The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart Jack Gilbert
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue
has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
This year for NaNoWriMo I am writing, How to Leave. So far I don't think it's a novel. I'm not even sure it's a short story. It may be a very long prose poem. And, I'm not sure what it's really about. It usually takes three years for me to figure out what I wrote. What is it about? is always the first question. I like Toni Morrison's response to the meaning of her novels: I leave it to the grad students figure it out.
I like the title of my piece so far.
What I am discovering is that I am writing in code, as if it's dangerous for me to know what I'm writing about.
I love the line in Gilbert's poem that words almost mean what they are supposed to mean. And also, that there are no words for emotions, for what we feel most.
At Home with the Dogs
Ellie and Harley
Wild Child sculpture and Harry Taylor owl and crow prints
Eclectic rhinoceros and figurine collectionAs I've said before, I've been rearranging and clearing clutter from each room. The pictures featured here are from my living room, my new favorite place to hang out with the dogs.
Procrastination Tip #1
Instead of finishing the laundry last night I decided to click through as many cable television channels I could until I found something interesting. I landed on a program about Annie Liebovitz and her creative process. She was fascinating, her process and the images shown unexpected, but the laundry still had to be done, and watching a fascinating program can be an anxiety ridden experience, since watching is a passive activity. So, I grabbed my iPhone and started taking pictures of the program, Liebovitz, the commercials, and started flipping channels and taking pictures of whatever presented itself. The laundry could wait. Laundry can always wait.
The images turned out grainy like old pinhole photographs. Try this with your cell phone and see what you come up with.
The pictures featured above are from WWII in HD.
Occupy SLC - November 12, 2011
Pioneer Park November 12, 2001.
Gallivan Center November 12, 2001.Occupy SLC has exactly fifteen minutes to decamp or the SLPD will begin arresting protesters. Since the death of a homeless man yesterday evening at the park, Cheif Burbank (on orders from Mayor Becker) issued an eviction notice, stating health and safety issues. In an official statement from the Mayor's office, Becker promised that free speech will be protected, but camping permits will no longer be issued.
I am watching local news waiting for news, but football wrap up shows dominate.
I was in the city earlier today taking pictures of the camps at Pioneer Park and the Gallivan Center. (I'll post the pics a little later). People were standing in groups outside their tents, the tent kitchen was serving food, and I saw numerous people coming and going, dropping off donations. It didn't look like the hundred plus protesters were planning on going anywhere.
On the way out of town I drove by the park I saw a few police cars and police milling around, a few officers speaking with small circles of people. As I left SLC, the snow had just begun to fall.
I was listening to Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings, possibly the most beautifully meloncholy piece of music, and burst into tears. It took to Bountiful to gather myself. Politics aside, I am moved.
4 News just reported that police are in force at Pioneer Park and intend to arrest anyone refusing to leave on their own volition.
The protesters have five minutes to leave.
Protesters are chanting, "We are 99 percent". Lights from the fleet of police cars lining 4th South are flashing. A policeman on a megaphone is instructing the crowd to disperse. Police are threatening arrests while journalists interview individual protesters. A young man says "they want their voices heard...that they're not going take it anymore". Chief Burbank said " the city is supportive of free speech, but that protesters will no longer be allowed to camp overnight".
What I know, is that Occupy is not going away. This movement reminds me of what I've read and the programs I've seen on the beginnings of the 60's protests. The groundswell started small, was disparate and seemingly disorganized, then as now. The political leaders dismissed and demonized the protests and protesters. The news barely reported the protests, until the voices were too numerous and too vocal to dismiss.
So far, the park looks peaceful.
Update:
CNN U.S. reported that Salt Lake City police arrested nineteen protesters Saturday night.
The Christian Science Monitor reported about police evicting protesters, Salt Lake City included.
The New York Times reported that protesters around the country are shifting from taking it to the streets to taking it to college campuses. Everybody, take your shoes off and get comfortable, Occupy is here for the long haul.
This Moment: November 12, 2012 6:52 A.M.
The porch chime clangs loudly. The full moon is shrouded in thick clouds. Shadows finger crawl cross my windows. Wind is a low rumble like voices heard through walls. Shadows fade as light slowly emerges from behind the mountains. The storm and it's snows will soon arrive, its coming has been announced, and will be greeted like an uninvited guest to a private dinner party. The dark days are here. I feel their cold grip on the back of my neck. Gunfire in the distance, probably near the lake's shoreline where wild geese bed down in the marsh grass. The small dog jumps to attention, but soon circles himself back into the comforter. I wonder why the geese wait so long to fly south for the winter months. It will not be long before the ground will freeze and the lake made of salt will glisten like crystal held to the light. The wind has ceased. The chimes sway gently in a leftover breeze, their music of metal on metal a reminder of entering the darkness of a Buddhist temple, the gong's deep voice reverberating along the wooden walls and across the golden surface of the Buddha. In the morning light, as the darkness takes its leave, I am drawn to a dream, not my own, of a ghost train train filled with the souls of my ancestors bearing down nonexistent tracks behind my home. I wonder at the meaning of this, and wish I could ask them the way forward. The chimes begin again. The old dog breathes heavily on her pillow. The ground, its cache of yellow orange leaves will be hidden away under a thick cover of white in a matter of hours. I hear geese call to each other as they pass over my house and I cannot keep myself from smiling, knowing they will find their way home safe.
Poem Therapy 11/11/11 at 2:37 P.M: Before the Deployment - Jehanne Dubrow
Before the Deployment
Jehanne Dubrow
He kisses me before he goes. While I,
still dozing, half-asleep, laugh and rub my face
against the sueded surface of the sheets,
thinking it’s him I touch, his skin beneath
my hands, my body curving in to meet
his body there. I never hear him leave.
But I believe he shuts the bedroom door,
as though unsure if he should change his mind,
pull off his boots, crawl beneath the blankets
left behind, his hand a heat against my breast,
our heart rates slowing into rest. Perhaps
all good-byes should whisper like a piece of silk—
and then the quick surprise of waking, alone
except for the citrus ghost of his cologne.
Jehanne Dubrow
He kisses me before he goes. While I,
still dozing, half-asleep, laugh and rub my face
against the sueded surface of the sheets,
thinking it’s him I touch, his skin beneath
my hands, my body curving in to meet
his body there. I never hear him leave.
But I believe he shuts the bedroom door,
as though unsure if he should change his mind,
pull off his boots, crawl beneath the blankets
left behind, his hand a heat against my breast,
our heart rates slowing into rest. Perhaps
all good-byes should whisper like a piece of silk—
and then the quick surprise of waking, alone
except for the citrus ghost of his cologne.
Artist of the Day: Home Safe - CAPow
Home Safe CAPow http://capow1981.blogspot.com & http://windshielddiaries.blogspot.comI thought this image from Troy, New York artist CAPow's Hometown Heart series, a moving Veteran's Day wish for all our service men and women to come home safe.
Artist Bio:
Creating and crafting since birth, CAPow is formally trained in Audio Recording and Graphic Design. She has lived in Boston MA, Brooklyn NY, and currently resides in a 120 year old house in Troy, NY.
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