'Cause We Like To

I thought it might be fun to add a little variety here by posting some older stuff occasionally, most of which has never been seen by anyone outside of myself and perhaps a few of my writers group cronies. This one is from the late '90's when I ran the Poetry Porch during Tremont Art Walk over the course of three summers. It's a 100% true story.

 ***

So while every sane person is out at the beach or having a picnic or some such, I'm roving about Tremont with a staple gun, posting "Poetry Porch" flyers in the 90 degree heat. I've plastered about three fourths of the hood when a boy, perhaps eight years old, drives up on his bike. "You the one puttin' those up?" He points to the telephone pole I just hit.

"You mean the flyers?" I ask.

"Yeah. What's those about?"

"They're for a poetry reading."

"'Cause me and my friend are tearing them all down." Sure enough, as we speak another somewhat smaller boy is across the street picking at the comers of the flyer I just posted. We watch as he rips it down and crumples up. He is smiling.

"What the hell are you doing that for?!!"

"'Cause we like to." His eager expression reminds me of a puppy explaining that he likes chasing sticks.

"Man, you're crazy!” He just looks at me blankly.

“Hey, this is for the Black Poetic Society!" I try, hoping to appeal to the small African-American in him.

"I hate poetry."

"You should come and listen. You might like it."

"Nah."

"Well cut it out!"

"It's okay, you can put more up." He seems rather proud of himself, as if he honestly believes he's come up with a good and rational solution to my problem. Then he rides off and I watch the two of them casually roll down to the next phone pole and reach for the flyer. I turn away, shaking my head in disbelief.

I finish posting the rest of the flyers on tiptoes, as far up as I can reach.

***

We now return you to our regular featured programing...

Readin' and Writin' and Suchlike

Reading to begin as soon as I'm done posting here will be the homework from tonight's Market Gardener class: the first five chapters in The Organic Farmer's Business Handbook

Wrote some fun letters to an old high school buddy, but not much else.

Good Eats

Still working through that big crock pot full'o porky goodness. Tonight, accompanied by a nice salad. And I've been snacking on macadamia nuts today, which I haven't bought in a good long time because those suckers are 17 bucks a pound. But my, oh my, they are tasty. I'm doing a Whole30 this month which means I'm back to hardcore Paleo: no grains, no legumes, no dairy, no sweets, no cheating. And no alcohol. So if I seem a little bitchy* this month, that might explain it.

*-er than usual.

My Adorable Child

...can ice skate like nobody's business. He's been in figure skating lessons for a while and is now taking speed skating too. He breezed through Basic 1, 2, and 3, and won his first practice speed skating race. He's gotten so comfortable on the ice. It's really fun to watch. But don't take my word for it, check this kid out.

Transformative. And now 100% vegan-free!

Oops, I did it again. Hit "new post" without a clue as to what I would write. (Pause wherein I decide to take a walk around the block, come home and make a snack of hot tea and almonds.)

It's that time of year when skunks, waking too early from their winter naps and able to find neither coffee nor danishes, commit suicide under the tires of slow moving vehicles on snow covered suburban streets, releasing that all-too-familiar odor that reminds us that Spring! is just around the corner yet still entirely too far away to make us want to do anything at all other than sit around in our pajamas, drinking coffee and eating danishes. Well, except for me. I'm having tea and almonds.

Readin' and Writin' and Suchlike:

Still reading Breathing Lessons,  a chapter or two a night.  No writing of note, but I did take in a pleasant poetry reading on Friday at Visible Voice in Tremont, featuring Steve Goldberg, Bree, Miles Budimir and a bevy of open mic notables. It reminded me that I need to do this more often. A good poetry reading serves me as well as any house of worship in the serving up of transformative experiences.

Good Eats

Speaking of transformative experiences, on Saturday evening, a Very Nice Gentleman and I went to dinner at Brasa Grill, at his suggestion. His thought that Brasa would be a fine experience for a Paleo Gal like me. And indeed it was. We had a quick bite from the salad bar, then on to the main event in which servers bring 'round swords laden with a variety of meats in a seemingly endless cavalcade of meaty meatness. The offerings that I recall, and doubtless I'm forgetting some, included leg of lamb, sirloin (both top and bottom), chicken, bacon wrapped chicken, bacon wrapped filet, pork ribs, sausages, and ham. Now I am a fan and an amateur practitioner of both hedonism and gluttony, but there came a point in the evening when both VNG and I became a teensy bit overwhelmed by the parade of glistening brown skewers. And suddenly we were both overtaken by a passionate, desperate, longing...for vegetables. So we went back and filled our plates with fresh leaves and green beans. No dessert necessary, thank you very much. 

We then took a little jaunt to the new Transformer Station art gallery and smirked on the way in about how, according to the publicity, the place was going to transform the Cleveland art scene. But you know what? It was a damn fine show and and really inviting space. And as we wandered though the first room I was thinking how they had chosen the perfect strange ambient music for the whole affair, and come to find out when we reached the second room that it was being created live by an old friend, noise artiste Bob Drake. Très chouette.

After that, more things happened. But I've already wandered far astray from my food theme, so. Whatever. MY BLOG, MY RULES. Dammit.

Dinner tonight was (and yes, there have been some other, unwritten pauses in the making of this post)  Slow Cooker Kalua Pork (Yum!), Paleo rice  (shhh, it's really cauliflower) and kale chips, which, since I cooked up my first batch of it today, was made with homemade ghee rather than olive oil. I season mine with balsamic vinegar and smoked salt. I've become a nut for smoked salt. Greatest seasoning since horseradish in a jar. 

Meat gooood.

After last night's meatapalooza, I needed to take a little break, so while my pork simmered away all day in the crockpot, I avoided meat until dinner, other than a couple slices of bacon at breakfast and some chicken for lunch.

My Adorable Child

...will be discussed at great length in my next blog post, no doubt. For now I'll mention that he was fired from OT for failure to apply himself or to improve his behavior despite diligent application of said OT. Tomorrow I will discuss this with his therapist. How does one motivate a child to transform his behavior when the child does not see any problems and enjoys acting like a lunatic? This is what I'm up against, folks.

Heavy work in OT

Forest, thirty years later

Thirty years ago today, my first son, Forest, was born. He was brain damaged at birth and died two and a half months later. I'm not saying this to elicit your sympathy. I don't need or want a new stream of condolences. Been there, done that...a long time ago. 

  

 Not that I no longer grieve, but it is a timeworn, world-weary grief, smoothed and muted. Filtered, like sunlight though a thick canopy of trees. 

 

The sorrow at the loss of an infant was, for me, not so much the grief of loss anyway, more the grief of never knowing and forever wondering. What if he had lived all these years in that severely brain-damaged body? What if I, or the others involved, had made different choices in my pregnancy or labor? What if he hadn't been brain-damaged at all? Who would he be now? 

 

What would my life be like with a 30 year old son? I can only imagine. I doubt I would have become a midwife. I doubt I would have had the wonderful six year old son I now have. And I'm happy in my life now. Would I be as happy if Forest were still here? Happier? 

 

 Once the past is past, it becomes the only possible thing that could have happened. I can tell myself it was fate; it was meant to be; see the silver lining. I can say it was a disaster; proof of a nonexistent or uncaring God; lay blame. I've done all these and more. It's all stories. Here's what I tell myself 30 years later: nothing. I don't need conjecture or meaning. It doesn't matter why. Thirty years is a long time. Dust to dust.

Some might find this odd, but I don't wonder where he is now. I don't wonder if he is in heaven, or he's been reincarnated, or his death was simply the end. Because about the only thing I do know is that I don't know, can't know, will probably never know. I don't envy the certainty of those who “know” what happens after death. There is a certain peace in reconciling to the unknown and unknowable too.

And isn't this the grief of life as we grow older as well: never knowing what might have been? The big “What If?” What if ... I had picked a different path, a different partner? ...had been or not been there any given night? ...had said yes one thing, no to another? The road not taken which has made all the difference.

 So was Forest the road I didn't take, or the one I did? I traveled so briefly with him but it's clear to me that I ended up on a very different path because of him. I don't know why he came into my life or why he left so soon or if he had a purpose in life or if I do. I don't think these are even the right questions to ask. It's just...well...here I am. A little sad, but at ease. Rooted and wrapped in my life. Standing in the light of this day and feeling grateful for everything.

 

April 27 - July 9, 1982 

 

 

 

I drew this from the top photo because I wanted a picture of him without the medical stuff
 

 

I wrote this five years later, 4/27/2017

My first son, Forest, was a surprise. Unplanned. Born 35 years ago today. I was 21 years old. His complicated birth and his death 73 days later, that was also a surprise. I didn't plan for this grief, this unlived life, these unanswerable questions that I mostly try not to ask.

No one knew Forest, truth be told, not even me. His brief life was played out in hospital rooms, not dandled on the knees of family and friends. His father is long gone, his sights set on Jesus so hard there's no room left in his vision for mere mortals.

A surprise, a bright golden bubble set aloft and soon burst, leaving only reflections. Even his cemetery stone has disappeared.

My new boy was as planned as can be, but he is a surprise too. He surprises me daily with his continued existence. Every morning I pause and listen until I hear him...little brother, waking to life.

 

 Someone asked me for a favorite memory:

Tough question. He was brain damaged at birth, and spent his whole life in the hospital. He always had the feeding tube in, so he never smiled or cried. He had a rough go of it, poor child.

I do fondly remember the day this picture was taken. He was at UH, and I lived on E 115th, a five minute walk to the hospital. We were allowed to take him for walks down to the courtyard. (At that time they had a lovely outdoor courtyard where the atrium is now. It was SO much nicer then.) Anyhow, we went down to the courtyard, and then snuck out of the hospital and went home. We spent about an hour there. The photo was taken in the backyard. It was really nice to get him away from the hospital for that brief time.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A  friend, poet Bob Drake, put together a book of poems for me and Forest's dad, Rocky. Some were his own, some he gathered for us. I read and appreciated these quite a bit in the early years, and I still take it out now and again. Here are the ones Bob wrote. He also built Forest's casket for us, which is referenced in the third poem. :

 

The only photo I have of the coffin.

And here is a poem I wrote several years later...

There Was Death

There was death

in his whiteness

in his quiet breathing

that afternoon when he stopped fighting

There was death

and I watched it

settle into him

and I wished I could go there with him

but instead I rocked him and sang him a song

and I told him

It's okay to go now

because I could see that death

could not be wiped away

like tears

And later

when he was gone

I cradled an empty body

just to be certain

stroked cold skin

just to be sure

he was safe

Not fighting for another breath

Safe now

from the weary miracle

of life

O Rumi, Rumi, where art thou Rumi?

I posted a little Rumi poem to my Facebook page yesterday, because it felt right for how I'm feeling these days:

“Forget safety.

Live where you fear to live.

Destroy your reputation.

Be notorious.”

― Rumi

Afterward, I started thinking how much I've always loved Rumi and how I really ought to own at least one book of his poetry. Who would have thought such a simple idea could lead me so far afield?

Before I go any further with this story, let me make a confession: I know very little about poetry. I am not educated in poetry. But I've been immersed in it since I was a child. My dad read to us: from AA Milne to ee cummings, Robert Frost to Robert Service, we got an earful of the stuff. All four of us kids can probably recite The Cremation of Sam McGee from memory to this day.

I loved the stuff. By high school I was writing it too. Later, I embarked on an English major at CSU, but had to drop out within a year due to other life commitments and I never got to take any poetry classes. Which is all just to say that I'm approaching my subject today with no more than a beginner's mind and an abiding love of words, not any particular expertise.

So, back to Rumi, aka Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī, aka Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, aka Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī, aka Mevlānā , aka Mawlānā. Rumi was a mystic Sufi poet who lived in Persia (now Tajikistan) from 1207 to 1273. He wrote in the Persian language, which is the heart of the issue I am facing as I begin to wonder which book of his work I might like to buy.

What I have just discovered, neophyte that I am, is that quite a bit of what we English speakers think of as Rumi's work, is best referred to, not as translations of his original words, but as “poetic interpretations.” Inspired by his words, but not at all true to them. Coleman Barks seems to be the most prolific of these interpreters. Most of what I have read and enjoyed of Rumi's work has been though Barks. This news is disheartening to me. I love what I have read. But it is not true to Rumi? How am I to feel about this?

I go to the library. I take out books translated by Ibrahim Gamard and Nevit O. Ergin. I reserve from other libraries Rumi translations done by Kabir Edmund Helminski and Arthur John Arberry. I may add to this list as I learn more.

So this is the task I have set out for myself. Read, compare, decide. Or maybe don't decide. As yet, I don't know how I can. I have so many questions and I would be ever so pleased if anyone who has an interest in this topic would respond in the comment section. The very idea of poetry in translation from other languages has got me all hot and bothered now. Can it be done? This is poetry we're talking about, not an instruction manual for a toaster oven. Can it really be done? If it's a literal word for word translation, it loses its poetry. If it's a poetic interpretation, it loses its roots. Is the resulting poem, in either case, still attributable to the original author?

Rumi, in some cases, was translated from Persian to other languages and then to English. And this being about 700 years ago and all the lost context that entails, it just seems very nearly impossible that the resulting works can come close to the original intent, or carry traces of the original “soul,” if you will. On the other hand, I am unlikely to learn Persian. If I want to make  contact with my beloved Rumi, what else am I to do?

Feel free to also talk about poetic translations in general. Same principles would apply, I think.

Thanks for reading. I look forward to hearing from you all. I'm off to dive into these books now....

Breaking in

Have you noticed something different about me lately? Well, yeah, I did henna my hair, but I was referring to this. Right here. Ta-da! I have a blog now. I've suddenly become a Person With A Blog. I think it looks good on me, don't you?

So I'm going to start you off with a story, because this particular story will explain the name of my blog. Plus it's a good story.

When I lived in Seattle in the late 1980's, I frequented a little coffee shop called Espresso Roma. I had a lot of studying to do; they had free refills. So I spent a lot of time there. It just so happened that I read a book of James Wright's poetry around that time, and I fell in love with his poem, “A Blessing,” in particular, the last three lines. And one day, I wrote those lines on Espresso Roma's bathroom wall:

Suddenly I realize / That if I stepped out of my body I would break / Into blossom.

I signed it “JW.”

Well, it must have been a week or two later that I returned and found that someone had written directly below those lines, in tiny, perfect, print:

I'm out, Broken, Blossoming.

TC

And I fell in all over love again. With words, with poetry, with TC whoever he or she was, with the whole of everything. 

It's surprising, isn't it? How a small, seemingly pointless, action can make a world of difference? How a few words, placed just so, can step you out of wherever you were and break you into blossom?

I guess that's why I'm here, wearing my freshly pressed blog. I hope you enjoy it. Stop by again, Okay?

A Blessing   by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

Darken with kindness.

They have come gladly out of the willows

To welcome my friend and me.

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness

That we have come.

They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.

There is no loneliness like theirs.

At home once more,

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,

For she has walked over to me

And nuzzled my left hand.

She is black and white,

Her mane falls wild on her forehead,

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.