My Lord, what a morning, My Lord, what a morning, O my Lord, what a morning When the stars begin to fall. –Entrance hymn, (Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, Second Sunday after Epiphany, January 15, 2006)
After seven years of inter- stellar wanderings, the spacecraft that journeyed halfway to Jupiter, beyond the Earth-Moon Orbit, came back today. It bears precious freight— ageless dust motes, the most primitive particles in the universe, gathered from the outer limits— from the time when there was no time, when there was universe inchoate— undifferentiated matter—the becoming thing that was always there.
I’m thinking about extreme distances tonight. Cosmic, internal, time and space. Before and after, too far to ever really see. And if we stop to feel that distance, we lose. If we stop to wonder about the goal itself and if it cares that we seek it, we lose.
Overcoming that haunting, overcoming that fear of the journey. The fear of, “What if when I get there finally and I . . . . and I’m just there, as I am here?”
I wrote this poem many years ago, and it seems ahead of me now.
Straddle the Years Like Blue Light
The hard dream of rain In the eyes of the wind Warm wind Glowing across the green soft grass Pulling the sea into my eyes
Standing waiting for the smoke to clear I lean into the breath Of the sea Lean into the personal displays Of weather and her angst
Someone moves slowly on the mountain Someone deflects the rays of the past
And my back is to twenty shadows And my smile creeps out like the crabs Scuttling over the wet brown sand
Deep into the gamble of horizons My eyes lock with the line formed by our Biology
Black and deep deep purple Black and fade Purple and fade
Motion from the waves and the light jumps For me and for the shadows on the mountain
Grays and dark greens model into small pyramids Of ocean and I cry out for the sense Lurking underneath For that ancient comfortable mystery
Classic Film Noir does not always give us classic artistic noir. We don’t always get the dramatic chiaroscuro, the brilliant angles, the expressionistic camera-work that makes one think of Kafka as Surrealist painter. In the case of The Third Man, we get the whole enchilada, taut direction, suspense, off-kilter music and off-kilter scenes.
Set in a Post-War Vienna, divided up into four sections of international control, Graham Greene’s story takes us through the city nights and shadows and sharp contrasts, and underneath that night into the sewers. The angles, the distorted streets, the high human shadows launched against old city buildings, sends us deeper into a sinister and absurd realm without mirth. . . . Read more. “Black and White Dreams”
The truly divine thing is invention, creation, imagination. All religions were created by novelists and poets. That has been on my mind and under my thoughts for decades. It reached the surface again tonight, like the creative process itself. In a rush, a burst, a light coming on against nuanced black. We tell stories. Some of us make stories. Some repeat them. But novelists invent, poets invent. Song-writers invent. They take things from nature and their own lives and think again. They expand from kernels and images they can’t escape. They weave and add new people and make stories for them, too. . . . Read more. “The Divine Invention”
.No more walls. No more borders. No more signs that say do not go beyond this line. At least I say that inside, again. For the millionth time. Move beyond the borders. Peace will come when they disappear. Peace will come when we don’t feel the need to defend the hut. Peace will come when we see through the propaganda telling us to die for the hut, even though the hut is not threatened. No one is threatening it.
I wrote the following poem in a certain frame of mind that sought no frames. I wrote the following poem because I wanted the page to extend forever. The photo above has borders, but only if we can’t imagine. . . . Read more. “To See Through Boundaries”