from "why him? why her"

Somewhere there waiteth in this world of ours
For one lone soul, another lonely soul--
Each chasing each through all the weary hours,
And meeting strangely at one sudden goal;
Then blend they--like green leaves with golden flowers,
Into one beautiful and perfect whole--
And life's long night is ended, and the way
Lies open onward to eternal day.

-SIR EDWIN ARNOLD

be

be
who you are
don't get tied up
in the excuses
of anyone else's expectations

what is your greatest joy?

sitting on a mountaintop
and wondering who you are is fine
but go for the best you
you can be

it's not about who everyone sees
it's about how you feel
it's about your joy, your bliss
your greatest resonance,
your highest frequency

if you have one life
to broadcast
what tune do you want to play?

if you have one life
to broadcast
who do you want in your audience?
do you want an audience that talks back?

what moves you to tears?
is it worth pain
to feel the positive tears
the ones that come after the pain?

how many new wonders
could you cry for?
how many new joys?
how many beings could you love?
what helps you to love the greatest?

these are the big questions.

the stuff behind us
has shaped us
but it's not all
we choose what lies ahead

the great paradox
is that life is change
and yet it's what we most resist

people bang their heads
night after night
against walls
finally get into a soft bed
where they hope to sleep

there are soft beds everywhere
your body could be a softer bed
if you gave it a life it loved
if you gave it the relaxation
that comes not at death
but from living the life you love

what makes your spirit bigger?
what traps it in a case?

there are no guns to your head
and your life should not be a gun

there is no need to go off
when what you need is to walk

we have had many loves
what do we want to carry tomorrow?

sometimes there is conversation
sometimes there is just talk
sometimes there is not conversation
and sometimes we have to have a talk

come to jesus, they say
this is my word
this is my life

and i'm not hanging it on a cross.

a poem a day (by someone else)

How to Read a Poem: Beginner's Manual
by Pamela Spiro Wagner

First, forget everything you have learned,
that poetry is difficult,
that it cannot be appreciated by the likes of you,
with your high school equivalency diploma,
your steel-tipped boots,
or your white-collar misunderstandings.

Do not assume meanings hidden from you:
the best poems mean what they say and say it.

To read poetry requires only courage
enough to leap from the edge
and trust.

Treat a poem like dirt,
humus rich and heavy from the garden.
Later it will become the fat tomatoes
and golden squash piled high upon your kitchen table.

Poetry demands surrender,
language saying what is true,
doing holy things to the ordinary.

Read just one poem a day.
Someday a book of poems may open in your hands
like a daffodil offering its cup
to the sun.

When you can name five poets
without including Bob Dylan,
when you exceed your quota
and don't even notice,
close this manual.

he asks "who has this?"

soon i'm going to post some stuff from mary pipher's new memoir that resonates with me and my experiences... not now... stay tuned.

two posters of notes in greg keller's classroom

There's a Hole in My Sidewalk: Autobiography in Five Short Chapters

1.
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost . . . I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.


2.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in this same place.
But, it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.


3.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I SEE it there.
I still fall in . . . it's a habit . . . but,
my eyes are open,
I know where I am.
It is MY fault.
I get out immediately.


4.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.


5.
I walk down another street.





"The Precious Stillness"

One final paragraph of advice:
Do not burn yourself out.
Be as I am--
a reluctant enthusiast...
a part-time crusader,
a half-hearted fanatic.
Save the other half of yourselves and your lives
for pleasure and adventure.
It is not enough to fight for the land:
it is even more important to enjoy it.
While you can.
While it's still there.
So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around
with your friends,
ramble out yonder and explore the forests,
encounter the grizz,
climb the mountains,
bag the peaks,
run the rivers,
breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air,
sit quietly for a while,
and contemplate the precious stillness,
that lovely, mysterious and awesome space.
Enjoy yourselves,
keep your brain in your head
and your head firmly attached to the body,
the body active and alive,
and I promise you this much:
I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies,
over those desk-bound people with their
hearts in a safe deposit box
and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators.
I promise you this:
you will outlive the bastards.

-Edward Abbey

bbc article

zulaika told me about this article (from 2003, that she still remembers) linking women's use of the birth control pill to a choice of inappropriate mates, changing their natural pheromone detection...

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/2677697.stm

epic poem

i just watched rivers and tides and wrote the longest poem i've ever written while watching it. if you are reading this, you influenced this poem, too. someday i should edit it. probably not today. have concrete things to do, too. i think it's a movie length-poem, so beware. it needs an editing room. some words are stolen. i try to quote them when they are. others are me changing things, seeing things, extrapolating, trying to tell you and me and everything something.



When spring begins
it doesn't begin on the surface
it begins below.

an exchange of energy, of heat
that begins inside
and must work its way up
before we can see
the evidence of change.

the snow may still unexpectedly fall
down from the heavens
but the earth knows
of the change that's begun.

it is only a matter of time
for the change to sprout up
for the new cycle to begin.

roots can look charred, look painted,
fragile, but it's just the way we find them.

we find ways of understanding
what's going on at the moment.

some of last year's plants
will not grow again
even though they're still
connected to that root system
underground

the idea of what happened last year
is being repeated this year

we are going to come through this.

the old must burn
to give new life

the real work
is the change.

processes in nature are connected
to the sun, the moon, the tide, growth.

pull your own tooth
hold a baby bunny
look at film
see stones
through light

talk about
sculpture
through pictures

we get visually
and physically numb
to what we've made

good work
and bad work
everything
is put into here

who are you working for?

do you work intuitively?

pick
yellow flowers
by a stone wall

make
your best work

indications of how strongly
you feel for this place

pick dandelions
for a tin bowl

. . . . . .


a child is the first
to be born on the street

you see only births,
she sees only deaths

he lies in the rain
on the concrete
to see his shadow
while he rises

a rainbow

a yellow trail
of picked flowers
through a purple patch

a red ribbon
streaming through
green leaves

water rushes,
a bouquet of dandelions
afixed to rocks

he loves me, he loves me not
thrown into the
rushing stream

beauty
for its own sake

the river,
a line we follow
an unpredictability
running through
its own cycles
to the weather
and the sea

the river
joins the year
together

a river of stone
animals
wind
water

a river is not
dependent on water
we're talking about
flow

green leaves
chased through
by a green ribbon

a river of growth
that flows through
the trees
and the land

a spiral eye
on the skin
of a tree
its depth
is not seen
when it stays still.

our depth is not seen
when we stay still.

the barbs on the tree
the bulbous growths
make it look
tumored
cancered
but seen from
the landscape
it is
its own whole

its branches make
its own kaleidoscope
while the rams,
the ewes, the baby sheep
make their kaleidoscope
in its midst.

the shepherd
still carries
a hooked staff
catches
a running,
cornered sheep

helps it
to birth
new young

it is not
stillborn
though covered
in mucus
the shock
of new life
it may seem so
at first

surprisingly
it is all over
very quick
painless
the baby shakes
its head

the mother
her own fur matted
licks mucus
off her baby

the men look on,
handle what they can
with their hands

somewhere
there is also
death

a curled horn
seems so inappropriate
for this life
too ornate
for our eyes
let alone
his head

clumps of sheep hair
strung together
strewn over stones
a river of sheep
a flow of movement
in their own way

sheep dot the landscape
strings of wool
strewn on rock

there are no trees
because of the sheep

they have had
a deep impact
on the land

he feels a need
to work with
the sheep
and yet knows
his perception of sheep
is so different from
the reality
of sheep

it makes it
an incredibly
difficult thing
to work with
because
we perceive it
as being a wooly animal

to get through
that wooliness
the essence of
the sheep
is very hard

the sheep
is a powerful animal
in its own way

a wall of lumpy stone
built by man


..............


sheep have been responsible
for social and political upheavals
he says

people were put off
the land,
moved away
for the sheep
baby sheep today

they have left their
story behind them.

there is an emptiness
in the landscape
because of sheep.

wool-y mammoth
stone

big stone
touched by man

people lived, worked, and died here,
he can feel their presence
in the place where he works

.....................

I am the next layer
upon things that have
already happened.

climb a moss-splotted stone
seen from above
it forms a circle

not a sign
of man or woman
but a gateway,
an opening

mothers and fathers
to an art

a monument
amidst a landscape

the camera revolves
in earthy revolution
resolution

he doesn't think
the earth needs him
at all
but he does need it

his work
roots him again
and if he doesn't work
he feels
root-less.

he doesn't
know himself

he needs to be
on his own
at times
enjoys being
by himself

there are people's
company
he does enjoy
and yet he heals and feeds
on his own solitude

to be honest, he says,
he is drained
by people.

there are subtleties
that only he
is aware of
the present state
of the wind

though he looks
as calm as he did
30 seconds ago
there are those little warning bells
going off inside

he has built
an unknowably standing web
of twigs
connecting to a tree
somehow standing
in the air

he makes what shouldn't
stand in the air

its vast difference
from expectation
from convention
stands
and makes space
for the sun to shine through.

when he makes a work
he often takes it
to the very edge
of its collapse.

a beautiful balance

it shakes
and he reaches
to catch it
steady his creation,
with both hands
bandaged fingers

He watches it collapse
and holds his head.

It is gone,
and he sits sighing,
That was close.

"I am amazed at times
that I am actually alive."

His creation
lies in a heap
the tree branches
stand
in a heap,
root system
seeable, greened by codependent creatures

.................................

"There have been occasions
when someone very close to me died."

He smacks the dirt off the moss
makes thread
as he does from wool, from flowers
strings along everything he knows
to his most beautiful extension.

He reaffixes what he can.

The image
of his brother dying
is burned in his mind.

The day after
he worked
at the tree.
Seemed
the right place
to go.

He finally made
a work with the whole
on the tree.

He has come to see it
as a kind of entrance
into the tree, the stone, the earth

"An entrance
between which
life both ebbs
and flows."

Looking into a black hole
he often describes
is like looking over a cliff's edge.

A sense of being
drawn into the black
as drawn into the depths
The distance

But the other side
of that
is out of that
also comes growth

even stones
have holes

The black is not just a death
not just the absence
it's the intangible
but in the context
of a tree
that he knows
will come back to life.

There's nothing more potent
than a black hole
that he's made

and later he sees
a little finger of growth
a blade of growth
growing out of the black.

the river gurgles in
an unimaginable surge
of its own
unexpected direction.

forces following
the earth, gravity
as they unexpectedly combine
circle
and entangle
before making their way.

leaves upon leaves
strung together
in unexpected chains
twining their way together
like a serpent
down a stream
a sway they live
in their own creation

unexpected leaps and bounds
a ribboned collapse
of unpredictable direction

a flow
not knowing
which end
is up
until it is up

breakfast is served
at a diner
syrup over eggs
over waffles,
bacon.

men pound stones
shirtless in shorts

they are making a wall
repairing gaps

he has to respect
their work
their lives

they each have their roles
working their own space

their dialogue with the stone
is what makes the wall

it makes itself
to some extent

the fluidity of working
that gives the sculpture
a sense of movement, energy

walls are a link
back to a home

settlers make
walls
and we remake
the walls
so that they talk
about the place
as it is now.

"The walls have
come out of that process
of cutting down the trees
and turning the forest
into farmland.

But then farming has shifted
away from this landscape
and trees found shelter in the wall
and grew."

It is a dialogue.

"A wall is a line
in sympathy with the place
through which it travels."

That sense of movement
is very important
to the understanding
of sculpture

the river of growth
a flow that runs
around the world
the veins that run
around the world

roads
arteries
trucks
farms
land
music
pulse
water
curving walls
expanses of trees
birdsong
symphony
quiet regret
sound of movement

red drips on stone
he reaches into the water
and collects
stones that color
red on rock
he beats them
their iron,
making rocks, blood red

he feels special energy
in the red
its relationship to blood
something he can't explain entirely

a relationship to life
even though things die
they're part
of that flow still.

they become part
of the river of red.

"In Japan you'll see
a red maple tree
against a green mountain
and it's like a
wound in the mountain."

an energy and violence
about the color

a continuous pursuit
of red

as he approaches its source,
he learns the lessons
of the color

the color is also
in him
a feeling of a color and energy
flowing through all things

the water turns red
a seepage
of iron

realizing the red
is not so obvious

something so dramatic,
so intense
and so hidden
underneath the skin
of the earth

released,
it swirls,
it pools

a shock at seeing that color
so alien to the river
while its origins are rooted
to that place.

stone goes through a process
of solidification
and then becoming fluid again
and becoming solid once more

a memory in the life of the stone
very much in the spirit, in its nature

"We set so much
by our idea
of the stability of stone
and when we find
that stone itself
is actually fluid and liquid
it can undermine
our sense
of what is here to stay
and what isn't."

. . . . . .

They put human hair
from the barbershop in his town
in the clay to the walls that he builds

the cracks at the surface
of the clay
contain us
the cracks at our surface
contain the growth
the flow
of all

of course it feels alive.

words do their job,
but what he's doing there
says a lot more.

unravel your soul.

mist, water, the snow blows

much deeper than that.

the art of letting go

close your eyes
and have someone read this
to you...

you are getting very, very
sleepy
9, 8, you are going deeper
7, 6, you are into the deepest
recesses of your unconscious
mind, 5, 4, these suggestions
reach you and sink into your core
3, 2, you are letting go of all
the pain, 1,
you let go of all fear...

you are in the present moment
the past is behind you
there is no more worry about
the past or the future
you are settled in your own
mind, in your own being
in the river of your
own existence
and you make it your best...
you give in to the flow of your
own current...

i wish i could steal the hyp-yoga
trademarked script that is so
much better, and so much more healing
but
it is against the law

eating kung pao tofu in my
blue honda civic
i am free to sit in a parking lot
in my car
and am freer
than i was at 16.
i remember that freedom
and today it is more...

i am eating emerald sesame kale
as i turn a corner in my car
and the guy behind me honks
because i'm going too slow
and i take it as no commentary
on myself or him
just this moment
and what he did, and this
is what i'm doing...

i rented rivers and tides
after a session with pete
relating about the flow of our
river, the surrender to our current
not getting stuck in crags
not holding on to dead branches
but going with the flow of our
own current

when i came out of lincoln high
with my phone, the kids i had
entrusted my dog to had become
modeling agents, and new
kids were practicing taking
pictures of my husky talent..

she licked the camera,
wanted to scratch it,
that sexy vixen dog...

when i came home, she was waiting
in the window,
greeted me
at the door,
just wanted to go outside
like my date after a long day's work
i took her out when the words begged
to be typed instead,
and this isn't as good as it might
have been, but my dog got to run
for a block before i took her home.

we are working on forgiveness
we must love ourselves before
we can love anyone
we must forgive ourselves
because we are really capable
of forgiveness
we must clear our minds
to be free to be who we are...

in your head, in the street, in your car.

personal nagasaki

what is the price of fear?
what is the price of truth?

a young woman buys frosted
mini carrot cakes with walnuts
to celebrate picking up her lover

she sees him run to her car
in her rear view mirror

she licks icing off her fingers
turns around to watch him

he walks.

he gets in the car.

instead of kissing her smile
he dashes it with a letter

after the contents of the truth
and the un-truths and the half-truths
have been displayed

he tells her she has to quit crying
not to be so dramatic
he tries to drive her away, drive her
home

she cannot go home with him
she needs the car to stop
she needs the ride to stop

needing safety, she drives to
the office of her therapist
a man at work
he has a client
she is crying louder than
she has heard herself before

the building reacts as though
there has been a bomb
women pour out of a girl scout office
can i help you?
do you need to use the phone?

she calls her sister.
in her grief and tears
she says you have to come down
her sister wants to say okay
but she has to work, she has
meetings

she never says what happened
their dad is not dead.

a woman working in the building
comes outside, says wait, don't
drive like this.

she drives anyway. there is no way
to explain.

he put money in the envelope
keys, words. she reads them,
trying to find how this black and white
can in any way match her love and her truth

her hopes

a river flows, and then a boulder drops.
the river learns to flow
not get too excited,
not get too grateful
it learns to value the price
of peace.

can there be peace without truth?
how much does that cost?

he always wanted to know
how much was that doggy in the window
he did hope that doggy's for sale
he took home that doggy in the window
before he went and chopped off her tail.