well,
"Life is a constant battle
between the heart and the brain.
But guess who wins . . ."

Ah Portland! Ah humanity!
The pervasive homelessness that we saw while walking around Portland was very sad; it was painful to witness such evident despair. We did not see this problem when visiting Switzerland in September or Prague in October. On the other hand, those two places were plagued by relentless graffiti -- and not the artistic kind! Everywhere you looked, there was scribbling and defacement, even on centuries - old buildings. A shameful sight!

Lausanne, Switzerland

Prague, Czech Republic

Still, despite the urban issues, I would always choose to visit the city over the country.

One Portland friend responds: "I agree with you about the homeless in Portland and hear it debated frequently on OPB news shows. There is a general problem in Portland of new wealth and developers constantly removing affordable housing (as has occurred in many other cities). Even if agreements and plans are eventually reached, it will take years to carry them out (also true of the bridges and light-rail crossings between Vancouver [WA] and Portland; I now assume that won't change until they collapse after earthquakes). Every city has its problems but, like you, I prefer big cities as a tourist and like being within close range of a city, even a medium-sized city like Portland."

Dining With Dear Friends
The Zeus Cafe at the Crystal Hotel, Portland

Vocabcident

Uh Oh! Are Cathleen & Ben
on the verge of a snaccident?

This term is a recent addition to my vocabulary,
introduced to me by Ben when he was recovering
from jetlag and sent me the following text:

"Oops, had a napcident and just slept for five hours."

Apparently, one can have not just accidents
but any number of -cidents!
E.g., Impulse Buy = Shopcident!
In the course of writing a lot and typing too quickly, I commit numerous typos, resulting in vocabcidents. For example, I accidentally typed "Sortry" when apologizing to my brother Aaron for clogging up his email with some duplicate messages (a dupliccident?).

In response to my apology, Aaron emailed back:
"Sortry" . . . Does that mean you're sorta sorry??? LOL!!!

*****************

Another time, instead of typing signification,
I accidentally omitted the "a," thus yielding significtion.
I was on the verge of correcting my voccabcident but had second thoughts. After all, signi - fiction sounds like an important genre of fiction that we need more of! My friend Len -- artist, poet, and professor -- responded that I should leave it as is, on the basis that "We always need more words!"

So Significtion it is!

Samhain Triumvirate

HALLOWEEN

My 5th Grade Art Project ~ Halloween 1967

"Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!"
~ Elizabeth Akers Allen ~
I was so pleased to re - discover this 50 - year - old (!) painting over the summer, rolled up in a closet at my parents' house. My friend Len humorously pointed out that perhaps it survived because "Somehow you knew as a child to always use acid-free archival paper, inks, and glues for all of your projects." On a serious note, my oldest brother Dave pointed out that "Interestingly your only concession to Halloween is the pumpkin in the lower right" and my own children were wondering why on earth their mom used to be such a morbid kid! What about candy, costumes, and jack - o - lanterns? I guess even at age 10, I intuited a sense of foreboding as the year wound itself down.

For a couple of months now, I have been haunted by Len's direful pre - seasonal warning:

"Two days ago I acknowledged the end of summer; Fall, with its ominous name, has been looming and lurking. With our backs turned, with our eyes fixed on new books, in the delusion of days without meetings or grading papers, suddenly the Fall leaps out and can't be shaken off any more. I posted the syllabuses to my course site. The books for my 'Representations of Exile' class are stacked on my desk (this time Conrad, Danticat, Cristina Garcia, Nabokov, Sebald, and Viet Thanh Nguyen). For the rest of the night: free reading."

Len's ode to Fall (ominous yet seductive) reminded me of many a paragraph in The Street of Crocodiles, eerie and lyrical. For example:

"Oh the skies of those days, skies of luminous signals and meteors, covered by the calculations of astronomers, copied a thousand times, numbered, marked with the watermarks of algebra! With faces blue from the glory of those nights, we wandered through space pulsating from the explosions of distant suns, in a sidereal brightness . . . The houses, wide open at night during that time, remained empty in the light of violently flickering lamps. The curtains blew out far into the night and the rows of rooms stood in an all - embracing, incessant draft, which shot through them in violent, relentless alarm." (Bruno Schulz, 155 - 56)

If the approaching autumn season seems too sinister, I find that a little lace -- black or white or some of each -- helps to soften the worrisome edges. For over twenty - years now, a delicate lace ghost has appeared to gently haunt us in honor of the previous residents of our various historical homes. Every year, as the October light works its magic, my mother and my friend Victoria never fail to inquire, "Is the ghost up yet?" My sweet sister Di had some kind words for this year's emanation: "That is the fanciest ghost I have ever seen. When I get home I will dig out my tablecloths and see what I can do!"

ALL SAINTS

ALL SOULS

Black Cat ~ Black Lace

All the Frosty Ages

Thanks to Jay Beets for this spectacular photograph!

And to Brigit Farley for her kind remarks:
"You always have the best pictures, poems
and commentary . . . long live Kitti Carriker!"

And to Leonard Orr for his faith in my superpowers:

"Some believe that Kitti visited simultaneously no fewer than one thousand friends scattered across forty countries and thirteen time zones; this feat is repeated each year just after the winter solstice to brighten the days. She is said to be drawn to artworks and stacks of fresh books."

Posted previously, but worthy
of a repeat on this mystical day:

The Shortest Day
So the shortest day came, and the year died,
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen,
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, revelling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing, behind us – listen!
All the long echoes sing the same delight
This shortest day
As promise wakens in the sleeping land.
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends, and hope for peace.
And so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome Yule!

by Susan Cooper (b. 1935)
Award - winning British author of fiction and fantasy

Favorite Christmas card from Natasha
Oak Angel
by Contemporary Artist Sarah Young

And this one ~ Catmint

Sad Advent

Pausing on Pearl Harbor Day
to acknowledge not only the War Dead but also the reality
that Advent is not all fun and games for everybody.
These sobering anecdotes from my friend Len always haunt me. He lends a touch of humor but also a sense of sadness for his aunts and the anxiety that they should not have had to carry in their hearts. At this time of year, I worry about the so - called arc of justice, fearing mightily that it might never bend as far as we had hoped.

SENTA KLOZE
Every year during this season I recall the briefings we children were given by the older relatives on how to interact with the world so we would not inadvertently encourage pogroms. My Aunt Dottie explained that Santa Claus (pronounced "Senta Kloze") was the same as Jesus; we rehearsed giving a hearty greeting to any apparent non-Jews we passed ("Happy Kratzmus!"). She was the family comparative theologian.

MURRAY KRATZMUS
When I was a child in New York City, the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas was one of ever-increasing anxiety. Our most knowledgeable family experts on the subject, my great-aunt Dottie and great-uncle Irving, used every opportunity to explain the dangers and reinforce the rules we needed to follow to avoid inadvertently sparking a pogrom. Even if we followed the rules, someone else might set off a spark. It was always advisable to have a valid passport, a packed suitcase, and cash stashed in small accounts in savings banks near train stations and ports. If we were in their house when this was said, Uncle Irving would bring out their two small suitcases and passports as ocular proof they followed their own advice. When my two oldest great-aunts died, sisters who had never married and who lived most of their lives in an apartment in Brooklyn, they were found to have over a hundred savings accounts scattered through all of the five boroughs.

The rules came annually but in random order, depending on the moment and what teaching opportunity presented itself during this perilous season. The most important rule: don’t ask any questions about the details and characters or you will be spotted by someone who will take your name and you will be blacklisted. You students: if forced to sing holiday songs or make holiday art projects, follow the instructions (do not ask questions about the characters or stories, remember; the teachers get bonuses for reporting suspicious children to the authorities). Be sure to destroy the art projects secretly away from your home. Don’t make eye contact with people ringing bells at store entrances, especially if they are wearing uniforms. If you see three nuns walking towards you on the sidewalk, cross the street, turning around in the opposite direction if necessary; don’t run. When you see crowds of non-Jews all dressed up on Sundays during this month, try to avoid getting close enough to have them notice you; don’t run away. If it can’t be avoided, you can blend in by shouting. “Murray Kratzmus!” Aunt Dottie would lead us in rehearsing the best way to deliver the shibboleth, in her best attempt at non-Yiddish pronunciation. The entire room of listeners, all ages and varieties of relatives, would cheerlessly practice repeating, “Murray Kratzmus!”

All during this period, when there were only five television channels, we were exposed endlessly to broadcasts of the inexplicable seasonal movies and holiday specials. What a relief it was to safely survive that perilous time, to celebrate our returning to normal, low-level worry, with the Family Dinner at the Palace of Wong.

PASSPORT
On March 15 2017 Len writes: Another too-timely memory from March 2016 (during the primaries!):
I needed to renew my passport (coincidental timing; its expiration was set ten years ago, so not Trump related). This process reminded me of my older relatives and their worries. Some of them always carried their passports ("just in case," they said). Some of them had gotten into the habit of having many savings accounts so that cash and documents would be available if needed (the winners in this category, as far as I know, were my ancient aunts Gertie and Rose, who lived in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn and had over one hundred savings accounts spread across all of the boroughs). My parents were baffled by anyone choosing to travel to Europe. When I returned from my first summer in Europe (two months in Paris and London) my father said he it was incredibly brave of me to travel by myself there. He associated Europe with the notion of fleeing.

After reading of memories so bittersweet, it seems that only the saddest holiday music is appropriate, compositions of longing for lost innocence, childhood belief, and a certain touching faith in the permanence of life as we know it:

Bert Kaempfert's "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" & "Children's Christmas Dream" from one of my dad's favorite albums Christmas Wonderland

Henri Mancini's "Carol for Another Christmas"

Greg Lake's "I Believe in Father Christmas"

***************************
Cultural historian Stephen Nissenbaum (b 1941) offers a surprisingly optimistic view in his lively analysis of America's excessive, obsessive mid -winter holiday:

"Actually, though, it is clear that the book began earlier still, with my childhood fascination for "The Night Before Christmas," whose verses I recited over and over when December came around. For me, growing up as I did in an Orthodox Jewish household, this was surely part of my fascination for Christmas itself, that magical season which was always beckoning, at school and in the streets only to be withheld each year by the forces of religion and family. (I once decided that Christmas must mean even more to America''s Jewish children than to its Christian ones.) I can remember, one Christmas Day, putting some of my own toys in a sack and attempting to distribute the to other children who lived in my Jersey City apartment house: If I couldn't get presents, at least no one stopped me from giving them away, and in that fashion at least I could participate in the joy of what, much later, I would come to think of as the 'gift exchange' " (from The Battle for Christmas, ix).

Fresh things for the season:
pineapple and pomegranates from the store;
pumpkins and rosemary from our garden!
[Calendar above by Liz Underhill]

Cordelia's Portion

Cordelia's Portion
by Ford Madox Brown (1821 - 1893)

"Wait until someone finally tells Trump
that he cannot divide the country into three parts
to be ruled by his children after he leaves office." ~ Leonard Orr

Something to think about on Shakespeare's 453rd birthday:
Ivanka Trump as Goneril / Regan
(the malevolent sisters, staring each other down, above left)
not as fair Cordelia (standing to the right, in the green dress)
"When it comes to President Trump, one must either begin from the proposition that he is a mentally ill huckster, unfit to serve . . . The argument amounts to the proposition that having elected a nutball, anyone who performs a braking function on the nutball is by definition a national hero. . . . the whole argument rests on the idea that Trump is more or less mentally and cognitively unfit to serve in office, but oh well, let’s let him do it anyway. It goes on to assert that only the Kushners can help make the best of this bad situation. This goes beyond ordinary lipstick on a pig. This analysis quite literally turns on the proposition that but for their intercession a madman would make even more insane decisions. . . . This is how one manages severely troubled people. It is not how one governs a nation. The underlying working assumption, once again, is that the president is so profoundly dangerous that these small Jared–Ivanka efforts are sufficient to be laudatory. It would be best to drug the commander in chief, but barring that possibility, let’s give him a King Lear–style daughter to ping off. . . . Ivanka isn’t Cordelia, she is Regan or maybe Goneril. And not only are she and her husband complicit in Trump’s actions, they also work for him. They are aiding and abetting."

from the article "Jared and Ivanka Are Not Good People."
by Dahlia Lithwick

My thoughts: With Ivanka on the scene as caretaker and enabler to monitor and offset her father's dementia, repeatedly accompanying him to meetings where she has no business being, shouldn't she be dressed as nurse's aide or hospital orderly, rather than fashion icon (is she even really a handbag designer)? If Trump can't function in anything resembling a normal way without a handler, then all the more reason he should not be president. This is so wrong. Ivanka has no place in our government; even less so than her stupid father. And neither does her husband. And if Kushner is so keen to "run the government like a great American company," why doesn't he run for office instead of flapping in on someone else's tuxedo tales? Deplorable.

Related Political Articles
"Ivanka Trump's White House Gig Is an Insult to Working Women"

And she's writing a book called "Women Who Work" -- as if! Please! I am beyond impatient with some of my friends & relatives telling me that it is "okay" to wear an Ivanka blouse or stay at a Trump resort. It is NOT okay!

"Ivanka Trump’s Terrible Book Helps Explain the Trump-Family Ethos"

In addition to NEPOTISM, "This is the definition of CORRUPTION, but as laundered through Ivanka—who’s been tweeting about banana bread and posting photos of her children—it won’t look so bad."

"Jared Kushner Calls Kim Jong - Un 'Totally Unqualified Person'
Who Got Job Only Through Nepotism"
A challenge to write satire these days
when it could just as well be true!

"The tale of the dictator’s daughter and her prince"

"Ivanka Trump did not choose to be Donald Trump’s daughter, but she chose to participate in this administration, as did her husband. They are accountable. They are complicit. And they should be out."

Related Literary Posts
Wise Fool ~ King Lear ~ Lady Lever

A Little Fun on Shakespeare's Birthday
To Be Or Not To Be ~ Prince Charles
Previously on Shakespeare's Birthday,
or thereabouts:
23 April 2010
18 May 2011
23 April 2012
23 April 2013
25 April 2014
29 April 2015
23 April 2016

Also
A Rose Can Only Smell So Sweet
Crispin Crispian

Wise Fool
Scary Hair
Parallax
Those Who Know
Sighs A Plenty
Commonplace Book
I Changed My Mind

And Later
This Little World, This England
Golden Anniversary
Willow Willow Willow
Gaudy Night
Earth ~ Bard ~ Sun

Who's Afraid? Fear Not!
Advancing & Receding
Lammas ~ Lughnasa
The Painting's The Thing Wherein

That Lost Time & Place

" . . . but it still seemed that some other time,
from some other place,
had invaded the town and was
silently establishing itself" (38).
~ from Badenheim 1939 ~

Out My Window (1930)
by Hanns Kralik (1900 - 1971)
I know the sky looks dark and the city a bit lifeless,
but still the bright yellow trolley and the sense of order
(sometimes a good thing) brought to mind:

Yiddish for Travellers

I bought the book optimistically,
thinking to go there one day, to that lost land
where the border guards only know Yiddish . . .

In the capitol of the Yiddish country, there are
shiny green, blue, and yellow trolleys, broad plazas
with delis and patisseries where the small tables
are filled with people reading and arguing and joking
over their strudel and rugelach, sipping tea in glasses.
They place sugar cubes in their mouths; they lovr herring.
They squeeze plump cheeks of nephews ad grandchildren.
The people there are all oddly reminiscent of my relatives,
my aunts and uncles and great - aunts and great uncles,
and all of their relatives who I never met, who never
somehow crossed over, who were isolated perhaps
int this landlocked Yiddish land, where the police
speak Yiddish, where everyone is in terrific health,
vigorous and sometimes portly from all the pastries,
from the lack of stress, from having escaped
everything so thoroughly. [emphasis added]

~ Leonard Orr ~
from his poem "Yiddish for Travellers"
in Why We Have Evening

**********************

Recalling a recent passport renewal, Orr writes:

"This process reminded me of my older relatives and their worries. Some of them always carried their passports ("just in case," they said). Some of them had gotten into the habit of having many savings accounts so that cash and documents would be available if needed (the winners in this category, as far as I know, were my ancient aunts Gertie and Rose, who lived in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn and had over one hundred savings accounts spread across all of the boroughs). My parents were baffled by anyone choosing to travel to Europe. When I returned from my first summer in Europe (two months in Paris and London) my father said he it was incredibly brave of me to travel by myself there. He associated Europe with the notion of fleeing."

**********************

Similar to Kralik's painting is this cover art:
the sky, while not dark, remains high and distant;
the windows, detailed but impassive, retain their secrets.
All of the Badenheim covers are hauntingly quaint,
but I think this artwork by Nancy Lawton is my favorite.

Badenheim 1939 ~ Aharon Appelfeld
It may be true, as a few linguists have observed, that something has been lost in the translation of Badenheim 1939 from the original Hebrew, but enough has been retained to make it one of the saddest most beautiful books that you might ever care to read. This novel is on my special list of books that I recommend to everyone.

The lyrical gaiety of the charming resort town is gradually displaced by fear and anxiety. The delicious afternoons of pink ice cream and strawberry tarts are disrupted by the extended "jurisdiction of the Sanitation Department . . . it had been authorized to conduct independent investigations. . . . In the middle of May a modest announcement appeared on the notice board saying that all citizens who were Jews had to register with the Sanitation Department" (11, 20).

Despite this sobering turn of events, the merry - makers strain for a positive outlook:

"The inspectors . . . took measurements, put up fences, and planted flags. Porters unloaded rolls of barabed wire, cement pillars, and all kinds of appliances suggestive of preparations for a pubic celebration.

'There'll be fun and games this year.'

"How do you know?'

'The Festival's probably going to be a big affair this year; otherwise why would the Sanitation Department be going to all this trouble?'

'You're right, I didn't realize.' " (15)

Even as the summer season draws to a melancholy close and the beautiful vacationers are required to board the ominous freight cars, their delusional innocence allows them to voice a false hope, heartbreaking to the reader who knows the horrible reality: " 'If the coaches are so dirty, it must mean that we have not far to go' "(148).

Looking ahead to the "transition" the residents of enchanted Badenheim reassure each other: "'By the way, what language will he sing in?' 'What a question! In Yiddish, of course, in Yiddish!' . . . There was no country as beautiful as Poland, no air as pure as Polish air. 'And Yiddish? . . . There's nothing easier than learning Yiddish. It's a simple, beautiful language, and Polish too is a beautiful language.' . . . The headwaiter was learning Yiddish. Samitzky wrote long lists of words down in his notebook and sat and studied them. . . . in Poland it would be easy to learn. Everyone spoke Yiddish there. . . . 'This is only a transition. Soon we'll arrive in Poland. . . . It's only a transition, only a transition' " (36, 95, 106 - 07, 143).

Their optimism mirrors that of the bookstore patron in Orr's poem above, who "optimistically" picks up a copy of Yiddish for Travellers, recalling to himself "that lost land," that lost time and place.

Not to trivialize, but reading Badenheim
always brings to mind the song "Desert Moon"
-- yet another lost place.

Star - Spangled But Unsingable

National Anthem Day
This Day in History: March 3, 1931

" . . . I am thinking how odd it is that national anthems
("Star - Spangled Banner," "O Canada,"
let alone the more stirring
"Chee - lai! Boo yuan tzo noo lee dee run men"
or the more rhythmic "Ragupat ragava rajah Rum"
can only be handled by massive choral groups,
by opera divas and gospel singers, and can't be played
by amateurs on guitar, and isn't that counter to
national purposes? . . . "

~ Leonard Orr ~
from his poem "The Loop"
in Why We Have Evening

Sheet Music From Library of Congress Archives

Further Reading:

September 13, 1814

September 17, 1787 ~ Constitution Day

The Story Behind the Star - Spangled Banner

Things You Might Not Know

What To Do?

On the Road Again

At the conclusion of our recent family reunion, my twin brother Bruce was within moments of jumping into his car and heading home. Everything was packed for his drive halfway across the country. Only his computer remained on the countertop, ready for checking the weather, looking at maps, and sending a few last - minute messages. No sooner had he completed these tasks than the computer started updating itself. Surprise!

"What do you think?" my brother asked me. "Do you really think any harm will come to my computer if I shut it down and hit the road? Or should I wait?"

Luckily, I knew precisely how to answer his questions. I picked up the latest book of poetry by my friend Len and read aloud the following:

Desperate Times

I can do something unexpected, even
a little wild and risky; I could leave my
back - up travel alarm clock home next time
I go on a trip. I could get rid of my emergency
hairbrush that I keep in my office desk
in case violent winds, the hot simoom,
come roaring down the river as I cross
the parking lot, I might just get rid of it.
When someone asks for a volunteer
from the audience, why, I might go onstage,
just to picture your wide-eyed expression
when they lock me in one of those boxes
they run through with four - foot swords.
I might try the calamari, the kim chi,
order that Thai dish with five peppers
printed next to it in the menu. I could
leave my car in a loading zone when
I am not actually loading, and I could
enter the crosswalk after the red hand
has started blinking. When the screen says
Please wait until the computer shuts down,
I might not wait. Anything's possible.

by Leonard Orr
from A Floating Woman

Bird Watching

Bird watching on a very cold day!

This photo received so many likes on facebook,
I just had to turn it into a blog post.

I especially appreciated Len's observation that
"Bird watching" = Subject + Verb!

And his comment: "Of course, the bird is watching you
(and noted "Kitti" in his lifetime person-log)."

On a more serious note,
some sobering bird thoughts from

Voices from Chernobyl
by Svetlana Alexievich
Winner of the 2015 Nobel Prize in Literature
"Question: Is the world as it’s depicted in words the real world? Words stand between the person and his soul.

"And I’ll say this: birds, and trees, and ants, they’re closer to me now than they were. I think about them, too. Man is frightening. And strange. But I don’t want to kill anyone here. I fish here, I have a rod. Yes. But I don’t shoot animals. And I don’t set traps. You don’t feel like killing anyone here."

~ Monologue About Repentance
(p 66, emphasis added)

**********************
"A strange thing happened to me. I became closer to animals. And trees, and birds. They’re closer to me than they were, the distance between us has narrowed. I go to the Zone now, all these years, I see a wild boar jumping out of an abandoned human house, and then an elk. That’s what I shoot. I want to make a film, to see everything through the eyes of an animal. 'What are you shooting?' people say to me. 'Look around you. There’s a war on in Chechnya.' But Saint Francis preached to the birds. He spoke to them as equals. What if these birds spoke to him in their language, and it wasn’t he who condescended to them?"

~ Sergei Gurin, cameraman
(p 114, emphasis added)

**********************
"You felt sorry for everyone there. Even the flies, even the pigeons. Everyone should be able to live. The flies should be able to fly, and the wasps, and the cockroaches should be able to crawl. You don't even want to hurt a cockroach."

~ Nina Kovaleva, wife of a liquidator
(p 174, emphasis added)

Back in September . . .

. . . and October

Life Without Poetry

". . . like a dragonfly in a dream--"

Pink Flowers with Butterflies and a Dragonfly, 1788
Dream On
Some people go their whole lives
without ever writing a single poem.
Extraordinary people who don't hesitate
to cut somebody's heart or skull open.
They go to baseball games with the greatest of ease.
and play a few rounds of golf as if it were nothing.
These same people stroll into a church
as if that were a natural part of life.
Investing money is second nature to them.
They contribute to political campaigns
that have absolutely no poetry in them
and promise none for the future.
They sit around the dinner table at night
and pretend as though nothing is missing.
Their children get caught shoplifting at the mall
and no one admits that it is poetry they are missing.
The family dog howls all night,
lonely and starving for more poetry in his life.
Why is it so difficult for them to see
that, without poetry, their lives are effluvial.
Sure, they have their banquets, their celebrations,
croquet, fox hunts, their sea shores and sunsets,
their cocktails on the balcony, dog races,
and all that kissing and hugging, and don't
forget the good deeds, the charity work,
nursing the baby squirrels all through the night,
filling the birdfeeders all winter,
helping the stranger change her tire.
Still, there's that disagreeable exhalation
from decaying matter, subtle but everpresent.
They walk around erect like champions.
They are smooth-spoken and witty.
When alone, rare occasion, they stare
into the mirror for hours, bewildered.
There was something they meant to say, but didn't:
"And if we put the statue of the rhinoceros
next to the tweezers, and walk around the room three times,
learn to yodel, shave our heads, call
our ancestors back from the dead--"
poetrywise it's still a bust, bankrupt.
You haven't scribbled a syllable of it.
You're a nowhere man misfiring
the very essence of your life, flustering
nothing from nothing and back again.
The hereafter may not last all that long.
Radiant childhood sweetheart,
secret code of everlasting joy and sorrow,
fanciful pen strokes beneath the eyelids:
all day, all night meditation, knot of hope,
kernel of desire, pure ordinariness of life
seeking, through poetry, a benediction
or a bed to lie down on, to connect, reveal,
explore, to imbue meaning on the day's extravagant labor.
And yet it's cruel to expect too much.
It's a rare species of bird
that refuses to be categorized.
Its song is barely audible.
It is like a dragonfly in a dream--
here, then there, then here again,
low-flying amber-wing darting upward
then out of sight.
And the dream has a pain in its heart
the wonders of which are manifold,
or so the story is told. ~ [emphasis added]

by American Poet James Tate
(8 December 1943 – 8 July 2015)

More poems by James Tate on my current post

~ "Chariton Connections" ~

@ The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

**************************

Previous Fortnightly Posts:

for July 14th: "Modernism In A Handful of Dust"

~ Leonard Orr ~

and July 28th: "Thoroughly Modernism"

~Edouard Manet ~

Days of Optimism

Another great autumnal photograph by Jay Beets!
Thanks Jay for sharing so many & for allowing me to re - post!

****************
Everyone loves a day filled with optimism! Back in mid - August, Jay and I were reminiscing about a mutual acquaintance of ours from undergrad days who liked to refer to himself as a closet optimist. He said that his pessimism was just for show but in his heart he was an optimist!

Within an hour after my facebook chat with Jay, this post appeared, announcing good news from my friend Len:

"I am happy to have been notified that my poem "Optimist," from the Spring, 2014, issue of Rattle will be featured in their online edition this Fall. The editor has asked me to make an mp3 recording to accompany the posted poem. [He sent clear instructions so I am not requesting help at this time. I had a momentary vision of standing in front of a giant microphone as in O Brother, Where Art Thou? instead of my cell phone.] I am impressed by the support and generosity of Rattle and its editor, Tim Green. It stands apart from many others who publish the poems, send one or two contributor copies, and then there is no further contact or relationship. I will, of course, post a link here when the poem is up in October."

I knew then that when Len's poem appeared, I would have to write a blog post about this optimistic literary coincidence! Today's the day! And here's the poem:

OPTIMIST

Each time I vote, I pretend that this time
everything I hope for will take place, that
not only will everyone I vote for win,
but they will turn out more liberal than anyone
expected, that the evil half of the Supreme Court
will take a powder, wars will end, oil will die.
Every night, I visit your side of the bed
to pretend that you are just away for a moment,
it is warm from you and you will rush back to
place your head back on the pillow beside mine,
my nose nuzzling into your hair, to breathe you in,
my arms around you while you push sleepily
back into me, surrounded by my heat,
not fully waking by your brief absence,
and for some minutes I am whole again.

~ Leonard Orr
*******************

Thanks Len for multiple appearances on my blog:

End of Summer Sounds
Golden Paintings by Leonard Orr
Excellent Images
Happy Birthday Dylan Thomas
"The same war continues . . .
The Magpie Waiting for his Beautiful Partner
Like An Ant
Bursting Into Light
Sun ~ Flower ~ Moon
Lovely As A Tree
What To Do
Star - Spanlged But Unsingable
Evening ~ Timing ~ Floating Poetry by Leonard Orr
The Ides of Whatever
That Lost Time & Place
Truth & Falsehood Have No Fear

Parable for Daylight Time & Lent

First Sunset of Daylight Savings Time
" . . . traveling from day to night only, neither forward nor sideward . . . "
Parable
First divesting ourselves of worldly goods, as St. Francis teaches,
in order that our souls not be distracted
by gain and loss, and in order also
that our bodies be free to move
easily at the mountain passes, we had then to discuss
whither or where we might travel, with the second question being
should we have a purpose, against which
many of us argued fiercely that such purpose
corresponded to worldly goods, meaning a limitation or constriction,
whereas others said it was by this word we were consecrated
pilgrims rather than wanderers: in our minds, the word translated as
a dream, a something-sought, so that by concentrating we might see it
glimmering among the stones, and not
pass blindly by; each
further issue we debated equally fully, the arguments going back and forth,
so that we grew, some said, less flexible and more resigned,
like soldiers in a useless war. And snow fell upon us, and wind blew,
which in time abated — where the snow had been, many flowers appeared,
and where the stars had shone, the sun rose over the tree line
so that we had shadows again; many times this happened.
Also rain, also flooding sometimes, also avalanches, in which
some of us were lost, and periodically we would seem
to have achieved an agreement; our canteens
hoisted upon our shoulders, but always that moment passed, so
(after many years) we were still at that first stage, still
preparing to begin a journey, but we were changed nevertheless;
we could see this in one another; we had changed although
we never moved, and one said, ah, behold how we have aged, traveling
from day to night only, neither forward nor sideward, and this seemed
in a strange way miraculous.
And those who believed we should have a purpose
believed this was the purpose, and those who felt we must remain free
in order to encounter truth, felt it had been revealed.

By Louise Glück, winner of the Pulitzer Prize
and author, most recently, of A Village Life

This poem appears on the New York Times list of six poems for the end of daylight savings time, along with others by W. S. Merwin and Vijay Seshadri; Mary Oliver, James Tate, and Derek Walcott. It is a fascinating assortment of poetry that I have already referred to a few times, all just right for the shift in time and light that occurs each November. I think, however, that Gluck's "Parable" is, if anything, even more perfect for the beginning of daylight time, as well as the beginning of Lent.

Daniel Bosch at Arts Fuse comments on Gluck's poem (and the other five) without even grasping the connection that "falling back" refers to the annual conclusion of daylight savings time and the reversion to standard time. Duh! He wonders if he missed "some sort of equinox" or "sunspots." No! You just missed re - setting your clock to match the season!

Rather unkindly, Bosch suspects that admirers of Gluck's "Parable" "do not know as many poets as I do." Yet I wonder if perhaps he does not follow the passing seasons with the same verve and precision as Gluck, Merwin, Oliver, and I do.

P.S. Some closing thoughts
from Leonard Orr & Nova Languages
9 November 2010
Len: You are right; I read it in the times and thought it was great to find such a grouping of poems in the major newspaper. Now if only they did this regularly not only for seasons but for each month, major events, solstices and equinoxes, the start and end of Daylight Savings Time, elections, New Year's, the release of the new press of Beaujolais, TuBishvat, and dozens of other occasions.

Nova Languages: I completely agree. I especially like the idea of a group of poems celebrating solstices and equinoxes; but also for many other astronomical events, not to mention planetary events. What a great way to learn about these things! This brings to mind these often quoted lines from William Carlos Williams: "It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there."

Len: That sounds much better than the Times motto "All the News that's fit to print." Even there they would have been improved by consulting poets.

Click for
additional comments
from facebook post.

And
another sunset poem: "The Evening Star"
also "Iris" & "Penelope"

Sun~Flower~Moon

This has been a good summer for spotting sunflower paintings in museums!

Sunflower Tango
by Gina Litherland
Seen in May at the Chazen Museum of Art
University of Wisconsin - Madison

Magically entitled and magically realistic, Litherland's painting is just a touch eerie yet most enchanting. The central figure is mesmerizing from head to toe. I love the way in which her hairstyle is a continuation of the sunflower petals; and those darling yellow dancing shoes are the perfect choice for a tango!

Seated Female Figure Seen from Behind
Pierre Puvis de Chavannes
Seen in July at the Minniapolis Institute of Arts

Chavannes' title -- which could be better! -- pays no mind to the delicate bouquet in the subject's hand. Yet, the sunflowers are what caught my eye in the first place, and they remain the detail -- along with the model's charming French twist (can my hairdresser do that for me?) that makes the painting such an elegant and memorable representation of Botony (see musuem note above).

In my search for just the right words to accompany these painting, I located poems by William Blake, Allen Ginsburg, and Mary Oliver; plus quotations from Oscar Wilde and of course Vincent Van Gogh, who so aptly laid claim: “The sunflower is mine, in a way.”

Not completely satisfied with my results, however, I asked my friends Len and Eileen if either had written any kind of ode to the flower of my birth state. Len said not yet; but I did look through his paintings and took the liberty of naming this one in honor of my quest for a late summer sunflower poem:

Late Summer Sunflowers ~ Leonard Orr

Eileen sent me these inspiring words from Theodore Roethke: "Deep in their root, all flowers keep the light." Yes, deep inside, we all do! She also overheard my wish that I could find a source identifying the Full August Moon as the Sunflower Moon! Well, I'm an authority, right? Could I just make that claim? Eileen's advice: "Self-authorize, woman!" Time to renounce the "self - effacing" and embrace "self-inscribing" (for more on these terms, see Robert Kegan and Thaisa Frank).

So, in the spirit of self - authorizing and nostalgic narrative therapy, I hereby write my own sunflower poem and re - christen the August moon:

A Sunflower Haiku:
A Kan - Sun by birth
Full August Sunflower Moon
Flower to live by

Moonrise, 20 August 2013, 9pm

Moonshadow

"Did it take long to find me?
I asked the faithful light.
Did it take long to find me?
And are you gonna stay the night?
Oh I'm bein' followed by a moonshadow,
moonshadow, moonshadow
Leapin' and hoppin' on a moonshadow,
moonshadow, moonshadow . . . "

Moonshadow!

words & music
by Cat Stevens, aka Yusuf Islam
Stevens "considers 'Moonshadow' his favourite of his old songs."

*************************
Late - night literary repartee . . .

Len: Nostalgic narrative theory.

Elieen: I thought for a sec you said "therapy."

Kitti: Nostalgic narrative therapy* -- I feel better already.

************************
A couple of authors who seem to understand
the concept of nostalgic narrative theory / therapy . . .

Cat Stevens: "Some say there are only two kinds of stories:
those about leaving home and those about coming back."

Jopseph Addison: "The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth / Repeats the story of her birth."

************************

The Spacious Firmament on High

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame
Their great Original proclaim.
Th’unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator’s powers display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty Hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,**
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth;
While all the stars that round her burn
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid the radiant orbs be found?
In reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine.”

by Joseph Addison
set to the music "Creation" ~ by Franz Josef Hayden

August Full Moon:
Sometimes called the Fruit Moon, When All Things Ripen

Moonrise, 20 August 2013, 9pm

RE *Nostalgic Narrative Therapy
& **Wondrous Tales:"If you have a story that seems worth telling, and you think you can tell it worthily, then the thing for you to do is tell it, regardless of whether it has to do with sex, sailors, or mounted policemen." ~Dashiell Hammett

Bursting Into Light

Show me a garden that's bursting into light!

Painting by Leonard Orr
Previously Featured
When I mishear a lyric, it's quite often the case that, upon learning the correct wording, I come to conclusion that my mistaken version is actually an improvement upon the original.

For example, when I heard Miley Cyrus sing, "I hopped off the plane at LAX with a dream and my cardigan," I could have sworn she was saying, "with a dream in my heart again." I admit, "a dream in my heart," is somewhat of a cliche, but there's a time for cliches, and this is one of those times! Yes, it's a good thing to have a cardigan on the airplane, and I love Mr. Rogers as much as the next person, but who needs a cardigan in a frothy little upbeat put - your - hands - up feel-good song?

A dream and my cardigan? That's just dumb.

The first few times I heard the song "Chasing Cars," I was sure Snow Patrol was singing, "Show me a garden that's bursting into light." Plenty of gardens burst into life but into light sounds way more exciting!

Like flames . . . but not a fire; like an explosion but not dangerous . . . well, maybe a little bit dangerous: light! I like it better that way!

Chasing Cars
(click title to hear song)

We'll do it all
Everything
On our own

We don't need
Anything
Or anyone

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

I don't quite know
How to say
How I feel

Those three words
Are said too much
They're not enough

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life

Let's waste time
Chasing cars
Around our heads

I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life

All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see

I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

by Snow Patrol

A Very Cold Vernal Equinox

The Magpie Waiting for his Beautiful Partner

December is here! Time for thoughts of snow . . .
The Magpie by Claude Monet
Monet's The Magpie

Has the magpie just landed or is it
about to fly off? Is it morning or late afternoon?
Monet doesn't say, so I have decided
it is a male bird of the most intense devotion.
He has been waiting since noon for his
beautiful partner, waiting for her
to land there beside him on the skewed fence,
attuned to the sound of her soft feathers.
Snow upon snow, he searches
for the familiar, nimble Ys of her small feet.
He found some treasures he saved to give her,
a sweet wedge of tangerine, a quarter
of a whole wheat bagel, that was hard to carry,
even though he is large for a magpie. He looks
north, the sun behind him, trying to give
the best appearance for when she flies up.
While he waited he made up a new tune
he wants to sing to her, hoping his love will be
obvious and will heat her beneath her fine plumage.

by Leonard Orr,
artist, poet, professor of post - modernism and literary criticism
from his book Why We Have Evening


Snow upon snow . . .
Click to see more . . .
Paintings by Leonard Orr

End of Summer Sounds
Golden Paintings by Leonard Orr
Excellent Images
Happy Birthday Dylan Thomas
The same war continues . . .
The Magpie Waiting for his Beautiful Partner
Bursting Into Light
Sun ~ Flower ~ Moon
Capturing the Ginkgo Light
Like An Ant
I Will Show You Modernism In A Handful of Dust
Evening ~ Timing ~ Floating: Poetry by Leonard Orr