Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
"Until he took the stiffness out of them"
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
"Blue" in a "broken world"
Lullaby in Blue
by Betsy Sholl
The child takes her first journey
through the inner blue world of her mother's body,
blue veins, blue eyes, frail petal lids.
Beyond that unborn brackish world so deep
it will be felt forever as longing, a dream
of blue notes plucked from memory's guitar,
the wind blows indigo shadows under streetlights,
clouds crowd the moon and bear down on the limbs
of a blue spruce. The child's head appears—
midnight pond, weedy and glistening—
draws back, reluctant to leave that first home.
Blue catch in the mother's throat,
ferocious bruise of a growl, and out slides
the iridescent body—fish-slippery
in her father's hands, plucked from water
into such thin densities of air,
her arms and tiny hands stutter and flail,
till he places her on her mother's body,
then cuts the smoky cord, releasing her
into this world, its cold harbor below
where a blue caul of shrink-wrap covers
each boat gestating on the winter shore.
Child, the world comes in twos, above and below,
visible and unseen. Inside your mother's croon
there's the hum of an old man tapping his foot
on a porch floor, his instrument made from one
string nailed to a wall, as if anything
can be turned into song, always what is
and what is longed for. Against the window
the electric blue of cop lights signals
somebody's bad news, and a lone man walks
through the street, his guitar sealed in dark plush.
Child, from this world now you will draw your breath
and let out your moth flutter of blue sighs.
Now your mother will listen for each one,
alert enough to hear snow starting to flake
from the sky, bay water beginning to freeze.
Sleep now, little shadow, as your first world
still flickers across your face, that other side
where all was given and nothing desired.
Soon enough you'll want milk, want faces, hands,
heartbeats and voices singing in your ear.
Soon the world will amaze you, and you
will give back its bird-warble, its dove call,
singing that blue note which deepens the song,
that longing for what no one can recall,
your small night cry roused from the wholeness
you carry into this broken world.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
"I counted on him"
Not Forgotten
by Sheila Packa
I learned to ride
the two wheel bicycle
with my father.
He oiled the chain
clothes-pinned playing cards
to the spokes, put on the basket
to carry my lunch.
By his side, I learned balance
and took on speed
centered behind the wide
handlebars, my hands
on the white grips
my feet pedaling.
One moment he was
holding me up
and the next moment
although I didn't know it
he had let go.
When I wobbled, suddenly
afraid, he yelled keep going—
keep going!
Beneath the trees in the driveway
the distance increasing between us
I eventually rode until he was out of sight.
I counted on him.
That he could hold me was a given
that he could release me was a gift.
"Not Forgotten" by Sheila Packa, from Cloud Birds. © Wildwood River Press, 2011. Reprinted with permission
Again from the Writer's Almanac.
I often write about why daughters ,as well as sons,(but ,I speak from being a daughter)need a dad. My dad did not stay around to raise me, however , I do remember rare occasions that he made a huge difference in my life and often wonder what potentials may have arisen in our relationship ,had I a dad who stayed around to raise me, have fun with and just be my dad. My dad did teach me to ride my bike. I think he did it really well,from what I remember. He took off the training wheels and took me to a grassy park and ran along side of me or from the behind ,holding on to the side or back end of my bike, little me, pedaling fast, with the wind blowing in my face,and then a sudden feeling of freedom ,not fear ,when he smoothly let go. I pedaled even faster and glided as if on air,and then would lose my balance as if the cloud of air beneath me blew away and I glided onto a soft velvety patch of grass. In my case, my mom would have been too anxious to gently let me go, let me fly on my own some and even let me fall,so that I would learn how to get up too,and could learn that falling needed not end up in tragedy ,but often times in growth and exploration. Sometimes ,I wish I had so much more of a dad that would have stayed around just long enough so that it would have been natural and expected ;
" that he could hold me was a given
that he could release me was a gift."
I would have been a very lucky daughter,that gift would last me a lifetime and then some....
by Sheila Packa
I learned to ride
the two wheel bicycle
with my father.
He oiled the chain
clothes-pinned playing cards
to the spokes, put on the basket
to carry my lunch.
By his side, I learned balance
and took on speed
centered behind the wide
handlebars, my hands
on the white grips
my feet pedaling.
One moment he was
holding me up
and the next moment
although I didn't know it
he had let go.
When I wobbled, suddenly
afraid, he yelled keep going—
keep going!
Beneath the trees in the driveway
the distance increasing between us
I eventually rode until he was out of sight.
I counted on him.
That he could hold me was a given
that he could release me was a gift.
"Not Forgotten" by Sheila Packa, from Cloud Birds. © Wildwood River Press, 2011. Reprinted with permission
Again from the Writer's Almanac.
I often write about why daughters ,as well as sons,(but ,I speak from being a daughter)need a dad. My dad did not stay around to raise me, however , I do remember rare occasions that he made a huge difference in my life and often wonder what potentials may have arisen in our relationship ,had I a dad who stayed around to raise me, have fun with and just be my dad. My dad did teach me to ride my bike. I think he did it really well,from what I remember. He took off the training wheels and took me to a grassy park and ran along side of me or from the behind ,holding on to the side or back end of my bike, little me, pedaling fast, with the wind blowing in my face,and then a sudden feeling of freedom ,not fear ,when he smoothly let go. I pedaled even faster and glided as if on air,and then would lose my balance as if the cloud of air beneath me blew away and I glided onto a soft velvety patch of grass. In my case, my mom would have been too anxious to gently let me go, let me fly on my own some and even let me fall,so that I would learn how to get up too,and could learn that falling needed not end up in tragedy ,but often times in growth and exploration. Sometimes ,I wish I had so much more of a dad that would have stayed around just long enough so that it would have been natural and expected ;
" that he could hold me was a given
that he could release me was a gift."
I would have been a very lucky daughter,that gift would last me a lifetime and then some....
Monday, May 16, 2011
Why I Blog
When I began my blog about a year and a half ago,I wrote a small piece to reflect upon why I was compelled to finally put into action and words my latent and burgeoning desires to write a blog or more accurately, an on- line journal of sorts. I am now revising and revisiting this query as to why I engage in this process, in writing my blog and why it is of meaning and value to share my thoughts,feelings,musings and reflections.
I have longed admired the discipline and practice of a daily journal to recall and ponder upon the day's unfoldings,as well as the unfoldings of my inner sphere,my relationships,my conflicts,my hopes,my sorrows,my joys,what I see as beautiful or hear as mellifluous or surprising or penetrating or worthy of remembering and sharing with others.I, at one time in my life lived abroad for many years.I recall sitting in the foothills of Jerusalem seeing out to a vista of a haze of violet shaded mountains,with shepherds tending their sheep and goat at an arm's length.I would often choose a high seat and gaze in astonishment at the beauty and sacredness of these private lofts.I would often write long letters to family,friends of my experiences as I was growing up with vast questions about the miracles and mysteries of life.You can say , in some ways ,I fell in love with the art of letter writing,much like the poet, Rilke ,who I much admire.
This blog has arisen in part in remembering the mystery and profound explorations of those early days of my adolescence and young adult years.I, now, in my middle years still am an impassioned romantic at heart ,even with the bristling experiences that life sometimes sends our way.I write this blog in part to grasp the hopeful aspects of our existence and to share it with those that the notion of hope may be tenuous .I have called my blog Rhiannon's Kairos.Rhiannon is similar in sound to my birth name.It is the name of a Celtic queen.I l relish the way words sound and reverberate through our vocal cords like wind whirling ,whooshing inside of us,thus Rhiannon resonates ,with my sometimes airy nature.Kairos is a Greek word that first appeared in Homer's Iliad.It carries the meaning of "opportuned time,the right time".It connotes a spatial quality of time rather than linear time.Opportunity can be missed,bring forth pain, regret or vulnerability.Opportunity can be a time for growth,restitution, healing, the birth and alignment of opposing forces that fall into perfect harmony that help us reach something closer to the divine abiding within us.It can be those rare moments that our mere human existence transcends our corporeal nature and we see clearly for brief moments and we are then not bound by the confines of only what we define as now.In those opportuned moments we can be nearer to a clairvoyant state of knowing that which was previously obscure to us about ourselves and others.
The word ,"kairos" was introduced to me when I was in training to become a psychiatrist , by my beloved mentor ,Jarl Dyrud ,M.D.who would refer to the experience of kairos when he would supervise me regarding patients that I saw as I trained to become a child and adolescent psychiatrist.His supervising me was a gift of remarkable pearls of wisdom and insight to carry with me as I work with my patients today.He embodied a fluid ,poetic , sage like persona that influenced all interactions with him and as a by product and living example, how I aspired to interact with my patients. He explained to me that "kairos" happened when a constellation of experiences coalesced in a single moment so what was right, appropriate,novel, needed, longed for,suddenly had the possibility to come into fruition for only this moment.He spoke of Odysseus at perilous sea snared ,entrapped by forces beyond himself and his own internal conflicts,not knowing where or how to proceed,as he could not go forth, then suddenly something in the quality of a raging sea changes, the gods are appeased,Odysseus comes to a place of rest within himself,he was the brief state of clairvoyance .His keen attention is like a taught bow string from which an arrow is shot forth with clear piercing direction. The word kairos is later in time in ancient Greece used in reference to archery as a quality of opportuned strength,goal and direction as a well aimed arrow shot into the space of future and opportunity.Eric White in his work,"Karromania" describes kairos in its origins as follows," from the “opportunity” in archery for the archer to shoot the arrow down an imaginary tunnel, with not only accuracy but strength enough to penetrate the target; and the time when a weaver must pull yarn through a gap that briefly opens in the cloth being woven." He says, “Success depends… on adaptation to an always mutating situation” .
I ,too am on my own journeys with twists and turns and mutations. .I look for these openings in space and time to offer new opportunity and am constantly refining and retuning my senses and attention to see and seize these moments of new exploration.I look forward to those opportune moments ,where the sun shines through a crack in the clouds to illuminate all that is of of subtle magnificence such that I am astounded once again.My blog is to honor those moments of astonishment ,of tangible and metaphoric hopefulness and share it when I am able.In this blog, I share poems or prose that I write,inspirations that come forth when I practice yoga , exposing you to some of my favorite poems,prose,poets, writers that have added joy and inspiration to my daily life, music that lifts my soul, and photographs that I attempt to capture some of the "astonishing" that is here right now,wherever I am .This blog is to remember ,Jarl,my mentor, for kindness, his generosity,his wisdom and share it with you. I hope my blog will in some ways embody the words that Edna St. Vincent Millay spoke in this poem;
God's World
BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear
Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me,—let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
I have longed admired the discipline and practice of a daily journal to recall and ponder upon the day's unfoldings,as well as the unfoldings of my inner sphere,my relationships,my conflicts,my hopes,my sorrows,my joys,what I see as beautiful or hear as mellifluous or surprising or penetrating or worthy of remembering and sharing with others.I, at one time in my life lived abroad for many years.I recall sitting in the foothills of Jerusalem seeing out to a vista of a haze of violet shaded mountains,with shepherds tending their sheep and goat at an arm's length.I would often choose a high seat and gaze in astonishment at the beauty and sacredness of these private lofts.I would often write long letters to family,friends of my experiences as I was growing up with vast questions about the miracles and mysteries of life.You can say , in some ways ,I fell in love with the art of letter writing,much like the poet, Rilke ,who I much admire.
This blog has arisen in part in remembering the mystery and profound explorations of those early days of my adolescence and young adult years.I, now, in my middle years still am an impassioned romantic at heart ,even with the bristling experiences that life sometimes sends our way.I write this blog in part to grasp the hopeful aspects of our existence and to share it with those that the notion of hope may be tenuous .I have called my blog Rhiannon's Kairos.Rhiannon is similar in sound to my birth name.It is the name of a Celtic queen.I l relish the way words sound and reverberate through our vocal cords like wind whirling ,whooshing inside of us,thus Rhiannon resonates ,with my sometimes airy nature.Kairos is a Greek word that first appeared in Homer's Iliad.It carries the meaning of "opportuned time,the right time".It connotes a spatial quality of time rather than linear time.Opportunity can be missed,bring forth pain, regret or vulnerability.Opportunity can be a time for growth,restitution, healing, the birth and alignment of opposing forces that fall into perfect harmony that help us reach something closer to the divine abiding within us.It can be those rare moments that our mere human existence transcends our corporeal nature and we see clearly for brief moments and we are then not bound by the confines of only what we define as now.In those opportuned moments we can be nearer to a clairvoyant state of knowing that which was previously obscure to us about ourselves and others.
The word ,"kairos" was introduced to me when I was in training to become a psychiatrist , by my beloved mentor ,Jarl Dyrud ,M.D.who would refer to the experience of kairos when he would supervise me regarding patients that I saw as I trained to become a child and adolescent psychiatrist.His supervising me was a gift of remarkable pearls of wisdom and insight to carry with me as I work with my patients today.He embodied a fluid ,poetic , sage like persona that influenced all interactions with him and as a by product and living example, how I aspired to interact with my patients. He explained to me that "kairos" happened when a constellation of experiences coalesced in a single moment so what was right, appropriate,novel, needed, longed for,suddenly had the possibility to come into fruition for only this moment.He spoke of Odysseus at perilous sea snared ,entrapped by forces beyond himself and his own internal conflicts,not knowing where or how to proceed,as he could not go forth, then suddenly something in the quality of a raging sea changes, the gods are appeased,Odysseus comes to a place of rest within himself,he was the brief state of clairvoyance .His keen attention is like a taught bow string from which an arrow is shot forth with clear piercing direction. The word kairos is later in time in ancient Greece used in reference to archery as a quality of opportuned strength,goal and direction as a well aimed arrow shot into the space of future and opportunity.Eric White in his work,"Karromania" describes kairos in its origins as follows," from the “opportunity” in archery for the archer to shoot the arrow down an imaginary tunnel, with not only accuracy but strength enough to penetrate the target; and the time when a weaver must pull yarn through a gap that briefly opens in the cloth being woven." He says, “Success depends… on adaptation to an always mutating situation” .
I ,too am on my own journeys with twists and turns and mutations. .I look for these openings in space and time to offer new opportunity and am constantly refining and retuning my senses and attention to see and seize these moments of new exploration.I look forward to those opportune moments ,where the sun shines through a crack in the clouds to illuminate all that is of of subtle magnificence such that I am astounded once again.My blog is to honor those moments of astonishment ,of tangible and metaphoric hopefulness and share it when I am able.In this blog, I share poems or prose that I write,inspirations that come forth when I practice yoga , exposing you to some of my favorite poems,prose,poets, writers that have added joy and inspiration to my daily life, music that lifts my soul, and photographs that I attempt to capture some of the "astonishing" that is here right now,wherever I am .This blog is to remember ,Jarl,my mentor, for kindness, his generosity,his wisdom and share it with you. I hope my blog will in some ways embody the words that Edna St. Vincent Millay spoke in this poem;
God's World
BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear
Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me,—let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
"No better tonic than the Moon"
I am reposting this poem because I love it so much;
The Moon
by Jaime Sabines
You can take the moon in spoonfuls
or in tablets once every two hours.
It works as a hypnotic and a sedative
and also provides relief
for those who have an overdose of philosophy.
A piece of moon in your pocket
is a better charm than a rabbit's paw:
it helps to find someone to love,
to be rich without anybody knowing
and keeps doctors and hospitals away.
You can give it as a dessert to children
when they can't get to sleep,
and a few drops of moon in the eyes of the old
help to die well.
Put a tender moon leaf
under your pillow
and you will see what you would like to see
and always carry a little bottle of moon air
for when you feel you're suffocating
and give the moon's key
to prisoners, and the disenchanted.
For those sentenced to death
and those condemned to life
there is no better tonic than the moon
in precisely measured doses.
The Moon
by Jaime Sabines
You can take the moon in spoonfuls
or in tablets once every two hours.
It works as a hypnotic and a sedative
and also provides relief
for those who have an overdose of philosophy.
A piece of moon in your pocket
is a better charm than a rabbit's paw:
it helps to find someone to love,
to be rich without anybody knowing
and keeps doctors and hospitals away.
You can give it as a dessert to children
when they can't get to sleep,
and a few drops of moon in the eyes of the old
help to die well.
Put a tender moon leaf
under your pillow
and you will see what you would like to see
and always carry a little bottle of moon air
for when you feel you're suffocating
and give the moon's key
to prisoners, and the disenchanted.
For those sentenced to death
and those condemned to life
there is no better tonic than the moon
in precisely measured doses.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)