Spring Came This Year
early in February—this year
the purple crocuses
yawned and showed us golden teeth,
this year,
the daffodils joined them in unexpected yellow
against the bluest sky, and
ignored Winter’s frost-breath. A last gasp? Uncertain,
we watch the feathered-clouds fly
this year, any year.
A quadrille for dVerse. The prompt word is gasp.
Spring Anthem
In spring’s slant shadowed light, daffodils,
like bright belles dance, unmeasured
in their joy, guileless
in their lemon-yellow gowns,
they rise unabashed from winter beds,
ready for change,
awakened.
If only we could learn
from them, from the budding trees,
the crows, and geese—the unquestioning tenacity
of life, to reset, to build, to amplify, to repeat–
to believe it’s not a quixotic quest
to acknowledge heartbreak, the systemic wrongs,
resolved
in this: our bodies belong
only to ourselves. Once daffodils, watch
as we become roses with thorns, cactuses with spikes, flowering
as we will. Ancient roots connect us, whispering of freedom–
soon, hear us like the sea, like a tidal wave,
roar.
I used a few of Kerfe’s Random Words. It is Women’s History Month. Over the weekend I heard or read these stories (among others):
This American Life: a doctor who is thinking of leaving the state of Idaho because of the draconian abortion law, which prevents doctors from treating patients, even preventing them from giving care in life-threatening situations.
Washington Post: Divorce and remarried women in Afghanistan forced into hiding because they’re considered adulterers for leaving abusive husbands.
NPR: The covert effort to get abortion pills into Ukraine.
The GOP is still pushing for voter suppression laws, and they have prevented the passage of new Voting Rights Acts, including the For the People Act and the John R. Lewis Act. And in Florida, the governor is moving on with his fascist agenda. I imagine there will soon be statues erected and parades in his honor. Right-wing extremists (and the GOP members who enable them) are happy to keep people ignorant and fixated on fake issues. They, like extremists always have, thrive on hierarchies and fear of the other. Now, LGBTQ+ people are the others. I don’t like the term “woke,” but I’ll own it. What is the opposite, sleeping? Shouldn’t everyone in a democracy be awake (and anti-fascist)?
We watched the movie She Said about the New York Times investigative journalists Megan Twohey and Jodie Kantor and their reporting on allegations made of sexual harassment and assault made against Harvey Weinstein. I read their work when I was working on my book on sexual harassment and also Ronan Farrow’s in the New Yorker.
However, the holiday of Purim begins tonight. It is a joyous holiday—you’re supposed to drink! But it is also a story of Queen Esther and freedom. We plan to open our favorite Syrah, Blue-Eyed Boy, and eat a lot of Hamantaschen.
Democracy seems to be dying. We’re destroying our planet. And yet, there are daffodils. Spring is coming.
“That though the heart is breaking, happiness can exist in a moment, also. And because the moment in which we live is all the time there really is, we can keep going.”
― Zora Neale Hurston. (2018). Barracoon: The Story of the Last “Black Cargo”.
Descending, Ascending
Each winter she descends,
her mouth red-stained, she rises in spring
like sun and moon
reborn
in ancient rhythms
of ancient songs
of stellar light
unnoticed
in unwritten time,
migrations of enlightenment–
the sparkle of sun-silver on outstretched wings,
flapped
the shadows shift. You see a peacock array.
Does the clock ever end? Around and around,
you look for a chivalrous nerve in space
determined
to find connections in the liminal.
Mother to child and on. Never forget
you say. Not black-and-white. Prisms. The daffodils rise,
again.
I used some of Kerfe’s Random Words. So. . .this was a strange week.
On, Tuesday, we went to William Heritage Winery in Mullica Hill, NJ for a February/Valentine wine and chocolate pairing, and it was lovely. Despite the woman at a nearby table holding her companions–and us–captive with her non-stop monologues. We learned she had had COVID and worked in the poker room. There had been some rain (and a tornado hit north of us), but when we got there, the sun was shining.
Then later in the week, I spent some time in the ER, entering Thursday morning and leaving Friday afternoon. It turned out to be a “better safe than sorry” situation with observation and tons of tests done “out of an abundance of caution.” I feel fine now, but you will understand why I’m behind on everything. I didn’t feel great when I got home on Friday because I hadn’t eaten since Wednesday at dinner. But I ate and rested, and we had a family Zoom shabbat, and it was wonderful to see my children. While in the ER, I finished the book club book I was reading, Lessons in Chemistry (though I missed the meeting), and then I re-read the entire book of Anne of Green Gables and started Anne of Avonlea. I remembered I had them on my Kindle.
On Saturday morning, I got a poetry acceptance. So, things seem to be looking up!
Saturday night we watched “Descendant,” an excellent documentary film on Netflix. It’s about the descendants of the people who were enslaved and brought to the US from Africa in 1860 aboard the ship Clotilda. The slave trade had been abolished in 1807, though slavery was not. I knew about the ship Clotilda, but not so much about the community of the descendants of the people captured and brought to Alabama. It’s a wonderful, moving documentary that also explores environmental and economic injustice, and includes audio of Zora Neale Hurston, excerpts of her book, Barracoon, and film footage that she shot from her interviews in the 1920s! I also started thinking about the word “descendant,” climbing down from an ancestor. Of course, if you go back far enough—despite what the White supremacists believe—we’re all related. See: this episode of Finding Your Roots or this interview with Henry Louis Gates
It Was a Week (in February)
It was a week of love and death,
of birth and yearning,
Winter holding tight, and Spring burning
bright on birds and flowers returning.
It was a week of wine and cheese
and heart-shaped things,
feathered clouds, like wings,
drumming rain, wind of violin strings.
It was a week of hawks and jays
of vulture flight
and shorter nights,
of elongated shadows in slanted light.
It was a week when war continued
and people died and lied, while some tried
to guide with firm stride
through the upside-down, and slippery slide–
of every week. But this week was not a love poem,
or maybe it was, this week of burning, turning, yearning. Or could be,
as winding like the river to the sea,
it breaks free. Maybe. If. Could be.
This year spring is coming very early. Our crocuses are blooming, and our daffodils are pushing up through the ground. Some places have daffodils in bloom already. We typically have lots of daffodils in bloom around Passover/Easter, unless it is a year when the holidays are late in April. But we still have days of wintry weather. I turned the heat off and turned it back on this week.
We celebrated Valentine’s with a wine and cheese virtual event from Tria in Philadelphia. We picked up the materials in the afternoon for that night’s event.
My husband’s birthday was Saturday. I made him a cheesecake, and we had food from a favorite Indian restaurant (and leftovers the next night!). I didn’t get a photo of his chicken dish.
On Sunday, we went to the Wilma Theater to see Kiss by Guillermo Calderón. It was the final live performance, but the play is streaming now. It is a powerful, moving, funny, shocking, provocative play. I just looked at my husband and said “wow” when it was over. You can read more here and also purchase a ticket for streaming here. We took our usual pre-theater walk.
We also watched the movie, Nanny (Amazon), that like Kiss, dealt with cultural misunderstandings, but also cultural displacement. It’s classified as horror, but it’s psychological horror with folklore. Anna Diop is excellent as the Senegalese woman working as a nanny in New York while saving money to bring her young son to the US.
“Whatever they turn out to be,
Let there be swarms of them,
Enough for immortality,
Always a star where we can warm ourselves.”
–Rebecca Elson, “Let There Always Be Light (Searching for Dark Matter)”
Still Searching
After the wind roars
shedding fractious tears, the moon
hums a lullaby, settles
robins and us, while owl
arises without a sound, as
mothers hide their young,
aware of danger, always
nature gives and takes, balance
and circles, eternal
questions fly without answers, hope
Geese and Goslings
with feathers and claws
waiting to snag some morsel
of truth. Perceiving the stars,
the ghostly past echoes
so we can find light in darkness.
Early Morning Light at Red Bank Battlefield in Late May
Now there is friendship
of decades, of children grown,
of new love, births, joy, sorrow.
Understanding conveyed
with a glance, life stories re-told.
Now the air is washed
the breeze whistles in major
chords, no lonesome blues, only
azure of spring dreams, no
matter that we’re living autumn.
Flora and Fauna, Fog and Sunshine
We watch the bats soar
into violet night, flit-
flitter, zipping like a thought,
synaptic connections,
we, a piece of a larger whole. . .
and still searching.
This is a wayra sequence, except for the final two words.
I woke up not feeling well this morning, but I’m fine now. It’s been a strange week. The weather again has been crazy—fog, sunshine, thunderstorms, tornado warnings, and now after summer heat and storms, we’re back to a beautiful spring day. The world continues to move towards authoritarianism. The Republican party here is openly embracing it and actively working to end our democratic system. They’re not even trying to hide it anymore. And their supporters cheer them on. Will they still cheer, I wonder, when they’re still poor and there are no government services to help them, no rules regulating business, health, transportation. . .?
We went to a surprise birthday party, and I’m going to hope no one had COVID, as the numbers are rising again.
We started watching Night Sky, a new series on Amazon Prime. All I needed to hear was Sissy Spacek and J.K. Simmons, and they are excellent, of course. They play a long-time married couple with a secret—buried deep under their old shed is a portal to another world. We’ve watched 3 ½ episodes so far, and I’m intrigued to see what will happen.
Awakened Again
Listen, see if my tongue speaks the language
you want to hear–
there’s a storm coming, you can feel it in the air–
the blossoms murmur
watch for the blue of after,
this is the secret told
in vine rustles, gentle then wild.
They love each breath,
each river bend—these birds,
these ghosts, carry song from gardens
on dawn winds, the buzz of awakened bees,
falling words
falling worlds
reborn
My message from the Oracle. There’s a lot going on in the world. Good luck to all who are marching and fighting for freedom here, in Ukraine, and throughout the world. I’ve had a busy week and a busy weekend, but I’ve just finished some work, so I will still try to catch up with reading posts over the weekend.
A Week in May
“If war has an opposite, gardens might sometimes be it”
Rebecca Solnit, Orwell’s Roses“Arise, women!” . . . “Say firmly: ‘We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies. Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience. We, women of one country, will be too tender of those of another country, to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs.’”
–Julia Ward Howe (quoted in Heather Cox Richardson, Letters from an American, May 7, 2022)
Extreme–
four seasons wander
through a week, and clocks strike
thirteen, people will die
death comes, we say of all
things bright and beautiful
yes, the daffodils gone—but reborn
again in the spring,
reawakened
to minority rule
we must rise, not as flowers, but trees
with ancient wisdom and roots that delve deep to
whisper underground in mycelium connections
to grow
with desire,
yes, like flowers, too, with perseverance,
in freedom and love
the birds sing and soar.
Resist the woman calls
with a strum on her guitar,
music the gift of moon and stars—
we echo, yet–
now, elaborate
on how peace reigns in the garden,
though they are always full of ghosts—
blooms arise from decay,
and time veers on hidden paths to circle back–
I see my mom backlit by flowers, sitting there
as she did once–and still does
in my dreams. She smiles.
We’ve had cool weather, warm weather, dry weather, and rainy weather this week. We went from walking in t-shirts to turning the heat back on and bundling up in fleece. Meanwhile, here in the US, the extremists are taking over. They are not conservatives; they are not the party of Lincoln; they are right-wing reactionaries and fanatics who want to set up an authoritarian state.
Yesterday was Mother’s Day, and I thought of how my mother helped the war effort during WWII, as the US fought (eventually) against the fascists. And then later, the progress that was made for human rights in her lifetime–that the fanatics who now control the Republican party are stripping away. Meanwhile, war continues in Ukraine . . .
Stepping down from the soapbox, I did have a lovely Mother’s Day with our daughter and her husband. She put together this beautiful brunch of nibbles and home-made bagels. Our older child and their wife sent a gift and called to say, “I love you.”
We saw Janis Ian in concert this week, her final North American Tour. It was a wonderful concert, and also a beautiful evening, so we took a walk in Collingswood, NJ before the concert. Here’s a link to “Resist.”
I’m hosting dVerse today, so I’ll be back later!
Dream Words
“In the land
of words,
I stand as still
as a tree,
and let the words
rain down on me.”
–Eloise Greenfield, “In the Land of Words”“I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars,”
—Walt Whitman from #31 From “Song of Myself”
My dream poem begins
Between a sonnet and an ode,
I can’t remember the rest,
it’s vanished in the universe of my mind,
a star to black hole or a comet to return with a blazing tail—
but me without the telescope to see within
this galaxy of thoughts,
my past, the fragments hurled through time,
and filtered through the space debris of memory.
I’m left trying to determine what I meant,
a borderland of form and matter,
formal structure and rhymed connections,
an abab skip to u–
the meter set by moon rise
and the rhythm by dawn choir.
I could sing the praises
of a leaf of grass, the beauty of the vulture’s glide,
the river tides, or
the scent of spring rain rising
the volta of each season, expressed
in a grand reveal, or a subtle exposition
unexpected,
yet familiar, everything
may change in a flash
light to darkness to light—
while we dream,
whether we remember . . . or not.
Movies, Books, This and That:
Good morning! A couple of nights ago, I dreamt an entire poem, and “Between a sonnet and an ode” was really the beginning.
April was quite a month of poetry, wasn’t it? Even though we still seem to alternate warm and cold days, the flowers say it’s now May, as do the goslings, and rabbits.
We fortified ourselves with bruschetta and roasted asparagus from a local farm stand to begin watching the final episodes of Ozark (Season 4, part 2). We watched two episodes—it’s intense, but no spoilers!
We had Chinese food and watched a Chinese movie (of course). 😏 Here is one that most likely few of my readers have seen, Gone with the Light. You’re welcome. The plot will sound familiar—there’s a flash of light and some people all over the world vanish. Trust me, that the movie becomes something quite different, a meditation on love. I enjoyed it very much.
I’m reading A Woman of Intelligence by Karin Tanabe.
I just couldn’t quite finish it last night, but I’m really enjoying this novel of a woman who feels trapped in her life as a housewife in 1950s NYC after working as a translator at the newly created UN. One day she agrees to become an FBI informant, also becoming involved in Cold War spying—and feeling more alive than she’s felt in a long time.
Life, Time, Art, Place
“It’s about how invisible things circulate within a couple.”
–Tony (Tim Roth) in “Bergman Island”
Here, the colors are over-the-rainbow bright,
and there are choices to be made with tea—
blueberry jam or orange marmalade?
It’s a dreamworld, but real as any other
while I’m there,
a few pounds of matter
can hold imagined universes–
I walk with ghosts on Fårö
the director a presence there
even after his death,
and invisible things drift
between married couples,
like jellyfish in the ocean,
growing in the midnight sun.
Or–perhaps I am in Ukraine,
the family’s cherry orchard
soon to be auctioned off,
revolutions looming—
conflicts appeased by volleyball,
or perhaps we are the ball
endlessly lobbed over and into,
finding a place just out of bounds.
I could be at a Cape Cod cottage
swimming in the cold pond water
early in the morning,
a lifetime lived over in a day–
time, space, places
existing always or never,
a morning moon that fades in day,
Morning Moon
a bird in flight–to beyond.
The truth and magic of physics
words may hang in the air,
but a bomb must fall,
and we jump once—
and over and over, remembering
a moment passed,
a split-second when everything changes,
or doesn’t.
Movies, Plays, Books, This and That:
I woke up from a dream this morning where I was in this place with such bright colors, like a Technicolor musical.
On Saturday, I participated in “There’s a Poem in this Place: Poets in the Blogosphere.” It was a wonderful experience, and I was honored to be included amongst such brilliant poets. I will share the video when it becomes available. I realized how important place is in the recent things I’ve watched and read. And how, sitting in a house in New Jersey, or in a theater in Philadelphia, we can be transported somewhere else. (Not an original thought, I know, but still . .) And artists, poets, writers of all types, musicians—all continue to create in war zones or in repressive societies, sometimes bearing witness to what is going on around them, and sometime imagining a better or different world.
I celebrated the poetry month event and the end of Passover with wine and pizza, and we watched the movie Bergman Island. It’s a Merril movie, involving a movie within a movie: “Two American filmmakers retreat to Fårö island for the summer and hope to find inspiration where Bergman shot his most celebrated films. As the days pass by, the lines between fantasy and reality begin to blur, and the couple is torn apart.” I like it more and more as I think about it. It’ one I’d like to watch again, as I was kind of tired.
We saw The Cherry Orchard at the Wilma Theater in Philadelphia, a pre-theater walk first, and wine and cheese at Tria afterward. An unusual production with slapstick humor, lines referencing contemporary pop culture, and yes, a volleyball game. A railway flipboard is a character who answers the characters’ questions. I haven’t yet decided if I liked it, but it was certainly interesting. The Russian director, Dmitry Krymov, who came here to direct the play just before the invasion of Ukraine, is now living in exile.
I read The Paper Palace: A Novel by Miranda Cowley Heller that takes place in both one day at a summer beach cottage and also through the course of a woman’s life, exploring love, secrets, and relationships. We’re also watching Picard—Season 2 is much better than Season 1, and there is time travel and Q!
If you’ve read this far: I’ve added a River Ghosts page to my Website with information and links.
Aubade
Star-birds murmur
with ancient light-breath, and if
they drop a seed–or two—
a rustle in the quiet night
between cycles of moon-song,
it is the thing you almost-saw—but
the flowers are there at bird-dawn
blooming,
magical, something like love.
There are terrible things happening in the world, but I went walking on a beautiful spring morning, and the Oracle saw that, too.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 