Spread Before Me A World

University of Pennsylvania
Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology
Philadelphia, PA

Visiting the Museum with Grandma Rosanne in 1996


Map

Flat as the table
it’s placed on.
Nothing moves beneath it
and it seeks no outlet.
Above—my human breath
creates no stirring air
and leaves its total surface
undisturbed.

Its plains, valleys are always green,
uplands, mountains are yellow and brown,
while seas, oceans remain a kindly blue
beside the tattered shores.

Everything here is small, near, accessible.
I can press volcanoes with my fingertip,
stroke the poles without thick mittens,
I can with a single glance
encompass every desert
with the river lying just beside it.

A few trees stand for ancient forests,
you couldn’t lose your way among them.

In the east and west,
above and below the equator—
quiet like pins dropping,
and in every black pinprick
people keep on living.
Mass graves and sudden ruins
are out of the picture.

Nations’ borders are barely visible
as if they wavered—to be or not.

I like maps, because they lie.
Because they give no access to the vicious truth.
Because great-heartedly, good-naturedly
they spread before me a world
not of this world.

By Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska, 1923-2012
Translated from the Polish by Clare Cavanagh

Soil Map at the Dallas Airport

License Plate Map by Mark Dudley

P.S.
HAPPY 25th BIRTHDAY BEN!

See also: In A Museum & Lot's Wife

Choosing Day ~ The Hour is Real

Taking His Time!
~ Great Grandfather Benjamin Franklin Relaxing ~
Whimsical statue on the campus of
The University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia

Those Elders of the Great Tradition & the Rest of Us
It's as if they dreamed their knowledge
and what they dreamed is what we know.
Who can blame them? They could hardly
have believed this sequel to themselves,
that all their wisdom is really happening.

Yet how can we endure these great grandfathers
of the best we know, who still must sit on every
committee of our thought, who interrupt
our counsels with their wise irrelevancies?
They take their time too, having at their leisure
all history while for us the hour is real. [emphasis added]

Notre Dame Professor and Poet
Ernest Sandeen (1908 - 1997)
from the Collected Poems

~ More Great Grandfathers ~
Sitting on Every Committee!
Washington, Jefferson, T. Roosevelt, Lincoln

Mount Rushmore, Keystone, South Dakota

Election Day, November 1884If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show,
’Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyserloops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon’s white cones—nor Huron’s belt of mighty lakes—nor Mississippi’s stream:

—This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now, I’d name—the still small voice vibrating — America’s choosing day,
(The heart of it not in the chosen — the act itself the main, the quadrennial choosing,)
The stretch of North and South arous’d-sea-board and inland-Texas to Maine — the Prairie States — Vermont, Virginia, California,
The final ballot-shower from East to West — the paradox and conflict,
The countless snow-flakes falling — (a swordless conflict,
Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern Napoleon’s:) the peaceful choice of all,
Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross:

— Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the heart pants, life glows:
These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails. [emphasis added]

Renowned American Poet
Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)
from Leaves of Grass (first published in 1891 - 92 edition)

The Countless Snow - Flakes Falling!

[well, actually, countable!]

Winter Solstice: Hope Springs Eternal

At the Biopond: An Iris Blooming on the Winter Solstice, 1998
English Romantic Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 - 1834) wrote that "Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, / And Hope without an object cannot live," while a hundred years earlier, English poet Alexander Pope (1688-1744) declared that "Hope springs eternal in the human breast."

When we lived in Philadelphia, one of our favorite places to go was the Biopond at the University of Pennsylvania, five hidden acres, right in the middle of a busy campus, surrounded by dorms, medical buildings, and major streets. You might never guess it existed, but walk a few blocks off the beaten path, and there it was -- an urban oasis extraordinaire!

One year, out for a brisk walk on the first day of Christmas Vacation, we stopped by the Biopond, and what to our wondering eyes should appear but a purple iris in full bloom . . . in December . . . in Philadelphia!

I've heard the legend of the Christmas rose, which blossomed from the tears of Madelon the Shepherd Girl, and of little Pepita the Mexican girl whose humble bouquet of weeds, in similar fashion, was transformed on Christmas Eve into a brilliant poinsettia. But that day, we witnessed our own seasonal miracle, something I had never heard of or seen before -- a Solstice Iris -- blooming on the First Day of Winter!

P.S. 19 November 2013
My friend Ann de Forest writes from Italy:
Do irises in Rome usually bloom in November
or is this as freakish as I think it is?