Water, earth, air, fire

I first met Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz (“Sor” means “sister”, as in a religious sister) in a high school Spanish class. (Along with Maimónides, Carlos V and some others, but those would be another post.) Born near Mexico City in 1651, she was the illegitimate daughter of a Spaniard and a mestizo, a polymath who learned to read and write at age three, and who was teaching Latin to other children by age 13. She asked her mother’s permission to disguise herself as a boy so she could go to university, but was unsuccessful. Nonetheless, by age 17 she impressed a convocation of theologians, philosophers, poets and jurists with her intellectual capabilities.

In 1667 she entered a convent of Discalced Carmelites (a very strict order); two years later she joined the monastery of the Hieronymite nuns largely because it allowed her to pursue her studies. Sor Juana’s writings got her into trouble with the male establishment of the Church and the state. The Bishop of Puebla famously told her to shut up and make sandwiches (more or less), and she replied that “one can perfectly well philosophize while cooking supper.”

Well, she wasn’t going to win that one, and she was eventually forced into silence, selling all her considerable library and collection of scientific instruments and retreating into prayer. She died during a plague in 1694, but we are the better off for her body of work that she did leave us.

Here’s one of her less incendiary poems, translated by Alan S. Trueblood.

“Written for the Nativity of Our Lord, Puebla, 1689”

  Since Love is shivering
in the ice and cold,
since hoarfrost and snow
have ringed him round,
who will come to his aid?
 Water!
  Earth!
   Air!
No, Fire will!
 Since the Child is assailed
by pains and ills
and has no breath left
to face his woes,
who will come to his aid?
 Fire!
  Earth!
   Water!
No, but Air will!
 Since the loving Child
is burning hot,
that be breathes a volcanic
deluge of flame,
who will come to his aid?
 Air!
  Fire!
   Earth!
No, Water will!
  Since today the Child
leaves heaven for earth
and finds nowhere to rest
his head in this world,
who will come to his aid?
 Water!
  Fire!
   Air!
No, but Earth will!

Don't worry your soul

In a week of devastating reports out of Ukraine of Russian atrocities and continued douchebaggery out of US Republicans, we have had one bright spark of hope. Yesterday Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson was confirmed by the Senate to become an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court. She will take her seat on the bench following Stephen Breyer’s retirement in July.

In addition to being objectively the best qualified nominee in living memory, Brown Jackson becomes the first African American woman to join the court.

I freely admit that as I watched the smile on Vice President Kamala Harris’ face as she presided over the vote, my eyes watered. I haven’t felt like that since Barack Obama’s inauguration (among a crowd that dwarfed anything the Kleptocrat has seen in his political career).

And let me remind you: this confirmation 53-47 was brought to you by the senate run-off in Georgia. And every vote counts, so get the hell out there and perform your civic right and duty.

Oh, right—it’s National Poetry Month, isn’t it? And Friday. So let’s have a little something from the gospel tradition; something uplifting and joyful. Like Hezekiah Walker, pastor of Brooklyn’s Love Fellowship Tabernacle. What I like about Walker’s videos is his lining out of the lyrics, a Protestant practice going back to the 17^th Century, when books were expensive and literacy low. A leader chants each line of text for the congregation to sing. I first encountered the practice in To Kill a Mockingbird, where Jem and Scout go with their housekeeper Calpurnia to her Black church.

Right about now, we all need to be “Better”, so here’s Walker and his choir showing us how. Crank up the volume. And maybe dance a little.

 

In the family of things

Okay, Imma just say it out loud: I am so lazy that I bought a second yoga strap so I don’t have to go downstairs every morning to practice the standing Vishnu’s couch pose.

I mean—I love yoga; it’s been one of the things that’s got me through the pandemic thus far (what—you think it’s done with us?); I always feel better after my Friday afternoon lesson. But I’m lazy. (I don’t know how “lazy” is compatible with the practice, but here I am.)

The intentionality of yoga is a bit of a challenge, I admit. It’s counterintuitive for me to stand still for any amount of time. This is particularly clear to me when I’m doing an actual standing pose—the ones on the mat grab my full attention. But every morning while standing in the tree pose for 30-45 seconds, I feel like I should be using the time more productively—like also brushing my teeth or filing my nails or something. Pretty sure that’s not the point of that pose, tho.

Well, anyhow, today’s entry for National Poetry Month is from Mary Oliver, a yoga practitioner herself. It’s something appropriate for savasana—final relaxation, when you’re moving back from the yoga time to real-world time, but refreshed and invigorated and ready to start anew.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Some flaming, fatal climax

I confess that—even as a military historian—I am finding some of the images and video coming out of Ukraine difficult to process. My specialty is New Military History, meaning I focus on the human environment and costs of war. And what we are all seeing is a monumentally high cost.

Poets have talked about that cost for millennia. In general, poets have been known to talk up war; soldier-poets not so much. At least not after they’ve been blooded. The challenge has always been how to communicate the truth to the folks away from the front without driving everyone insane. Or be accused of LMF (lack of moral fiber).

The poets of World War I took a major step forward, and Siegfried Sassoon was one of the best known of them. In “Dreamers” he captures some of the disconnect, as well as some of the constants.

But of course, we never learn, do we?

“Dreamers”

Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,
Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.   
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.   
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win   
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives.

I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,   
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain   
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train.

 

 

 

Always something to be thankful for

Given the current state of the world, I believe humans could benefit from all the good advice they can get, regardless of the source.

In fact, the farther away we get from humanity, the more willing I am to consider the suggestions these days.

So, let us consult archy, the cockroach transcribed by American poet Don Marquis. I mostly know his paeans to mehitabel, the alley cat he loves. (If he were writing today, some Republican senators would have a few words about cross-species relationships.) But here are some maxims for living your best life.

You will recall that archy cannot make use of capitalization or punctuation marks because he writes by hopping on typewriter keys one at a time. This is devotion to one’s art. (I confess that I don’t know how he managed the carriage returns.)

I suppose the hair restorer-depilatory bit will fall upon deaf ears in the ivermectin crowd. But they probably aren’t great appreciators of poetry anyway.

The public servant problem that existed in 1927 is clearly still with us.

Sadly, he is clearly right WRT bee vs human civilizations.

certain maxims of archy

live so that you
can stick out your tongue
at the insurance
doctor

if you will drink
hair restorer follow
every dram with some
good standard
depilatory
as a chaser

the servant problem
wouldn t hurt the u s a
if it could settle
the public
servant problem

just as soon as the
uplifters get
a country reformed it
slips into a nose dive

if you get gloomy just
take an hour off and sit
and think how
much better this world
is than hell
of course it won t cheer
you up much if
you expect to go there

if monkey glands
did restore your youth
what would you do
with it
question mark
just what you did before
interrogation point

yes i thought so
exclamation point

procrastination is the
art of keeping
up with yesterday

old doc einstein has
abolished time but they
haven t got the news at
sing sing yet

time time said old king tut
is something i ain t
got anything but

every cloud
has its silver
lining but it is
sometimes a little
difficult to get it to
the mint

an optimist is a guy
that has never had
much experience

don t cuss the climate
it probably doesn t like you
any better
than you like it

many a man spanks his
children for
things his own
father should have
spanked out of him

prohibition makes you
want to cry
into your beer and
denies you the beer
to cry into

the old fashioned
grandmother who used
to wear steel rimmed
glasses and make
everybody take opodeldoc
has now got a new
set of ox glands and
is dancing the black bottom

that stern and
rockbound coast felt
like an amateur
when it saw how grim
the puritans that
landed on it were

lots of people can make
their own whisky but
can t drink it

the honey bee is sad and cross
and wicked as a weasel
and when she perches on you boss
she leaves a little measle

i heard a
couple of fleas
talking the other
day says one come
to lunch with
me i can lead you
to a pedigreed
dog says the
other one
i do not care
what a dog s
pedigree may be
safety first
is my motto what
i want to know
is whether he
has got a
muzzle on
millionaires and
bums taste
about alike to me

insects have
their own point
of view about
civilization a man
thinks he amounts
to a great deal
but to a
flea or a
mosquito a
human being is
merely something
good to eat

boss the other day
i heard an
ant conversing
with a flea
small talk i said
disgustedly
and went away
from there

i do not see why men
should be so proud
insects have the more
ancient lineage
according to the scientists
insects were insects
when man was only
a burbling whatisit

insects are not always
going to be bullied
by humanity
some day they will revolt
i am already organizing
a revolutionary society to be
known as the worms turnverein

i once heard the survivors
of a colony of ants
that had been partially
obliterated by a cow s foot
seriously debating
the intention of the gods
towards their civilization

the bees got their
governmental system settled
millions of years ago
but the human race is still
groping

there is always
something to be thankful
for you would not
think that a cockroach
had much ground
for optimism
but as the fishing season
opens up i grow
more and more
cheerful at the thought
that nobody ever got
the notion of using
cockroaches for bait

archy

 

Gratitude Monday: Sprightly dance

I don’t even know how many times I’ve expressed my gratitude for daffodils. I do not know how you can see them and be crabby at the same time. They always make me smile, and Lord knows, I need all the smiles I can get these days.

I’ll share some more pix of them, if you’re in need of a bit of a brightener.

 I confess that I’m not a major fan of the English Romantic poets. But since I do love daffodils, today’s entry for National Poetry Month is from William Wordsworth.

"Daffodils"

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

 

 

A strange people

You can pretty much bank on the fact that for National Poetry Month this year I’ll be exploring Ukrainian poets, so let’s get this show on the road.

Today’s entry is from Serhiy Zhadan, a writer (novelist playwright and poet) who was born in Luhansk Oblast in 1974, when the country was still part of the Soviet Union. His academic work was focused on the Ukrainian Futurist movement, and his early poems reflected their style. Last month the Polish Academy of Sciences nominated him for the Nobel Prize in Literature.

This poem is from a 2019 collection, so not about this particular Ukrainian-Russian conflict. But of course he has plenty of those to choose among. And, since he lives in Kharkiv and is currently there organizing humanitarian aid in the face of Russian attacks, this could well be applicable.

A bridge used to be there, someone recalled,
before the war:
an old pedestrian bridge.
The patrol passes every five hours.

Evening will be dry and pleasant.
Two older guys, and a young one.
He read twilight like a book,
rejoice, he repeated to himself, be joyful:
you’ll still sleep
in your bed today.

Today you’ll still wake up in a room
listening carefully to your body.
Today you’ll still be looking at the steel mill
standing idle all summer.

Home that is always with you like a sin.
Parents that will never grow older.
Today you’ll still see one of your people,
whomever you call your people.

He recalled the city he’d escaped from,
the scorched terrain he searched by hand.
He recalled a weeping man
saved by the squad.

Life will be quiet, not terrifying.
He should have returned a while ago.
What could happen to him, exactly?
What could happen?

The patrol will let him through,
and god will forgive.
God’s got other things to do.

They all were killed at once—both older guys,
and the young one.
Silence between the riverbanks.
You won’t explain anything to anyone.

The bomb landed right between them—
on that riverbank
closer to home.

The moon appeared between clouds,
listened to the melody of insects.
A quiet, sleepy medic
loaded the bodies into a military truck.

He quarreled with his stick shift.
Sought the leftover poison in a first-aid kit.
And an English-speaking observer
expertly looked at the corpses.

Even tan.
Nervous mouth.
He closed the eyes of the young one.
He thought to himself: a strange people,
the locals.