Rachel Epstein Book on John Haines - May the Owl Call Again

 Someone left a link to this book in a comment on a totally unrelated post - at least I didn't see any connection.  

But Rachel worked in the University of Alaska Anchorage bookstore for many years and put together many (100?  200?) forums in the bookstore.  Usually there was an author (or two) speaking, but sometimes it was on a topic of current interest.  

They were small intimate affairs where the audience had lots of opportunity to interact with the speakers.  

These soirees were exactly what should be happening on a University campus.  

I'm sure this is a noteworthy book so I'm delighted to let people know about it.  

From the Amazon page.

"Alaskan poet John Haines has been gone for more than a decade now, but his singular voice stays with me—the deep quiet of it and its enchantment, the spareness of his lines—Li Po transposed to the far north. Much else is here to muse on and admire—his charming letters to Rachel Epstein, photos of his homestead in Richardson, transcripts of talks given, memoirs of a vanished Alaska, selected essays, notes on the imagination’s relationship with the natural world, even recollections of his service on a destroyer in the Pacific toward the end of WW II. May the Owl Call Again is a moving and memorable collection, and at its heart is Haines’ haunting poetry.

—Marc Hudson, poet, translator, and an emeritus professor at Wabash College.

His most recent book of poems is East Of Sorrow.

May the Owl Call Again bears witness to the last years of Haines' life—his thoughts, humor, melancholy, a profound awareness of Alaska’s rhythms, and his struggles with engagement in a broken world. But, above all, it is a meditation on friendship and the solace of intimacy that can be found in the handwritten page. It’s a testament to care, the aches of connection and solitude, and the consolation of finding kinship with another. I found myself reading it all at once and walking away with a profound sense of gratitude for Epstein sharing this Haines with all of us. 

—Freya Rohn, poet and founder of Ariadne Archive"

For Anchorage folks I'd recommend calling Writers' Block bookstore ((907) 929-2665) to order it if it's not in.  Buy Alaskan authors writing about Alaskan people from local Alaskan bookstores.  

"... for Human Reason by itself cannot cope with the essence of Evil."

In Dante's 14th Century The Inferno, the poet recounts his tour through hell led by Virgil.  At that time there was a political divide between the Papacy and the Holy Roman Empire.  From Cliff Notes:

"The cause of this struggle was the papal claim that it also had authority over temporal matters, that is, the ruling of the government and other secular matters. In contrast, the HRE maintained that the papacy had claim only to religious matters, not to temporal matters.

In Dante's time, there were two major political factions, the Guelphs and the Ghibellines. Originally, the Ghibellines represented the medieval aristocracy, which wished to retain the power of the Holy Roman Emperor in Italy, as well as in other parts of Europe. The Ghibellines fought hard in this struggle for the nobility to retain its feudal powers over the land and the peopleIn contrast, the Guelphs, of which Dante was a member, were mainly supported by the rising middle class, represented by rich merchants, bankers, and new landowners.0 They supported the cause of the papacy in opposition to the Holy Roman Emperor."

It's much more complicated. You can go to the link to read more.  

But these are human beings struggling over power.  As the then 'people of today' [Is there a better way to say this?  The people on the border of the future perhaps?] and in one of the world's then power centers, it's clear they probably saw themselves as smarter than people in the past and in other parts of the world.  Part of the illusion 'people of today" have is that they 'knew' about things people before them didn't know about. And as humans, their thoughts are relevant to us still today.  

We in the US are in a similar situation.  We are at the cutting edge of technology and tend to believe we're smarter than people in the past.  And many, if not most, US folks feel superior to the rest of the world.  

This is, of course, a gross simplification, and I confess my ignorance of Dante's times.  But I do know that the human capacity for thought and emotion hasn't changed much in the last thousand years.  There were brilliant people a thousand years ago as well as people obsessed by power and other human needs.  Evolution hasn't made humans smarter in the last few millennia.  And we deceive ourselves when we think we are smarter.  We may know more, simply because we know of things that happened after our ancestors died, but that doesn't make us smarter or wiser than they were.  

Back to The Inferno

I haven't read this book for almost 60 years when I read it in such detail for class, that I got past the modern belief that old poetry is hard and found the beauty and brilliance of it.  The short part that I wanted to quote that is in the title of this post, as I read carefully, is from what now appears to me to be a summary of the poetry to come.  It appears, though I'm not certain, that the translator has written a brief description of the content before he presents the poetry itself.  I'd note that the translator is John Ciardi, who readers may remember used to do short commentaries on NPR.  

As I looked online, I also found a copy of The Inferno, but it has been completely rendered in prose. But that may help the reader.  

So instead of just citing the one line I'd originally intended, I'm going to give you all of Canto VIII.  First I'll give you the online version, which is more like a Cliff Notes rendition.  I'll do this in sections.  

Then I'll give you John Ciardi's description (I think that's what it is).  And finally I'll give you the poetry itself, which by then, should make sense.   I think you'll find the verse itself much easier to follow this way, though in fact, it isn't all that difficult. We're doing all of Canto VIII.

Ciardi:

"The Poets stand at the edge of the swamp, and a mysterious signal flames from the great tower.   It is answered from the darkness of the other side, and almost immediately the Poets see PHYLEGYAS, the Boatman of Styx, racing toward them across the water, fast as a flying arrow.  He comes avidly, thinking to find new souls for torment, and he howls with rage when he discovers the Poets.  Once again however, Virgil conquers wrath with a ward and Phlegyas reluctantly gives them passage." 

From the online version:  [I'd note this is available for public use]

Inferno Canto VIII:1-30 The Fifth Circle: Phlegyas: The Wrathful

I say, pursuing my theme, that, long before we reached the base of the high tower, our eyes looked upwards to its summit, because we saw two beacon-flames set there, and another, from so far away that the eye could scarcely see it, gave a signal in return. And I turned to the fount of all knowledge, and asked: ‘What does it say? And what does the other light reply? And who has made the signal?’ And he to me: ‘Already you can see, what is expected, coming over the foul waters, if the marsh vapours do not hide it from you.’

No bowstring ever shot an arrow that flew through the air so quickly, as the little boat, that I saw coming towards us, through the waves, under the control of a single steersman, who cried: ‘Are you here, now, fierce spirit?’ My Master said: ‘Phlegyas, Phlegyas, this time you cry in vain: you shall not keep us longer than it takes us to pass the marsh.’

Phlegyas in his growing anger, was like someone who listens to some great wrong done him, and then fills with resentment. My guide climbed down into the boat, and then made me board after him, and it only sank in the water when I was in. As soon as my guide and I were in the craft, its prow went forward, ploughing deeper through the water than it does carrying others.

And now for our first taste of Ciardi's rendition of the poetry into English:

[Other than taking a picture of the pages in the book, this use of bullets was the easiest way I could render the structure of the verses, but rest assured, the original doesn't have the bullets, just the form of one main line and two sub-lines.]

• Returning to my theme, I saw we came
• to the foot of a Seat Tower;  but long before
• we reached it through the marsh, two horns of flame
• flared from the summit, one from either side, 
• and then, far off, so far we scarce could see it
• across the mist, another flame replied
• I turned to that see of all intelligence
• saying: "What is this signal and counter-signal?
• Who is it speaks with fire across this distance?
• And he then:  "Look across the filthy slew:
• you may already see the one they summon,
• if the swamp vapors do not hide him from you."
• Now twanging boxspring ever shot an arrow
• that bored the air it rode dead to the mark
• more swiftly than the fling skiff whose prow
• shot toward us over the polluted channel
• with a signle steersman at the helm who called:
• "So, do i have you at last, you whelp of hell?"
• "Phlegyas, Phlegyas," said my Lord and Guide,
• "this time you waste your breath:  you have us only
• for the time it takes to cross to the other side."
• Phlegyas, the madman, blue his rage among
• those muddy marshes like a cheat deceived,
• or like a fool at some imagined wrong.
• My Guide, whom all the fiend's noise could not nettle,
• boarded the skiff, motioning me to follow;
• and not till I stepped aboard did it seem to settle
• Into the water.  At once we left the shore,
• that ancient hull riding more heavily
• than it had ridden in all of time before.

Did you notice the rhyme scheme.  In the book's intro Ciardi explains that he decided NOT to use the original's triple rhyming in the English.

Now back to John Ciardi's description as we move along

"As they are crossing, a muddy soul rises before them, it is FILIPPO ARGENTI, one of the Wrathful.  Dante recognizes him despite the filth with which he is covered, and he berates him soundly, even wishing to see him tormented further.  Virgil approves Dante's disdain and, as if in answer to Dante's wrath, Argenti is suddenly set upon by all the other sinners present, who fall upon him  and rip him to pieces."

Before going on, I'd note this context Dante's anger toward Filippo Argenti from Fandom:

"In history, Argenti gained the animosity of Dante Alighieri; the two were on opposite sides of the civil war between the Black Guelphs and White Guelphs. The most popular reason given for this mutual hatred is that Argenti opposed Dante's return to Florence, and while the poet was in exile, he took all of Dante's possessions for himself. As such, Dante writes of his enemy being placed the fifth circle of Hell among the Wrathful after death." 

And then back to the online version:

Inferno Canto VIII:31-63 They meet Filippo Argenti

While we were running through the dead channel, one rose up in front of me, covered with mud, and said: ‘Who are you, that come before your time?’ And I to him: ‘If I come, I do not stay here: but who are you, who are so mired?’ He answered: ‘You see that I am one who weeps.’ And I to him: ‘Cursed spirit, remain weeping and in sorrow! For I know you, muddy as you are.’

Then he stretched both hands out to the boat, at which the cautious Master pushed him off, saying: ‘Away, there, with the other dogs!’ Then he put his arms around my neck, kissed my face, and said: ‘Blessed be she who bore you, soul, who are rightly indignant. He was an arrogant spirit in your world: there is nothing good with which to adorn his memory: so, his furious shade is here. How many up there think themselves mighty kings, that will lie here like pigs in mire, leaving behind them dire condemnation!’

And I: ‘Master, I would be glad to see him doused in this swill before we quit the lake’. And he to me: ‘You will be satisfied, before the shore is visible to you: it is right that your wish should be gratified.’ Not long after this I saw the muddy people make such a rending of him, that I still give God thanks and praise for it. All shouted: ‘At Filippo Argenti!’ That fierce Florentine spirit turned his teeth in vengeance on himself. 

And now the verses themselves from Ciardi:

• And as we ran on that dead swamp, the slime
• rose before me, and from it a voice cried:
• "Who are you that come here before your time?"
• And I replied:  "If I come, I do not remain.  
• But you, who are you so fallen and so foul?"
• And he:  "I am one who weeps."  And I then:
• "May you weep and wail to all eternity,
• for I know you, hell-dog filthy as you are."
• Then he stretched both hands to the boat, but warily
• the Master shoved him back, crying, "Down! Down! 
• with the other dogs!" Then he embraced me saying:
• "Indignat spirit, I kiss you as you frown.
• Blessed be she who bore you.  In world and time
• this one was haughtier yet.  Not one unbending
• graces his memory.  Here he is shadow in slime.
• 
  
• How many living now, chancellors of wrath,
• shall come to lie here yet in this pigmire,
• leaving a curse to be their aftermath!"
• And I:  "Master, it would suit my whim 
• to see the wretch scrubbed down into swilll
• before we leave this stinking sink and him."
• And he to me:  "Before the other side
• shows through the mist, you shall have all you ask.  
• This is a wish that should be gratified."
• And shortly after, I saw the loathsome spirit
• so mangled by a swarm of muddy wraiths
• that to this day I praise and thank God for it.
• "After Filippo Argenti!" all cried together
• The maddog Florentine wheeled at their cry 
• and bit himself for rage.  I saw them gather.
• And there we left him.  And I say no more.
• But such a wailing beat upon my ears,
• I strained my eyes ahead to the far shore.

Now one final time back to Ciardi's description:

"The boat meanwhile has sped on, and before Argenti's screams have died away, Dante sees the flying red towers of Dis, the Capital of Hell.  The great walls of the iron city block the way to the Lower Hell.  Properly speaking, all the rest of Hell lies within the city walls, which separate the Upper and the Lower Hell.

Phlegyas deposits them at a great Iron Gate which they find to be guarded by the REBELLIOUS ANGELS.  These creatures of Ultimate Evil, rebels against God Himself, refuse to let the Lowest pass.  Even Virgil is powerless against them, for Human Reason by itself cannot cope with the essence of Evil.  Only Divine Aid can bring hope.  Virgil Accordingly sends up a prayer for assistance and waits anxiously for a Heavely Messenger to appear."

And as I get to this point, and look at the verse coming below, this language about human reasoning  being unable to persuade Evil, is missing, though the idea that God can open the gates is there.  

                                                                                                                                                       And now back to the online version

Inferno Canto VIII:64-81 They approach the city of Dis

We left him there, so that I can say no more of him, but a sound of wailing assailed my ears, so that I turned my gaze in front, intently. The kind Master said: ‘Now, my son, we approach the city they call Dis, with its grave citizens, a vast crowd.’ And I: ‘Master, I can already see its towers, clearly there in the valley, glowing red, as if they issued from the fire.’ And he to me: ‘The eternal fire, that burns them from within, makes them appear reddened, as you see, in this deep Hell.’

We now arrived in the steep ditch, that forms the moat to the joyless city: the walls seemed to me as if they were made of iron. Not until we had made a wide circuit, did we reach a place where the ferryman said to us: ‘Disembark: here is the entrance.'

                                                                                                                                                          Inferno Canto VIII:82-130 The fallen Angels obstruct them

I saw more than a thousand of those angels, that fell from Heaven like rain, above the gates, who cried angrily: ‘Who is this, that, without death goes through the kingdom of the dead?’ And my wise Master made a sign to them, of wishing to speak in private. Then they furled their great disdain, and said: ‘Come on, alone, and let him go, who enters this kingdom with such audacity. Let him return, alone, on his foolish road: see if he can: and you, remain, who have escorted him, through so dark a land.’

Think, Reader, whether I was not disheartened at the sound of those accursed words, not believing I could ever return here. I said: ‘O my dear guide, who has ensured my safety more than the seven times, and snatched me from certain danger that faced me, do not leave me, so helpless: and if we are prevented from going on, let us quickly retrace our steps.’ And that lord, who had led me there, said to me: ‘Have no fear: since no one can deny us passage: it was given us by so great an authority. But you, wait for me, and comfort and nourish your spirit with fresh hope, for I will not abandon you in the lower world.’

 

 

So the gentle father goes, and leaves me there, and I am left in doubt: since ‘yes’ and ‘no’ war inside my head. I could not hear what terms he offered them, but he had not been standing there long with them, when, each vying with the other, they rushed back. Our adversaries closed the gate in my lord’s face, leaving him outside, and he turned to me again with slow steps. His eyes were on the ground, and his expression devoid of all daring, and he said, sighing: ‘Who are these who deny me entrance to the house of pain?’ And to me he said: ‘Though I am angered, do not you be dismayed: I will win the trial, whatever obstacle those inside contrive. This insolence of theirs is nothing new, for they displayed it once before, at that less secret gate we passed, that has remained unbarred. Over it you saw the fatal writing, and already on this side of its entrance, one is coming, down the steep, passing the circles unescorted, one for whom the city shall open to us.’ 

Back now to Ciarda's verse.  This is the last portion I'm going to do.

• "My son, the Master said, "the City called Dis
• lies just ahead, the heavy citizens,
• the swarming crowds of Hell's metropolis."
• And I then: "Master, I already see
• the glow of its red mosques, as if they came 
• hot from the forge to smolder in this valley."
• And my all-knowing Guide:  "They are eternal 
• flues to eternal fire that rages in them
• and makes them glow across this lower Hell."
• And as he spoke we entered the vast moat
• of the sepulchre.  Its wall seemed made of iron
• and towered above us in our little boat.
• We circled through what seemed an endless distance
• before the boatman ran his prow ashore
• crying:  "Out! Out! Get out! This is the entrance."
• Above the gates more than a thousand shades
• of spirits purged from Heaven for its glory 
• cried angrily:  "Who is it that invades
• Death's Kingdom in his life?"  My Lord and Guide
• advanced a step before me with a sign
• that he wished to speak to some of them aside.
• They quieted somewhat, and one called, "Come,
• but come alone.  And tell that other one,
• who thought to walk so blithely through death's kingdom,
• he may go back along the same fool's way
• he came by.  Let him try his living luck.
• You who are dead can come only to stay."
• "O my beloved Master, my Guide in peril, 
• who time and time again have seen me safely
• along this way, and turned the power of evil,
• stand by me now," I cried, "in my heart's fright.  
• And if the dead forbid our journey to them, 
• let us go back together toward the light."
• My Guide then, in the greatness of his spirit:
• "Take heart.  Nothing can take our passage from us
• when such a power has given warrant for it.
• Wait here and feed your soul while I am gone
• on comfort and good hope;  I will not leave you
• to wander in this underworld alone."
• So the sweet Guide and Father leaves me here,
• and I stay on in doubt with yes and no
• dividing all my heart to hope and fear.
• I could not hear my Lord's words, but the pack 
• that gathered round him suddenly broke away
• howling and jostling and went pouring back,
• slamming the towering gate hard in his face.
• That great Soul stood alone outside the wall.
• Then he came back;  his pain showed in his pace.
• His eyes were fixed upon the ground, his brow
• had sagged from its assurance.  He sighed aloud:
• "Who has forbidden me the halls of sorrow?"
• And to me he said: "You need not be cast down
• by my vexation, for whatever plot
• these fiends may lay against us, we will go on.
• This insolence of theirs is nothing new:
• they showed it once at a less secret gate
• that still stands open for all that they could do-
• the same gate where you read the dead inscription;
• and through it at this moment a Great One comes.
• Already he has passed it and moves down
• ledge by dark ledge.  He is one who needs no guide,
• and at his touch all gates must spring aside."

This paperback is so old and so cheaply made that the pages were falling out.  

The Man From Porlock

 Indulge me as I borrow this poem from the Poetry Foundation website.  Coleridge was born in 1772, which means he was three years old when Paul Revere made his famous ride.  Four years old when the Declaration of Independence was written.  Nine when the Articles of Confederation were written.  How much would a child of that age have been aware of the momentous events that were taking place then?  He was 11 when the Treaty of Paris ended the war in 1783. 

This poem was written in 1797 when Coleridge was 25, when John Adams was succeeding George Washington as the second president of the United States.  And, a note to give poets and other writers hope, it was published in 1816, a year after Napoleon lost the Battle of Waterloo.  

You can't read it like a tweet.  You have to slow down.  The words flow in a different rhythm.  Let yourself relax and get caught up in that rhythm. 

Kubla Khan

BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

   Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round;

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:

And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;

And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

   The shadow of the dome of pleasure

   Floated midway on the waves;

   Where was heard the mingled measure

   From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

   A damsel with a dulcimer

   In a vision once I saw:

   It was an Abyssinian maid

   And on her dulcimer she played,

   Singing of Mount Abora.

   Could I revive within me

   Her symphony and song,

   To such a deep delight ’twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

So why have I introduced this poem here tonight?  In part because the post I was writing just isn't ready yet and I thought I shouldn't let too many days go by.  But that's not why I offer Coleridge.  Coleridge comes courtesy of Orhan Pamuk, the Nobel Prize winning Turkish novelist.  In his incredible book Snow, poet Ka goes to Kars, a town in the northeast of Turkey, as a journalist.  It snows the entire time he's there.  Ka has lived in Germany and is a famous Turkish poet and while the people of Kars have different suspicions of why he is in Kars, they know he's a famous poet and he's been asked to recite a recent poem.  

Just before his public recital, Necip, a local youth who has aspirations to be a poet as well, corners Ka and tells him about a landscape that appears to him when he tries to imagine a world where God does not exist.  Pamuk writes:

"He thought about Necip's landscape - he could remember his description word for word as if it were already a poem - and if no one came from Porlock he was sure he would soon be writing the poem in his notebook."

The reader of Snow is just as surprised and puzzled by the reference to the man from Porlock as you might be.  But Pamuk continues:

"The man from Porlock!  During our last years in school when Ka and I would stay up half the night talking about literature, this was one of our favorite topics.  Anyone who knows anything about English poetry will remember the note at the start of Coleridge's "Kubla Khan."  It explains how the work is a 'fragment of a poem, from a vision during a dream";  the poet had fallen asleep after taking medicine for an illness (actually, he'd taken opium for fun) and had seen, in his deepest sleep, sentences from the book he'd been reading just before losing consciousness, except that now each sentence and each object had taken on a life of its own in a magnificent dreamscape to become a poem.  Imagine, a magnificent poem that had created itself, without the poet's having exerted any mental energy!  Even more amazing, when Coleridge woke up he could remember this splendid poem word for word.  He got out his pen and ink and some paper and carefully began to write it down, one line after the other, as if he were taking dictation.  He had just written the last line of the poem as we know it when there came a knock at the door.  He rose to answer it, and it was a man from the nearby city of Porlock, come to collect a debt. As soon as he'd dealt with this man, he rushed back to his table, only to discover that he'd forgotten the rest of the poem, except for a few scattered words and the general atmosphere."

What does this have to do with anything?  I suppose someone could use it to interpret what is happening in the US today, but for me it's just an interesting, unexpected pleasure of reading Snow.

Though we all get visits from the man from Porlock at the most inopportune times.  

 

Oh, and it began to snow about the time I was reading tonight.  

You can learn more about Coleridge's contributions here.

Some Nice Stuff For A Break - Clouds, Sunflowers, And The Power Of Teachers

First, here's the view I saw at Goose Lake yesterday.  Clouds can be so amazingly beautiful.  

And sunflowers at UAA.  

My own sunflowers - planted from seed - are just now budding.  There is time for them to bloom still!  (I'm trying to put this on the right and have the text on the left, but Blogger has created a new "improved" version and I haven't figured out how to align the pictures and text the way I want them.)

And finally, I found this AOC twitter thread truly endearing.  

pic.twitter.com/eUhZ3P21uR

— Alberto Cairo (@AlbertoCairo) August 13, 2020

{If it's too small to read, click on it.  It will take you to the Twitter post.  Then click on the image again and it will let you see each of the four tweets enlarged.]

This young member of Congress is so intelligent and so creative!! And then you look at the old men in power and scratch your head.  If more people with the energy, decency, intelligence, and imagination were in Congress, we could have such an incredible country.  My only hope is that when the people of AOC's age now gain power in Congress is that they won't have been worn down by the tedium of fighting entrenched power.  But meanwhile this exchange with her 2nd Grade teacher is priceless.  

Pause For A Prayer

From A Concord Pastor Comments

Sometimes when I pray, Lord,
I imagine sitting next to you
on a park bench, on a warm day,
a grassy carpet at my feet...

Sometimes we just sit there,
you and I, just the two of us,
in a moment made holy
by the silence we share...

Or I pour out my heart to you
and share my cares and worries
while you listen
and gently wipe away my tears...

(It goes on, but that's the relevant part.)

My regular readers are probably scratching their heads by now.

Someone in Mountain View, California got to this old post ( What Do I Know?: Little India, The Arab Quarter, and Peranakan) of mine from a blog called A Concord Pastor Comments.  Nowadays, most of the browsers don't leave behind the search terms people use to get to your website.  When they did, I sometimes did a post looking at what people searched for and what they got.  (For example:  "Where Can I Ride A Trained Polar Bear?")  That's interesting for a blogger because you can see what people were looking for to get to your blog.  Sometimes it's a great match, other times it leaves you wondering.

But I rarely get to see the search terms these days.  Most often from Bing.  But this one had a link so I went to the Pastor's blog to see why my post got linked.

I wandered around the site not finding any links to my blog and then I saw the picture of the two people on the bench in the park.  I took that while I was visiting my son in Singapore where he was studying for his Masters degree and I was on my way home after volunteering three months in Chiengmai, Thailand.

It really is a perfect picture for the poem.  Few people seeing the picture and poem would imagine the two on the bench are Chinese and the park is in Singapore.   And I appreciate the Pastor linking to the source of the picture.  Not everyone who uses someone else's photo acknowledges where they got it.


It turns out there were about 12 other hits on the Singapore post all clustered together around the same time from around the country, but none of the others showed how they got to my blog.

Some Impeachment Cleansing - Old Post On Confucius And Thomas Jefferson

Serendipity plays a big role intros blog.  I got an email from someone who claims to be an English teacher praising an old post of mine and linking to her blog.  It has the normal SEO (Search Engine Optimization) fingerprints, but I did look at the link to my blog in the email.  I didn't see any naturally connections to her theme, but the page did include this four year old post about a movie on Confucius and also Thomas Jefferson useful for Trump induced brain damage. 

Think of this as an attempt to reset our national political/moral thermostat to normal and away from the crazy settings the Trump administration has reset it to.  Or think of it as a lozenge for the political sore throat Trump has given us all.  

Saturday, May 23, 2015

Something For Alaska And US Majority Leaders To Think About

 This comes from the movie Confucius. (孔子 (Kong Zi) Director: Mei Hu).

Confucius consents to an audience with the royal consort of Wei against the wishes of his disciples.  She has a reputation as a beautiful woman with a sketchy past and she clearly is intent on seducing the great scholar.

She starts off by asking about the Book of Odes, and the love poetry in it.

Screen shot from Confucius. (孔子 (Kong Zi) Director: Mei Hu)

He politely rejects her request to become his student and to meet again.  She then asks about his theories of government. 

Screen shots from Confucius. (孔子 (Kong Zi) Director: Mei Hu)

Screen shots from Confucius. (孔子 (Kong Zi) Director: Mei Hu)

Screen shots from Confucius. (孔子 (Kong Zi) Director: Mei Hu)

While there is much about Confucian teaching that is problematic today - particularly his rigid hierarchical power structure and his low regard for women - there is also much of use to our political leaders today.

I'd note that Thomas Jefferson, one of the inspirations of the Tea Party,  was something of a China scholar.  From a scholarly paper "Thomas Jefferson's Incorporating Positive Elements From Chinese Civilization" by Dave Wan. 
(Note that the poem Jefferson clips out in the passage below, is the one referred to by the Royal Consort of Wei in the film - "The Book of Odes."  The poem is a tribute to the Prince of Wei - several hundred years prior to Confucius.)

"Founding Inspiration from the Confucius’ Classics

       In the nineteenth century intellectuals in the United States often enjoyed creating personal scrapbooks, in which they would cut out their “favorite newspaper articles and poems” and past “them onto the backs of old letters to create a sort of personal literary anthology.”  None of us will feel surprised to know that Thomas Jefferson, “an Enlightenment intellectual,” created a scrapbook in his own way. Some time from 1801-1809 Jefferson included in the section of his scrapbook titled Poems of the Nations an ancient Chinese poem from The Book of Odes. His love of the poem provides us with a window through which we can look into his efforts to learn from Chinese culture. What he wanted to learn from the poem?

       Below is Jefferson’s clipping of the poem:

                                           A Very Ancient Chinese Ode
Translated by John Collegins seq
Quoted in the To Hio of Confuciues
(….from a manuscript presented in the Bodlein Library )

SEE! how the silvery river glides,
And leaves' the fields bespangled sides !
Hear how the whispering breeze proceeds!
Harmonious through the verdant reeds!
Observe our prince thus lovely shine!
In him the meek-ey'd virtues join!
Just as a patient carver will, Hard ivory model by his skill,
So his example has impress'd Benevolence in every b[re]ast;
Nice hands to the rich gems, behold,
Impart the gloss of burnish'd gold:
Thus he, in manners, goodly great,
Refines the people of his state. True lenity,
how heavenly fair !
We see it while it threatens,—spare!
What beauties in its open face!
In its deportment—what a grace!
Observe our prince thus lovely shine!
In him the meek-ey'd virtues join!
His mern'ry of eternal prime,
Like truth, defies the power of time!

       The poem pays tribute to Prince Wei from the State of Wei, who was loved, respected and remembered by the people of his state. Confucius (551-479 BC) highly praised Prince Wei, described in the poem, when he quoted this poem in his famous book, The Great Learning, to provide a standard to inspire other princes and leaders of various states to follow. Confucius said,

In the Book of Ode, ‘Ah! The former kings are not forgotten’ Future princes deem worthy what they deemed worthy, and love what they loved. The common people delighted in what they delighted them, and are benefited by their beneficial arrangements. It is on this account that the former kings, after they have quitted the world, are not forgotten."

Important themes that we should remember from Confucius is his emphasis on ethics, on education, on harmony and treating people with respect and taking care of the poor and less fortunate. 

Just something to think about on a cloudy Saturday.


____________________________
I don't particularly recommend this film as a film.  But as an easy (and visually beautiful) overview of the life of Confucius it will do.   It tends to give us a series of vignettes of his life,  with very little character development.   The two actors in these screenshots are (from Wikipedia):

• Chow Yun-fat as Confucius or Kong Qui, also known by the honorary title Zhong Ni.
• Zhou Xun as Nanzi, the royal consort of Wei.

Zhou Xun was in Dai Sijie's Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress (2002) a film very much worth seeing.  She was also in Cloud Atlas.  

If Logic And Reason Don't Work, Perhaps It's Time For Poetry

Home 

by Warsan Shire

"You have to understand
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land"

The bio below is from Seekers Club:

"Warsan Shire is a Kenyan-born Somali poet, writer and educator based in London. Born in 1988, Warsan has read her work extensively all over Britain and internationally – including recent readings in South Africa, Italy, Germany, Canada, North America and Kenya- and her début book, ‘TEACHING MY MOTHER HOW TO GIVE BIRTH’ (flipped eye), was published in 2011. Her poems have been published in Wasafiri, Magma and Poetry Review and in the anthology ‘The Salt Book of Younger Poets’ (Salt, 2011). She is the current poetry editor at SPOOK magazine. In 2012 she represented Somalia at the Poetry Parnassus, the festival of the world poets at the Southbank, London. She is a Complete Works II poet. Her poetry has been translated into Italian, Spanish and Portuguese. Warsan is also the unanimous winner of the 2013 Inaugural Brunel University African Poetry Prize."

"Graham Promises Investigation Of ‘The Effort To Destroy This Good Man’" - Give Me A Break

I've been thinking how many bizarre, even unimaginable (not long ago) headlines we've been seeing.  Some of this, of course, is hyped by the media (online probably worse than print) to get more hits and sell more ads.  The title quote comes from TPM.

But really, Sen. Graham, I'm so glad you've come to the aid of all men who might be falsely accused of sexual abuse.  From a Stanford (sure, biased source since Dr. Ford teaches there) Men's anti sexual assault group (group of traitors to their gender, right Sen. Graham?):

Only about 2% of all rape and related sex charges are determined to be false, the same percentage as for other felonies (FBI). So while they do happen, and they are very problematic when they do, people claim that allegations are false far more frequently than they are and far more frequently than for other crimes.  Put another way, we are much more likely to disbelieve a woman if she says she was raped than if she says she was robbed, but for no good reason.
On a related note, only about 40% of rapes are ever reported to the police, and this is partly because victims know that if their claim becomes public, their every behavior will be scrutinized, they will be shamed for their sexual history, and they will be labeled as lunatic, psychotic, paranoid, and manipulative.  Just because someone does not report their crime does not mean it did not happen.  Furthermore, only one in two claims lead to prosecution, so if the DA decides not to prosecute, that says nothing about whether or not it happened.  http://www.rainn.org/get-information/statistics/reporting-rates)

2% are false claims, and 40% of such crimes are never reported, so that would bump down the 2% figure.

And Sen. Graham is worried about men who are falsely accused, the 2%, rather than all the women  (and men) who are sexually abused and assaulted with impunity.  OK, I know this is one specific man.  But unless you are ideologically blinded, or so corrupted by campaign funders, or worried that accusations like this might affect you and lots of other male abusers you hang out with, it's hard not to find Ford's testimony totally credible and Kavanaugh's evasive at best and sprinkled with lies - big and small - at worst.

What we learned, incontrovertibly, at the hearings was:

1.  In a time of personal crisis, Kavanaugh fell apart.  He did not remain calm and rational.  He blew up.  If Dr. Ford had acted like Kavanaugh, she would have been pilloried in the committee.  Anger is an emotion, one that shows great loss of control.  I don't care if this was a personal crisis. This man is being considered for the Supreme Court.  Only nine people get that privilege.  I'm sure there are plenty of qualified candidates who are able to control their anger and act more like Dr. Ford than Judge Kavanaugh.

2.  He lied about the meaning of words he wrote in his high school year book.  He lied about getting into Yale totally on his own merits, that he had no connections.  (He was a legacy student because his grandfather went to Yale.)  [UPDATE 3pm 9/30/18 - Nathan J. Robinson wrote the detailed, lie-by-lie analysis "How we know Brett Kavanaugh is lying" I didn't have the time or energy to do.  And he does a much better job than I would have had I had the time and energy.  So thanks Nathan.  Here's his summary of what he's doing in this piece:

"In this case, when we examine the testimony of Brett Kavanaugh and Christine Blasey Ford honestly, impartially, and carefully, it is impossible to escape the following conclusions:
Brett Kavanaugh is lying.
There is no good reason to believe that Christine Blasey Ford is lying. This does not mean that she is definitely telling the truth, but that there is nothing in what Kavanaugh said that in any way discredits her account.
I want to show you, clearly and definitively, how Brett Kavanaugh has lied to you and lied to the Senate. I cannot prove that he committed sexual assault when he was 17, and I hesitate to draw conclusions about what happened for a few minutes in a house in Maryland in the summer of 1982. But I can prove quite easily that Kavanaugh’s teary-eyed “good, innocent man indignant at being wrongfully accused” schtick was a facade. What may have looked like a strong defense was in fact a very, very weak and implausible one."

It's long, but he needs time to spell it all out,]

I recognize that these are the kind of lies Kavanaugh worked to attack when they were coming from Bill Clinton.  There the kind of lies one tells to avoid bigger consequences - like not being confirmed by the Senate.

3.  He openly showed his political bias.  "Since my nomination in July, there’s been a frenzy on the left to come up with something, anything to block my confirmation.”

He showed himself to be a bitter, self-centered, jerk.

This was not a profile in courage.  He did not pull himself up and and calmly and rationally defend his actions.  I suspect that would have been hard to do.

Graham's accusation of "the effort to destroy this good man,"  which echoes Kavanaugh's words, should be seen in the context of Kavanaugh's own work for Ken Starr on the impeachment of Bill Clinton.

A 1998 memo written by Kavanaugh that was released in full Monday by the National Archives underscores his distaste for Bill Clinton’s Oval Office affair in apparently purposefully graphic terms. As the team prepared to interview Clinton, Kavanaugh advises it to put the president through the wringer “piece by painful piece” when questioning him.

This is what Kavanaugh wanted to do to Clinton - to destroy him.  So naturally he believes the Democrats would do the same thing.  Is the K in Kavanaugh for Karma?

There may be people out to destroy Kavanaugh.  The more I learn about him, the more I realize he's been a political hitman disguised as hard-working former alter-boy, who joined the Federalist Society judicial cult of originalism that favors the powerful over other citizens, and served that cause to the cusp of a still possible Supreme Court position.

I think most people who oppose him fear his ideological commitment to originalism would do great damage to the United States.

His performance the other day, in my mind, disqualifies him for this position for the reasons listed above, regardless of whether he did the deeds Dr. Ford alleges he did.  This hearing is NOT about whether Kavanaugh sexually abused Dr. Ford - though the Republicans are making it that, and short of eyewitness reports, or better yet, video, nothing can prove it to their satisfaction.

It's really - as Graham said earlier - not about truth, but about power.

Alaskans, your calls to Sen. Murkowski carry more weight than those of people outside of Alaska. Call her.  Email her.  Even if you've already done so ten times.  And send copies to Sen. Sullivan.  He's not going to vote against Kavanaugh, but it's important to let him know you're watching and you aren't happy.

Murkowski, Lisa - (R - AK)

522 Hart Senate Office Building Washington DC 20510

(202) 224-6665

Contact: www.murkowski.senate.gov/public/index.cfm/contact

Sullivan, Dan - (R - AK)

702 Hart Senate Office Building Washington DC 20510

(202) 224-3004

Contact: www.sullivan.senate.gov/contact/email

I did an hour bike ride this morning, had a hot malasada, and now I'm going to play in the water.

















And a reminder about Senate courage from the JFK Presidential Library:




And here are some study/discussion questions for students that the Senate Judiciary Committee might want to work on as a group.

And some poetry on courage from a rich, white, male, imperialist poet (Rudyard Kipling) that is sure to appeal more to Sen. Graham.  It begins:

"If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;"

Political Fan Culture: Democrats And Republicans Are Rival Sports Teams

Good  metaphors work well in love poems.

My love is of a birth as rareAs ’tis for object strange and high;
It was begotten by Despair
Upon Impossibility.

Mixed metaphors work for comedians. 

"We can talk until the cows turn blue."

But when metaphors are used in politics, they often  oversimplify and, if they catch on, magnify one aspect of the compared idea,  creating their own new distortion of reality.  

I don't like the tribal metaphor being used for today's politics.  We're uncivil because we are only associating with 'our tribes' and everyone else is the enemy.  From New York Magazine:

"How do you live peacefully for years among fellow citizens and then find yourself suddenly engaged in the mass murder of humans who look similar to you, live around you, and believe in the same God, but whose small differences in theology mean they must be killed before they kill you?" 

My problem here is that it gives tribalism and tribes a bad name.  In the USA, 'tribes' most often refers to Native American tribes.  This idea that tribes are ruthless and and irrational surely is a left-over of several centuries of depicting Native Americans as blood-thirsty savages, to justify taking their land and massacring them if they didn't leave it peacefully.

So, rather than tribes,  I compare (with caution) many partisans for either Democrats or Republicans or, broader, for liberals and conservatives, to sports fan .  But sports fans are us, not some 'other' that we traditionally vilify.  And we know people who are die-hard sports fans, whose highs and lows in life are correlated to the wins and losses of their beloved team.  A younger me enjoyed the joys and agonies of the UCLA Bruins, so I understand.  (But then I went on to graduate school at cross-town rival USC, but I still root for UCLA, but with much less passion.)

When you're a sports fan, you kind of know that you're exaggerating, stretching the truth, lying even,  when you brag about your team and vilify fans of the other team.  Everything is about winning or losing.  It's a game. (Or at least it used to be, before sports became a huge business. I can't find a perfect reference for this quickly, but here's one and here's another.)   Being a fan is a form of theater.   You are allowed to jump and scream and dress up funny and say terrible things about the enemy.  Your manic behavior is understood.

But it's different when people apply those same emotions, loyalties, and behaviors  to political parties and to politicians.

We see fans totally emotionally connected to their parties and ideologies - believing only the good about their team and calling the bad 'lies.'  (I believe that the Right has a lot more fans who ignore facts they disagree with, or simply ignore facts. College graduates earn more because they have better reasoning skills.*  And they seem less likely to be Trump fans.  There are studies that show that white males with no degree to be the strongest Trump supporters.  But people on the left are also susceptible to believing hoaxes that support their views. It's just, they're more likely to recognize it when their error is pointed out.  But the right has no monopoly on emotionally disturbed fans.)

Many commentators and academics tell us that emotion, not rationality, rules people's decisions.  But when we do this in sports, most fans don't hate their friends who root for the other team.  But in politics today, like in sports, winning boosts our spirits and self-esteem.  But the game doesn't end at the end of the day, or even after the election.  So turning back into a normal human being doesn't happen.

And as they say about some paranoid people - there really are people trying to get them.  And we're at a point where our democracy is in significant danger.


*About college grad reasoning skills.  This surely isn't universally true.  Some get into (and out of) college because they've learned how to succeed in educational settings, because their parents can help them with thinking skills at home and pay for extra learning experiences, not to mention college expenses.  And college grads can get that degree without improving their thinking skills.  Or maybe they had better skills before college and college didn't help them.  But the skills helped them get into college.

This footnote is here because just about any sentence one writes can be taken apart and criticized.  And I'd like to think that trying to minimize the risk of misinterpretation is one reason I write longer, rather than shorter, posts.  We're all told to keep it short, because that leads to better writing and more clicks.  But good, crisp writing is less important than accuracy.  And I'm not penalized here for fewer clicks.  

Simple writing works better when we all have the same world views. (When we all share the same erroneous beliefs.)   And the political fan culture of today, combined with social media, seems to relish misunderstanding the other team's words.  

Trump And The Arts

Prediction:  The period beginning roughly in 2017 will be known in the future for its burst of artistic creativity in music, literature, poetry, painting, graffiti, and all other forms of human creativity.

Anthony Dickerson - Life Amongst The Resistance

Last week I encouraged folks to support artists by going to their performances, buying their works, and letting them know you had their backs.  So as I walked out of the Elliott Bay Book Company today, and this man asked if I liked poetry, I realized that this was one of the moments I was talking about.

What I didn't realize was how powerful his recital would be.  He asked for a word.  I gave him 'resistance.'   So here's Anthony Dickerson live on the curb outside the Elliott Bay Book Company at 1521 10th Ave Capitol Hill Seattle.

Clutter Wars: Mom Liked Pussy Willows, Files, Neighborhood Clutter

My mom's house and garage are a great stimulus to clean out our own stuff and we're working on it daily.  But the inflow of paper courtesy of the US mail makes it a never ending process.

But then there's stuff that has meaning.  For instance, my mom loved pussy willows and had bunches of dried pussy willows in vases around the house when she died.  My heartless friends saved me lots of agonizing decision making by glaring at me and pointing to the garden recycling bin in LA.  (Thank you, really.)

But as I wandered our snow free yard recently, I couldn't help but break off some fresh pussy willows.  There's a reason my mom like them.





So I put them in a vase in the bathroom.



Then I saw the little glass bowl where I've put the even littler blue velvet bag with some of my mom's ashes.  Since my mom like the pussy willows, I thought I'd put her next to them.

I understand this could seem rather bizarre, but having a bit of my mom nearby gives me some sense of normalcy, that she's still around.  I can share things with her that she would like.  Fortunately, I have no sense of her being there when I wouldn't want her watching me.   She always gave me lots of space and freedom and never guilted me over things.  That was a great gift.

As I said, I've been tackling old paperwork, sorting through files upon files.  One pile is for direct transit to the recycling bin.  (I've been removing this pile before getting more files, so there was a lot more than just this.)  Another pile has to be shredded first - anything with identifiers, particularly social security numbers.

As you can see in the picture, there are a lot of empty folders too.  Some go to recycling, some I might reuse.

And there are things to sort through more carefully.  For instance, I found a small envelope from my father with a handwritten label, "Some poetry Steve might enjoy reading."   There's insight to parts of my father's life we never discussed when he was alive.  And then there's a poem called "Heimweh."  Only the title is in German (it means homesick).  It's about suddenly thinking about his childhood home and how it made him cry..  (His aunt in Chicago helped him secure a visa so he could flee Nazi Germany, but he was never able to secure visas to get his parents out.)   The last stanza gives some justification for keeping some of this stuff.

"I shed my tears in agony
for I was mourning,
      but in vain,
since all the world that
      used to be
will never be again"

My father lives here still with me, through his poems, his old letters, some of his things and documents.  This document was in the same folder with the poems.

It fills in bits and pieces of his life I knew very little about.  This was in files I'd glanced through after he died and knew enough to keep for sorting later.  Later is here, I guess.  It's back into another keep and look through later pile.  But I'm getting rid of a lot of the stuff that is just taking up room.  And while the historian/archeologist in me would keep all the old income tax folders and checkbooks, because they do document the times I lived and how we spent money and how much things cost, my mom's garage screams out at me to just shred it.  

Here's the nearly empty file cabinet where all this came from.  There are some folders I still need to go through and sort more carefully, but this does feel like I've accomplished something.







And then I walked around the block to get some fresh air and was reminded that my clutter level wasn't all that bad.







Here's the house that burned last month.

And here's another neighbor's backyard.  

And front yard.





Stuff!!  Glad I don't have to clean out their yard and house.