The Going

In a quiet time long ago and now
a river runs past where I stand looking
at the play of light upon the flow
and draws me to itself
and I am gone
until the chill
of the evening hour shakes me loose
and I remember where I am
and where I long to be. Someone
is waiting beside a fire.

O I am older now
and what once was home
is now the sea.
Long ago someone
held me in her arms.
It’s there I go.

PoetyMatters I July 25, 2020

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As you once were

Set out beneath the stars
on a solitary raft
that drifts along the shore
on a current
that will bring you
out to sea and sky
beyond all imagining

as you once were
as you will be again.

Gaius Valerius

A previous engagement has kept me occupied for seventy-four years

and so I missed a chance to dine with Gaius Valerius.

His invitation read simply: Mortui mortuis solum loquuntur.

There was no mention of time or place. I thought it strange.

Whitman: Poem on the Proposition of Nakedness

Walt Whitman is known as a poet of praise, yet in“Poem on the Proposition of Nakedness” (aka “Respondez”) Whitman speaks with sustained anger as if he has been betrayed by a lover or by his own illusions. It is a reckless poem, an eruption, the irony so impassioned and imperative that we are compelled to answer, “No, No, No, it cannot be. We must not allow it to be who we are.” That the poem speaks directly to our own times is what disturbs me most. Whitman himself seemed to have been aware of the poem’s unseemliness, of its searing force, and excluded it from editions of Leaves of Grass published after 1876.

Poem on the Proposition of Nakedness

By Walt Whitman

RESPONDEZ! Respondez!
(The war is completed—the price is paid—the title is settled beyond recall;)
Let every one answer! let those who sleep be waked! let none evade!
Must we still go on with our affectations and sneaking?
Let me bring this to a close—I pronounce openly for a new distribution of roles;	5
Let that which stood in front go behind! and let that which was behind advance to the front and speak;
Let murderers, bigots, fools, unclean persons, offer new propositions!
Let the old propositions be postponed!
Let faces and theories be turn’d inside out! let meanings be freely criminal, as well as results!
Let there be no suggestion above the suggestion of drudgery!	10
Let none be pointed toward his destination! (Say! do you know your destination?)
Let men and women be mock’d with bodies and mock’d with Souls!
Let the love that waits in them, wait! let it die, or pass stillborn to other spheres!
Let the sympathy that waits in every man, wait! or let it also pass, a dwarf, to other spheres!
Let contradictions prevail! let one thing contradict another! and let one line of my poems contradict another!	15
Let the people sprawl with yearning, aimless hands! let their tongues be broken! let their eyes be discouraged! let none descend into their hearts with the fresh lusciousness of love!
(Stifled, O days! O lands! in every public and private corruption!
Smother’d in thievery, impotence, shamelessness, mountain-high;
Brazen effrontery, scheming, rolling like ocean’s waves around and upon you, O my days! my lands!
For not even those thunderstorms, nor fiercest lightnings of the war, have purified the atmosphere;)	20
—Let the theory of America still be management, caste, comparison! (Say! what other theory would you?)
Let them that distrust birth and death still lead the rest! (Say! why shall they not lead you?)
Let the crust of hell be neared and trod on! let the days be darker than the nights! let slumber bring less slumber than waking time brings!
Let the world never appear to him or her for whom it was all made!
Let the heart of the young man still exile itself from the heart of the old man! and let the heart of the old man be exiled from that of the young man!	25
Let the sun and moon go! let scenery take the applause of the audience! let there be apathy under the stars!
Let freedom prove no man’s inalienable right! every one who can tyrannize, let him tyrannize to his satisfaction!
Let none but infidels be countenanced!
Let the eminence of meanness, treachery, sarcasm, hate, greed, indecency, impotence, lust, be taken for granted above all! let writers, judges, governments, households, religions, philosophies, take such for granted above all!
Let the worst men beget children out of the worst women!	30
Let the priest still play at immortality!
Let death be inaugurated!
Let nothing remain but the ashes of teachers, artists, moralists, lawyers, and learn’d and polite persons!
Let him who is without my poems be assassinated!
Let the cow, the horse, the camel, the garden-bee—let the mudfish, the lobster, the mussel, eel, the sting-ray, and the grunting pig-fish—let these, and the like of these, be put on a perfect equality with man and woman!	35
Let churches accommodate serpents, vermin, and the corpses of those who have died of the most filthy of diseases!
Let marriage slip down among fools, and be for none but fools!
Let men among themselves talk and think forever obscenely of women! and let women among themselves talk and think obscenely of men!
Let us all, without missing one, be exposed in public, naked, monthly, at the peril of our lives! let our bodies be freely handled and examined by whoever chooses!
Let nothing but copies at second hand be permitted to exist upon the earth!	40
Let the earth desert God, nor let there ever henceforth be mention’d the name of God!
Let there be no God!
Let there be money, business, imports, exports, custom, authority, precedents, pallor, dyspepsia, smut, ignorance, unbelief!
Let judges and criminals be transposed! let the prison-keepers be put in prison! let those that were prisoners take the keys! Say! why might they not just as well be transposed?)
Let the slaves be masters! let the masters become slaves!	45
Let the reformers descend from the stands where they are forever bawling! let an idiot or insane person appear on each of the stands!
Let the Asiatic, the African, the European, the American, and the Australian, go armed against the murderous stealthiness of each other! let them sleep armed! let none believe in good will!
Let there be no unfashionable wisdom! let such be scorn’d and derided off from the earth!
Let a floating cloud in the sky—let a wave of the sea—let growing mint, spinach, onions, tomatoes—let these be exhibited as shows, at a great price for admission!
Let all the men of These States stand aside for a few smouchers! let the few seize on what they choose! let the rest gawk, giggle, starve, obey!	50
Let shadows be furnish’d with genitals! let substances be deprived of their genitals!
Let there be wealthy and immense cities—but still through any of them, not a single poet, savior, knower, lover!
Let the infidels of These States laugh all faith away!
If one man be found who has faith, let the rest set upon him!
Let them affright faith! let them destroy the power of breeding faith!	55
Let the she-harlots and the he-harlots be prudent! let them dance on, while seeming lasts! (O seeming! seeming! seeming!)
Let the preachers recite creeds! let them still teach only what they have been taught!
Let insanity still have charge of sanity!
Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds!
Let the daub’d portraits of heroes supersede heroes!	60
Let the manhood of man never take steps after itself!
Let it take steps after eunuchs, and after consumptive and genteel persons!
Let the white person again tread the black person under his heel! (Say! which is trodden under heel, after all?)
Let the reflections of the things of the world be studied in mirrors! let the things themselves still continue unstudied!
Let a man seek pleasure everywhere except in himself!	65
Let a woman seek happiness everywhere except in herself!
(What real happiness have you had one single hour through your whole life?)
Let the limited years of life do nothing for the limitless years of death! (What do you suppose death will do, then?) Notes on the Text

Leonora's Photography: 66-70

Urban living

(Victoria harbour; Hong-kong)

Today and tomorrow and yesterday too

Menthe à l'eau

N é n u p h a r

Les vitres des surprises

These five photographs illustrate the range and creativity of Leonora's photography. There is much more to discover at Leonora on Flickr.

The Darkest Blue

This poem is a wingéd

thing, hovering

above the western sea,

seeing all

that isn't there.

II.

The day is dying,

soft like glass,

what we've lost

is all that lasts.

III.

The song leads on

to a hidden isle

where nothing is

is reality.

IV.

Song shields the eye

from the final fire,

the darkest blue

at the sunstruck hour.

Ber's Photography: 292-296

A Reading

Our life hangs

by a single thread

That holds the weight

On which itself depends:

Words burn to the touch

the hand that holds

the pen and die(s).

There is no other light.

Leonora's Photography: 61-65

Eclaircie

youtu.be/mRo7tMnM60I (Stan Sulzmann - Agatha Christie's Poirot - Opening Theme Music-)

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Au port (Lamma Island; Hong-Kong)

youtu.be/09WUa712XcA (Georges Brassens -Le bateau de pêche-)

© Leonora; all rights reserved
Un après-midi à la plage
youtu.be/8JeMeOrzkds (Yann Tiersen - La plage-)

Floating village - Vivre sur l'eau -

Clan Jetties form part of the Penang Heritage Trail in Georgetown. Billed as one of the last bastions of old Chinese settlements on the island, this waterfront society dating back to the late 19th century, is home to houses on stilts of various Chinese clans.

Leonora's Photography

James Agee's "Knoxville: Summer of 1915," Samuel Barber's Music & Lyrics, Leontyne Price Performing

Download Original text by James Agee

(lyrical in itself)

Download Barber's Lyrics

(considerably less lyrical)

Leontyne Price Performing

(music & voice restore the poetry)

The Fall

He fell (he was always falling)

Or rather, he jumped, missing the water

That would have taken him, leaving his remains

to flow in the rhythms of his speech,

Washed clean like one hoping to please

Instead of what was, a silent heap,

Though there was heard from a nearby street

What some would call a melodious scream.

For Alex Thomas Coming To My House

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

Could make an old man cry. Not me! Round

The back my grandson plays hide and seek.

I’ve not the slightest idea what that means

But, Alex, you will know! I can only dream

And look for nuts on airy ground.

You see, I’ve placed a charm about the house

And made my home among earthbound clouds.

Alex, you deserve this stupid poem. Take the blame!

If you were me, you would do the same.

If that’s confusing, Lord, just let it rain.

For Theo

Theo, let's go back to basics! I never did fall asleep in class and you completed every assignment in your own inimitable style -- No, I didn't and Yes, you did. That's the truth! I have kept every scrap of writing you have written and all my comments. There are memories drilled so deeply into my psyche that not even Alzheimer's could erase them. I have proof of all manner of shenanigans on both our parts and of our relationship that have made these last five years, rusty as they may be in my case, golden. Some years down the road, I will be rocking in my chair, looking out at a dying sun, and you will sneak up on me from behind as you have done so many times and I will know it's you. I will laugh and my heart will sing, the sun reborn. I love thinking of you wearing vests that I once wore, and you should know there will be more to come. We're not done yet, buddy! See you at the Circle K on Almeda!

Garous Abdolmalekian

I am excited to share with you the poetry of the contemporary Iranian poet, Garous Abdolmalekian. Listening to Garous in Persian makes me think of Rumi. His poetry sings like that. In translation, his poems have a different kind of sound, but, in the Anglo-Saxon way of things, they are still very effective and beautiful. Hearing Garous’s poetry in Persian and in English is for me like seeing mountains roll like waves. Only in the Persian the sound of the sea is actually in the words. The video is of pedestrian quality, but the poetry changes everything: Garous Abdolmalekian. I have also copied below a translation of Garous’s “The Ruins of Bam.” It comes by way of the Poetry Foundation.

The Ruins of Bam

by Garous Abdolmalekian

^{Translated by Idra Novey and Ahmad Nadalizadeh
For the city of Bam destroyed in the 2003 earthquake}

The window is black
the table, black
the sky, black
the snow, black
You’re mistaken!
I don’t need medicine
or a psychotherapist.
Just lift these stones,
sweep aside the earth
and look into my eyes!

My eyes
that are round like the Earth

an image of the world
the world of shut doors
of countless walls

anytime I stand before the mirror
the image of an upside-down tortoise
makes me long for a passer-by
to arrive and invert the world

Some night
our hands will tremble from all this solitude
and our depiction on the canvas
will be scribbled out

the ruins of Bam scribbled out
the shelters we built
collapsing on our heads

I am terrified by the next images in this poem
the image of God lifting all the doors onto his shoulders
getting away
retreating far and then farther

I write: one day
the missing keys will be recovered.
What should we do about the missing locks.

“I wrote the poem one month after the 2003 earthquake that struck the ancient city of Bam in southern Iran. It was around that time when I realized the earthquake had shaken not only the world outside, but also inside me. In the poem, the crack in the earth gradually extends to the human soul and to humanity’s relationship with the whole existence.”
—Garous Abdolmalekian

Leonora's Photography: 56-60

The Village Stream

Effet centrifuge

♫♪

youtu.be/7W-WFmT51w4 (René Aubry -Guitare bambou-)

Lumière tamisée

Nouvelles perspective

"Je déchirerai l’obscur nuage Pour voir moi-même le soleil"

"I’ll cut through your dark cloud To see the sun myself"

(Dylan Thomas)

To see more of Leonora's Photography: Leonora.

"Fern Hill" by Dylan Thomas

Every once and a while

I force myself to read

a truly great poem

before I go to bed

where I will lie awake

all night and dream.

"Fern Hill" by Dylan Thomas, text and reading

For Rachel

I do not know the pain you feel, dear one,

But it must be more than a soul can bear --

I feel that and would say no more

Than what the towering tree nearby

Would have me say: we feel it,

Earth and root, leaf and wind,

The sky itself would fall for you

and comfort you. It knows

no other blue.

Ber's Photography: 281-285

For Mary and Emma

Video Recording: For Mary and Emma

Hey Mary, Hey Emma,

Let’s say together

what we have made our own:

κοινὰ τὰ τῶν φίλων.

Those who know no Greek

will understand what is essential:

we are friends.

In class, you let me ramble,

which I do well,

while you do all the work,

if you call it work

to play qui, quae, quod

and quack like ducks.

Some folks say Latin and Homer’s Greek are dead.

They’ll know better

when they hear angels like you

speak only bella Latina

and reckon things by the Αlpha and 0mega.

Those who know no Latin or ancient Greek

will find themselves back in school.

Not you!

Valete, vos amo magis quam dicere possum.

For Christine -- May, 2020

In times like these

Christine is our Christine

Not for better or worse

But for her gift not to dwell

On what’s not possible

But on what is

and do it so well.

Loci

Fragment

]
]
]
]
]
] remember]

From which all life comes

for Brenda

We bury this bird
Where it fell.

It goes to earth
Where its mother dwells.

Morning Light

The junk in my head gathers dust
Year to year, day to night

But rises with the call of birds,
Becomes a choir in the morning light.

For Alex Thomas Coming To My House

The thought of Alex Thomas coming to my house

Could make an old man cry. Not me! Round

The back my grandson plays hide and seek.

I’ve not the slightest idea what that means

But, Alex, you will know! I can only dream

And look for nuts on airy ground.

You see, I’ve placed a charm about the house

And made my home among earthbound clouds.

Alex, you deserve this stupid poem. Take the blame!

If you were me, you would do the same.

If that’s confusing, Lord, just let it rain.

A Flea

Having not heard from you in days

(seems like years to a flea like me),

I worry, no doubt needlessly,

but there it is – the worry

worrying me, knowing

it will do no good,

and that’s a worry too,

so let’s call it prayer,

which likewise does no good

except it makes me feel better

or worse about myself,

depending, as it does,

on a dog.

All x 1 & done

At a certain age time passes more quickly,

we count days by a two by four

then all x 1 & done.

IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO

Porridge, she said,

Doesn't rhyme with orange,

And then, as if upon a stage,

Danced a golden tango

About my bed. O, I said,

That's how it's done,

A golden orange on my head.

Thalassa

What poets know is what is not.
It sets us free upon the shore to dance like rain
And cry out to the sea as to a friend,
Who leaves and calls us home, its true name.

Its name is οὐ τόπος, the sea of tears,
In whose waves we would gladly drown.
We dance, I say, to enchant the sea
and make it sing: κοινὰ τὰ τῶν φίλων.

οὐ τόπος (ou topos): not a place
κοινὰ τὰ τῶν φίλων: (koina ta tōn philōn): common are the things of friends.

Leonora's Photography: 51-55

"Par gros temps, s'emmitoufler de lectures avant de repartir au combat"

(Correspondance -Walter Benjamin à Hannah Arendt)

(In rough weather wrap yourself up in reading matter before returning to battle)

Ces éléphants rugueux, voyageurs lents et rudes..

(At the Pinnawala Elephant Orphanage in Sri Lanka)

Vulnérabilité

youtu.be/7fdqF4XIUsE (Bob Dylan -High Water- )

Bananier

Réseau

You can find more of Leonora's superb work at https://www.flickr.com/photos/150410475@N04/.

It's Greek to me!

Sidewalk Greek by Mary Farmer

A Flea

for Charles

Having not heard from you in days

(seems like years to a flea like me),

I worry, no doubt needlessly,

but there it is – the worry

worrying me, knowing

it will do no good,

and that’s a worry too,

so let’s call it prayer,

which likewise does no good

except it makes me feel better

or worse about myself,

depending, as it does,

on a dog.

Nocte

He tripped and fell
and had a tale to tell

But all you could hear
was a door closing.

O there were whistles
and wolves and owls

But all anyone could hear
was an old man gasping,

alone at last
with a tale to tell.

Kiss and Tell

Who but a god

Could look at you

Sweetly laughing

And not die

For a kiss, dying

Again and again

Like gods of spring

that never truly

Die. Your lips

Like night

hold back the day

And close my eyes . . .

Awake! Awake!

You are no god

To kiss and tell

Of life and death.

Ber's Photography: 286-291

Where is that?

During a thunderstorm when everyone else was running for cover, one woman remained outside and seemed not to be bothered in the least. They all looked out from their hiding places and wondered at her. It didn’t hurt that she was strikingly beautiful. Well, soon enough they all came out into the storm, feeling a bit ashamed, I suppose. At first, they couldn’t keep their eyes off her, glistening as she was in the rain and flash of light. Eventually, however, their eyes followed hers to the sky and what they saw was only a roiling grayness that seemed to envelop the earth. They asked her what she saw.. Home, she said. And they, like the dumb little fish of another story, asked, “Where is that?”

Ber's Photography: 276-280

a dead-wall reverie

Ibidom. Is no thinking thing here but the peepinghouse round it goes is there nothing there from sea to rounda coda no knowing no browbeating to hoedown the adamses and damses looking roundaway the wailing goes awagginawaning about the off wall but there shebares all to what is not there the museymusik makes you trot and drop so rainruns and her lastofall. There!

now east now west

the road has a mind of its own

and my feet obey

the rest of me stays behind
treelike

above

the sky grows gentle

MY HEART OPENS

the road goes on

as if not knowing

which way is best

What makes us laugh

What makes us laugh makes us moan
and mourn for better times than these -
yet the sound of your voice, the free
falling rain, a falling sky, falls
from you to me to you who read
these words turned round and know
there never was a time when pain
did not prey upon the innocent.
I am not innocent of anything.
It makes me laugh: these words
meant to ignite a fire.

Where no angels abide

You want to know
What life is,
But all you find
Are words, zeroes
And ones
And bread crumbs
In your beard.

Where, you ask,
Is the wild iris?
Where the feather
Of your breath?

You want to become
What you already are
While there is still a you
That cares how life
Runs through you
Like wind through grass.

There comes a time
When life turns away
And finds itself in dust,
Where no angels abide,
Where no one teaches you
How to live,
where
No one knows
You are not there.

Leonora's Photography: 46-50

Going with the flow

The Way Out

Rocking

Volcanique

Cratère du volcan Tangkuban Perahu, toujours en activité sur l'île indonésienne de Java (Ouest)
Altitude: 2 084m

L'énigme

You can find more of Leonora's superb work at https://www.flickr.com/photos/150410475@N04/.

Ber's Photography: 271-275

Ber's Photography.

Loci

Presence

I walk along the spinning
shore, the moon, a wheel
of a thousand nights.
We shared a dream
of another life,
you here with me
in the dying light.

By Lamplight

In the darkness a hand appears
and waves me on. You
are not here, or there.

Sewing

Is it possible to love
and be alone? he asks,
but she, worrying at buttons,
just mutters, Some days
are better than others.

What is not there

Though I am known to God
As Hughlings, my friends call me
Hugh and leave it at that --
Grace takes care of the rest.

Though I do not believe
In anything or have any Jesus,
Yet I retain a kind of genius
For harmless lies.

It is as if during the day
I can still see the stars
Blazing out of the night
And truly see what is

not there. Some say
it is a harmless madness --
My friends though look deep
Into what were once my eyes

And all they see is night.

Getting it up with Shakespeare

Love, friends, is deadly. You may wonder,
Am I suffering from a broken heart
Or has love, freely given,
Not been returned? To which I say,
Yes, O Yes, Yes!
Beat the drums and let the bagpipes play
And I will march ripe into that narrow patch
Of mind and sand and play, She loves me
She loves me not, and haply saw
My soul in two.
I shall send her flowers,
Long purples that prickly boys
Call a grosser name,
But she will say as maidens do,
"How could you be so lame?"

Going Home: Song of Comfort

"Written in pencil in the Sealed Railway-Car: Dan Pagis

WRITTEN IN PENCIL IN THE SEALED RAILWAY-CAR

here in this carload

i am eve

with abel my son

if you see my other son

cain son of man

tell him that i

-- Dan Pagis

A broken wing

Who will stop and weep for you,
Who will sing your song,
Who will call a rose a rose
And trace her love in sand?

If still you breathe in silence
And look upon the stars,
Yet you may lift up your voice
And match the wind in time.

Does the storm overwhelm you,
Does day turn dark to black?
There’s none here to see you
Fall and find a sudden light.

The End of the Journey: A Conversation with Neil Longenbaugh

Neil Longenbaugh: Socrates knows he is wiser than the common man because he does not profess to know what he does not. This creates a few problems for me. How can Socrates know for sure that he doesn’t know something? I think the only thing he can be certain of is that he knows nothing for certain, and if this is true then how can someone be wiser than another person if both know equally nothing? This idea is a paradox that can’t be clearly answered unless Socrates is claiming that the craftsman and poets claim to know something and he nothing.

Mr. Himwich: Problem is that the craftsmen and especially those muse-inspired poets think that they do in fact know – but, of course, they don’t, as is revealed under Socratic questioning. You do touch on a difficult issue: Does knowledge require that we know that we know and perhaps even to be able to articulate what we know and be able to teach it to someone else. Absent this kind of knowledge we might categorize our “knowledge” as belief, hypothesis, intuition, educated guess, etc.

Mr. Longenbaugh: I think that knowing something for certain is an impossibility. We can know that we can think, and articulate this to other people, but we cannot know that we know something as it truly is. I agree that we can classify our knowledge as hypothesis, intuition, etc… What is truth though? If it is impossible to know for certain then can we find truth in our educated guesses and such?

Mr. Himwich: So much depends on what one means by "truth," as you well know. For me, the truth is paradoxically the very activity of a mind that searches for understanding. This activity of mind is the very truth it searches for. It is always thus, e.g. we create the very world that we seek to understand as if it were separate from us. The truth is as close as thought itself. I know this will sound mystical or worse -- plain nonsense. What is your idea of truth?

Mr. Longenbaugh: I feel that truth is something sought after. I think that there are elements that we must find within ourselves, but I think that the physical world also contains truth. I think one can find a balance between retrospection and examining the world they live in for truth. I think that truth is perhaps what you do not know, even if what you think is the truth is not really how it is. Since you believe truth to be activity of mind, do you believe that everything we perceive and experience is some sort of dream or separate experience or reality based on your mind’s bias towards the world?

Mr. Himwich: I think your understanding of truth is sound. I must admit that mine is a work in progress. When I say 'activity of the mind', I mean just that: not the products of that activity, just the pure activity itself. That activity is the existential answer to the mind/body question (how the brain and consciousness relate). If we thereby solve the mind/body question, then we will also solve the mind's relationship to the external world. I know this sounds weird. Truth for me is not this and that bit of knowledge or even the collection of such bits into a whole. It is what actually happens. Again, not what physics tells us about the nature of the universe, but the universe itself as it happens. If we could understand our own activity (our own happening), then we could understand everything else. We are part of the happening of things. Again, I admit I am exploring ideas here. Let me try one more time: we are already what we seek to understand. In our very attempt to understand what we already are is the Truth. (I am laughing at myself. Feel free to laugh at me as well.)

Mr. Longenbaugh: I can accept your argument (for lack of a better word), but it does bring about a few more questions. These examples seem to be contradictory or perhaps by the nature of the activity itself they aren’t. Take someone who is in a coma for example or a dream that persists indefinitely, is their understanding subconscious because dreams to me seem to be more of a ride than activity. Should we try to understand these, knowing we can’t control them, or should we try to learn to control them? What about out of body experiences while awake? (I won’t give any examples) These provide a little trouble for me and I’m sure for you too. I think that I can understand what I believe to be awake reality and activity.

Mr. Himwich: This is becoming more about my wayward ideas than yours (not to say yours are wayward). But I am happy to continue. It seems to me that the Truth only appears when we are actively in search for it, but it remains paradoxically and necessarily elusive. The search and Truth are like the sun and the moon, the moon’s reflected light derives from the sunlike mind. (I am expressing ideas here I have never expressed before.) What we want to understand is not the moon itself but the light that illuminates it, yet we fail to recognize the source of the light comes from our own consciousness. This little analogy must be read allegorically.

Mr. Longenbaugh: That is a good analogy. This raises an interesting question. Is the moon necessary? Can we simply look straight into the sun and try and find Truth? I think that before we can journey to the sun, we must first understand the moon, or start searching. It seems maybe that the moon is more tangible than the sun. We can travel, and search for what the moon and its light mean, but I don’t think its ever possible to make it to the sun. In the context of this analogy, we can keep getting closer to the sun or Truth, but the closer we are, the hotter it is. This slows us down and eventually burns us before we can ever get there.

Mr. Himwich: I think that consciousness, before it is consciousness of something, is nonexistent, or rather exists as a potentiality only. This goes back to that question in class: if you stop thinking, i.e. stop being conscious, do you cease to exist. That is a very live question. I would hasten to add that in the mystic traditions, especially with respect to meditation practice, there is a possible turning away from the object to consciousness itself. The reported experience is the usual wonderful mystic nonsense (of which I have a great share): a sense of unity with all things and then joy.

Mr. Longenbaugh: I’m turned toward thinking that consciousness is existence. And going away from this consciousness I think is a good thing, because I’m not sure even if there is necessarily one direction that you must head. Turning away could very well be just as real as going in the “normal” direction if we have to call it that. I can’t say I’ve experienced many of these traditions but I have a basic understanding. Do you believe that there is a certain direction, or is there a possibility or two, even an infinite amount of suns, or levels of consciousness?

Mr. Himwich: I am thunderstruck by your statement that consciousness is existence. I have made that very same statement on another occasion. First, there are some esoteric eastern philosophies that do in fact speak of levels, e.g. personal consciousness and transcendental consciousness, in which one experiences the loss of the self that the personal consciousness has constructed. I hardly know what to say about such things. I would rather discuss this "turning away" that you speak of. Speaking for myself, the "turning away" is the journey that, through experience, leads back to the sun. This means that only by going away from the sun can we ever really know it as the source of our being. Thus, the journey, as in epic journeys, always leads through the Underworld where there is little or no light at all. That may sound poetic, but it involves real suffering. Is such a journey the good? Yes, but I speak only for myself here.

Mr. Longenbaugh: I think that 'the turning away' is a perspective. If you turn away from the sun, you can see how far you have come and what you have experienced. I think it can help you appreciate the sun more. I am concerned whether it is possible to turn away and never go back? Hopefully, death doesn’t bring this but I think that a loss of consciousness means that there is no more journey.

Mr. Himwich: Just to sum up: There is both an objective and subjective aspect to this: reality is and is not what we are aware of: there must be something that is apart from consciousness itself and yet that there is anything at all, existence itself, is due to consciousness. This is why we both search for truth/reality as something external to our consciousness and why we keep returning to consciousness as the ground of being. It is the paradox upon which the journey hinges. The journey is the effort to return to oneself. It gives meaning to our life, precisely because we never arrive.

It's March but spring it's not

It’s March but spring it's not,

Not the preamble or invocation

Of a pleuraplenty of sight and sound --

This time there’s choking

And thoughts best forgot:

A friend who's gone,

A cough, am lost.

O well – there's time,

hard rain, a simple rime.

Ber Himwich Photography: 266-270

Ber's Photography.

Joy Harjo -- reading at the Library of Congress

For Rita Dove

Not psyche but a nail

that bites hard, holds

true and rusts into

spring ahead of

the flowers, she

outlasts the wood

the pain

me.

"Cholera" by Rita Dove

Download Cholera +

"Cholera", as you ask questions of it, becomes progressively more terrifying. Rita also reads three other poems of great note: "Canary," "Teach Us to Number Our Days," and "The Spring Cricket Considers the Question of Negritude."

"Mountainal" by Jane Hirshfield

Jane Hirshfield reading "Mountainal"

Uva uvam vivendo varia fit (explained)

Uva uvam vivendo varia fit.

This Latin phrase from Lonesome Dove is neither nonsense nor bad Latin. It means "A grape becomes mottled by being a grape," with the sense: it is the nature of a grape to become "mottled" as it ripens. In the context of the novel, this means, "Character is destiny" -- the truth of which is illustrated time and again in the novel. The repetition of the 'v' strengthens the point. It is lovely Latin.

vivendo here is a gerund of vivo, in the ablative (instrumental).

uvam is a cognate (a play on vitam vivendo) or internal accusative, a not uncommon feature of ancient Latin.

Just as a grape or a man can become nothing other than what each is, pigs remain true to themselves. "We don't rent pigs. . . Goats and donkeys are neither bought nor sold," only cattle and horses whose character man has fundamentally changed.

Tags: HH Latin

In libra rerum

In rerum libra lacrimae auro gravius pendunt.

hhimwich is the author of all poems and other writing unless indicated otherwise.

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David Chalmers: Fragments of consciousness

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