What's In A Name?

Catching up on magazine reading this weekend I came across an excellent little piece on Jackson Pollack and a potential new discovery in Smithsonian Magazine. It argues that in one very special piece of art commissioned by Peggy Guggenheim herself, Jackson Pollack decided to sign his name in large letters throughout the canvas. The author of the article, Henry Adams, admits that it was his wife who first saw it over breakfast one day. Adams describes their “aha” moment below:

“I was researching a book about Pollock's lifelong relationship with his mentor, Thomas Hart Benton, the famed regionalist and muralist, when I sat puzzling over a reproduction of Mural after breakfast one morning with Marianne, herself an art historian. She suddenly said she could make out the letters S-O-N in blackish paint in the upper right area of the mural. Then she realized JACKSON ran across the entire top. And finally she saw POLLOCK below that.”

He goes on to write an explanation of why this could be the case and I’ve pasted in their justification for this hidden signature below the original mural. (See the full article http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/Decoding-Jackson-Pollock.html). This has created quite a stir in the Smithsonian readership community, both online and now in the December issue of the magazine with most readers asking why Pollack would do such a thing. I’m not sure I have an opinion, but I love this little piece of artistic mystery.

Guggenheim, by then a huge Pollack supporter, commissioned this piece for her own home, not a museum or an art show, thus the artist in question was never “in question” necessitating such a cheeky move. However, maybe that’s what this was, embedding something hidden so all of the guests at her many parties would study it and perhaps “see” it one day. I have no idea, but there are some times I think I see it—it’s in black in his painting after all—and there are other times I need the de-coder to see it properly.  Given his technique, part of me wants to believe that maybe he had to sign a bunch of checks that day or the bottom of many pieces of art and his wrist bone just sort of continued that general motion and he started making shapes of his name without knowing it...What do you see?

Here is a small poem for today inspired by this new development.

Random Concrete
Dripping syllables, spattering punctuations of love
from one intense canvas to another
in states both calm and manic,
You gave life to new shapes, forms
Like a god, you dabbled your drizzle from above.
With fame, wide spread notoriety
Did you pull one last act
A hidden gesture of ego’s the variety?

Somewhere on earth or in ether, methinks
The spirit of Pollack smiles, silently winks.

Going Old School: Wordsworth Revisited

 I had planned on sharing a bit of Wordsworth today, thinking of lines I was asked to memorize or at least I memorized them while studying them many moons ago, and then the entire can of ode upon childhood opened itself up. After reading the Wordsworth’s entire poem, it occurred to me that I may have never even have read this in its entirety before. I consulted a variety of volumes of poems on my shelf and anthologies I own, even the enormous tome that is Norton, king of English literature, and no, the full version of this poem is not published.

Surely any number of volumes at Borders or Barns will have Wordsworth’s “Imitations of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood.” But if I had read it once, that was the only time and it was worth a second read. The final stanza remains my favorite because it brings together, for me, all of the philosophy about youth, nature and aging and gives thanks for being alive and human and I think, for the poet to be able to age and understand the beauty of the circle of life. That said, this time, I find the entire second half of this poem gripping.

The lines of giving thanks are the ones I thought of most this holiday weekend. Turns out, the poem gave back my giving to me its entire 208 lines. What a lovely gift

"Ode: Intimations of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood"
By William Wordsworth

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;

Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday;--
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd-boy!

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:--
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
--But there's a Tree, of many, one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a Mother's mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy Soul's immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,--
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest--
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:--
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realised,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

A Day Of Rest, A Day Of Thanks

Here's to a a day of rest, a day for doing nothing but watching football, eating and a little socializing.  Thankfully for me, the day kicked off with the one and only yoga class at my studio today, the 10am "save a turkey" class, at which I was able to give thanks for my instructors and the people I've come to know over the last almost year there.

While turkey isn't my thing, cranberries, yams, mashed potatoes and all of the sides are.  And, an unexpected surprise before going to my dinner-- an entire two hours this morning on NPR in which a special episode of "The Splendid Table" discussed a cool vegetarian menu.  But much more exciting than that, Garrison Keillor made a cameo appearance.  Since work has been overwhelming I had no idea this program was going to be on, let alone have Keillor reading sonnets from his new book with a little Thanksgiving chat with the host of "Table," Lynne Rossetto Kasper.  Fun times after yoga.

Here is one sonnet read today about food, sort of...

Supper
by Garrison Keillor

You made crusty bread rolls filled with chunks of brie

And minced garlic drizzled with olive oil
And baked them until the brie was bubbly
And we ate them lovingly, our legs coiled
Together under the table. And salmon with dill
And lemon and whole-wheat cous cous
Baked with garlic and fresh ginger, and a hill
Of green beans and carrots roasted with honey and tofu.
It was beautiful, the candles, the linen and silver,
The sun shining down on our northern street,
Me with my hand on your leg. You, my lover,

In your jeans and green T-shirt and beautiful bare feet.
How simple life is. We buy a fish. We are fed.
We sit close to each other, we talk and then we go to bed.

Kindness And Good Form In Word and Shape

(From Calligrammes by G. Apollinaire, subtitled Poems of war and peace 1913-1916)

Today was a different sort of day but has led to a thread of goodness. It started off optimistically after the long slog of four constant weeks of work and then sort of turned into a productive afternoon of optimism and led to a few resentments, especially after missing the first and then tonight's second yoga class, in favor of a computer.  Sometimes not putting things into words is the best way of making them known in another way shape or form.

And sometimes poets take words and make shapes out of them. Calligrams, making the words of poetry into the shape of the theme of the work, is something I would never attempt but admire. While I cannot draw, it’s a good night if I dream in shapes, in words, or in both, and not because of my crossword puzzle habit. But imagery comes in many forms.  I remember a long time ago having to learn this term, calligram, for AP English and I think I probably mocked it-- an eye-roll here, a pronounced nasal exhale there…

However, it turns out the person who popularized this art form is also someone who is known for coining the phrase “surrealism” in art. Yeah—bet you can’t name him either. His name is Guillaume Apollinaire and he fought in WWI, was wounded and then survived to do some great work as a critic and innovator of language until his death—two years later, in 1918, of nothing less than the Spanish Flu. And lest we forget to mention that in his few years of life, this is a man not only befriended Picasso and nearly every other artist during their day, but, and I love this-- Apollinaire was accused of stealing the original Mona Lisa. Not a dull life in 38 years.

In an effort to get out of today’s mentality, I have taken a quote from another author and re-arranged the words to create something new. It’s not a calligram per-se but it’s how I feel and, well, as the Treegap Governess, nothing’s wrong with feeling and writing and sharing. These words, re-arranged are how I would see my heartbeat if I were hooked up to a monitor and where I think the rhymes should fall when reading this out loud.

Believe,
when you are most
unhappy,
that there is something
for you
to do
in the world.
So long as you
Can sweeten another's pain,
life is not in vain.

Even During "Good Wars" Parents Write Back

The two poems published here today are from that ever illuminating yellow folder handed down to me and stashed away. They come from my grandmother’s (Nana’s) grandfather, I believe. They are by G.R. Walker, a man who lived and farmed and saw his sons drafted into WWI. This detail is known because whoever typed these out on their thin pages has, in parenthesis (Written after his son was drafted in WWI). I chose these two poems out of about 5 because of how true they still resonate today. Wars have not stopped and feelings, however patriotic or proud, never prevented parents from wanting their brave kids from entering into any danger zone. The world is still at war and I think G.R. Walker would not be happy to know this.

These two poems were written in the early 1900’s, the first in 1915 and the second in 1917 (again, according to the leafy thin type paper along with notes written by those who typed them), and while they are not famous war poems, I think they are lovely and I’m proud to say that someone in my family was writing poetry during war time and feeling and thinking through it all. I may not always want to acknowledge that the fruit falls near the tree, in this case, I’m proud to have the nectar near.

Our Treasures

If the world would stop its fighting
And live more peacefully;
There would be hope in this present life,
Of Joy through eternity.

But when we lay our treasures up
On the earth, it will appeal
To other men of sinful lust,
Our treasures for to steal.

Then if we would be happy
The advice to us is given;
Lay not our treasures up on earth
But lay them up on heaven.
(August 5, 1915)

The Race

One day while sitting on the back
Of my mule in old Missouri State,
I saw a race I’ll ne’er forget
Between a frog and a snake.

The mule was drinking from a pond
With tall vaks standing near
When all at once his head went up
In a state of nervous fear,
For a rustling cracking noise hand started in the rear.

I looked behind and what I saw
Was a frong a jumping high
And the snake was coming fast
To catch him, he did try.
Before the frog could reach the pond
That we were standing by.

The frog was jumping for his life
The snake was for his dinner!
The frog saw safety in the pond
From that most wicked sinner
And I am glad here to record
The frog he was the winner.
(March 23, 1917)

Cultural, Generational Exchanges

One of the first poems I ever wrote was about my Nana.  It was a middle school assignment and I don't even remember what the guidelines were at the time, but it turned out that the poem was submitted for publication and made it.  It was really exciting to see something I wrote included in a book, a publication which included student writing and illustrations from kids in Oregon and Japan.  The book was published with one page having the English version and the opposite page in Japanese. 

By the time this actually made it into print, I was in high school and a little embarrassed by the attention and perhaps that the poem itself was so simple.  Maybe I thought I was too grown up or wanted people to know I was capable of something better, but now that I look back on it, some poems are okay just the way they are.  And it makes me happy that my Nana really loved this one.  There are three copies of this in that yellow folder I'm going through. 

When looking for an image to post with this tonight, I found an interview done by me when reading this poem at Powell's bookstore in Portland, OR.  I had never seen this quote before tonight, so I'll put the whole thing in.  Funny what you can find about yourself on Google, especially if what you said or wrote was in the pre-internet boom.

Nicole Speulda, a high school student who had a poem published in Treasures 3: Stories & Art by Students in Japan & Oregon, tells what it was like hearing from others who had read about her and her writing.

"After my poem was published in Treasures 3, it appeared in several newspapers. I received letters from people that I have never even met before. It’s been pretty exciting to learn what people think about the stories and works that are in the book. One lady thanked us for restoring her faith in the youth of today. I feel really glad that I could be a part of Treasures 3 because it highlights the positive things that the youth of today in both the United States and in Japan have to offer."

My poem entitled “Our Song” is about my grandmother and her nickname is Nana because she doesn’t like the word grandmother. She thinks it makes her sound too old. I chose to write about her because I wrote it when I was fourteen and I was trying to deal with myself growing older and she also was starting to age. This is what I had to say:

Our Song

Nana sat upon the piano bench,
Vibrant eyes fixed upon the page.
Her smooth hands glided over the keys,
Blending together a melody,
So sweet and gentle to my ears.
She played it to me almost every day,
And it became our song.
Now she is stricken with age,
And her gnarled hands are slightly palsied.
Her tired grey eyes search for the notes,
But alas it is to no avail,
As she begins to sob quietly.
I slide next to her on the bench,
And play the melody that will always be
Our song.

The Yellow Folder Finds Sunlight

Photo of a leaf that fell into my hair, a perfect yellow star on marathon weekend by Nicole Speulda 10.24.09

On another long Thursday where a constant spittle of rain has personified my attitude, I am happy to say the lightning and thunder of the last hour has kicked me into a clarifying frame of mind. Today's offering comes from that neon gold folder I took out of the archives about a month ago for the first time in years. This is a poem by my own Nana, something I found on two slips of the 6x9 inch pad of paper she used to write on in her ever elegant cursive, an unmistakable font that made grocery lists look like the Bill of Rights and turned birthday cards into important documents with the signature flourish.

I like this very much. I remember reading this once before but it’s beautiful to re-discover. The thing I love about this most? The paper I’m looking at is the original and she has crossed out the second to last line. Originally it read “I’ll smile, put out my hand…” But she changed it and I love the final draft. Why is this important? Because even my Nana, not known for being a poet, was one and she thought about her words enough to want to edit or re-do something. I know the feeling.  To be true to the paper, she signed it "Maggi" and the g's look lovely.

A Plan
by "Nana" Margaret Cook

I wish I were a flower
     Hanging on a vine,
Or a pretty little bluebird
     In the sunshine.

I might be a raindrop
     To give a rose a drink,
Or a golden sunbeam
     I’d like that, I think.

I could be a rainbow
     To cheer a troubled heart
All this would be nice
     But where do I start?

I could stand in the shadow
     Of a red maple tree,
The take a tiny step-
     Then another, then three.

It isn’t very difficult
     To begin my plan of cheer,
I’ll smile and say hello
     And welcome all who hear.

Happiness In The Small Things

This morning as I loaded my commute and lunch reading into my bag, I didn’t really think about it. Instead I left it up to chance and have, like the previous two days, selected one of the thinnest books I had off of my shelf. While I have wanted to explore everything on my shelf anyway, the reason is partially for practical reasons and that is I’m carrying around a lot of baggage lately from work papers to yoga clothes and towel, waterbottle…etc. Today was about keeping the poetry light.

By chance, I grabbed Michael Longley’s The Weather in Japan, one of the slim volumes that pack a nice punch that I bought as a student in Belfast. The poems in it are not all masterful yet I love several of them. However, what really delighted me was the memory of buying the book and reading it the first time. As I opened it up I noticed a very thin paper sticking out just a hair on the top and flipped to the pages between pages 65 and 66 where I found a poem I loved and then I smiled-- I had bookmarked it using the receipt when I bought it as I’ve done so many times before.

When I saw the font and read the top it pointed to my favorite place in Belfast-- No Alibis-- one of the greatest independent bookstores in Belfast, located right near the Queen’s University campus where most of us lived on 83 Botanic Avenue. Like most things in Ireland it was a smaller place but had ample couches and sofas and chairs in the aisles with shelves packed with everything you could imagine. While not as organized as a library, it was one of those special bookstores where every single employee knew where every book they had ever owned was located and even where it was misplaced by the person who last read it and discarded it. They could scan your face and then their shelves and find something you were looking for but may not have known it. Honestly, if No Alibis were located near my office in D.C. today, I would go there every day for tea and a soft seat.

The irony in finding this receipt and the trip down memory lane is that when I got home this evening, I had an email awaiting me from a friend telling me about how the internet had killed one of his favorite things—used book stores—and how he has taken a day off in a couple of weeks to go to a used book fair. Some days it’s fun to experience the way little coincidences can put a smile on your face.

Today’s offering comes from that thin volume called The Weather in Japan, by Michael Longley, a great Irish poet—from Belfast— who won the T.S. Eliot Prize for this volume in 2000. Like nearly all poems in this collection, these are short but pack big punches of images and I offer two for today.

The Weather in Japan

Makes bead curtains of the rain,
Of the mist a paper screen.

The Waterfall

If you were to read my poems, all of them, I mean,
My life’s work, at the one sitting, in the one place,
Let it be here by this half-hearted waterfall
That allows each pebbly basin its separate say,
Damp stones and syllables, then, as it grows dark
And you go home past overgrown vineyards and
Chestnut trees, suppliers once of crossbeams, moon-
Shaped nuts, flour, and crackly stuffing for mattresses,
Leave them here, on the page, in your mind’s eye, lit
Like the fireflies at the waterfall, a wall of stars.

Short And Bittersweet: Dickinson

Working hard to help out a fallen colleague means I've not a lot of time for thought of poetry today, but there is always time for thought, period.  Today my only free time was speaking to a few friends and going to a much needed yoga class, but emotions ran high.  For a brief moment I wished I could pick up the phone and talk with Emily Dickinson, who saw so little in her life but had so many insights.  Today's poem of the day reflects how I feel sometimes, perhaps a hazard of my day job-- or maybe it's just me.  Me, and Emily, that is...  

I Measure
by Emily Dickinson

I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.

I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.

Writing It Out

 Poet, memoirist and truth-telling Mary Karr has a new book out called Lit: A Memoir where she chronicles her time getting over a lot of things-- a husband, alcohol abuse, her crazy childhood. Many people know Karr from her previous two memoirs, The Liar’s Club (1995) and Cherry (2000). She was encouraged by write Liar’s Club by her friend and fellow author Tobias Wolf, and it spent over a year on the New York Times bestseller list. But her life is so much more interesting the more she writes and does interviews. 

This complex woman has been a poet first and foremost-- she referrs to mentor Poet Lauret Robert Hass as "Bob,"--Mary Karr gets more interesting to me as she ages and the more she writes but I’ve been very intrigued by her ability to talk openly in interviews about her life and her art and the way in which she makes sense of everything with such an amazing sense of humor. After hearing several of her latest interviews promoting her book, I’ve decided she may be one of my favorite working poets.

Today Treegap honors Mary Karr, not posthumously, but for her ability to survive, then live and create. This tough and hardy Texan has a long life to live.  I couldn’t decide between two poems of Karr's to highlight, so let’s enjoy both.

All This and More

by Mary Karr

The Devil’s tour of hell did not include
a factory line where molten lead
spilled into mouths held wide,

no electric drill spiraling screws
into hands and feet, nor giant pliers
to lower you into simmering vats.

Instead, a circle of light
opened on your stuffed armchair,
whose chintz orchids did not boil and change,

and the Devil adjusted
your new spiked antennae
almost delicately, with claws curled

and lacquered black, before he spread
his leather wings to leap
into the acid-green sky.

So your head became a tv hull,
a gargoyle mirror. Your doppelganger
sloppy at the mouth

and swollen at the joints
enacted your days in sinuous
slow motion, your lines delivered

with a mocking sneer. Sometimes
the frame froze, reversed, began
again: the red eyes of a friend

you cursed, your girl child cowered
behind the drapes, parents alive again
and puzzled by this new form. That’s why

you clawed your way back to this life.

And one more:

Limbo: Altered States
by Mary Karr

No sooner does the plane angle up

than I cork off to dream a bomb blast:
A fireball roiling through the cabin in slo-mo,
seat blown loose from its bolts,
I hang weightless a nanosecond
     in blue space

then jerk awake to ordered rows.

And there’s the silver liquor cart jangling
its thousand bells, the perfect doses
of juniper gin and oak-flavored scotch
     held by a rose-nailed hand.

I don’t miss drinking, don’t miss

driving into shit with more molecular density
than myself, nor the Mission Impossible
reruns I sat before, nor the dead
space inside only alcohol could fill and then
     not even.  But I miss

the aftermath, the pure simplicity:

mouth parched, head hissing static.
How little I asked of myself then—to suck
the next breath, suffer the next heave, live
till cocktail hour when I could miss
     the next sickness.

I locked the bathroom door, sat

on the closed commode, shirtless,
in filmy underpants telling myself that death
could fit my grasp and be staved off
while in the smeary shaving glass,
I practiced the stillness of a soul
     awaiting birth.

For the real that swarmed beyond the door

I was pure scorn, dead center of my stone and starless
universe, orbited by no one. Novitiate obliterate, Saint
Absence, Duchess of Naught . . .
A stinging ether folded me in mist.

Sometimes landing the head's pressure’s enormous.

When my plane tilts down, houses grow large, streets
lose their clear geometry. The leafy earth soon fills my portal,
and in the gray graveyard of cars, a stick figure
becomes my son in royal blue cap flapping his arms
as if to rise. Thank god for our place
in this forest of forms, for the gravitas
that draws me back to him, and for how lightly

lightly I touch down.

Monkeying Around

Photograph by Linda Davidson, The Washington Post

It's not a secret, I love monkeys. Large and small, every species-- I love them all. I volunteered at the National Zoo for many years and it’s still one of my favorite places to visit, but while I love seeing the orangutans perform their high wire act on the O-line across the park, or the Gibbons squawk and eat their apple slices, and I love searching for the free ranging mini Golden Lion Tamarins, there is something inside me that wants them to be free. Zoos are great for teaching kids about animals, and the National Zoo is known for its conservation efforts, nursing endangered animals to health and breeding some of the most endangered animals on earth to help increase dwindling populations.

That said, there is something about knowing an animal can be in their natural environment. One of my heroes, Jane Goodall, has spent her life doing both, researching the behavior of chimps in the wild but also establishing a sanctuary for baby chimps to help them learn how to survive. Young chimpanzees, just like human babies, cannot survive in the wild without their parents. They learn how to eat, how to live based on learned behavior from their parents or social group. When it came to light that in certain areas of Africa chimps were being killed for bushmeat, leaving baby chimps to die, she established a foundation and sanctuary in Tanzania for them to learn how to survive. I know this because someone who loves me gave me the gift of adopting one such little chimp and his name is Timi.

I have known about the Goodall Foundation now for several years, but today I was given more insight into the workings of another woman, Lone Droescher-Nielsen, a Dane who established the Nyaru Menteng rescue center in Borneo. The Washington Post had an interesting piece about how her rehabilitation center will be releasing 75 orangutans back into the forests of Borneo next week. I’m fearful, as are others that this will prove to be a bad experiment, that these ‘tans won’t make it now that they’ve been brought up in a pampered environment. Goodall’s Tanzanian project allows the chimps to grow up, learn how to take care of themselves, but they live in the large expanse of wilderness the foundation has purchased and are not released into any non-preserve land. How will the orangs being released by Droescher-Nielsen’s Nyaru Menteng project react and what type of biological impact will they have on their new environment? Who knows…but I’ll stay tuned to find out.

Here is today’s offering, a new poem inspired from the Post article:

Evolution

by Nicole Speulda

Some days I wish I was a chimp

Happy with the basics-- hanging, eating,

Swinging free, solid in grip

Fearless and fun, throwing dirt,
Making bark angels in tree chips.

Some days I dream I’m a gibbon,

Scampering up and down trees
In a graceful ballet of constant motion
Nit picking my partner—an act of love,
Our tiny hand purpousful in the art of grooming.

Some days I’m required to act the ape,
Cutting and pasting, formatting and testing,
Using exact words in the same place,
Version 8.2 of Lather, Rinse, Repeat,
Then take my opposable thumbs home
Via concrete, rubber on my feet.

The Love Of The Pen: Forever An Editor

Rather than write today, I’ve been reading. Reading and editing, that is-- two of my favorite things. For the last several years I have been given one student per year to advise on what will perhaps be the largest undertaking of their lives thus far. The reason for this is because I was once that person. The program is called InterFuture and it is one of the most innovative study abroad programs in the country, allowing a select group of undergrads to create their own research projects and then, after about a year of planning, conduct that research. Oh, and then there’s the part where you have to write the thesis on the back end. I know how amazing this process was, but I also know how rigorous it becomes in the late stages of research design and at some point, it’s going to hit each student what they are taking on and it probably won’t happen until each one of them are on a plane come January 15th.

Since I’ve been in this student’s place before, I dedicated my free time today, commuting and waiting in the doctor’s office, reading iteration III of a research plan that was much improved from the last draft. It gave me pride knowing this person is taking advice and criticism—not just from me but her university advisors—and because she’s putting in the work, it makes me feel that my time has been worth it. The truth is, I have really enjoyed helping Felicia and I know her project is better the more thought I can put into helping her. And that makes me feel good. (Another thing that makes me feel good is knowing I do NOT have swine flu, as confirmed today!)

Being a part of the conceptualization, the ideas, the planning of a piece of research or of writing excites me. Helping to edit and hone that big idea is just plain fun and I’m of the old school where the printed copy and my ink pen catches more errors and provides more thoughtful ideas and solutions than looking at anything on a screen. While it takes time and energy, I can guarantee I will be doing this the rest of my life. Today’s poem takes from this theme. It is a lesser-known poem by one of my favorites, Seamus Heaney, an Irish poet I not only had the honor of meeting while conducting my own InterFuture project eleven years ago, but one of the poets who seems to be able to articulate the process of everything, from farming, to writing to living life and never denies having upward battles in all of the above.

I did not realize it until I read this poem twice today that what is described below is exactly what I do to myself when I write.  Interrogate, arrest, draw weapons and fight.  In that way I may be my own worst enemy as a self-editor, but once you find that breakthrough, a time where the words you've written convey what you meant to say, it's an overwhelming moment-- told so here in my favorite line from the poem below: "And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed, as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall."  While I may not always be civil to myself, I am to my fellow writers' works and especially the young people.  I aim to help in her learning, but in a way, aiding Felicia this go-around has made me realize I need to find that same compassion in helping myself.  Heaney would probably agree.

From The Frontier Of Writing

The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face

towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover

and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration--

a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.

So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating

data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.

And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road

past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.

Kick It, Please?

It seems winter is upon us as the winds race through the tunnels of downtown DC’s architectural perfection for keeping currents alive from block to block. I’m told the cold rain and umbrella-flipping wind of nearly 48 hours is to be blamed on hurricane Ida. I tend to be more forgiving. Ida’s not to blame-- it’s the bastard rain and wind, why bring Ida into it? Like most things this system will pass, just like my cold or any other week in which something happens that is not ideal.

No matter how gracious I’m becoming about dealing with things that irk me, especially things that have nothing to do with the weather, there is one thing I really can’t stand and have never been able to tolerate since I was a toddler. In fact, I’m finding myself being extremely offended by it recently. That is the act of smoking.

This puts me at odds with many of my friends and I don’t care if people smoke, but what has me really burning is a lack of etiquette—smoke and kill your own self, but don’t blow it in my face.

While waiting beneath a cramped bus stop, rain pouring, we are shoulder to shoulder in a confined space, one person each day lights up, choking me out of the shelter. I’d rather be wet and wind whipped and freezing than stand next to a guy who is going to blow his shit in my face. Should I have to compromise a dry space or inhale what you are blowing on me? I find this extremely rude. When cold and rainy days come, there they are, one step beyond the revolving door of my office building so I have to leave through a gauntlet of nastiness while they stay dry beneath the awning, blowing remnants of tobacco poison on us as we leave. Is this fair? Is my own judgment of people who smoke fair? Don’t we all have our faults or perhaps, addictions?

I realize the law in most places has put smokers out on the stoops of restaurants and bars, but the fact of the matter remains—smoking kills. Second hand intake, seen often in children of smokers, have reduced lung capacity and inhibited breathing patterns into adulthood and beyond. I have compassion for people who suffer from addiction, more than anyone knows. Still I can’t be anything but running when a lit butt comes near me.

Nearly everyone in my dad’s family smoked and in the end, lung cancer was the single greatest killer that wiped the family out. I’ll never forget one great uncle I liked a great deal, someone my father loved, who in the end had to speak through a voice box in his throat after his larynx was removed. That’s a sad and painful ending.

But that’s not what made me dislike smoking. When I was very little and my Nana cared for me during the days my mama worked, she smoked. Not too often, but when we were in her car, and she had a classic big boat of a vehicle and all of the inside reeked of it. I don’t even remember having a car seat, but hey, this is late ‘70’s early ‘80’s we’re talking about…What I do remember is loving her but hating the smoke and when I was able to say “Eeew, cigrits,” she stopped. Cold Turkey. That was that. I will always love her for that.  What makes it even more amazing is seeing the advertisements during that era (one example shown below), where blowing in someone's face was being branded to make people think that was a turn-on.  Yikes. 

Here is a poem expressing the way I felt and still feel about polluting the air and lungs from smoking.  But I think it applies to other things as well.  I love how the meaning of poems can morph and take on multiple meanings as we move through life.

Stop

Put out your cigarette
You are choking me
Extinguish the smoking fire
You are burning a hole in my integrity.

Rhythmically you tap the tray
Letting cinders fall about,
Purge those notes from my soul
Your music I can do without.
You are fading away
Sucked up your chimney stack at night,

I can see your ghost in the fog
Following me into sleep and sight.
Please stop the sinister stuff
Smoldering sonorously in my ears

I am going deaf.

For The Fallen

In honor of Veterans’ Day, this space will honor all service men and women. Whether or not you agree with current wars and/or you condone the violence and underground or “unseen” wars going on around the world, there is a certain honor in being brave when called to duty. Today’s poem was written during WWI, perhaps a more innocent time in terms of modern warfare and, without a doubt, a much more brutal one. In 1915 a young soldier faced trenches, disease, brutality before modern medicine or transportation, and so many were sacrificed. This poem was written by a Canadian physician, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae on May 3, 1915. He had just seen his best friend blown to pieces the day before.

While this is a famous poem, it’s nice for me to revisit the language. It’s written in the form of a rondeau, famously named after a French style but I love the form and I love that this poem reminded me so much of this form of writing. It’s comprised of three stanzas and the rhyme scheme is (1) A A B B A (2) A A B with refrain: C (3) A A B B A—ending with refrain C, both refrains are identical to the first line. This form is so alluringly cool and effective. It reminds me why I love writers.  Please note the image of the published poem in McCrae's own handwriting at the end.  Without further ado:

In Flanders Fields

by Captain John D. McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!

To you from failing hands, we throw

The torch-Be yours to hold it high!

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though

poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Pieces Of History

Once upon a time, when I still had visions of becoming an archaeologist dancing in my head, I had the great fortune to Turkey and the greatest fortune of day trips to places beyond Instanbul or Ankara. Perge, as it is pronounced, but more commonly spelled as Perga, I’m told, used to be the capital of a long gone powerful civilization from the Bronze Age. The place is spectacular and the ruins were open, out for any shoe who ventured to set their soles upon its grounds. There were no fences, nothing cordoned off, just a few armed military guards on a hill overlooking the site. It was magical, particularly for a girl who not only wanted to know Indiana Jones, but perhaps wanted to be his female incarnation.

For today, I offer a rather long ode to the place I will always call Perge:

Perge
by Nicole Speulda

A dust-driven mosaic
of shell, rock and bone
city splintered as a rivulet
adorned with weeded twigs and leaves,
flowers stained by sunsets
tinted lavender on wooden vines.
A skeletal metropolis
unearthed by the wind.

We tread upon its shards
made precious in decay,
shoe-print exaltations of the past
marvel at the marble sarcophagus
tomb of Alexander’s bones.

Here the wind de-wishes dandelions
and boots tread the grooves of chariots
soon to smooth the very rivets
we come to admire.

Donned in sable mourning gowns
weeds creep through this stone ghost-town,
hinting of the wild unimportance
we occupy in time.

Slaying The Whale, Getting Better

After a weekend spent feeling like I was getting sick on Saturday and worse on Sunday, I'm finally coming back to life. This Treegap Governess is not good at ailing, especially when the weekend promised sun and beautiful fall days. But when I couldn’t even finish reading the Sunday paper because my head throbbed and chest started burning when I coughed, well that was a bad sign. Let’s just say a creative mind has not been on the agenda for a few days.

Today’s post will not be a poem, instead a great passage from Moby Dick. Why this seemingly strange passage from a classic novel that wasn’t even one of my favorites? Well, the struggle over a fever from the weekend perhaps, but at the same time, I shared a laugh with a lifelong friend recently about our old college admissions letters. It cheered my spirit to be able to look back and completely realize how cheesy and terrible one of my essays truly was, the one that borrowed the first line from Melville's classic. Instead of “Call me Ishmael…” Yeah, need I say more. “Call me stupid” is what it should have read, rather than the call me by my moniker.  (Thankfully college admissions officers ignored this bit of AP English schmaltz!)

Needless to say this exchange had me laughing and before long coughing as if my very own chest had been a mortar, just like the last line of this passage. This is from Chapter 41.

His three boats stove around him, and oars and men both whirling in the eddies; one captain, seizing the line-knife from his broken prow, had dashed at the whale, as an Arkansas duellist at his foe, blindly seeking with a six inch blade to reach the fathom-deep life of the whale. That captain was Ahab. And then it was, that suddenly sweeping his sickle-shaped lower jaw beneath him, Moby Dick had reaped away Ahab's leg, as a mower a blade of grass in the field....

Small reason was there to doubt, then, that ever since that almost fatal encounter, Ahab had cherished a wild vindictiveness against the whale, all the more fell for that in his frantic morbidness he at last came to identify with him, not only all his bodily woes, but all his intellectual and spiritual exasperations. The White Whale swam before him as the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious agencies which some deep men feel eating in them, till they are left living on with half a heart and half a lung. That intangible malignity which has been from the beginning; to whose dominion even the modern Christians ascribe one-half of the worlds; which the ancient Ophites of the east reverenced in their statue devil;


-- Ahab did not fall down and worship it like them; but deliriously transferring its idea to the abhorred white whale, he pitted himself, all mutilated, against it. All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy Ahab, where visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby Dick. He piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart's shell upon it.

Our Shoot 'Em Up World

What I thought was a small stuffy nose and light headache on Friday morning turned into a full blown cold this morning, perfect for the weekend when I’d rather be enjoying fall and treating myself to movies or doing the laundry that needs done, even errands that need running. Instead the only thing running today is my raw nose. Not running properly today was the plumbing in my bathroom, again, the ongoing problem which only hits at inopportune times. Awesome.

Normally the shining light of any Saturday, no matter how I feel, is the big newspaper.  Today it was overflowing with articles so deadly depressing I had to get up and leave the apartment for the grocery store even though the swollen glands were screaming for a nap. That is the mood in which today’s poem was written. I’m hoping that the general disposition of the world and the countries that comprise our planet shifts to being a more desirable place to inhabit sooner rather than later.

Armed and Broken

by Nicole Speulda

What I see is a sprawling earth
dirt filling the drying seas,
where land drowned is reborn
in Christian waters, jihad blood
in rain-filled ravines
bloated with redemption.

We look away while bush fires
devour an entire continent,
and stare blankly at bombs we set
in lands not so far away.

For the war is home and thriving;
Fortune 500 leaders hanging by
threads or by their own bedsheets,
scarred and scared survivors

of war, retirement fund fraud,

and emasculation by unemployment,

all defeated in spirit, the dollar we worshipped

driving people to guns, crime, general rampage.

I want so much to believe
in whole thoughts, a pinch of reality.
But I am in pieces, root, bark and leaf
parched and hovering like a bird of prey,
waiting for that piece of life to show itself,
to plunge, envision and clutch
the meaty colors of life once more.

Where I Learned To Love Rhyme: Where The Sidewalk Ends

 Thursdays being my long days, I had given myself permission to take a day off of posting, but I forgot how early the sky grows dark these days and arrived early. Chilly air and darkness are two of my least favorite things and why bookstores are oh so inviting, and I wandered in to browse. Something caught my eye-- the old familiar face of a book of poems and drawings one: Shel Silverstein. At one time, I may have held the record people who checked out “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” at the Springfield Public Library. Same goes for Silverstein’s follow-up “A Light in the Attic.” I was young during a time when he made poetry fun and I soaked it up.

I had a smile as wide as a mile, or so he would probably say when chancing upon my favorites. Here are three poems to brighten anyone’s day and also to remind my own self that poems, even those written for children, are quite enlightening. There are lessons to be learned and feelings to be had that are more about being human than being a kid or a teenager or adult. Perhaps that’s why I liked Silverstein in the first place; he doesn’t pander, he tells it like it is—in his own way.

The first poem is the title of “Where the Sidewalk Ends” and is just beautiful to read and is as inspiring now as it was as a kid. But the second poem, I remembered almost by heart and did not flip to it but sought it out…it’s mischevious and the title was enough to make me want to read it over and over again, oh that Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. I love the rhyme scheme in this and the picture in the book I read showed a girl smiling while reading a book on the top of a huge pile of trash, as if she were the top star ornament of a Christmas tree. Hilarious. This poem got a thank you from my own mouth because it’s fun to read. Then, I give you the boa. Who among us has not, at one time as an adult, felt the sensation of constriction?

Where the Sidewalk Ends

From the book "Where the Sidewalk Ends" (1974)

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
and before the street begins,
and there the grass grows soft and white,
and there the sun burns crimson bright,
and there the moon-bird rests from his flight
to cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
and the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
we shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow
and watch where the chalk-white arrows go
to the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
and we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
for the children, they mark, and the children, they know,
the place where the sidewalk ends.


Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout


Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out.
She'd wash the dishes and scrub the pans
Cook the yams and spice the hams,
And though her parents would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceiling:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas and rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the windows and blocked the door,
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peels,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans, and tangerines,
Crusts of black-burned buttered toast,
Grisly bits of beefy roast.
The garbage rolled on down the halls,
It raised the roof, it broke the walls,
I mean, greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Blobs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from old bologna,
Rubbery, blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk, and crusts of pie,
Rotting melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold French fries and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That finally it touched the sky,
And none of her friends would come to play,
And all of her neighbors moved away;
And finally, Sarah Cynthia Stout
Said, "Okay, I'll take the garbage out!"
But then, of course it was too late,
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate;
And there in the garbage she did hate
Poor Sarah met an awful fate
That I cannot right now relate
Because the hour is much too late
But children, remember Sarah Stout,
And always take the garbage out.

Boa Constrictor

Oh, I'm being eaten

By a boa constrictor,

A boa constrictor,

A boa constrictor,

I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,

And I don't like it--one bit.

Well, what do you know?

It's nibblin' my toe.

Oh, gee,

It's up to my knee.

Oh my,

It's up to my thigh.

Oh, fiddle,

It's up to my middle.

Oh, heck,

It's up to my neck.

Oh, dread,

It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff...

Friday Nights By Candle Light

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I'm holding off posting what is becoming a rather lengthy, but, hopefully, worthwhile piece on the brain because mine is currently overloaded. Lots to do at work, but great conversations with my oldest friend today and a good set of meetings and then more phone catch-up…in other words, as the poet writing on my shampoo bottle would say, Lather, Rinse, Repeat. And it was all of that with the best shampoo today, so I was happy to do it.

But the day will not end without a poem and a story. A few days ago I took my nice but slightly battered copy of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s “A Coney Island Of The Mind” off of my bookshelf and was reminded of one of the most rebellious things I did as a high schooler. A bunch of my friends from English class had read one too many poems assigned by Mrs. Kernutt, and we decided to create our own “Dead Poets’ Society.”

This group was supposed to be secret (sort of) and in our mission statement we said we would meet each Friday night at midnight on the footfall field of our high school, bringing a poem or poems by our own selves or at least one written by an author you wanted to read aloud. After the full disclosure and blessings from our parents, we were allowed to “sneak” away at midnight for an hour or so of poetry and the session always began with Justin reading "Burnt Norton", part I of T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. We went each week rain or cold, mostly both rain and cold, (by week three tarps were being used), and at least one person would drive their car over so we could have the help of headlights to read by.

I’ll never forget the night I brought the gem I found sitting on my parent’s bookshelf, unread and unopened for a long while. It’s very thin and was probably forgotten when they had me, but I felt that something happened inside me when I read from this book to my society, the people who thought I was cool for bringing this battered copy of a beatnik poet into our damp circle. It’s fitting that the poem entitled “I Am Waiting,” was one of our favorites, but that I can still hear my voice reading it aloud makes me smile.

Reading this again, many years later is astonishing in that it reflects much of what we are experiencing today.  I still love his message and anthem here.  My mom was right, most everything circles and comes back into fashion, especially this poem. One of my favorite parts has always been Ferlinghetti’s reference to Yeats’ “Second Coming” and the stanza in which it appears. Rather than spoil it, please read it, it’s worth it. You too can then become a part of the old Dead Poets from Sheldon High School.

Just to throw this out there for conversation, I wonder how many additional votes Obama would have had if he had read parts of this poem...

I Am Waiting
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am seriously waiting
for Billy Graham and Elvis Presley
to exchange roles seriously
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
for Ole man River
to just stop rolling along
past the country club
and I am waitng 
for the deepest South
to just stop Reconstructuring itself
in its own image
and I am waiting for a sweet desegregated chariot
to swing low
and carry me back to Ole Virginie
and I am waiting
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I'm prepetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for Tom Swift to grow up
and I am waiting
for the American boy
to take off Beauty's clothes
and get on top of her
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me

her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder

What beauty.  My original copy of the book has a note prefacing this section which says that this poem, along with six other others were conceived specifically for jazz accompaniment and “as such should be considered as spontaneously spoken ‘oral messages’ rather than as continued experimental reading with jazz.”  And the book, when opened up, still smells damp and wonderful and full of promise of those Friday  nights.