telling time, and other related wonders
you’ll become engrossed in this clock,
be mesmerized for minutes, watch the
numbers roll, the provocative statistics
Richibi’s Weblog
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December 3, 2013
December 2, 2013
my Bruges, December 1, 2013
though we were some distance away
from Bruges the journey back and forth
proved to be no inconvenience given
were so accommodating, ensuring that
those treks would be seamless, and that
our stay with them would be warm
in fact, every one of our wishes became
their inviolable command, and that at no
less than our indiscriminate pleasure
at the door of their glorious country
home at first, behind the wrought
iron gate, there were only the chickens
to greet us, pecking away at the front
yard – whose fresh eggs we had for
breakfast every morning, along with
fresh orange and apple juices from
the nearby orchards, bottomless pots
of hot coffee, tea, ham, cheese and
warm bread – but soon around the
corner from the back Annemie showed
up having returned from harvesting
apples, welcoming us like old friends,
then Staf, doing his avuncular same
the rooms, named after Flemish
artists, were unique, spotless,
the rooms, named after Flemish
artists, were unique, spotless,
and heartfelt
we stayed a week, and it remains
equal to very Bruges, a Gothic
we stayed a week, and it remains
equal to very Bruges, a Gothic
wonderland, in our estimation
5 unequivocal st * rs
5 unequivocal st * rs
Richard
psst: there’s even a five-star restaurant
across the street, inexplicably, which
doesn’t however, be warned, take
credit cards, as do neither Staf and
questioned our honour in that
improbable, we thought,
circumstance, an Old World, we
guessed, thing
November 29, 2013
my Amsterdam, November 30, 2013
“Van Gogh Painting Sunflowers“ (1888)
_______
after experiencing a superb Gauguin,
and an, somewhat more reticent, though
ultimately entirely convincing, other, at
the Amsterdam Hermitage, an offshoot
of the mother house in St Petersburg
there, part of an exhibition on the Nabis,
I tempered my irritation around him and
determined to give him another chance,
he’d mistreated the sublime van Gogh,
enough for me to discredit him, if only for
his lack of aesthetic judgment, not bowing
before van Gogh’s manifest preeminence
the painting above, “Van Gogh Painting
Sunflowers“, did much, also, to rehabilitate
him for me, and in the very instant
his “Self-Portrait Dedicated to Vincent van
Gogh (Les Misérables)“, teeming with
flowers that seem to me like a swarm of
insects, is at least respectful
that’s apparently van Gogh in the upper
right hand corner
who ever would ‘a’ thunk it
Richard
November 23, 2013
sharpening one’s pencil
.jpg "Cottage and Woman with Goat - Vincent van Gogh")
“Cottage and Woman and Goat“ (1885)
__________
“Village Street in Winter” (1865)
__________
having considered that I’ve just spent
hours and days in some of the world’s
finest museums, you’ll perhaps pardon
my ebullience, I’ve never to date
juxtaposed two art works, I think, for
your consideration
but I scream, essentially, at everyone
with whom I visit a museum ever,
juxtapose, juxtapose, juxtapose, it
is the truest path to aesthetic erudition,
should you be so inclined, I call it,
sharpening one’s pencil
having been overwhelmed by very
miracles of art, my mom and I, throughout
our European visit, in, specifically, Bruges,
Ghent, Amsterdam and Frankfurt, the
some of, therefore, our last, burn for me
especially bright, standing naturally
together as comparable works of art,
though choosing between them is like
deciding between oranges and apples
but that’s the point, your aesthetic
sensibility says more about you than
it says about art, if you’ll surrender to
that exploration
and like apples and oranges, it depends
on your mood that day
which is also the point
“Farmhouse” for me was a surprise, I’d
never seen this particular, wonderful,
stuck more to an anticipated style, where
been for me his most successful, I’ll have
to change my mind about that
Courbet exhibition we saw there the last
time we were there, when he became,
one of Mom’s now two favourite painters
right now for me it’s still, maybe, Canaletto,
either of them, or Chagall, Klimt, Schiele,
Monet, Avercamp, Filippo Lippi, and too
many others to really remember, I’ve
given up to merely enjoy
here’s hoping you do too
Richard
psst: click “Farmhouse in Nuenen (La Chaumière)”
and follow the icon to enlarge it (+), for an
alternate, more exact, if I remember, view of
you’ll notice a remarkable difference
November 9, 2013
my Amsterdam, November 7, 2013
“Canal in Amsterdam” (1874)
____
in the morning we sit by the large
paned double windows that frame
the masterpiece that sits before our
paned double windows that frame
the masterpiece that sits before our
eyes, beyond a little cement and
wrought iron bridge that crosses
our canal another canal runs
perpendicular and away from us
between a row on either side of
trees, their leaves pale yellow
mostly, from late fall, with patches
here and there, like incidental
brushstrokes, of less vivid, or
weathered, if you like, greens
cobblestone paths along either bank,
charming but precarious, serve
pedestrians, cyclists in their dozens,
and the occasional adventurous car
willing to tackle the more lackadaisical
pace and unpredictability of bicycles,
people and everywhere watery
roadblocks, Renaissance gingerbread
houses hold the fort on either side of
the canvas, geometrically ceding to,
and doing a master class in,
perspective
in the distance, of course, the obligatory
steeple, infallably sounding on the quarter
hour
this morning a flight of what looked
to me like doves, so I’ll call them
to me like doves, so I’ll call them
doves, to touch up anyway with white
and peaceful thoughts my story, cast
magic by fretting in flocks vertiginously
between the parallel lines of trees, just
ahead of our front row seats
a symphony, I said to my mom, though
a symphony, I said to my mom, though
for the birds it must’ve been tumultuous,
a rash, maybe, anthropomorphism, but
their tumult has only ever translated for
me as immutably grace
people were taking pictures with their
smartphones, whirling skyward to the
avian poetry
we counted our blessings as we
breakfasted on coffee, bread and
cheese
later we’re off to the Rijksmuseum
to witness other visual wonders
Richard
October 16, 2013
beyond Alice
for Yolande
we had been talking, a friend and I, about
ashes – after, of course, my tale of Hawaii,
and my sacred purpose there with my
friend Greg around the memory of his
nephew and parents – the preparations
necessary to effect a smooth
transmission from one’s demise to final
ashes – after, of course, my tale of Hawaii,
and my sacred purpose there with my
friend Greg around the memory of his
nephew and parents – the preparations
necessary to effect a smooth
transmission from one’s demise to final
disposition, a somber thought for many,
but quite irreversible however, and better
sooner than too late, when bureaucratic
considerations inexorably and
inappropriately apply
to do so had been for her a last-minute
thing, earlier too stark, invisible,
to do so had been for her a last-minute
thing, earlier too stark, invisible,
unconsidered, but a comfort, she said,
ultimately, for the process had thus
itself become invisible, seamless, upon
a call the service duly submitted to her
particular wishes, of allowing her to sit by
the body till just before dawn, to avoid the
crush of the suddenly bristling morning,
and the probable indiscretions against
the solemnity of the night
she remembered how she had herself
reverently cast her own husband’s
she remembered how she had herself
reverently cast her own husband’s
ashes, told me she had kept some
should she find somewhere else
another garden than the one she
tended now should she ever want
to wander
I spoke of my own ashes, others’ ashes
I spoke of my own ashes, others’ ashes
she had with her husband cast those
of a sole remaining aunt of an afternoon,
from a rock on the seashore as the tide
moved in and out, feasting on sandwiches
and wine, I had seen dolphins dance out
on the ocean when I’d done something
similar myself around other ashes
a boy, a gay guy, she said came walking
before them on the same beach later,
earlier, I can’t remember
what do you mean gay, how did you
know that, I defensively countered
he was walking between two elderly
ladies, she answered without a beat
as though I hadn’t interrupted, holding
a tea service, complete with silverware,
china and napkins
I was glad I’d asked, I thought her
conclusion incontrovertible
her husband thought they’d entered
Alice’s wondrous rabbit hole, I thought
he couldn’t’ve been far off
they asked
the two ladies were his aunts, he replied,
on the ocean when I’d done something
similar myself around other ashes
a boy, a gay guy, she said came walking
before them on the same beach later,
earlier, I can’t remember
what do you mean gay, how did you
know that, I defensively countered
he was walking between two elderly
ladies, she answered without a beat
as though I hadn’t interrupted, holding
a tea service, complete with silverware,
china and napkins
I was glad I’d asked, I thought her
conclusion incontrovertible
her husband thought they’d entered
Alice’s wondrous rabbit hole, I thought
he couldn’t’ve been far off
they asked
the two ladies were his aunts, he replied,
come over from England to commemorate
their sister, his mom
this wasn’t at all a rabbit hole, I thought,
this wasn’t at all a rabbit hole, I thought,
but somewhere immeasurably finer, holier,
transcendent, they would be offering her
remains piecemeal to the rose garden,
there by the water in the sunlight on the
lawn, shaping sweetly their own ideas of
what lay beyond
I’d heard utterly, of course, and ineluctably
there a poem
my friend replenished our wine
we recalled our own departed spirits
Richard
October 4, 2013
“our best conversations are in our sleep” – the great power
on intimacy
i was having a dream he said
you and i were walking in a city where we had never been
it’s still there somewhere
i’m going back to find it
then he pulled my whole body closer
as much of my skin as his could touch
and slipped away
Richard
October 4, 2013
blog alert: “Wild & Precious Life”
wherein “Wild & Precious Life” describes herself
“My love for poetry is simple but at the same time, hard to
explain. I was drawn to it from an early age however, with
questionable motives. In my young eyes, the appreciation
of poetry personified sophistication, poise and intelligence.
And so I became that nine year old reciting lines from Dylan
Thomas poems even though I had yet to live enough life to
truly understand the deeper themes. But I continued my
poetry admiration, convinced that I looked wise beyond
my years. Believe me, the irony of it is not lost on me now……
And then those life experiences that one needs to truly
understand poetry came knocking, and at times pounding
on my door. Some were welcomed but many were not, but
with them came my true love of poetry.
I now read poetry for a simple and unequivocal reason – it
makes me feel connected to something tangible but at the
same time larger than myself. When I am sad, overwhelmed,
lost, lovelorn, confused, I turn to it. I’ll read a beautiful
composition of words and suddenly realize that I am not
the first or last person to feel such things and that calms me,
gives me hope and makes me feel gratitude.
That having been said, this website is a simple collection of
beautiful words. They are poems, quotes, lyrics and excerpts
that have resonated with me. They are words that have made
me smile, laugh, cry and sometimes simply take pause. I hope
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? “
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? “
___________________
what I needed to reply
coming from a small town in the middle of
nowhere, I aspired even then to discover
what the rest of the world was thinking,
admired, why had literary giants become
legends, even archetypes, what were the
parameters
poetry ever however seemed especially
poetry ever however seemed especially
person before the unfolding world
abstract art too was pretty questionable,
though I persisted, diligently probing
afield for convincing, manifest, arguments,
the world couldn’t be so wrong
until here and there a bud would blossom,
I now read poetry just to find out what
other hearts are thinking
some say quite wonderful things
ever the best
Richard
some say quite wonderful things
ever the best
Richard
psst: I’ve subscribed, by the way, to your
“Wild and Precious“ adventure
many thanks
Richard
October 1, 2013
this is a love poem
from the lip of Diamond Head we’d be able
to see right down to Jevon’s pier, Greg said,
in a moment that seemed to him inspired
when he grasped it right out of the corner
of the room right in front of me, as I sat
there on the bed pondering options
a trip around Oahu, our first and only other
choice, would’ve been expensive, even
to see right down to Jevon’s pier, Greg said,
in a moment that seemed to him inspired
when he grasped it right out of the corner
of the room right in front of me, as I sat
there on the bed pondering options
a trip around Oahu, our first and only other
choice, would’ve been expensive, even
excessive, and I’d already been around the
island before, which rendered moot the idea
that he’d offered with great gallantry, that for
me it would be a novelty, something I’d never
done, to add texture to our mission
instead of Rome at the last minute that trip
had seemed too impracticable, presenting
too many daunting obstacles
I’d asked for an alternative, and right there,
again like an inspiration, he said Hawaii,
this time across from me on my sofa
Hawaii had seemed completely improbable
to me, and somewhat disrespectful at first,
but then Greg spoke of Jevon’s pier, Jevon,
his nephew, had died ten years earlier,
tragically, and way too young, and his
parents had scattered his ashes there,
a place Jevon loved, and to which his
folks returned every fall to winter
the death of Jevon had been Greg’s first
experience of death, its impact had not
receded, like love the experience of
death is indelible, and, of course,
transformative
Jevon’s mother had demurred at the
idea of superimposing even her own
parents’ ashes, when Greg inquired,
needing a form of absolution for what
he would have be a solemn act, over
the place where she’d thrust to heaven
her only son’s
her husband seems to have borne the
burden much more stoically, eschewing,
apparently, the need for metaphor
and rituals
to Greg and I, the would-be pilgrims, her
wishes, their wishes, would be paramount
and any consecration cannot be blurred
by imprecision, or slight
the first day we went to Jevon’s pier, at the
far end of Waikiki, beneath Diamond Head,
where the beach front becomes more
residential, Greg found the very spot where
to Greg and I, the would-be pilgrims, her
wishes, their wishes, would be paramount
and any consecration cannot be blurred
by imprecision, or slight
the first day we went to Jevon’s pier, at the
far end of Waikiki, beneath Diamond Head,
where the beach front becomes more
residential, Greg found the very spot where
he’d sat, cried, remembered with his sister
and the two of us facing east dipped our
feet in the ocean that spread to the distant
blue horizon, and beyond there to what we
could no longer imagine
but we imagined nevertheless, and believed,
but we imagined nevertheless, and believed,
that Jevon was there
Greg had brought a couple of white
symbolic feathers, one for each of us,
to cast upon the waves in commemoration,
we read poems, we watched the feathers
drift to where we could no longer spot
them, the froth of lazy waves lapped at
Greg had brought a couple of white
symbolic feathers, one for each of us,
to cast upon the waves in commemoration,
we read poems, we watched the feathers
drift to where we could no longer spot
them, the froth of lazy waves lapped at
our toes like kisses, I thought, from, of
course, God
Diamond Head might seem ovious now,
but there it wasn’t, though the elements
might’ve seemed to be all crying out for
it
Greg heard
I thought the idea resplendent
from Diamond Head these ashes, his
grandparents’, would look upon Jevon’s
pier, like elders forever watching over
their child, Jevon would play, swim,
cavort, under their watchful gaze
forever and ever
Diamond Head is apparently the remains
of an extinct volcano that created the
island of at least Oahu, other volcanos, I
suppose, created the several surrounding
others, the mouth of the crater is now a
tourist attraction, the front lip, the one
facing Honolulu and its beach, Waikiki,
is the highest part of the mountain, we
would be climbing there, reaching the
base by bus, then walking all the way
back
I am not wont to climb mountains, though
Greg averred that when he lived there he’d
climbed it several times, though we were
both much younger then
he sprang up the rocks like a billy goat, I
puffed, paused a lot, and panted, but would
not have not continued the trek though my
life depended on it, there are some things I
will not not
some showers softened our journey up,
like kisses again, I thought, a respite from
the teeming sun, and here and there a
playful and welcome and soothing breeze
the tip was astounding, with a view of the
entire island, and the entire blue Pacific
lying before us
any place of consecration must be sacred,
unhurried, private if not unpeopled, and
reasonably quiet, though thunder and
lightning, natural occurrences, don’t
count
there’d been showers, nothing at all
threatening, and Greg had needed time
to unseal both urns, small decorative
pots that had sat patient on his mantel,
lit by candlelight, until this journey
I’d staked out a position at the very
edge of the mountain, a railing kept
us from straying dangerously too far
I poured his mother’s ashes into his
cupped hands when he asked, held
on to the warm still, though empty
now, urn, he closed his hands upon
this dust with the trust that this was
indeed his mother
noises about, people too close for
undisturbed comfort, held his palms
shut, savouring, I thought, opportunely,
her remaining parts, but discreetly, for
it had to be done, letting drift some of
their powder through fingers that
sensed surely their embedded
memories
then all was gone
he’d had to smash his father’s urn to
get it open, it cracked into two parts
like a broken egg, some ash had fallen
to the ground, he dusted it up, picked
some up that could be returned to the
broken vessel
I thought, it is all dust, it will all go
nevertheless to the earth
I held the broken bits while Greg prepared
his father’s ashes
but I couldn’t any longer properly see, the
shower had become no longer kisses but
drops that confounded my glasses, a mist
clouding further what I could see, God was
speaking to Moses on the mountain
Greg cast his fist in the direction of the gust,
opened his palm, and let the rush of charged
particles furl into a darker knot, like swallows
during murmuration, then dispel like a vision
into the indiscriminate other
later he cast the urns to a similar fate, and
a little plaster angel with a picture of his
mom on the back, the date, and probably
something endearing
as we scuttled down the mountain jauntily,
cleansed, a mission faithfully and reverently
accomplished, the sun returned
on the way back I even looked for shade
Richard
psst: you might’ve wondered, how was I there,
I am a friend, he’d asked
September 28, 2013
Sonnet 128 – William Shakespeare
How oft when thou, my music, music play’st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,
At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless’d than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
William Shakespeare
it would not be incorrect to suppose that the
“wood” of which Shakespeare speaks here
is his own and not that of the instrument,
you’ll probably even enjoy the poem more
that way, which is to say for its saucy, not
to mention, unexpected and, ahem,
protracted allegory
you might also note the equally raffish
use of the word “jacks”
enjoy
Richard
Richibi's Weblog 