Thursday, August 09, 2007
Herman Melville Wrote....
......in his poem THE HOUSE-TOP : A NIGHT PIECE (subtitled July, 1863 - The Draft Riots):
No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air
And binds the brain - a dense oppression, such
As tawny tigers feel in matted shades,
Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage.
That's how it's been here in the NYC for the past few days: heat and humidity enough to make us all "apt for ravage"...tv news stories report of peoples' lack of civility to each other....women, exhausted from the grey drudge of their work-a-day city lives, calling each other "fat cows' and "bitches " , on the subway...a place of pure hell, for sure....etc....charming....another reason to love this place....the Big Apple rots easily in weather such as we have been having. I do not fare well in it....but i have have decided, rather than tell you of the myriad ways i have been experiencing the dis-ease of my existence...I have decided to share with you a poem I wrote some years ago, called Anger In The Garden:
Worms and loam:
One turns the other over,
Til both are bright and glistening
With moist life and odorous promise.
We tend to judge these things,
These lifeforms, this mud,
Somehow lower,
Somehow slimier than
Our noble, upright selves,
We think that decay and odor
Are things to avoid
For ever
And ever.
Cellophane and zip-lock bags
Air-tight containers
And snap-top bowls:
These are a few of our favorite things.
But all things worth the nourishment
Are worth the decay.
Come to my heat,
You beautiful. slithery eels of memory:
Let me grow fat on you.
Bring the sea into my gardens.
I will add my salt to your water
And buds will open,
I promise.
The more I meditate, the deeper I go into the illusions of ego and past escapades so centered around my own, the more I've been getting piles and piles of poems out of their hiding places, where I've stowed them for at least a decade....there are so many. Words have always seemed so important to me. Language. This is such a strange time.
No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air
And binds the brain - a dense oppression, such
As tawny tigers feel in matted shades,
Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage.
That's how it's been here in the NYC for the past few days: heat and humidity enough to make us all "apt for ravage"...tv news stories report of peoples' lack of civility to each other....women, exhausted from the grey drudge of their work-a-day city lives, calling each other "fat cows' and "bitches " , on the subway...a place of pure hell, for sure....etc....charming....another reason to love this place....the Big Apple rots easily in weather such as we have been having. I do not fare well in it....but i have have decided, rather than tell you of the myriad ways i have been experiencing the dis-ease of my existence...I have decided to share with you a poem I wrote some years ago, called Anger In The Garden:
Worms and loam:
One turns the other over,
Til both are bright and glistening
With moist life and odorous promise.
We tend to judge these things,
These lifeforms, this mud,
Somehow lower,
Somehow slimier than
Our noble, upright selves,
We think that decay and odor
Are things to avoid
For ever
And ever.
Cellophane and zip-lock bags
Air-tight containers
And snap-top bowls:
These are a few of our favorite things.
But all things worth the nourishment
Are worth the decay.
Come to my heat,
You beautiful. slithery eels of memory:
Let me grow fat on you.
Bring the sea into my gardens.
I will add my salt to your water
And buds will open,
I promise.
The more I meditate, the deeper I go into the illusions of ego and past escapades so centered around my own, the more I've been getting piles and piles of poems out of their hiding places, where I've stowed them for at least a decade....there are so many. Words have always seemed so important to me. Language. This is such a strange time.
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