The Night Writer
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/
Illuminating fun, faith, family and foolishness.en-us2009-01-12T16:01+00:00Ozymandias Shrugged
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1231776749.shtml
...The Night Writer2009-01-12T16:01+00:00
Back when Dennis Miller was one of the undefined on Monday Night Football, ABC found it necessary after games to post explanations of the eclectic comedian's erudite references on the MNF website. I was reminded of this after yesterday's Day by Day cartoon featured a lonely statue of Al Gore in a snowy wasteland, with the words etched on the pedestal mostly obscured by snow drifts. Nevertheless, the words that were visible may have rang a bell in a seldom-used hallway of my mind. Ah, yes ... Shelley's "Ozymandius", the sonnet dedicated to the hubris of Man, though Ozymandius's statue was located in a desert waste instead of a snowy one. Oh well, with a high temperature forecast for tomorrow of -2F here in Minnesota, the comic gave me a warm feeling.
Here's the unobscured text of "Ozymandius":
Ozymandias
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my works. Ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
]]>Reasons for blogging
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1231364261.shtml
...The Night Writer2009-01-07T21:01+00:00
I think the poem below pretty well sums up why I write — blogging or otherwise. From The Writer's Alamanc today:
VII
I would not have been a poet
except that I have been in love
alive in this mortal world,
or an essayist except that I
have been bewildered and afraid,
or a storyteller had I not heard
stories passing to me through the air,
or a writer at all except
I have been wakeful at night
and words have come to me
out of their deep caves
needing to be remembered.
But on the days I am lucky
or blessed, I am silent.
I go into the one body
that two make in making marriage
that for all our trying, all
our deaf-and-dumb of speech,
has no tongue. Or I give myself
to gravity, light, and air
and am carried back
to solitary work in fields
and woods, where my hands
rest upon a world unnamed,
complete, unanswerable, and final
as our daily bread and meat.
The way of love leads all ways
to life beyond words, silent
and secret. To serve that triumph
I have done all the rest.
]]>What he said
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1226332200.shtml
Stop for just a moment, or 3 ...The Night Writer2008-11-10T17:11+00:00
3 by John Berryman
Sole watchman of the flying stars, guard me
against my flicker of impulse lust: teach me
to see them as sisters & daughters. Sustain
my grand endeavours: husbandship & crafting.
Forsake me not when my wild hours come;
grant me sleep nightly, grace soften my dreams;
achieve in me patience till the thing be done,
a careful view of my achievement come.
Make me from time to time the gift of the shoulder.
When all hurt nerves whine shut away the whiskey.
Empty my heart toward Thee.
Let me pace without fear the common path of death.
Cross am I sometimes with my little daughter:
fill her eyes with tears. Forgive me, Lord.
Unite my various soul,
sole watchman of the wide & single stars.
]]>Of condolences and "coincidences"
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1194145990.shtml
Many, many thanks for the comments, links and emails from so many of you expressing condolences, prayers and sympathy for the death of my father. It's hard to express how comforting...The Night Writer2007-11-04T03:11+00:00
Here's something kind of interesting: the Diana Der Hovanessian poem, "Shifting the Sun," that I posted last Tuesday (Lord, has it been that long already?) is a poem that I heard for the very first time in January of 1997. I was listening to MPR and Garrison Keillor's "The Writer's Almanac" as my family and I packed our bags, having just received word that my grandfather had died. I was stunned by the appropriateness of that poem on that day, and made a mental note to track down a copy of it when we returned home. Obviously I was successful, and we eventually placed a copy of the poem in the memory book that went out to family members after my grandfather's funeral.
My father passed away Monday night, October 29, barely four months after being diagnosed with lymphoma. On Tuesday morning, October 30, The Writer's Almanac featured this poem:
As Death Approaches
I can't believe I'm laughing!
I'd have sworn I'd be
shaking or sniveling.
And I sure didn't expect
a limousine.
I've never been in a limousine.
No biggy.
I've had better than fame.
Who needs the pressure?
As for fortune, I'm filthy.
That's why I'm laughing.
I've had so much love:
the giving, the getting.
It's shameful.
It's embarrassing.
And it's too late.
No one can take it away!
And I've had the pain
to help me appreciate it.
Thank God for the pain!
Easy for me to say
now that I'm going!
But no, seriously,
the kicks in the teeth,
the gut, the rugs
pulled out, slammed doors,
setbacks, snubs.
Without them, I'd
never have recognized
Love, bedraggled,
plain eyes shining,
happy to see me.
Do I want more?
Of course I want more!
I always want more
of everything: money, hugs,
lovemaking, art, butter,
woods, flowers, the sea,
M&Ms, chips, tops, bottoms,
trips — I did give up drinking —
time, sure, and yes,
I'd like to see
my grandchildren,
if there are any.
I'd like to see my books
but more has never
been good for me anyway.
Enough — that's what I've
always needed to learn,
and is there a better way?
So this laughter
I had to work up to
through so many tears,
it just keeps coming
like a fountain, a spray.
Let it light on you
refreshment, benediction,
as I'm driven away.
There's so much in there that sums up what my dad would have said or felt, and for it to appear the morning after he died...and the perfect poem after my grandfather's death...coincidence? Oh, but of course.
I can't say I agree much with Keillor's politics, but I like his stories and I enjoy the daily Almanac's. Somehow, however, I see the hand of a higher author and finisher.
]]>Shifting the son
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1193749038.shtml
...The Night Writer2007-10-30T12:10+00:00 Shifting the Sun
When your father dies, say the Irish,
you lose your umbrella against bad weather.
May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.
When your father dies, say the Welsh,
you sink a foot deeper into the earth.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.
When your father dies, say the Canadians,
you run out of excuses. May you inherit
his sun, say the Armenians.
When your father dies, say the French,
you become your own father.
May you stand up in his light, say the Armenians.
When your father dies, say the Indians,
he comes back as the thunder.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.
When your father dies, say the Russians,
he takes your childhood with him.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.
When your father dies, say the English,
you join his club you vowed you wouldn’t.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.
When your father dies, say the Armenians,
your sun shifts forever,
and you walk in his light.
by Diana Der Hovanessian,
from the book “Selected Shorts”
published by Sheep Meadow Press.
When the deer has bedded down
And the bear has gone to ground,
And the northern goose has wandered off
To warmer bay and sound,
It's so easy in the cold to feel
The darkness of the year
And the heart is growing lonely
For the morning
Oh, my Joanie, don't you know
That the stars are swinging slow,
And the seas are rolling easy
As they did so long ago?
If I had a thing to give you,
I would tell you one more time
That the world is always turning
Toward the morning.
Now October's growing thin
And November's coming home;
You'll be thinking of the season
And the sad things that you've seen,
And you hear that old wind walking,
Hear him singing high and thin,
You could swear he's out there singing
Of your sorrow.
When the darkness falls around you
And the Northwind comes to blow,
And you hear him call your name out
As he walks the brittle snow:
That old wind don't mean you trouble,
He don't care or even know,
He's just walking down the darkness
Toward the morning.
It's a pity we don't know
What the little flowers know.
They can't face the cold November
They can't take the wind and snow:
They put their glories all behind them,
Bow their heads and let it go,
But you know they'll be there shining
In the morning.
Now, my Joanie, don't you know
That the days are rolling slow,
And the winter's walking easy,
As he did so long ago?
And, if that wind would come and ask you,
"Why's my Joanie weeping so?"
Wont you tell him that you're weeping
For the morning?
Now October's growing thin and November's coming home. I'm thinking of the season and the sad things that I've seen.
In the morning I'll be turning south, toward what was my father's house... ]]>What you realize
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1193340420.shtml
...The Night Writer2007-10-25T19:10+00:00
What You Realize When Cancer Comes
You will not live forever—No
you will not, for a ceiling of clouds
hovers in the sky.
You are not as brave
as you once thought.
Sounds of death
echo in your chest.
You feel the bite of pain,
the taste of it running
through you.
Following the telling to friends
comes a silence of
felt goodbyes. You come to know
the welling of tears.
Your children are stronger
than you thought and
closer to your skin.
The beauty of animals
birds on telephone lines,
dogs who look into your eyes,
all bring you peace.
You want no more confusion
than what already rises
in your head and heart.
You watch television less,
will never read all those books,
much less the ones
you have.
Songs can move you now, so that
you want to hold onto the words
like the hands of children.
Your own hands look good to you.
old and familiar
as water.
You read your lover's skin
like a road map
into yourself.
All touch is precious now.
There are echoes
in the words thrown
before you.
When they take your picture now
you wet your lips, swallow once
and truly smile.
Talk of your lost parents
pulls you out, and
brings you home again.
You are in a river
flowing in and through you.
Take a breath. Reach out your arms.
You can survive.
A river is flowing
flowing in and through you.
Take a breath. Reach out your arms.
]]>Six years
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1189523251.shtml
...The Night Writer2007-09-11T15:09+00:00 For the Falling Man by Annie Farnsworth
I see you again and again
tumbling out of the sky,
in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.
At first I thought you were debris
from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall
or fuselage but then I realized
that people were leaping.
I know who you are, I know
there's more to you than just this image
on the news, this ragdoll plummeting—
I know you were someone's lover, husband,
daddy. Last night you read stories
to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep
next to your wife. Perhaps there was small
sleepy talk of the future. Then,
before your morning coffee had cooled
you'd come to this; a choice between fire
or falling.
How feeble these words, billowing
in this aftermath, how ineffectual
this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly
it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths
—but we can't help ourselves—how I wish
we could trade them for something
that could really have caught you.
He's not eating which, given his normal appetite, is either a sign of the apocalypse or of ill health. He's not taken a morsel for two days, even when enticed with succulent dandelion stems, the crispiest greenbeans or even his favorite treat — a Tic-Tac (the sound of a shaken plastic dispenser half-full of mints usually brings him storming eagerly to the bars of his cage). I suppose if eating your own excrement was a regular part of your diet you might look forward to a Tic-Tac or two as well.
Don't misunderstand — this has been a well-fed piggy-wiggy. He recently finished chewing his way through an entire bale of Timothy Hay, and the Reverend Mother has always prepared him a lovely breakfast salad of fresh greens and cucumber, meanwhile our yard has never wanted for dandelions, which I think he liked because the little fuzzy seeds tickled his nose.
He's at least seven years old, which we've learned is a ripe old age for a guinea pig. We've had him for four years or so, and rescued him from a home with heavy smokers. The white parts of his fur were yellow when we got him and it took a couple of shampoos to restore his natural tones. He was especially lethargic this morning, which the Reverend Mother noticed and reported to the girls, along with the warning to prepare themselves. The Mall Diva and Tiger Lilly were distraught, and took turns sitting with him in their laps for over an hour this morning, working their way through a box of Kleenex in much the same way he used to work his way through a bag of baby carrots.
He's always been a paranoid guinea pig, convinced that everything wanted to eat him, dashing into his plastic pigloo at the slightest disturbance and acting as if a warm bath was in reality some kind of sinister marinade. This may have been hard-wired into his genes. My sister-in-law, who is from Ecuador, was bemused to find we had a guinea pig for a pet. She said her grandmother, who raised guinea pigs, would have thought we were as strange as someone who kept, say, a rooster for a pet. That's because her grandmother raised GPs for food, not companionship.
This morning, however, our pig seemed resigned and rested quietly with the girls, making an occasional grunt of contentment as they stroked his fur. They eventually had to put him back in his cage as they prepared for their expedition today, and I've been monitoring him since then; this is more of a hospice, not a hospital — I'll be sure he's as comfortable as can be, but there'll be no heroic life-preserving interventions.
Then again, he might just pull out of it, declare that he's feeling better and that he thinks he'll go for a walk. If he should, however, expire today it will be an odd Memorial Day coincidence to go along with our last cat dying on Valentine's Day earlier this year.
I'll leave it to the Diva or Tiger Lilly to provide updates, if they're able. No one likes to see his children cry, and I feel sadder for them than for Piggy-Wiggy, who - face it - has had a good run. Right now I'm reminded of a poem I came across and saved a couple of years ago right about the time our hamster took his last spin around the exercise wheel.
Our beloved Piggy-wiggy died last night after a few seizures. I miss him so much right now. I feel really bad that he had to die alone in the dark. He was my baby, and if love could have saved him, he would have lived forever. Same goes for the cat.
TL.]]>For Mother's Day
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1178806838.shtml
...The Night Writer2007-05-10T14:05+00:00 Closest to the Heart
When the dust had settled,
He took it in His mighty hand,
and squeezed it close together,
and then breathed life into a man.
He saw that one was not enough,
that man alone was just a part,
so God fashioned woman from a rib,
closest to the heart.
That’s why she knows the rhythm,
of the Spirit’s inner work;
her ears hear its direction,
and to its voice she is alert.
Some call it intution,
when she perceives what God imparts,
but she’s only taken her position,
closest to His heart.
And now each life beginning,
grows from a tiny seed within,
nurtured by her body,
and all the hope that’s placed therein.
For God chose her to be the one,
to give this gift its start,
and to hold it safe against her breast,
closest to the heart.
With Godly counsel and support,
she helps her mate contend,
for by himself he’d be just one,
but she adds the strength of ten.
He’ll love her as he loves himself,
(at least he will if he is smart),
and exalt her second only unto God,
and closest to the heart.
And when her days are golden,
and she’s given all that she’s possessed,
many are the ones,
who’ll rise up and call her blessed.
And when she passes through that gate,
into the place that’s just like home,
they’ll clear a path before her,
and she’ll kneel before His throne.
“Arise my precious daughter,
for I’ve loved you from the start;
come now to the place I’ve made for you,
closest to my heart.”