This is a title with no poem - xo

Atalanta, Hippomenes, and the golden apples

In this ancient Greek story, Atalanta is a renowned runner. She's of age for marriage. Either she or her father - King Iasius? - it is unclear who - wants to keep marriage from happening, and the announcement is made that Atalanta will not marry until a suitor who can defeat her in a footrace appears. Any suitors who show up to run but fail to win will be executed.

Several young fellows lose. Details of their executions are not given nor are reactions from Atalanta or her dad.

Hippomenes shows up with an interest in wedding this fast and beautiful daughter of a king. However, he does not like the idea of being executed. He comes up with a clever plan that should improve his odds of winning, and keeping alive. He consults with the Goddess of Love, Aphrodite (Venus). She gives him a sack of special golden apples and a plan. When the race starts, he keeps a little ahead of her. When she catches up to take the lead, he rolls an apple ahead of her. Atalanta is distracted by the apple. She bends to pick it up and Hippomenes takes the lead. He's grinning. He has a chance. But then, he hears her foot steps close behind. She's catching up! He rolls another apple, and she bends to pick it up and Hippomenes moves ahead once again.

This continues until Hippomenes has only one apple left in the bag. Atalanta is sprinting to pass him and reach the finish line. Hippomenes rolls an apple, and it falls by the side of the course, down into a shallow ditch. Atalanta grimaces. She likes this fellow, but she has to win the race. She looks at the finish line and at the apple. Maybe she can win and have the apple. She darts to the ditch, Hippomenes takes the lead and increases his speed. Atalanta catches up, is almost back at his side again when Hippomenes crosses the line, winning the cruel contest and the speedy bride.

desserts

I slept over at friends' houses a few times when I was a kid, and I remember some by the dessert that was offered there - even though this was decades ago! Each one seemed to be the most delicious food I'd ever eaten. There were the toaster waffles with sliced fresh strawberries and whipped cream on top. There was the angel food cake broken up and combined with canned peaches and whipped cream, and then chilled in the fridge before serving. There were beignets made by frying in a skillet the biscuit dough that comes in tubes, then sprinkling generously with powdered sugar. I was in my early twenties when a friend's folks served up vanilla ice cream with fresh sliced bananas and strawberries. That sounds simple, but I'd never had ice cream with fresh fruit - it was so good. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on white sliced bread - the only kind around - with a glass of cold milk - that was new to me.

It was good to visit the homes of others, and try new foods.  It was as though the parents embedded themselves forever in my heart by making a special dessert. It's taken me a long time to realize the happiness that came with these foods was a message from my body saying - yes! this is just what you need.

There was this big seagull in Oakland, California, who liked to chat up the pigeons on the wires of the power lines. The seagull seemed to prefer hanging with the pigeons rather than with his own kind who hung out over the water. Maybe it was just that his day job took him into the peninsula where the land birds live, and late in the day, he went fishing with the other gulls like him, looking for seafood remains humans cast from their boats. Or maybe he and the other gulls didn't get along. Anyway, the pigeons and the gull, they looked so cool and together - at ease and complete.

coexistence with pets

There are tales from the past where pets were not so much dogs and cats, and only the most well-to-do had horses. People walked from one destination to the next, and the pet who kept them company was a mouse or a cricket. During many of the years I've lived in Austin, Texas - we had gerbils and they brought us considerable happiness and companionship. Had I to do it again, however, I think I'd try to learn ways not to interfere with their freedoms as individual creatures. Would there have been ways for them to be companions without keeping them in cages? I'm sure the answer is yes, even though I don't know how exactly we might have worked that out.

on pain

Pain protects the body. That seems a little unlikely since pain hurts - it must be bad for us, right?

When a creature feels pain, it's a warning signal. 'Move away from the fire.' 'Set down that hot skillet.' Paying attention to the warning keeps flesh from getting destroyed by burns. 'There is something in your eye - rinse it out.' 'You are ill - rest until this passes.' 'You hurt your foot - don't put weight on it and make the damage worse.' It's good that the body puts out this signal!

However, sometimes, pain shows up that has nothing to do with injury or illness, and the false signal is confusing. If pain centers in the brain are stimulated in unnatural ways, you might feel a sharp pain in the foot when no injury has happened, there is no stick nor stone in your shoe. It just feels that way. You might stop walking or go to a surgeon thinking something is wrong with your foot when your foot is fine. You might keep taking that shoe off and shaking it. The pain is a hurtful feeling not related to any injury. To artificially cause such pain in another is usually cruel.

Some people have few pain signals at all, or the volume of the pain is very low compared to what others experience. These people may take more risks because the consequences are not very painful, and in the long run they may be more crippled by damage because it didn't hurt when it was happening. They may walk or run when they have a broken foot, preventing it from healing properly.

Chronic pain - pain that continues day after day - can be disabling in itself in that the individual feels too uncomfortable to focus on anything else, too uncomfortable to enjoy life.

There is emotional pain, such as grieving over separation from a loved one - but that's a whole volume in itself.

In a community - it can be helpful to have people with different pain thresholds. The very sensitive people will give warning that something is awry, there is something hurtful going on or approaching. The less sensitive people, the people with a higher pain threshold, will not notice perhaps, feeling no pain. But when there is need for someone to stand up to the threat, they may be cheerfully willing because they are not afraid of hurt; they don't know pain.

To artificially disconnect a person's pain sensors, for example with drugs, may not be in that person's best interest in the long run. It's helpful to know when you have an internal injury or a fracture. However, once the person knows there is a problem, and can address the cause, or finds there is nothing further to be done, pain relief can be a blessing.

Amado M. Peña, Jr. is an artist who was fabulously popular in the 1980s. His paintings, imbedded within the Pascua Yaqui tribe of southwestern Native American life, were stern, dry and visually compelling. Sometimes we think popular artists who are able to sell thousands of prints are commercially successful, but not the 'real thing'. Yet, I would attest he created works that reached deep and drew the eye over and over.  To me, that is the real thing. There was something new to discover each time you gazed at his paintings and yet they bore the same imprint; he touched upon a tribal archetype within each work. Though his subject matter had complexity and detail, his instinct for balance and composition was not sacrificed. The paintings were complex, but easy on the eye.

Were I to have lunch with Mr. Peña, and were encouraged to ask him one question, my question would be about the hats his subjects wore. The arcs of their brims are simple, yet often seem to shelter a small world of their own. Tell me about those hats, I'd say. How did you come to repeat that specific arc again and again?

contemplation of the clam

contemplation of the clam

crusty old clam
denizen of the deep
sitting on the ocean floor
contemplating his
nonexistant navel
a brain in a growing skull of shell
thinking thinking
wise un-thoughts
humming along
with the sleeping-waking-
sleeping-waking rhythms
of the creatures breathing air above -
and the creatures swimming below -
the flat barrier known as
the surface of the sea
the ceiling of the sea
his non-thinking a web of connection
sighing, now fluttering
rising and falling like a wave or a
breeze beneath a prayer flag
pondering existence each to his own.
each mind is a part of the physics of the universe;
each mind is a contained universe
far larger than its bony container,
the clam
so much bigger than his shell

Rumi's writings from the 1200s bring comfort, but not a cozy cocooning kind of comfort. His poems open doors and windows, letting out stale air, and bringing in awareness of the infinity of experiences available to us. Reading Rumi, one breathes in something bright and delicious.

There are many references in his writings to his friend and teacher, Shams-i Tabrizi. These include not only reflections on the brief time they shared, but his experiences of connection to his Friend after Shams departed. Reading these works made me think he saw his love for his teacher as a conduit to God's love.

I've looked for samples of Shams' works in the past with few results. Like many materials on the internet these days, there appears to have been some informal editing. Still, I'll share the quote below:

'The universe is one being. Everything and everyone is interconnected through an invisible web of stories. Whether we are aware of it or not, we are all in a silent conversation.'

sign language

One day, a kid passed around a bundle of cards with pictures of how to sign the alphabet with our hands. Amazing how fast kids will learn a new language when it isn't a requirement. I think just about all of us had the alphabet down within the week and were signing secret messages across the class rooms.

As I understand it - and I'm no expert - there are several sign languages that use the hands to communicate. There is one that is more literal in that the hands communicate word by word the same vocabulary and grammar that is spoken verbally by the community. So if you want to ask, 'how is your car engine behaving this week?' you sign every word of that sentence. There are also sign languages that fly on their own. They don't use words that are in the spoken language, except perhaps to communicate the names of people and places. Instead, the hands use motion and signals to communicate direction, feelings, whether something is past or ongoing. This is hand poetry, a wordless complexity and simplicity. With this visual art in motion, the body perhaps communicates on more levels than words can usually reach.

the cousins' canoe


the metal canoe
gently rocks
under the moonlight.
the cousins talked of going floundering
but the gear is untouched -
they relax, bare feet
touching the water.
lights freckle the shoreline -
small waves
splash the side of the boat
the wistful rhythm
of summer
dwindling to an end.

the genes of a song -

Music is like a family tree. The style of singing, the rhythm, what instruments are used, the palette of notes - you could think of these as genes. Someone who is well familiar with musicians of different generations might recognize a guitar riff from a blues guy three generations back. There might be an Eastern European strain, or an instrument that is found only in Korea. Our music teacher in high school, Ms. Lee, taught us how to identify various genres of music, and I sometimes listen for the attributes she pointed out.

Randol's, a restaurant in Lafayette, Louisiana, has a dance floor. In the evenings, local bands play - usually Cajun music which I've thought of as Louisiana Acadian French - also known as chanky-chank. Sometimes after eating, we've stayed and listened as dancers move around the floor. Plaintive Celtic melodies unexpectedly surface from the Cajun music, with the accordian used like the drone of bagpipes. Mexican and German accordian is strong. There are the Louisiana French lyrics. You can hear blues repetitions. The blues has origins from African chants. Zydeco has a lot of African-American and Creole influence. The word zydeco is the local spelling of 'les haricots' - French for snap beans. 'Les haricots sont pas salé' the song goes.

The area I grew up in prided itself on its Cajun roots, and there is that and there is so much more. You can hear the family tree in the local music.

dogs on leashes

If there were leashes on any of the neighborhood dogs circa 1960, I don't remember them. We lived on a lazy little one block long street, and I remember a dachsund (they were casually called 'weiner dogs' because of their long bodies and short legs) and a bassett hound. Dogs followed the kids in their families up and down the neighborhood - like they were 4-legged siblings. Puppies were a little in the way some times. They hadn't yet learned the rules of the street. Adult dogs, though, were bright and protective of the kids.

Well - I'm remembering an exception to this - our own dog! We got a collie named Zip around then. Collies were popular because there was one with her own television show - 'Lassie'. Everybody watched 'Lassie' - week after week she followed Timmy, the kid in her household, everywhere. She rescued him, or other animals or neighbors, from the calamity of the week. Zip - our dog - wasn't quite at that level of maturity. Our folks kept him on a rope attached to the clothesline post during the day. Even then, there was many an evening our mom rode slowly through the neighborhood calling Zip's name out of the car window. He was good at untying knots.

Soon after this, we moved to the country, and Zip got a big fenced yard, and a golden retriever named Duke to keep him company. We got Duke because he'd been owned by hunters and was expected to retrieve ducks from the water. He failed to get out into the water, much less fetch a duck, and the highly frustrated owners gave him to us. Duke ever after jumped into every puddle or pond he came across. He just didn't like hunting or the noise of the guns I guess.

I see the speed of the many cars on the streets, and I see lots of leashes, and dogs kept in crates indoors, and I know times are different now.

the slam of a car door
below my window
triggers a pinch of happiness
it's 1967 and our mother
is home from work -
she'll soon be inside
in the warm kitchen light

bobwhites

The first bird I learned by name was the bobwhite, a species of quail, when I was around age 4 in the late 1950s. We lived in south-central Louisiana near what was a field of varied grasses, and thistles close to five feet tall, I'd guess. Sometimes in the early morning, you could hear the bobwhites. Our mother occasionally would initiate the call from the open kitchen window, and wait to hear the response. I'm pretty sure her whistled call was only two notes: 'bob-white!'  But I also remember a call that was three notes: 'bob-bob-white!'

When I lived in rural central Texas - around 1980, there was a covey of bobwhites near our house. They nested near the ground and sometimes would walk in line, a parent with three or so juveniles trotting behind. The invasion of fire ants came a year or two later, and it wasn't until after 2000, after the fire ant population stabilized, that I heard another bobwhite.

scrambled books ...

I'm looking at a hardcover book that I recently picked out. The cover art is rather beautiful - a black and white background of trees and snow with a small red bird in the foreground (that somehow looks like part cardinal, part finch, and part hummingbird). The title, and a review quote on the back, are printed in black on what looks like a brass plate with elegant decorative etching. Simple, and appealing book design.

The contents however include much cruel material that seems intended to deliberately repel rather than appeal to the reader. There are lengthy redundancies, and places where the characters' names are jumbled. These appear to be errors or intentional offenses, not some sort of artistic device. I read about an eighth of it, got suspicious, and glanced through the rest only to find that it gets more persistently cruel the deeper you go.

I'd just let it go, except I've come to realize across the last fifteen years or so that a number of recommended books are broken reads, with the same issues as this one has. A formulaic wrecking of what was perhaps once an engaging work.

Some of my favorite authors came out with new books that were not readable, in the same way that this one is not. At first I thought well, maybe the writer lost his or her trusted editor. But then, I bought or borrowed books that I've read and reread in the past. Some of the new printings no longer contain the same material - and they have problems like those listed above that were not there in the past. A messed up children's classic, 'Anne of Green Gables', doctored books by John Irving and by Jean Auel, Bill Cosby and by Anne Tyler. I've seen altered Bibles, art books and reference books with greatly misleading material and phony illustrations. It is a grief, the undermining of our treasury of cultural and scientific knowledge. Others are aware of this situation, not just in literature, but in sciences, the arts, music and film. I don't know how the problems are being addressed. It might be helpful just to label damaged material as 'edited without permission of the author or publisher' - a kind of 'beware' for the readers and viewers, as a starting point. Over time, perhaps we shall gradually recover what has been lost.

gems and jewels

Crystals and jewels are something about which I know very little. Still, there is appeal in the words and appeal in the fairy tale illustration thoughts that come to mind. Children's books have images of pirate treasure chests brimming with gold and various crystals. Great green dragons with forked red tongues and fire and smoke issuing from their throats and nostrils can be seen guarding their stacks of jewels and gem bedecked crowns and ropes of pearls ... and more overflowing treasure chests.

When we were kids, we knew the stone for the month we were born. In our family, there were some well known birth month gems, but two of us had stones that you don't see mentioned in stories and movies: peridot and aquamarine. The colors are lovely - pale crystals of green and blue - but that's all I know. Across the decades of my life, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds have come up with some regularity in books and news articles and museums. Sapphires and opals and garnets are not as frequently mentioned, but still in the everyday vocabulary. Quartz has lots of applications - and is easily found in streambeds in the mountains. Pearls are not gem stones, but an animal product formed within some oysters. (Too bad for the oldest oysters - they have been collected by divers around the world hoping to strike it rich with the discovery of one gleaming, symmetrical pearl the size of a marble.)

Topaz comes up now and again. Topaz is familiar to me because of family with African ties who long ago collected specimans in creekbeds of Nigeria.

Beryl is a gem, and it's a word that fascinates me. But I wouldn't recognize it if it were placed in the palm of my hand.

today is with clouds
is a beautiful day
a sky no longer
pale and lonely
but one set in motion,
animated by odd characters
that bloom and shrink
with the capricious currents of air.

a dark strand
of prism colors
arcs across
a watery blur to the east.

the clouds just above
are bright and hobnobbing -
they toss a spray of droplets
down to my heated brow.

the sun is curtained
in grays and purples
limned with glory.

alligator encounters

When my sister was around age one, and some twenty years later when my son was around age one, we had the experience of encountering an alligator. Well, actually, an alligator appeared for each of them, and I happened to be a witness. The first encounter was with a young gator about two to three feet long that was making its way through our yard in Louisiana after a hurricane. I was wheeling my sister in a wheelbarrow and came to a halt, uncertain whether this was a living alligator ahead of us or a big piece of pine bark. Then it snapped and it was alrighty, time to fetch an adult - no - first I must take the baby away from this amazing scary wild creature. The second event - when my son was a baby in a stroller - we were near the edge of a lake at Avery Island near New Iberia, Louisiana when we noted a huge grandaddy-sized gator's head above the water's surface some ten feet away. The alligator wasn't moving - maybe even was gracing us with his peaceful appearance - but we very promptly pulled the carriage away from the pond.

I think about it now, though, and wonder if these events were dangerous, or if perhaps fellow creatures just briefly let us see them, be aware of their presence, when we arrived in their space.

Maybe six years ago, I took a tour with a friend on Lake Martin near Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. We were in a small boat with an outboard motor. The guide would pause here and there, and among the many birds, fishes, snakes and insects we saw, there were several ancient gators who just floated in the water, peaceful as silent logs, only with resounding charisma. An egret was grooming his feathers, perched on an alligator's back. Another time at Lake Martin, I saw alligator babies about the size of a pencil in a shallow ditch-like area, with the mother not far away. None of these situations were threatening - they just called for respect for the animals' personal space. We were just visitors passing through their only home.