Canadian surrealism
“Capture of bear in the woods“ (1907)
_______
if Pink Floyd pigs can fly, as well as
Michael Sowa penguins, watch what
bears can do in Canada in January,
surely even in February
amazing, just click
Richard
Richibi’s Weblog
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Category: in search of God
February 25, 2015
February 23, 2015
“Probability” – Lia Purpura
“The Miracle of Light While Flying“ (1931)
_________
miracles, like beauty, are in the eye
of the beholder
they are astonishing circumstances
sufficient to transcend
if one dares
__________
Most coincidents are not
miraculous, but way more
common than we think—
it’s the shiver
of noticing being
central in a sequence
of events
that makes so much
seem wild and rare—
because what if it wasn’t?
Astonishment’s nothing
without your consent.
__________
ever
Richard
psst:
coincidents, incidentally, are the,
plural, components of a coincidence
coincidences are the components
of, as stated above, miracles
note also “Probability‘s” loose rhymes,
“sequence”, “events”, “coincidents” /
“wasn’t”, “consent” / “more”, “shiver”,
“rare”, like glimpses of gold beneath
a nebulous surface, open to discovery,
something miraculous
February 17, 2015
“Dancing at Lughnasa”
“O’Malley Home (Achill Island, County Mayo, Ireland)“ (1913)
_______
a quiet February evening, or even a quiet
February afternoon, would be perfect to
watch “Dancing at Lughnasa“, a fireside
movie with family and warmth, even
chickens, it’s Ireland, 1936, in the distance
the Spanish Civil War, sisters are taking
care of each other
Meryl Streep heads an impeccable cast,
each performer surely inspiring the other
for such excellence to so generally shine
through, the magic is inveterately
consistent
Michael, Christina’s illegitimate son, tells
the story of when his dad visited them all
that summer he was seven, children are
always the victims, also the survivors
the play won the Tony Award in 1992 for
Best Play of the Year
Richard
February 16, 2015
“No Ideas But In Things” – Jessica Greenbaum
“Lady with a Squirrel and a Starling“ (c.1527)
__________
it’s been a while since I’ve offered
up a poem, it’s been a while since
I’ve read one, and I miss them
but this one inadvertently this
morning struck a conversational
tone I found particularly engaging,
easy to read, though with cadences
no paragraphs
Jessica Greenbaum uses longer
iambic pentameters than I do, you
might note, decidedly more
punctuation
but she sings her lines, her daily
prose, as if they were poems
that’s what I especially like
Richard
_____________
We checked the vents and hidden apertures of the house,
then ran out of ideas of where it might be open to the world.
So we couldn’t figure out how the squirrel was getting in.
We each had methods that succeeded in shooing him,
or her, out the door—but none of them lasted. Whether
it was the same squirrel—terrified when in the house, and
persistently so—or various we couldn’t tell because,
tipped off by a glance, he zigzagged from froze-to-vapor,
vanishing, Zorro-like, until signs would tell us he had
revisited the sideboard to dig in the begonia. (Escaping
Newcastle in a search for coal.) We plotted his counter-
escape, laying a path of pecans to a window opening
on the yard. A few days would pass, and, believing him
gone, we felt inexplicably better than when we began.
Then, from another room, the amplified skritch of nutmeg
being grated—and, crash. Bracelets off dresser tops, bud
vases, candy dishes, things houses have that the back yard
doesn’t. You don’t think of squirrels knocking things over,
but inside it was like living with the Ghost and Mrs. Muir.
When we couldn’t trust the quiet or prove his absence,
we cast him as that hapless shade: worry. Our own gray
area, scat-trailing proof of feral anxiety. But after a few
cycles of release-and-catch I grew bored with the idea,
with its untamed projections. Since he dashes up walls,
(yanked, like a pulley), or seeks treasure in a five-inch pot,
daily, why not adopt him as optimism’s travelling rep?
I tried. But the sun comes up, we step toward the stove,
and he shoots out like a cue ball, banks off the kitchen door
—what mayhem is caused by going to make coffee!—
and the day, again, begins with a shriek. We are now in
week three and I accept that, inside, the squirrel is going
to stand for something else. And so is the May rain
and so is the day you took off your coat and the tulips
joined in with the cherry blossoms and the people came out
and the pear-tree petals floated down in polka dots
around the tulips, and even around the cars. We name life
in relation to whatever we step out from when we
open the door, and whatever comes back in on its own.
February 14, 2015
my Valentine
“A Bouquet of Roses” (1879)
___________
happy Valentine’s Day, Apollo said
over the phone at about ten this morning
hi, I said, can I call you back
I’ll call you back later, he answered
roger, we agreed, out
later he called to say it again, I found it
amusing, verging on charming, but later
still when we met serendipitously on the
street, where he’d sensed it would
imminently happen, though it hardly ever
does, he appeared bathed in golden light,
crossing the street towards me beaming,
very, indeed, Apollo, cutting a path
through the traffic and throng
I, of course, melted as I usually do, but
managed to hold onto my bags
happy Valentine’s Day again, he said,
I’d’ve bought you a rose, he suggested,
but they’re in bunches today, fifteen
dollars, that seemed excessive
where would I put them anyway, I
decided
we talked about a sign up saying, help,
I’ve fallen for you and I can’t get up, I’d
seen at the market, which, along with
the crush of roses and people on the
streets, had been enlivening, inspiring,
recollective
you could say it back, he said
you haven’t said it in seventeen years,
I retorted, I tried it back then several
times but it never seemed to work, I
gave up
I knew you’d say that, he contritely
replied, playing sheepishly along
okay, I said, happy Valentine
and I love you
I love you too, he replied
we embraced
the trees were sporting cherry
blossoms
birds, I think, sang
Richard
February 11, 2015
F,f for February, father, faith
“Family Feast“ (1907)
_______
my sister arrived with her husband two
nights ago on a late flight, my mom had
checked them in at the hotel down the
street they’ve been staying at for the
past few years, we were to meet them
later at the apartment with cold cuts
and assorted friandises, a bottle of
red wine
already they’d made their flight, on not
one but two wings, as it were, and, quite
literally, a prayer, having both been on
standby
we’ve both had the great fortune of
having worked for the airline industry,
each over thirty years, and still enjoy
from it generous benefits, though not
confirmed spaces, mostly
I’d checked the website for its last-
minute passenger count and found
the flight in both sections oversold
with only fifteen minutes to go to
departure time
with not a second to spare I took up
my position before the candle I keep
ever lit for everyone, the needy ones
when the need arises, closed my
eyes, settled my palms on my knees,
my mind on calm, meditated, asked
my father to get them on, my father
is my patron saint of planes, he was
a private pilot, he’s often manifested
himself to us as, transcendentally,
still our purveyor
he purveyed
he purveys
my sister had texted from the flight,
that they were on, “Yippeeeee !!!”,
she’d enthusiastically related, when
I’d returned from my exalted state
to check if they were on
later I took credit for my dad
nobody objected
but all hadn’t transpired entirely well,
my mom had been checked into an
“upgrade” she knew they probably
wouldn’t want, but had deferred
providentially to the condition, which
at ten at night, however, would be no
time to look into, when they’d arrive,
it’d be seen to in the morning
meanwhile we celebrated
the wine was especially fine
do you do rooms, Dad, my sister
asked, she told us, the next morning
over her coffee, giggled at her
audacity, her communion, with my
father, probably promptly prayed,
then went on with her business
there weren’t any rooms, of course,
available until at least the following
morning, but the more congenial
attendant of the two said he’d take
care of it, leave it to him, which she
did
she’d no sooner returned from a few
preparatory domestic errands than
the phone rang
you won’t believe it, the messenger
said, as I was finding no opening to
consider, the phone rang, it was a
cancellation in the very apartment
you want
the messenger had been an actual
angel
you do do rooms, my sister said she
told my dad, we’ve all been immersed
in attendant wonder since, and believe
this’ll surely be some holiday
what do you think
they’re here for a month
Richard
psst: my dad died in 1989
February 8, 2015
Freedom
“May Day in Freedom“ (1958)
__________
two events took place after the fall
of the Berlin Wall, which have
remained cultural landmarks since,
nothing much comes close to their
historical significance, music to
declare a new world order
on December 25, 1989, Leonard
Bernstein conducts Beethoven’s
Ninth Symphony at the
Schauspielhaus in the former
East Berlin, it is remembered as
the “Freedom Concert” for having
replaced the word “Joy” in
Schiller’s poem during the “Ode
to Joy”, the vocal novelty of the
Ninth, also its triumph, with the
word “Freedom”, a whim of the
conductor, not inappropriately
on July 21, 1990, Roger Waters
puts on “The Wall“, Pink Floyd’s
20th-Century counterpart for the
Beethoven, the clarion call to do
away with barriers, fences, it’s
hard to dismiss its prescience
when the piece had been written
eight years earlier, seven years
before the fall of the Wall, as
though Pink Floyd had been
prophetic
like Beethoven had been, not
at all coincidentally here, in
his own day
both concerts are beyond
description, extraordinary
watch for unexpected guest
appearances in either of,
everywhere, the very highest
quality
Richard
February 6, 2015
a February poem
Aidan wants 6 Power Rangers (November, 2014)
____________
February 15, 1959, John is born,
August 25, 1989, John dies, I
think it is the end, but somehow
I survive
February 15, 2010, Aidan is born,
my partner’s grandson, John has
returned, I surmise, giving me
manifest reason to have
remained alive
____________
we’re going to Buenos Aires for a
month next C***mas
plus my mom
I’ll keep you posted
Richard
February 5, 2015
“A Year’s Carols” – Algernon Charles Swinburne
__________
happy poems about February are not
easy to find, nor are poems by any
poet written for each month of the
year
but here are Algernon Charles
Swinburne‘s “January” and “February”
from his “A Year’s Carols“
January
Hail, January, that bearest here
On snowbright breasts the babe-faced year
That weeps and trembles to be born.
Hail, maid and mother, strong and bright,
Hooded and cloaked and shod with white,
Whose eyes are stars that match the morn.
Thy forehead braves the storm’s bent bow,
Thy feet enkindle stars of snow.
February
Wan February with weeping cheer,
Whose cold hand guides the youngling year
Down misty roads of mire and rime,
Before thy pale and fitful face
The shrill wind shifts the clouds apace
Through skies the morning scarce may climb.
Thine eyes are thick with heavy tears,
But lit with hopes that light the year’s.
March’ll have to wait
most of us have never even heard of
Swinburne, I actually thought he was
German, he’s not, he was English,
and decadent, apparently, like his
compatriots then, Dante Gabriel
Rossetti and Oscar Wilde, who
thought Swinburne, however, was
a sham
though he never received a Nobel prize,
he was nominated for one in literature
each year from 1903 to 1907, then
again in 1909
to Swinburne
Richard
February 2, 2015
“The Poet’s Calendar” (February) – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Facsimile of February:
Farmyard Scene with Peasants“
___________
if there are paintings about February,
there must be poems about February,
I thought, hence the following entry,
though preceded by a belated January,
or Janus, as it turns out, held back by
nothing other, surely, than the “fields
with snow”, the “frosts”, and the
fowl-filled “frozen fen”
both are from a very calendar of
poems by Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow, whom I’ve always
imagined tall, however
inappropriate, kind of like thinking
that because my name is Richard
I’m rich
it’s called, appropriately enough,
The Poet’s Calendar, just click
January
Janus am I; oldest of potentates;
Forward I look, and backward, and below
I count, as god of avenues and gates,
The years that through my portals come and go.
I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow;
I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen;
My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow,
My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men.
February
I am lustration, and the sea is mine!
I wash the sands and headlands with my tide;
My brow is crowned with branches of the pine;
Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide.
By me all things unclean are purified,
By me the souls of men washed white again;
E’en the unlovely tombs of those who died
Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain.
March will have to wait
Richard
psst: lustration is a purification, Janus, the
god with two faces, who can see
backwards and forwards, fen,
marshland
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