Our Names

Naming My Daughter by Patricia Fargnoli             In the Uruba tribe of Africa, children are             named not only at birth but throughout their             lives by their characteristics and the events             that befall them. The one who took hold in the cold night The one who kicked loudly The one who slid down quickly in the ice storm She who came while the doctor was eating dessert New one held up by heels in the glare The river between two brothers Second pot on the stove Princess of a hundred dolls Hair like water falling beneath moonlight Strides into the day She who runs away with motorcycle club president Daughter kicked with a boot Daughter blizzard in the sky Daughter night-pocket She who sells sports club memberships One who loves over and over She who wants child but lost one. She who wants marriage but has none She who never gives up Diana (Goddess of the Chase) Doris (for the carrot-top grandmother she never knew) Fargnoli (for the father who drank and left and died) Peter Pan, Iron Pumper Tumbleweed who goes mouths without calling Daughter who is a pillar of light Daughter mirror, Daughter stands alone Daughter boomerang who always comes back Daughter who flies forward into the day where I will be nameless. "Naming My Daughter" by Patricia Fargnoli, from Necessary Light. © Utah State University Press, 1999. Reprinted with permissio   This is another poem again from the "Writer's Almanac" this morning. What an exquisite idea to pause with attention and give name honor to those we love and to ourselves each day every day for our human foibles,successes ,musings,funniness and amazing complexity of who we are and give thanks...Thank you poet Patricia Fargnoli for sharing these thoughtful words.

Today is poet A.E. Houseman's Birthday

When I Was One-and-Twenty

BY A. E. HOUSMAN

When I was one-and-twenty

       I heard a wise man say,

“Give crowns and pounds and guineas

       But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies

       But keep your fancy free.”

But I was one-and-twenty,

       No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty

       I heard him say again,

“The heart out of the bosom

       Was never given in vain;

’Tis paid with sighs a plenty

       And sold for endless rue.”

And I am two-and-twenty,

       And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true  

A. E. Housman (1859 - 1936)

BIOGRAPHY

At first glance nothing seems more unlikely than that the poet of the enormously popular A Shropshire Lad should be the classical scholar A. E. Housman. This Cambridge University professor of Latin left no doubt as to his priorities: the emendation of classical texts was both an intellectual search for the truth and his life's work; poetry was an emotional and physiological experience that began with a sensation in the pit of the stomach. The apparent discrepancies in this man who became both a first-rate scholar and a celebrated poet should be a reminder that, whatever else poetry does, it also records the interior life, a life that has its roots well beneath the academic gown or the business suit. Furthermore, in Housman's case, though he did aspire to be a great scholar first, scrutiny of his life and work reveals that he valued poetry more highly than he often admitted and that many of the presumed conflicts between the classical scholar and the romantic poet dissolve in the personality of the man.He said: "Good literature continually read for pleasure must, let us hope, do some good to the reader: must quicken his perception though dull, and sharpen his discrimination though blunt, and mellow the rawness of his personal opinions."

AE  Houseman apparently felt that as a writer he did have some purpose or even responsibility in the" generation of hope and doing some good to the reader"

Where does goodness come from

GeoTagged, [N42.01196, E88.15699]



Breaking Silence - For My Son

by Patricia Fargnoli

The night you were conceived
your father drove up Avon Mountain
and into the roadside rest
that looked over the little city,
its handful of scattered sparks.
I was eighteen and thin then
but the front seat of the 1956 Dodge
seemed cramped and dark,
the new diamond, I hadn't known
how to refuse, trapping flecks of light.
Even then the blackness was thick
as a muck you could swim through.
Your father pushed me down
on the scratchy seat, not roughly
but as if staking a claim,
and his face rose like
a thing-shadowed moon above me.
My legs ached in those peculiar angles,
my head bumped against the door.
I know you want me to say I loved him
but I wanted only to belong—to anyone.
So I let it happen,
the way I let all of it happen—
the marriage, his drinking, the rage.
This is not to say I loved you any less—
only I was young and didn't know yet
we can choose our lives.
It was dark in the car.
Such weight and pressure,
the wet earthy smell of night,
a slickness like glue.
And in a distant inviolate place,
as though it had nothing at all
to do with him, you were a spark
in silence catching.

"Breaking Silence—For My Son" by Patricia Fargnoli, from Necessary Light. © Utah State University Press, 1999
Posted in: Uncategorized
This poem was posted on one of my favorite sites ,"the Writer's Almanac" this morning.I think the poet captured a moment of raw honesty with one self.Although,I have not concretely had the same experience as the poet,there are moments in my life daily that astound me.I often wonder in my personal odysseys and those that I witness,hear,see how from sometimes the bleakest ,most forlorn and unredeeming parts of relationships the most stunning ,mystifying parts of ourselves are revealed.Sometimes the best of oneself or what we see in another rises from a heap of rubble or even ashes.Abraham Joshua Heschel has said that we are no longer living if we cease to be surprised..We must avail ourselves to notice and cherish all of the"sparks in the silence cathching"
We do not have a choice on that one....

The Laughter of Children through kite flying

SoundSeen: Flying Kites for the First Time from Speaking of Faith on Vimeo. There is no greater way of human connection that through the laughter of children. These  children of Nepal are flying kites for the very first time. The kites were made by a group of children from the other side of the world in British Columbia. This is the embodiment  of global mindfulness

Photography Class and Creativity

Sculpture of a young girl's  face in wonder

One of the things I have been pondering on lately and often these days is  the elusive  nature of the "creative process". In my photography class today the teacher read us a quote by  Ansel Adams,"The true artist sees the world in the strongest possible way, let us say,in the most penetrating  and revealing way.The art of photography is the art of "seeing" and the effectiveness of photography depends upon the strength and integrity of this " seeing".....The difference between the creative and the factual approach is one of purpose,sensitivity,and the ability to visualize an emotionally and aesthetically exciting image..."
  One can say such about a life well lived as well.

Spring can of beauty even in the snow

snow drops in the snow

winter aconite in snow

crocuses in snow

Endymion (extract) 

by John Keats

Book I

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases, it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits.
"From Endymion" by John Keats. Public domain ,from the Writer's Almanac today,yes beauty does "move away the pall from our dark spirits",May  this spring and all springs be a bounty of resplendent beauty for us all....

Happy Birthday to JS Bach On this First Day of Spring

Lake Michigan on a Snowy Vernal Equinox today,"And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet
and the winds long to play with your hair" Khalil Gibran

Tempus Vernum(springtime)

First White Swan of Spring

First Crocuses of Spring  
Tomorrow is the vernal equinox, the crocuses are blooming,the first white swan of spring floating on a clear pond today,

Some words by Maria Rainer Rilke for Springtime"Everything is blooming most recklessly;if it were voices instead of colors,there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night".

"Spring has returned,the Earth is like a child that knows poems"

        I am so very happy that spring is here.The spring air the,colors,the exuberant energy springing forth brings so much hope for good long warm days to come...

Remembering the poet Wilfred Owen on his birthday

ऊं सहना ववतु
सहनौ भुनक्तु
सहविर्यम् करवावहे
तेजस्विना वधीतम् अस्तु
मा विद विशावहै
ऊं शांति शांति शांति


Om Sahana Vavatu Sahanau Bhunaktu
Sahaveeryam Karavavahai
Tejas Vinavati Tamastuma vidhwishavahai
Om Shanti Shanti Shantihi


Sanskrit to English Word Meaning:
Saha- both; nau-us; avatu- may he protect; bhunaktu-may he nourish; viryam karavavahai-may we acquire the capacity; tejasvi-be brilliant; nau-for us; adhitam- what is studied; astu-let it be; ma vidvisavahai-may we not argue with each other.

Translation:
May He protect both of us. May He nourish both of us. May we both acquire the capacity (to study and understand the scriptures). May our study be brilliant. May we not argue with each other. Om peace, peace, peace.

Brief explanation:
At the beginning of a class, the teacher and students generally recite this peace invocation together. Both seek the Lord’s blessings for study that is free of obstacles, such as poor memory, or the inability to concentrate or poor health. They also seek blessings for a conducive relationship, without which communication of any subject matter is difficult. Therefore, this prayer is important for both the teacher and the student.

This is a mantra that is recited in ashtanga yoga before a teacher begins to teach a class.It is of note that  we are requesting a blessing to be free of obstacles that obstruct communication that is conducive to learning, change and growth. We want to be free of the type of disputation that leads to destruction disregard and disrespect .Extreme disputation obfuscates  reciprocity and dialogue and can  lead to mistrust  and dishonor in our world. We then stop learning about , from and with each other. I am reminded today of this prayer as it is the birthday of the English poet, Wilfred Owen who was  was a lieutenant in WW1 as well as a poet.He graphically depicted the horrors of war,he having experienced "shell shock" .He was killed on Nov,4,1918, seven days before Armistice Day, while attempting to cross the Sambro Canal,  in the course of leading his troops.He was only 25 years old.
  A review of Owen's poems published two years after his death read,"Others have shown the disenchanted of war,have unlegended  the roselight and romance,but none with such compassion for the disenchanted nor such sternly just and justly stern judgement on the idyllisers". It has been said of Owen by the writer,Geoff Dyer,"Owen was the medium through which the missing(from war) spoke".Here is an example of a virtual Owen reciting one his poems. He is remembered for not glorifying war , he is courageously honest in the retelling of what he witnessed first hand during wartime. His bravery and compassion are to be remembered.May our disputations lead only to greater compassionate understanding of each other and ourselves....

Dulce et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

William Butler Yeats for St. Patrick's Day

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Beannacht-a Blessing in Gaelic

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you .

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the gray window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colors,
indigo, red, green
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the curach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may be clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
May the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

- John O’Donohue, Anam cara: a book of Celtic wisdom

A message of peace through song and dance this spring day

Gaelic Lullabye

Recorded by: Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh
Written by: Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh
A lullaby which I composed for my daughter Nia.

Seo amhrán a chum mé do mo níon Nia….suantraí le comhairle do girseach bheag ghálanta!

Mairéad – Vocals
Manus – Bouzouki / Guitar / Programming / Backing Vocals
Jim Higgins – Percussion
Translated to English by - Tristan Rosenstock
Lyrics

My Daughter, O

Come walk with me, my daughter O
Over the sand dunes of Tráigh Bhán*
And make castles of gold, my daughter O
From the smooth sand and bright shells.

May your journey be easy, my daughter O,
Through this life that lies ahead of you
And follow your desire, my daughter O,
For protection will be there for you.

My daughter O, óró X 3
May you go safely each night and day.

O set your sail, my daughter O,
Out to Gola on a magical boat
On the crest of waves, my daughter O,
Until the moon shines over you.

O go to sleep, my daughter O,
On a warm bed of white silk,
Lie down peacefully, my daughter O,
And listen to the sweet songs of the birds.

May you go safely, my daughter O,
Without worry or gloom
Each day and night,
And remember your mark, my daughter O,
On the smooth sand of Tráigh Bhán.

*Tráigh Bhán – White Strand ; I heard this lullabye today,so pretty,worth sharing

Yoga -attention within oneself

Yoga is a process of the unfolding of the layers of oneself,if one pays close attention to the subtle discoveries that surface ,creativity always follows.
The poet Rilke understood this well as he wrote of the unfolding of an artist in"Letters to a Young Poet" .He said,"as you unfold as an artist,just keep on,quietly and earnestly,growing through all that happens to you.You can not disrupt the process more violently than by looking outside yourself for anwers that may be only found by attending to your innermost feeling"
" Attention to one's inner most feelings" is essential ,looking inward so we may be useful and do things of meaning outwardly creatively with each other.

Happy Birthday Albert Einstein

48:39) Reading from a Letter by Einstein from "Speaking of Faith" on npr
The Einstein Archives contains a letter dated August 5, 1927 from a banker in Colorado to Einstein in Berlin. The Colorado man remarked that most scientists had abandoned the archetypal image of a patriarchal God even though they worshipped one. Along with other prominent men, the banker's book club asked Einstein to forward his views on the subject. It's not certain if Einstein sent his reply, but on the banker's letter Einstein wrote the following in German (translation from Albert Einstein: The Human Side):

I cannot conceive of a personal God who would directly influence the actions of individuals, or would directly sit in judgment on creatures of his own creation. I cannot do this in spite of the fact that mechanistic causality has, to a certain extent, been placed in doubt by modern science. My religiosity consists in a humble admiration of the infinitely superior spirit that reveals itself in the little that we, with our weak and transitory understanding, can comprehend of reality. Morality is of the highest importance — but for us, not for God.  ....so true Morality is for Us...

Winter Aconite

eranthis hyemalis

In Greek mythology the aconite is mentioned in Ovid's Meatamorphosis when Medea tries to kill Theseus by putting aconite in his wine,trying to avert his becoming king ,which she wants for her own son . In Eurypide's play Medea to avenge Jason, her husband for his infidelity poisons him and her children  she begot with him with the  an aconite brew. Aconite was thought to form from the saliva of Cerberus,the three headed dog who guarded the gates of Hades.Hercules drags Cerberus from Hades.As the dog barks and defends himself from sunlight, spittle falls from his mouth onto the rocky earth. Achone is whetstone in greek.The saliva hardens to a poison in the soil and all plants that grow upon that soil contain this poison. In greek "er" is spring and " anthos "is flower. In latin" hyemalis "means of the winter ,hence this is the spring flower of the winter that bares a poison derived from the saliva of Cerberus upon the whetstone. Later Medea,the witch used the aconite for various acts of desperate revenge.This bulb  flower grows in abundance on moist surfaces close to the earth.

Milkflower of the Snow-First Blush of Springtime

snowdrops in garden 3/12/10

                      The Story of the First Snowdrops by Florence Holbrook;
Snowdrops=Galanthus nivalis,in greek; gala is milk, enthos is flower, in latin nivalis is
snow  thus"Milkflower of the Snow"
An old man sat alone in his house. It Was full of shadows; it was dark and gloomy. The old man cared nothing for the shadows or the darkness, for he was thinking of all the mighty deeds that he had done. "There is no one else in the world," he muttered, "who has done such deeds as I," and he counted them over aloud. A sound outside of the house interrupted him. "What can it be?" he said to himself. "How dares anything interrupt me? I have told all things to be still. It sounds like the rippling of waters, and I have told the waters to be quiet in their beds. There it is again. It is like the singing of birds, and I have sent the birds far away to the south."

Some one opened the door and came in. It was a youth with sunny curls and rosy face.

"Who said you might come in?" muttered the old man.

"Did not you?" asked the youth, with a merry little laugh. "I am really afraid that I came without asking. You see, every one is glad to see me and"—

"I am not," interrupted the old man.
"I have heard rumors of your great deeds," said the youth, "and I came to see whether the tales are true."

"The deeds are more true than the tales," muttered the old man, "for the tales are never great enough. No one can count the wonderful things I have done."

"And what are they?" asked the young man gravely, but with a merry little twinkle in his eyes that would have made one think of the waves sparkling in the sunlight. "Let us see whether you or I can tell the greatest tale."

"I can breathe upon a river and turn it to ice," said the old man.

"I can breathe upon the ice and turn it to a river," said the youth.

"I can say to water, 'Stand still,' and it will not dare to stir."

"I can say, 'Stand no longer,' and it will go running and chattering down the mountain side."

"I shake my white head," said the old man, "and snow covers the earth."
"I shake my curls," said the young man, "and the air sparkles with sunshine. In a moment the snow is gone."

"I say to the birds, 'Sing no more. Leave me,' and they spread their wings and fly far away."

"I say, 'Little birds, come back,' and in a moment they are back again and singing their sweetest songs to me."

"No one can count the leaves," said the old man, "but whether I shake the trees with my icy touch, or whether I turn my cold breath upon them, they fall to the ground with fear and trembling. Are there any rumors of my deeds as great as that?"

The young man answered gravely, but with a laugh in his voice, "I never saw any leaves falling to the ground, for when I appear, they are all fair and green and trembling with the gladness of my coming."

So the two talked all night long. As morning came near, the old man appeared weary, but the youth grew merrier. The sunlight brightened, and the youth turned to the open door. The trees were full of birds, and when they saw him, they sang, "O beautiful spring! glad are we to look again upon your face."

"My own dear birds!" cried spring. He turned to say good-by, but the old man was gone, and where he had stood were only snowflakes. But were they snowflakes? He looked again. They were little white snowdrops, the first flowers of spring, the only flowers that can remember the winter.

Poems form between Sleep and Wake

This one is by me as I awoke this early spring morn,
 I went to sleep last night rummaging
thru the albums of my mind
old grey black and whites,some newer, recently coalescing
some frayed around the edges,creamy yellow
streaks of time passing,age

Some memories are not complete,just poems
in a line a man quoted to me in a dream
last night
Some people remain as  a poem
in a memory
Some people in memories come
to completion as poems
Some remain as poems

I awake in stillness
to the soft singing of
the birds

the time has come this early spring to share some of my own poems,at least sometimes...

Where are you going that is so important

This poem relates to fathers and sons,but can be said about the time,space,feelings,thoughts,words,memories shared or not shared between any two human beings. I ask myself.where is it you are going exactly that is so much more important than this moment with this person right  now...

Yesterday
by W. S. Merwin
My friend says I was not a good son you understand I say yes I understand he says I did not go to see my parents very often you know and I say yes I know even when I was living in the same city he says maybe I would go there once a month or maybe even less I say oh yes he says the last time I went to see my father I say the last time I saw my father he says the last time I saw my father he was asking me about my life how I was making out and he went into the next room to get something to give me oh I say feeling again the cold of my father's hand the last time he says and my father turned in the doorway and saw me look at my wristwatch and he said you know I would like you to stay and talk with me oh yes I say but if you are busy he said I don't want you to feel that you have to just because I'm here I say nothing he says my father said maybe you have important work you are doing or maybe you should be seeing somebody I don't want to keep you I look out the window my friend is older than I am he says and I told my father it was so and I got up and left him then you know though there was nowhere I had to go and nothing I had to do

A touch of early spring rain today

"Harshness vanished. A sudden softness
has replaced the meadows' wintry grey.
Little rivulets of water changed
their singing accents. Tendernesses,

hesitantly, reach toward the earth
from space, and country lanes are showing
these unexpected subtle risings
that find expression in the empty trees."-  Rainer Marie Rilke, Early Spring

Each breath is recycled-Pranayama

"Looking for Holes" ,by Ani Difranco. I was listening to this tune today on the radio, I was thinking about."prana"-our breath, the vital life source and then I listened,"each breath is recycled from someone else's lungs",how we unknowingly sustain each other and revitalize each other by recycling our energy back and forth between each other...


I am looking for the holes
the holes in your jeans
because I want to know
are they worn out in the seat
or are they worn out in the knees

there are so many ways to wear
what we've got before it's gone
to make use of what is there
I don't wear anything I can't wipe my hands on

do your policies fit between the headlines
are they written in newsprint, are they distant
mine are crossing an empty parking lot
they are a woman walking home
at night
alone
they are six string that sing
and wood that hums against my hipbone

we can't afford to do anyone harm
because we owe them our lives
each breath is recycled from someone else's lungs
are enemies are the very air in disguise

you can talk a great philosophy
but if you can't be kind to people
every day
it doesn't mean that much to me
it's the little things you do
the little things you say
it's the love you give along the way

when we patch things up
they say a job well done
but when we ask why
where did the rips come from
they say we are subversive
and extreme, of course
we are just trying to track a problem to its source

because we know we can't sit back
and let people come to harm
we owe them our lives
each breath is recycled from someone else's lungs
our enemies are the very air
our enemies are the air

we are looking for the holes
the holes in your jeans
because we want to know
are they worn out in the seat
or are they worn out in the 

If by Rudyard Kipling

Thank you again, Poem Flow," If" words to try to live my life by as best as I am able...

the hunting poet has me thinking

    

    Night Hunting

Because we wanted things the way they were

in our minds' black eyes we waited. The beaver

raising ripples in a vee behind his head

the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow

where you don't want it; a dahlia could be a weed,

or love, or other notions. The heart can't choose

to find itself enchanted; the hand can't choose

to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope

to see the signs of motion, to make an end

to Peter's old refrain: He'll be along, son of a bitch,

and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure

that when he shines the light the thing will show

along the other shore. What next? Well,

you've killed animals before. Invited here

for company in the cold night, and because

ever handy with rifles. What next is wait

and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-

widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow

like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted

a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,

shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.

The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,

or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us

our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Because we wanted things the way they were
in our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver
raising ripples in a vee behind his head
the thing we wanted. A Yesterday as I was on a long ride to work I was listening to one of my favorite radio programs on NPR.It is Resound from Third Coast Video Festival.The program searches for thoughtful inspiring audio pieces from around the globe.Within a few sentences of listening to a new story ,new sounds ,new words ,my mind and spirit  are traveling on uncharted journies outside of myself,beyond the confines of what is safe and already known to me.Yesterday was such a journey.The name of the piece was "poet hunter".it was an interview of a poet in the wilds of a Virginia forest

on a hunting expedition of deer, one of my favored animals ,me that I am a vegetarian for most of my life,felt a tinge of "self righteous judgement" rising.The poet,John Casteen had a deep contemplatve voice.I listened carefully to the  voice ,his words to describe the chill in the forest air, ,the mist,the natural world around him,all were transfixing.He was out walking,climbing,waiting,"to hunt  deer".He was quiet still content.I had  not thought about the private thoughts, feelings,intentions of a hunter before this moment. I was transposed out of my comfort zone, taken into another's perspective. It was something  of a carnal primitive  truthful moment as I heard his words that permeated  the images it evoked in my mind. He spoke of the state of meditative reflection , respect for the natural processes ,the rituals of honoring and preparing an animal that he hunted.He then recited a poem that he wrote contemplating the morality of why people hunt.I have not been converted to a hunter of deer or a carnivore,but hearing this poet's  words.,I am faced eye to eye with the "hunter" in me.We are all hunters of sorts,perhaps not of deer.Can we be honest to ourselves and if life must naturally include a hunting of sorts can we remain dignified ,honorable ,respectful  compassionate .Thank you John  Casteen, for your humanity and integrity and courageous truthfulness.eed is what might grow
where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed,
or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose
to find itself enchanted; the hand can’t choose
to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope
to see the signs of motion, to make an end
to Peter’s old refrain: He’ll be along, son of a bitch,
and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure
that when he shines the light the thing will show
along the other shore. What next? Well,
you’ve killed animals before. Invited here
for company in the cold night, and because
ever handy with rifles. What next is wait
and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-
widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow
like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted
a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,
shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.
The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,
or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us
our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Copyright © John Casteen

Originally published in Ploughshares, Winter 2006-07

Night Hunting

Because we wanted things the way they were
in our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver
raising ripples in a vee behind his head
the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow
where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed,
or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose
to find itself enchanted; the hand can’t choose
to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope
to see the signs of motion, to make an end
to Peter’s old refrain: He’ll be along, son of a bitch,
and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure
that when he shines the light the thing will show
along the other shore. What next? Well,
you’ve killed animals before. Invited here
for company in the cold night, and because
ever handy with rifles. What next is wait
and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-
widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow
like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted
a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,
shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.
The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,
or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us
our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Copyright © John Casteen

Originally published in Ploughshares, Winter 2006-07   

Night Hunting

Because we wanted things the way they were
in our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver
raising ripples in a vee behind his head
the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow
where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed,
or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose
to find itself enchanted; the hand can’t choose
to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope
to see the signs of motion, to make an end
to Peter’s old refrain: He’ll be along, son of a bitch,
and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure
that when he shines the light the thing will show
along the other shore. What next? Well,
you’ve killed animals before. Invited here
for company in the cold night, and because
ever handy with rifles. What next is wait
and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-
widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow
like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted
a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,
shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.
The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,
or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us
our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Copyright © John Casteen
Originally published in Ploughshares, Winter 2006-07

Night Hunting

Because we wanted things the way they were
in our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver
raising ripples in a vee behind his head
the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow
where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed,
or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose
to find itself enchanted; the hand can’t choose
to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope
to see the signs of motion, to make an end
to Peter’s old refrain: He’ll be along, son of a bitch,
and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure
that when he shines the light the thing will show
along the other shore. What next? Well,
you’ve killed animals before. Invited here
for company in the cold night, and because
ever handy with rifles. What next is wait
and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-
widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow
like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted
a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,
shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.
The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,
or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us
our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Copyright © John Casteen
Originally published in Ploughshares, Winter 2006-07

Night Hunting

Because we wanted things the way they were
in our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver
raising ripples in a vee behind his head
the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow
where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed,
or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose
to find itself enchanted; the hand can’t choose
to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope
to see the signs of motion, to make an end
to Peter’s old refrain: He’ll be along, son of a bitch,
and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure
that when he shines the light the thing will show
along the other shore. What next? Well,
you’ve killed animals before. Invited here
for company in the cold night, and because
ever handy with rifles. What next is wait
and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-
widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow
like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted
a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,
shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.
The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,
or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us
our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Copyright © John Casteen
Originally published in Ploughshares, Winter 2006-07