Rodak's Writings: An Inadequate Poem

 
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A Refusal to Mourn the Deaths, by Gunfire, of Twenty Children in Newtown

Others will write
grave syllables
of grief and horror
in stanzas heavy
as granite angels.

Mine is the silence
of the deus absconditus;
the silence of a doll
left waiting
on the pillow of an empty bed.
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Reflections: Horror and Its Promptings

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Yesterday, the morning of December 14, 2012, a young man in Connecticut murdered his mother. He then drove her car to the elementary school where she had been a kindergarten teacher. There, he murdered the principal and five other adults. He also murdered twenty children. Most of them had been in his mother’s class. It was horror, and the wanton TV Eye of this brutal nation had one more crashing, collective orgasm, teased to new heights of ecstasy as, bit by tongue-tipped bit, the story was breathlessly delivered, retracted, revised and salaciously licked onto the camera’s lens by ranks of comely stringers; for, if it bleeds, it leads. The president performed our public penance with a becoming degree of difficulty. I gave him 8.5 out of ten. A governor spoke. Ranks of cops were implored to deliver just one unit more of their arcane syntax. Preachers and priests were interviewed, and psychologists in the hire of media outlets solemnly offered professional wisdom, for free, to a gasping nation, now grieving in the afterglow.

Yesterday also, I discovered a poet, new to me; a Welshman named R. S. Thomas. Here, from the collection, Later Poems 1972-1982, is the second piece:

PETITION

And I standing in the shade
Have seen it a thousand times
Happen: first theft, then murder,
Rape; the rueful acts
Of the blind hand. I have said
New prayers, or said the old
In a new way. Seeking the poem
In the pain, I have learned
Silence is best, paying for it
With my conscience. I am eyes
Merely, witnessing virtue’s
Defeat; seeing the young born
Fair, knowing the cancer
Awaits them. One thing I have asked
Of the disposer of the issues
Of life: that truth should defer
To beauty. It was not granted.

It was a long, sad day in what has so very suddenly been revealed as a long, sad life. The third poem in the Thomas collection is:

THIS ONE

Oh, I know it: the long story,
The ecstasies, the mutilations;
Crazed, pitiable creatures
Imagining themselves a Napoleon,
A Jesus; letting their hair grow,
Shaving it off; gorging themselves
On a dream; kindling
A new truth, withering by it.

While patiently this poor farmer
Purged himself in his strong sweat,
Ploughing under the tall boughs
Of the tree of the knowledge of
Good and evil, watching its fruit
Ripen, abstaining from it.

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[ insert ‘What a long, strange trip…’ here ]
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UPDATE: It is now being reported that the murdered mother was not a teacher at the school where the shootings took place, and may have had no formal connection to the school at all. It is also reported that the guns used in the massacre, or at least some of them, were purchased by the mother. All of this does damage to the symmetry of the story, as it was being reported last night; but it is what it is.

Rodak's Writings: Linnaeus

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Trying now to recall the seldom-taken arboreal tours of my neighborhood-happy little boy being. Delivered by V8 woody wagon to tramp beneath that broad green supported by tall brown-to-black pillars that even in rising seemed crushingly stone-like despite the carefree flitting of the birds, the squirrels and one guessed the bats come sundown. Sure. Trees. And I hardly knowing the names of a few. Leaf shape a Cub Scout sort of wisdom that did not grab me for brain branding. An elm: there was one in our yard on Linden Street. Linden a tree too I would later learn. And that one was a maple. But maples come in tribes. Like Canada. Or Vermont. Pancakes. Butter. Canada. Ice-skates. Maple Leafs a plural with the “v” gone missing. Butter not in tribes but brands. To which no loyalty from me to this day. I will have the generic. Or everything Kroger. Would Kount out Kash for Kroger Kondoms if I Kould. So tree tours remembered but names still not known. Elm for sure. Maple, generally. Oak quite the same. From little acorns. Apple? Known only by the fruits. Jesus said that. Cherry? Ha-ha-ha. Dirty jokes come marching in like a company of WWI vets. Of which not a one remains standing. Unless in some Black Forest cave still cluelessly looking for a Kraut to kill at one-hundred-and-something. Forest for the trees. Africa for the Africans. What’s-his-name grouped them. Not Audubon. That was birds. And years later when Rip Van Winkled. Bowling dwarves. With a goddamned “v” -- fucking Canucks! Kerouac. California. Howl. Anal sex. Why knowing back then more birds than trees? Sparrow. Check. Robin. Check. Blue Jay, pigeon, cardinal, pheasant. Easy. Duck, goose, swan. Sure. Parrot and parakeet. Canary. You could buy them at Woolworth’s. Elm, maple, oak. And don’t squeeze the Charmin. Don’t let the doorknob hit you in the ass. Memory becomes time lost to the present. Linnaeus that’s it. Linnaeus not Adam named the trees in all their tribes. He probably earned himself a merit badge. The elms like the WWI vets all gone. The name and its learning has so soon come to naught. …Goddamn but I’m lonely...
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Rodak's Writings: an Etheree

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The poem below is my initial attempt to compose an “etheree,” a form to which I was introduced a couple of days ago in the group “Poetry, Poetry, Poetry” by the poet, Jane Lynahan Karklin. The form gets its name from the given name of an obscure poet from Arkansas who invented and developed the form, Etheree Taylor Armstrong, about whom more here:

The form is simple: line one has one syllable; line two has two, and so on, for a total of ten lines.

The Hangnail

A

hangnail

can kill you

if it invites

the right kind of bug

to play trout up your blood-

stream. I want to live forever;

but, please God, not as an old man.

The flesh grows soft as the years mount up.

The hangnail's pain: your path to salvation.

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Rodak's Writings: Basic Black - a poem

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Basic Black


At my old home

the one I lost

my clothes closet

had a light in it

that came on

when you opened the door.

In my new place

the one that I haunt

a damned soul

you need to flip a switch

to light the closet.

So I stand every morning

looking into a dark place

not able to tell

if the shirt is black

or blue or green.

Do you understand

what this means?

Do you?
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Readings: When Lessing is More

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At the time of the death of Norman Mailer, a writer under whose influence, both in terms of literature and in terms of culture, I came of age, I posted this angry piece on Rodak Riffs. I thought at the time that the Nobel Prize committee had made a terrible unforced error in choosing Doris Lessing over Mailer for the literature prize. I am no longer so sure of that.

The reason for my tentative change of heart is that I have begun reading Lessing’s Canopus in Argos:Archives, a sequence in which the first novel is Re: Colonised Planet 5 Shikasta. I have begun reading Shikasta as a result of a conversation on Facebook involving my reading of Philip K. Dick’s Exegesis. This led me to Lessing’s novel sequence. I am about one-third of the way through the first book, having borrowed the first three from the library, and I am very impressed. The following brief excerpt from the Wikipedia article on Lessing will give you enough background on the nature of the sequence to save me the trouble:

When asked about which of her books she considers most important, Lessing chose the Canopus in Argos sequence. These novels present an advanced interstellar society's efforts to accelerate the evolution of other worlds, including Earth. […] Using Sufi concepts, to which Lessing had been introduced in the mid-1960s by her "good friend and teacher" Idries Shah,  the series of novels also owes much to the approach employed by the early 20th century mystic G. I. Gurdjieff in his work All and Everything.

So what we basically have in the Canopus sequence is a “chariot of the gods” scenario, with Shikasta—the fallen planet—representing Earth; Canopus standing in for “heaven” and the evil planet Shammat and its agents representing “hell” and the demonic forces.

It has been insights like the one below concerning the evolution of religion that have made Shikasta so rewarding for me, thus far:

            During the entire period under review, religions of any kind flourished. Those that concern us most here took their shape from the lives or verbal formulations of our envoys. This happened more often than not, and can be taken as a rule: every one of our public cautioners left behind a religion, or cult, and many of the unknown ones did, too.

            These religions had two main aspects. The positive one, at their best: a stabilization of the culture, preventing the worst excesses of brutality, exploitation, and greed. The negative: a priesthood manipulating rules, regulations, with punitive inflexibility; sometimes allowing, or exacerbating, excesses of brutality, exploitation, and greed. These priesthoods distorted what was left of our envoys’ instruction, if it was understood by them at all, and created a self-perpetuating body of individuals totally identified with their invented ethics, rules, beliefs, and who were always the worst enemies of any envoys we sent.

            These religions were a main difficulty in the way of maintaining Shikasta in our system.

            They have often been willing agents of Shammat.

This passage expresses succinctly and precisely what I had already come to believe concerning the nature of professional priesthoods and organized religion.

So I have reevaluated Lessing’s contribution to literary culture and her body of work. If my enthusiasm for this series continues to grow, I intend to go back and read more of her work. I read The Golden Notebook way back in my Ann Arbor days and liked it. And I have read a few of her novels—The Fifth Child comes mind—since; but not many. That may now change.

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Readings: Recalling Reality

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One of the characters in one of the novels of Philip K. Dick’s great Valis Triology, recommends to one of the other characters that he (or she?) read the work of Hayyim Nahman Bialik. Because of the nature of Dick’s preoccupations, this endorsement interested me greatly and I made note of the name. Unfortunately, I did not make note of which character in which novel made this recommendation, so I can’t make that citation here.


Although Bialik was, and still is, considered to be the modern master of Hebrew poetry (see the Wikipedia article linked in the opening paragraph above), my library (the one I work in) did not have a book of poetry by Bialik available. But it did have a volume containing three stories in English translation. Below are two excerpts which appear eight pages apart in the first and longest of the stories. I found them to be both true and very beautiful. See what you think:

~ from the story, “Aftergrowth” by Hayyim Nahman Bialik:

It has been said very truly that man sees and grasps only once in his life, during his childhood. Those first sights, virgin as when first they left the Creator’s hands, are the embodiment of things, their very quintessence. What comes later is no more than a defective second edition. It is done after the fashion of the original, to be sure, and is faintly reminiscent of it, but it is not the same thing. I have found this to be true of myself. Whatever I have seen and deemed worthy of blessing in the skies above or on earth in the course of my life has been enjoyed only by virtue of that original, that primal seeing.

[…]

And it is clear to me that when the lot of all men befalls me and the portals of the world open wide for my departure, in that final hour all the sights and the visions of my childhood will troop out once more from behind their veil and will muster around me. All of them will come, down to the very last one, bringing their charm, their love and their pristine brightness, as they were shown to me in the very dawn of my day. Then suddenly the light of all seven days will gather about them, and be extinguished forever with the light of my soul…

~ translated from the Hebrew by I. M. Lask

Once again I am amazed at the breadth and depth of PKD’s knowledge and interests.
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