72 of 100: Jack Gilbert, poet

One more poem relating to darkness—and light—which I discovered in my little Wordle group on FB. See? FB is my source of all illumination anymore. (Yeah, not really. But I still do encounter the odd delight, and so I keep looking, at least once a day while posting my Wordle result.)

A Brief for the Defense

by Jack Gilbert

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

71 of 100: Yusef Komunyakaa, poet

I ran across the first poem here, by Yusef Komunyakaa (b. 1941, or maybe 1947), on FB, and was struck by its emotion, and the memories it evoked of my own visits to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. (The poet, known in those days as James William Brown, served a tour of duty in Vietnam in 1966.) His poem also got me thinking about reflections as a possible prompt for my weekly poetry group. And when I searched for the word "reflections," I found the second poem. Both so beautiful, so powerful, so painful. So I share them here, now, with you.

Facing It

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

Reflections

In the day’s mirror
you see a tall black man.
Fingers of gold cattail
tremble, then you witness
the rope dangling from
a limb of white oak.
It’s come to this.
You yell his direction,
the wind taking
your voice away.
You holler his mama’s name
& he glances up at the red sky.
You can almost
touch what he’s thinking,
reaching for his hand
across the river.
The noose pendulous
over his head,
you can feel him
grow inside you,
straining to hoist himself,
climbing a ladder
of air, your feet
in his shoes.

70 of 100: Reading list on American history

I happened on this list on FB, via Katie Couric, and thought I'd add it here, to accompany my earlier post on books about fascism. Because, well, you know. This one is titled simply "The 12 Best Books about American History." I have some reading to do.

The Situation Room: The Inside Story of Presidents in Crisis by George Stephanopoulos
Jailed for Freedom: American Women Win the Vote by Doris Stevens
These Truths: A History of the United States by Jill Lepore (in which she "analyzes whether America has delivered on its original promises of political equality, natural rights, and the sovereignty of the people")
Lies My Teacher Told me: Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong by James W. Loewen
Mediocre: The Dangerous Legacy of White Male America by Ijeoma Oluo
How to Hide an Empire: A History of tthe Greater United States by Daniel Immerwahr
America for Americans: A History of Xenophobia in the United States by Erika Lee
A People's History of the United States by Howard Zinn
Women, Race & Class by Angela Y. Davis
Stamped from the Beginning: The Defiintive Hisory of Racist Ideas in America by Ibram X. Kendi
1776  by David McCullough
1491:  New Revelations of tthe American before Columbus by Charles C. Mann

And in the comments, many people mentioned William Shirer's The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, which is not about the US, of course—at least, not yet. I have had that book for decades and never read it (it's one of those immense books), but I see it on the shelf and I might just have to pull it down and get going...

69 of 100: more poetry, on a darker note (Jeffers, Stafford, and Voigt)

Further scrolling on FB, as well as an email from the Academy of American Poets, gave me these, which seem also appropriate:

Shine, Perishing Republic

by Robinson Jeffers

While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening to empire,
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and decadence; and home to the mother.
You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains: shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thickening center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster's feet there are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant, insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught–they say–God, when he walked on earth.

A Ritual to Read to Each Other

by William E. Stafford

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dike.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider—
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe —
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

Practice

by Ellen Bryant Voigt 

To weep unbidden, to wake
at night in order to weep, to wait
for the whisker on the face of the clock
to twitch again, moving
the dumb day forward—

is this merely practice?
Some believe in heaven,
some in rest. We'll float,
you said. Afterward
we'll float between two worlds—

five bronze beetles
stacked like spoons in one
peony blossom, drugged by lust:
if I came back as a bird
I'd remember that—

until everyone we love
is safe is what you said.

 

68 of 100: Alberto Ríos, poet

As I scrolled through all the doom and gloom of Facebook this morning, I came across the occasional attempt at uplift. Including this, a post by a poet who taught in my MFA program many years ago. So I thought I'd share it—for what it's worth. And for the people who will be voting in the next election for the very first time.

A House Called Tomorrow

by Alberto Ríos

You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen—
You are a hundred wild centuries

And fifteen, bringing with you
In every breath and in every step

Everyone who has come before you,
All the yous that you have been,

The mothers of your mother,
The fathers of your father.

If someone in your family tree was trouble,
A hundred were not:

The bad do not win—not finally,
No matter how loud they are.

We simply would not be here
If that were so.

You are made, fundamentally, from the good.
With this knowledge, you never march alone.

You are the breaking news of the century.
You are the good who has come forward

Through it all, even if so many days
Feel otherwise. But think:

When you as a child learned to speak,
It’s not that you didn’t know words—

It’s that, from the centuries, you knew so many,
And it’s hard to choose the words that will be your own.

From those centuries we human beings bring with us
The simple solutions and songs,

The river bridges and star charts and song harmonies
All in service to a simple idea:

That we can make a house called tomorrow.
What we bring, finally, into the new day, every day,

Is ourselves. And that’s all we need
To start. That’s everything we require to keep going.

Look back only for as long as you must,
Then go forward into the history you will make.

Be good, then better. Write books. Cure disease.
Make us proud. Make yourself proud.

And those who came before you? When you hear thunder,
Hear it as their applause.

67 of 100: Election

As I turn in on this election eve, I can't say I'm surprised at the apparent outcome—as I more or less was in 2016, when so many of us (I want to say "all," but that's obviously not accurate) thought Hillary would win.

Welp. I am faced with so many questions, considerations, conundrums this time around. Chief among them, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS COUNTRY? Because seriously, Trump is clearly crazy. And those around him who aren't crazy clearly want to tear this country apart through their greed and intolerance.

But I don't want to investigate all that—because honestly, what to say about insanity, or divisiveness? I'm just thinking about me, in my waning years, and how I will negotiate this sadness.

Basically, I think I'm just going to have to pull my head into my shell, bury it in the sand, hide it (and the rest of my body) under a rock. Retreat. (Call me self-centered, go ahead.)

By that, though, I don't mean moping. I mean, investing more in my own creativity, my own appreciation of this life, my own sources of wonder. I can't do anything about the darkness that is, it seems, sweeping the entire world. But I can ward off darkness personally. Indeed, I must, if I'm going to stay sane.

And I also include actively cultivating my friendships: together, we can share the wonder and keep the light shining. (My friend Lynn asked the other day if there's room for her under my rock. Absolutely! And for anyone else who wants/needs to take shelter. We are in this together.)

I have pondered the idea of moving elsewhere, but that wouldn't fix anything. I do like it right here, in a beautiful place with great weather, and my house will be paid off next year. I'm set. I can travel all I like. Even if I lived in Mongolia, I wouldn't escape the fact that my country had installed an insane person in the White House. I'm American, and that's my lot. It's not a bad one; I will continue, for now, to believe it's something to embrace. Fifty-one percent of the country to the contrary. (Or 51 percent of voters, which as a German/Dutch friend pointed out is a tiny fraction of the total population of the country. How could so many just not care???)

And yes, I may become more involved in my local community, though even there, I'm somewhat played out on the volunteer front: I have given my time in so many realms for decades. Currently, I am taking a break from wilderness rangering—though I know that getting out into nature will be a balm—so my only regular volunteer gig is a weekly literacy session with a lovely Oaxacan woman. (I do not know her immigration status, but I hope she's immune from Trump's threats.) But maybe more opportunities will arise. Staying involved (in life) will continue to be important.

I am about to turn seventy. I had hoped that by now we'd be living in a better world, and yet too many people want to send us backwards. In some ways, I'm done fighting it. It's really up to the younger generations now, to try to make the world they want with what they have and know. It won't be easy.

Me, I think now I'll just appreciate my husband (with his stage 4 cancer diagnosis, so who knows how long I'll be able to do that), my beloved goldendoodle Milo (just turned 14, so ditto), my cats Luna and Ravi. I will continue to appreciate my healthy body, and keep on walking, which I love. I will travel. I will write and read and learn, and take photographs. I will cook. It's really not so different from what I've always done.

Except, that "always" has relied on a background of sanity and hope. There's friction now.

So okay, maybe even in my waning years, I will have to cultivate ferocity as well.

Fuck. Or do I mean, Fuck yeah. Or both. In any case, okay: I'm game. I have no choice.

NYT, as of 12:07 a.m. 11/6

66 of 100: November 1 photos

A search of my Flickr archive nets me three photos taken on November 1, from many, many years past (with original captions):

2007: In between sorting out some banking for my mom
and playing a few games of pool, I took a stroll
on Fisherman's Wharf. The pelicans and sea lions were
showing off—or rather, they were waiting for scraps
from the party boats. This fellow impressed me with his
handsome looks. It was a foggy day, and not many
people were out—a perfect time to be on the wharf. 

2009: Heading home after a few days in Yosemite, driving due
south out of Merced: off to the east the moon had just risen,
and to the west the sun was setting redly. I kept swiveling
my head back and forth; it was like two worlds. Then stopped
to take pictures in both directions, but the sunset didn't turn out
as well as the moonrise.

2010: For our daily walk, we ventured down to the
waterfront. On Wharf #2, at both ends of the working
warehouses, big racks of kelp were set up to dry.
Not sure why. There is an abalone-growing operation here,
so perhaps it's food for the mollusks. It was a striking sight,
in any case—and must have been a tedious job.

And here are a few from today, 2024, when we went geocaching in Uvas Canyon with our friend Alastair—8.5 miles, 6,000 feet of elevation gain (that would be: up and down, up and down), and many great stories told, including ones involving a sheep and a monkey—but the alligators had to wait until:

A rather decrepit cache, but charming for all that,
called "Crocodile Rock"

Uvas Canyon is full of waterfalls

Alastair inspects cache contents

David for the find!

The views were beautiful, and certainly worth
all the huffing and puffing. 

We always thoroughly enjoy our days out with Alastair—this was our second this year, hadn't been on a hike since spring. We explore new corners of our homeplace, find fun treasures, and share our various passions. (And maybe rant a bit about the state of the world.) It doesn't get much better. (Except the state of the world. That could be much better.)