This Bright Other Thing

7/30/15

They say it is Romantic

Living on a farm—a dirty but clean profession.

     Yet every day paying attention to that fussy person—weather—

His demands for certain details to be attended to NOW—and well;

And then there is her whim to see to this, discard that, NOW.

Truly, it can become botheration.

     Sometimes I just want invisibility

Going at dusk with horses in the field

My gaze softens without intention or pretense.

My form fades slowly into the shroud of night.

     And then to awake—the farm calling me back

The rooster’s cry, his ransomed call:

“Look, the shiny thing in the grass

Or the sun’s reflection in a puddle

That bright orb in the donkey’s gaze

Or flecks of dust freed by

A hen’s persistent pecking.”

     “Dreams are what you awake from, even as

 The goat may sink into a noonday nap.”

     Things bright and present—

Just as they ever were.

I am an Outcast Qualified to Live Among My Dead

A Balanced Life

7/23/15

What has brought me to this place?

I can see myself tip-toeing along a tightrope.

I told the young girl cradled in my arms a formidable truth;

I told the young girl cradled in my arms that I had had a past in the circus;

That I had balanced atop the bare backs of elephants.

Through the soles of my feet I could feel the shifting of their weight

From hip to hip lumbering and predictable, adjusting in every step.

I had stood on galloping draft horses in the arena, grey ones, dappled.

I could adjust my weight accordingly as I rounded the circle

Leaning this way, then that, astute to their slightest vernacular.

And I had balanced myself on a bar held over a flaming fire, the bar held by

Two prepubescent boys ready to twitch or flinch or

 Be distracted at any moment by their diversions.

So, yes, the circus was where I learned to pass on something fine--

Even transcendent—even if it was all a lie.

The girl in my arms knew and didn’t care.

She willingly let me carry her up into the empty lot that few dared to cross.

She didn’t pull back when I showed her where the kitten had been snatched off the wire fence

Killed instantly by a dog.

She didn’t cry when I showed her where I had sat alone in a bramble

Waiting for some refreshing drink

Or even wild creatures to investigate.

I carried her through the dry, tall grasses

Now brittle from August’s toll:

Telling my tales all the way along

I was an outcast; the tales, lies.

She conferred a blessing on me, nonetheless.

In her mind I qualified to be resplendent--

To be present among my dead.

Please Bodhisattva

For All Allen Ginsbergs Everywhere

Oh Bodhisattva
I’m a slacker

Ach Bodhisattva
My mind sometimes is so many-pointed

Dear Bodhisattva
I’ve grown weary of always having an angle

Woe is me Bodhisattva
My middle name is “Scattered”

Gee Bodhisattva
It’s hard to cultivate loving-kindness for you know who

I know Bodhisattva
You won’t condemn me

Please Bodhisattva
May I approach you

Please Bodhisattva
May I bow and touch your feet

Please Bodhisattva
May I sit at your feet

Words

i don't know big words

but I know how to make a sandwich

how to pack a lunch box

vanilla pudding

a spoon

a folded paper napkin

loving words

on a small square of orange paper

The Way It Is

“Those honey-coloured ramparts at your ear”
Anicca, anicca

The life of the party
Anicca, anicca

20/20 vision
Anicca, anicca

BFF
Anicca, anicca

BMW
Anicca, anicca

Dandelion and Stone

alone

i sit

my boat

of dandelion

and stone

eyes shut

heart open

gravity

my faith

zealous sun

jealous moon

Unplayed Piano

Last week in class we read a poem by Alice Walker dedicated to Aung San Suu Kyi. Ron shared this song for our consideration.

Military Students Return by Lisa Bednar

There seems to be

More and more in college classrooms

Returning—many with eyes alert

With time management skills—diligent and ready.

(Some with PTSD or Moral Injury, yes).

One asked me, point blank

Was I trying to pick a fight with him?

Another could have been Mother Theresa

Her demeanor was so inclined that way.

Another felt he had dyslexia

Though he explained it was never properly diagnosed.

He kept a cheery countenance 

Was well liked by other students.

Though he could not write at all

It didn’t seem to bother him.

Why I am a Rich Man by Martin Antonio Zaldivar

1) I have a capacity to love deeply and fully. I aspire to love selflessly, and I am surrounded by persons who have the same aspiration. 

2) I can and do question, refine, persuade, enliven, scream, comfort, share, educate, touch and decry with my voice. There is so much injustice. Fucking fuck fuck fuck! And there is so much strength! Yes, so much strength!

3) In closing my eyes I hear melody, and opening them, I see harmony. 

Freedom

waking

a smile

on your lips

the
sound of trees

through

an

open

window

do you know

you're a buddha

perfect

just as you are

A Time I wasn't Silent by Lisa Bednar

A Kingdom for a Crown

Even before it happened I knew it would--  

I was nominated for Homecoming Queen Fall 1970.  

I sweat and festered, stewed and ranted, as

Dreams of thorny crowns were placed on my head

Gazing crowds staring me down in wonder

In horror 

I walked past shop windows, dummies cast in

Sequined gowns, gowns made of voile, satin

The kind of spider-web thin lace known as crewel embroidery

Could I carry it off?

Tenacious but revealing all the circulatory systems of the human body

In horror, blood cursing along. 

untitled letter written to alice walker during the first class

hey alice,

just want you to know that it’s way fuckin cool to hear your words aloud about letting women have their turn.

yer poem makes me feel SEEN..

yer poem makes me feel Acknowledged. 

i talked about it with tony and

it got those good tears coming,

the kind i get when i feel something so hugely and deeply t

hat it cannot stay inside me so it leaks out my eyes. 

it is a strange mixture of happiness and the deepest sorrow , for myself, for every girl who grows up shrinking back and saying ‘please.’

all the best people i know are women

all the hardest workers i know are women

all the most attractive people i know are women

all the emotional labor in all the world is carried by women

yer poem makes me feel seen

it makes me feel good that

it could be a bloodless coup:

that those men could offer the keys to the kingdom

gracefully, gratefully –

realize they need some of what we got.

this is what i want;

this makes me feel seen.

men, you should listen to dan savage

he gives love advice on the internet and he is not afraid of the sexuality of women and i remember this one call, this dude who wanted to make intercourse more pleasurable for his girlfriend:

every time he penetrates her, it’s painful and no one knows why but she struggles through it for him but it’s not sexy for anyone-

dude wants sex to be pleasurable for her, too, so he asks dan for help and dan says

stop trying to shove your dick inside her.

don’t know where all that goes

but i know it’s connected

and feeling very grateful

to feel invincible via ms alice walker.

Why Am I Crying

because

this morning

i woke my daughter

with a kiss on the forehead

and she once again

felt like my little girl

because

this morning

i said goodbye

to my son

and i don't know when

i'll see him again

because

this morning

i saw a man

holding a small cardboard sign

that read

please help

and i didn't know how

because

my children

are better at forgiveness

than i am

because

i felt the need

to apologize

On a Sunday Afternoon

Carolyn Glasford Wallach

Sitting in Cafe Ventana
With Mark and Lisa
Chinese poets, literature, and
the state of the world
"Your life is your religion"
Who said that?
The Dalai Lama?
No, my mother


Chris

"People Know My Lai"

Cal wrote to Carla Nguyen and me in an email:
"People know My Lai
(Or they think they do)
People over 60 or so
Remember the name Calley

But what about the others?
I don’t mean the other men
That joined Calley in the killing
I mean all the other villages we wiped out
I don’t just mean wiped out

By the grunts on the ground
I mean wiped out from above
By the pilots who didn’t get any blood on their hands
But sure as shit
Killed way more Vietnamese than Americal did

An Arrest by Lisa Bednar

Grandma's Oil Paintings by Lisa Bednar

Why Is the Child Crying

why is the child crying

touch her hand

is she you

aren't all children crying

for a meal

a word

a smile

tell me

what brought you here

love

fear

uncertainty

can i help you get back home

are you my child

i see it in your eyes

i thought you'd left

can i help you get back home

but how

On Diane di Prima (Again)

for Danielle Mackey, Katie Madges,  Katie Consamus, Magan Wiles ... New Yorkers all

As some of you know, I have recently taken to the writing of Diane di Prima. You know this because I’ve called your attention to one or another of her poems that I love (Life Chant, Where Are You, Clearing the Desk, Keep the Beat) and her incendiary collection, Revolutionary Letters. This week I want to call attention to her memoir, Recollections of My Life as a Woman. Over 400 pages, it covers her early life to the later 1960s (she’s still alive, but I doubt that there’s a volume two coming). For my younger women friends who’ve grown up thinking “I can do whatever I want,” di Prima’s book will give you some historical perspective. For anyone in the various fields of art, Recollections will inspire you on your path (her sheer tenacity). For writers in their 20s or in their 70s, di Prima will remind you of what you need to hear.

Di Prima is calmly blunt, reminding me of Allen Ginsberg’s maxim, “Candor ends paranoia.” On male violence: “When I got older, what I heard from lovers, was that I was a controlling or castrating bitch. But—the assault was universal and ceaseless. You would have to be dead not to try to stop it for a minute.” Her Italian father: “If you were Italian, growing up in my house, your father handed you Machiavelli to read. To help you understand history, he told you. One of the only books he had besides Shakespeare and the encyclopedia. He read you Julius Caesar to show you how Mark Antony manipulated the crowd. What propaganda was. You never forgot.” On college: “I have no problem with leaving school. It is a hated and unfulfilling place, where I am studying nothing I care about. Where there are no powerful women teachers. No powerful teachers at all. No ideals, intensity of intellectual life. Nothing I’d hoped for. I am more than ready to leave, to get on with my life. Wherever it might take me.” What she never said to her mother: “Dear Mom … When are you going to tell me what was stolen from you? When will you name your oppressor?”