What we see, we have already "read" as our visual cortex filters our perceptions down through the doors of our experiences. What we read is immediately transposed perceptually to some kind of image that is compatible with our imagination. Here you will find much to read, and lots to see.
The land was burning.
There had been no rain for the whole
of an exceptionally hot summer;
grass on the hillsides turned dry and brown,
leaving sheep and cattle without feed;
hedges and verges grew dusty
and trees lost their lustre.
Desperate and exhausted, the people
turned to the Rainwitch for help.
Their plight moved her heart.
(She was one of the good witches,
always willing to do her best
for those in need)
She saw livestock dying in the meadows,
crops withering in the fields,
rivers running dry,
and fish suffocating in shallow pools
which had been shimmering lakes.
She called her familiar, Old Raven,
and bid him fly up into the skies.
"See where the rainclouds have gathered,
and bring me news of those ready to discharge",
she ordered.
When Old Raven returned he had a gossamer thread
of the finest silk tied to his wing.
" I have found the clouds ,
see, I have brought a flock of them ,
enough to refresh the land."
he croaked.
The Rainwitch
duly did her magic.
Soon,
lakes and rivers were overflowing,
bursting their banks.
The sky was black and heavy
with a flock of clouds,
darkness swallowed light.
day became night.
At first the people rejoiced.
They danced in the rain
as they watched their wells
fill up with life-giving water,
and grasses, fields and hedges recover.
"Thank you, thank you", they cried.
"You have saved our lives and our livelihood.
We will be forever in your debt."
But by and by, as the rains continued to fall,
new voices were heard.
"Enough already", they said.
"Enough of a good thing.
Are you trying to drown us?"
Roads flooded, and the people
couldn't drive their livestock to market.
Fields were sodden and crops in danger of rotting.
Bedding grew damp and mouldy and depression set in.
"Will these dark days never end?"
Old Raven brought the news to his mistress.
"They are fed up down there", he croaked.
"You know that humans are never satisfied,
whatever you do for them."
Old Raven was a wise old bird,
he'd seen it all before.
The Rainwitch was a little annoyed.
"Very well, then," she said,
"I shall return to them and stop the rain".
She climbed up on her rock rising from the lake,
spread her arms wide,
and told the rain to end
and the light to return.
"But I'll tell you one thing, Old Raven,"
she said,
while the rain eased and daylight
once more returned to the land,
"this was the last time I've
come to their assistance.
From now on they can make do
with the seasons."
She was true to her word
and that was the last anyone
ever saw of her again.
Do we live only in this moment,
during this breath, and all else
is memory or conjecture?
Is my life your dream, or yours mine,
or are we merely busy parasites
between the toes of God?
We struggle with reason,
search for meaning, conjure up
beauteous myths regarding past lives,
pre-life, afterlife, life between lives,
and love to postulate that we never
are victims, but captains of every
tragedy, every honor, every shame,
existentially responsible for every shred
of decency or decadence in our scenarios,
empowered architects of some Bardoian
boiler plate outline for each incarnation,
yet the media distracts us, libraries do not
beckon to us, book stores lack the literary
luster of our youth, and we constantly
find ourselves plugged into an instantaneous
cyberland, with the entire world now
at our fingertips, bathed in awareness of
every event occurring each minute,
the planet shrunken to the size of a
regulation basketball, growing impatient
during any wait that exceed ten seconds,
being seduced by the fetching sirens
of technology, begging the machines
to pilot our way, park our vehicles, lift
our labors, craft our leisure, and allowing
the zap and whir of our computers to
begin to sound like children’s laughter;
only vaguely wondering where does it lead,
becoming loquacious lemming marching
blindly toward some distant sea cliff,
billions on queue, back to back,
belly to belly, immersed, dissuaded, driven,
with itunes in our ear buds, Avatar on our
smart phones, and a stuporous grin etched
permanently upon the jaw of our journey
to a blind new world.
Glenn Buttkus
September 2011
Would you like the author to read this poem to you?
The end of September.
All traces of our summer guests
have gone: sand rinsed from showers,
beach towels folded away.
Under the terrace
the deflated paddling pool
gathers leaves.
We will not be here
much longer: palm trees, the Mistral,
the smell of coconut oil
at the supermarket check-out,
things of the past.
Four years of our life.
We measure it in numbers:
additions, subtractions,
try and make sense
of what we gain, what we lose.
A language. The scent of bread
carried on a sea breeze. The company
of the sun. The people we love
far away at the end of a phone.
Let me imagine a year ahead:
my parents' will celebrate
their 60th year together.
The smell of apples in the cold store.
The cat will have captured
a foreign territory and accepted it
as home. Which is what
at the end of a
journey for a red star
hibiscus, the center
of gravity is no
joke – yet unlike
collapsing stars,
its stellar remnants
leave a black
hole at the end
of the driveway
every time
.
it is some sort of
Olympics when
my mother performs
that final double
crochet bind-off,
perfecting
the edges of
my name before
wrapping me
in it, secured
to this red-
letter day
.
1(crane shot) both vehicles in frame, medium wide set up;
child running on ahead of her mother, stopping at their broken
down yellow sedan.
2(close up) child’s hand on the bar door handle; opening door.
3(medium shot) three monarch butterflies fly out from inside
the car.
4(sound cue) tinkling small bells overlapping with Japanese
reed flute trill.
5(close up) butterfly landing on child’s hand, fluttering wings.
6(close up) child’s face, rife with wonder and bliss.
7(medium shot) woman arriving at the door;
tasha: come on, dear, let’s get some of our stuff.
8(sound cue) child squealing happily
9(medium close up) butterfly flittering away.
10(two shot) owen: clear off the back seat for the ladies.
11(close up) lester: nodding consent several times.
12(insert shot) two red ants being sucked down into an ant
lion pit.
13(extreme close up) ants struggling mightily.
14(sound cue) cello bowing one long high note.
15(medium shot) lester opens his passenger door and gets out.
16(close up) lester looking toward the woman and child.
17(medium shot) lester pushing down the back of front seat.
18(close up) owen staring back at the ladies.
19(sound cue) jazz drummer brushing slowly.
20(tight shot, with slow pan) piles of refuse on car’s back seat;
aluminum cans, empty glass wine and beer bottles, newspapers,
girlie magazines, candy wrappers, wadded up chips packaging,
styrofoam containers, old clothes.
21(medium set up) lester scooping the crud forward onto the
floor boards.
22(sound cue) aluminum and glass clinking together.
23(quick close up) lester, then his VO during the clean up;
lester: oh yeah, fuck yeah, we cannot have our ladies sitting
on all this shit, that ain’t right, wouldn’t be prudent--here let
me clean off this seat for their pristine butts.
24(close up) POV owen’s rear view mirror, heather running back
to the impala, tasha close behind carrying two shopping bags,
with a red beach bag over her shoulder.
25(medium three shot) woman and child standing directly behind
lester as he finished his diatribe and the scooping off of back
seat.
26(crane shot) dolly backward and upward into wide shot of
the cars and characters.
27(sound cue) diggeree doo, low and slow.
28 (crane shot) camera returns to ground onto the back of a
coyote’s head, perched on a butte near them.
29(close up) coyote’s eyes, black and blank, focused on them.
30(tight three shot) heather holding her stuffed tiger in one hand,
and her mother’s shapely thigh with the other.
31(medium shot) POV inside back seat, heather crawling up
into the car.
32(close up) tasha: about how far is it to the nearest town?
33(tight shot) over owen’s shoulder, with him reaching over
to help the child scoot on the seat, positioning her behind him.
34(close up) owen, smiling: that would be Henderson--about
80 miles I think.
35(overhead fly over) possibly a vulture.
36 (medium shot) lester standing very close to woman.
37(close up) lester’s hand touching her bare thigh.
38 (sound cue) wings flapping blending into a blues chord.
39(dialogue cue) lester’s VO overlapping the action--
lester: bitchin, ladies, bitchin, every fucking thing is going
to be fine now.
40(close up) owen winks at the child; tasha notices.
41(insert medium shot) heather running in semi-darkness,
pursued by a dark figure.
(sound cue) fast jazz riff.
42(close up) large hand reaches out and grabs the child
by the long blond hair.
43(extreme close up) skull tattoo on back of the hand.
44(sound cue) the child screaming.
45(close up) tasha’s head jerks as if she had touched a
live hot wire.
46(two shot) over tasha’s shoulder: heather stares
worriedly at her mother, who is still not quite in the car.
47(close up) lester, perplexed: come on, baby, hop in
so we can get rolling.
48(two shot) over child’s shoulder: tasha getting in
beside her daughter.
49(insert shot) king snake striking a field mouse.
50(close up) lester giving a little push on woman’s posterior.
51 (close up) tasha’s eyes: very displeased.
52(medium shot) crud on the floor, flies buzzing, a condom
wrapper, torn seat covers, several dark stains on the seat.
53(close up) heather: it smells bad, mommy.
54(two shot) over owen’s shoulder, him staring hard at the
little girl.
55(close up) heather returning his stare with a child’s
innocence.
56(insert shot) yellow spider spinning a honey bee into its
web; both cars still visible through the web edges.
57(sound cue) Indian snake rattle shaken hard.
58(close up) owen: what’s your tiger’s name?
59(two shot) woman and child; heather eyes beginning to
be clouded with confusion, some fear, and she remains
silent.
60(close up) tasha: she’s just shy, and tired, and hungry.
61(medium shot) owen turning around to grip the steering
wheel.
62(three shot) the girls over his shoulder, owen: aren’t we
all, lady?
63(medium shot) lester slams the passenger door.
64(sound cue) that heavy clunk Chevrolet doors made.
65(medium shot) POV from the front seat, lester jumps
back into the shotgun position.
66(two shot; front seat) lester: let’s get on down the
fucking road!
67(close up) owen’s foot stepping down hard on the
gas pedal.
68(sound cue) V-8 four barrel carburetor gulping gas.
69(sound cue) hard rock guitar riff.
70(medium shot) rear of the red impala with both
back tires spinning.
71(sound cue) gravel pelting the woman’s sedan.
72(medium shot) impala’s grill rocketing toward
the camera.
73(wide medium shot) driver’s side yellow sedan, with
POV over the fender and hood.
74(tracking shot) red impala as it pulls away.
75(overhead crane shot) impala gathering speed,
dust cloud mantling the disabled vehicle.
76(sound cue) more rock guitar riffs.
77(insert shot) dead raccoon alongside the road
78(close up) dead eyes open in black mask.
79(pull back to medium wide shot) red impala races
past the corpse, left to right in the frame.
the stir of autumn wraps my heart
as summer slowly wanes
riding the early fallen leaves
on the current of october waters
whirling and bobbing on crystal ripples
round and past the river rocks
over the rip rap of the stream bed
carried vividly away
into advancing sunset
shadows lengthen
days shorten
and a quiet melancholy begins
to settle upon the land
as it prepares itself
for the slumber of renewal
but not before the crackling
joyous dance of harvest
and a crisp crimson-gold kiss goodnight
Day by the day,
unmistakable signs
herald the advent of autumn;
tenderly, soft mists embrace
fields yielding their final harvest
before they merge,
seamlessly, into
the weathering sky.
Peonies, defying
the laws of nature,
assume a coat of glowing colours,
their red-veined leaves
betraying a zest for life,
yet to be stilled.
Horse Chestnuts weep
a gentle rain of
yellow leaves
upon the flower beds they shaded
only yesterday.
Their shiny fruits long gone,
exhausted from their valiant efforts
through the seasons,
their final offering now
to lay a shielding hand
against the frosts to come
over the sleeping life
deep in the earth below them.
let’s me and you
savor a moment
on the fire escape
tonight – things like
this often get
stuffy, and we
don’t need to
stay out longer
than six
ounces of salt
water taffy
.
he who’s been shaking poems
into the seaweed all day,
is oblivious to the splotch
of professional photographers
rolling their expensive eyes
at each other over the little
point-and-shoot he made
from laughter and airplane wings.
The man hoists the ocean,
clouds and pelicans into position,
fluffs up the sky’s pillows,
billows his cape, and raises his wand
to pause the breath of heaven’s violins
a moment for you.
Always you were given
one too many, one too few.
What almost happens, doesn't.
What might be lost, you'll lose.
The crows will eat your garden.
Weeds will get what's left.
Your cats will be three-legged,
your house's mice be blessed.
One friend will take your husband,
another wear your dress.
No, it isn't what you wanted.
It isn't what you'd choose.
Your floors have always slanted.
Your roof has paid its dues.
Life delivered you a present—
a too-small pair of shoes.
What almost happened, won't now.
What can be lost, you'll lose.
Jane Hirshfield
Posted over on the Writer's Almanac
"Three-Legged Blues" by Jane Hirshfield, from Come, Thief.
For a long time now, like over three years, I
managed to find the time to post thousands
of things on this site; loving every creative
poetic moment of it.
Then I fell through the deck on June 1, 2011,
launching myself into dozens of pity parties
and withdrawn healing phases. Now my healing
is at 98%, and I find my photography and that
social behemoth network, FACEBOOK, snatch most
of my free time; and that's substantial now
that I am in fact retired.
And of course, I still manage to get out to
a theater a couple times a week to see some
new films, and now that I am semi-functional
again, I have picked back up the reins of
control for the Tacoma Film Club, and the beat
goes on with celluloid ambrosia.
So, somewhat sadly, as I get ready to head out
the door for the Tacoma Film Club's monthly
discussion night (this month we discuss THE HELP,
THE DEFIANT ONES, and IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT)
I lingered for a few minutes at the site, and
felt like a son spending too much time out of'
the nest, finding my kicks in the damndest places.
Fear not, for I do not, will not give up the joy
this blog gives me, and is extended to thousands
of drop in readers the counters tell me check out
things here daily. See you soon blogger mates.
Shut up Ralph Nader,
shut up shut up shutupshutup.
The whole Bush era is your fault.
Even 9-11, as far as I'm concerned.
You know nothing about how the world works,
even less than how cars work
You are a complete idiot.
Go hide in a cave.
Go back to Mars.
Seriously, get some psychiatric help.
And SHUT the fuck UP!
I’m so happy with our deck that in the early mornings I drag all my cushions outside do my meditation. The sun is rising, the neighborhood is waking up, the air is cool, and I can see the mountains when I look to the west. And, because the deck levitates above the earth on concrete blocks, the ants don’t come climbing up my legs. Life is good. So a few mornings ago I crossed my legs and sat down on my zafu. The full moon was falling in the dawn sky behind the mountains. I bowed, straightened my back, head pushing the sky aloft, and sat there in my goofy half-lotus. My breath settled into my diaphragm. Time passed like it always does. Ernie our big black cat nudged me. I keep a wide spot on my zabuton reserved for Ernie. I patted him some and he curled up beside me. This is his morning pleasure. I returned to my sitting. A little breeze.
Then I heard some scuffling off to the side. I didn’t pay attention for a few minutes but after a while I had no choice. Clovis, the young grey tabby cat from next door, had caught himself a bird. A yellow-rumped warbler. Poor thing. Clovis is quick and he likes to perch in the trees when he hunts. We think he carries some Siamese blood in him. Clovis had broken one of the bird’s wings and had the bird in its jaws and was shaking it furiously. Then he plopped it down in the grass and watched it for a while. The bird lay there panting in desperation. Then he flapped wildly his wings and try to drag himself away from his tormenter. His exertions made Clovis wonderfully happy. He pounced on the bird and shook him and pranced around. It was his show for Ernie and me. Ernie simply watched, not moving, with that unattached curiosity and grace that cats possess. I tried to do the same. But of course my mind quickly contorted into a mild ethical turmoil. What should I do? The bird was suffering terribly. It would soon die. I thought maybe I should grab rescue the bird from Clovis’ teeth and kill it quickly. I’ve done this before with wounded birds on the road. Slammed it against the pavement or crushed its head with my foot. Not fun. But quick and to the point. But I didn’t do that. I was just sitting there--correct posture, hands lightly clasped in the cosmic mudra, my breath going in and out--in Clovis’ and Ernie’s territory. This is what they do day and night--hunt and kill birds and eat them. No lesson I could teach Clovis, no bird's life I could save. I was their witness and in a way that was a privilege. I didn’t make any decision. Instead, I went back to my sitting. The intermittent scuffling sound grew faint and disappeared. Fifteen minutes later the alarm bell rang. I looked up. Clovis was no longer there. Only a few feathers remained. Clovis had devoured the bird completely.
A suff’rer of herpetophilia
Kept all sorts of dang’rous reptilia.
For them she would play
On her fife ev’ry day.
Have you ever heard anything sillier!?
There once was a child whose mother gave her a bowl of milk and bread every afternoon. Each afternoon the mother warned the child not to go too far from the house and to beware of strangers with sweet voices, whose siren song might lure her astray.
The child took the bowl into the deepest part of the garden, where she sat down in the shade of an old oak tree and spooned her bread and milk, before she fell asleep, leaning against the broad tree trunk. Sometimes, she didn't finish her treat and left a little milk in the bowl, but when she woke up, the milk had gone.
This happened so often that the child became curious. She decided to find out who was drinking her milk. On one particular afternoon she came out as usual with her bowl, but this time she left a much bigger drink, put the bowl down and pretended to fall asleep. Keeping very still, she peeked from under the very end of her lashes and by and by she saw a beautiful white snake slithering towards the bowl, lifting its sleekly elegant head and dipping a delicate tongue into the milk.
"Ha, caught you, you thief", cried the child, and grabbed the snake's head. "Steal my milk, would you? I'll teach you to rob me, my mother warned me against creatures such as you." The child was about to smash the snake's head with a stone when it spoke.
"If you grant me life, you shall have all the treasures of the earth you desire", the snake sang, "every day I shall return and bring you silver trinkets and golden chains, pearls and bright stones and all the toys my kind can fashion in the halls under the roots of the oak".
The child didn't trust the snake. After all, didn't snakes have a reputation for being false?
"Swear that you will keep your word and I shall let you live", the child said. The snake did.
Every afternoon from then on the child and the snake met at the bottom of the oak tree and exchanged gifts, milk for the snake and ever more precious and wondrous treasures from the halls beneath the roots of the oak for the child. Soon the child had amassed a large hoard, which she kept secret from her mother. Hadn't her mother always warned her against taking gifts from strangers?
And once again the child became curious. If the snake could bring her a gift each time and promised to continue to do so for as long as the child would come to meet it by the oak tree, how much more was there hidden under the roots?
The next time they met she said to the snake: "This is getting very boring, one little gift every time. Bring me more gifts, many at a time, or I shall stop being kind to you; I'll probably not even bother to come out and you can go and get your milk elsewhere."
Now the snake had known all along that the child would become greedy. Snakes know these things instinctively. It had a plan all worked out.
"If you want more gifts, why don't you come with me into the halls underneath the roots", the snake sang, "then you can see for yourself what there is and you may choose whatever you want to take."
The child hardly hesitated at all. It had got used to the snake, the snake had kept its promise, they had spent many a pleasant afternoon playing and eating bread and milk in the shade of the ancient oak tree. Blinded by the promise of untold riches the child followed the snake where it led.
on a day like
this, it is probably
better not to self-
sabotage, leaning
into the villainy of
something as
unrestrained as
injustice –
i’ve killed
two cockroaches
this morning at the
switch of a light,
and you?
.
the man who sells
stars by the crateful
at the market is a
friend who walks
twenty blocks to
drink to your
health is a
lover of honeybees
is a repairer of
broken things by
day and a
father who tucks
his boys to
bed by night
.
