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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220901
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20221006
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  9/1/22
DESCRIPTION:The River of Life by William Blake \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n\nSeptember 1\, 2022 \n  \nWilliam Blake \n  \nI must Create a System or be enslav’d by another Man’s. \n—William Blake \n  \nWilliam Blake might be the most imaginative person who ever lived. Along with Wordsworth\, Coleridge\, Keats and Shelley\, he is considered one of the major English Romantic poets. His paintings\, drawings and etchings are enshrined in museums around the world. He is a Christian\, but his Christianity is unique to him. In the English poetic tradition\, he saw himself as part of a tradition that included Chaucer\, Shakespeare and Milton. As a prophet\, he saw himself as in the tradition of Isaiah\, Ezekiel\, Jesus\, John of Patmos\, Dante and Milton. He created his own mythology. \n  \nIn issue #16 (July 2\, 2020) of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding\, I included three poems by Blake: “Infant Joy\,” “Laughing Song\,” and “The School Boy.” These poems illustrated the theme of innocence and experience that I was exploring in that issue—especially how we lose the innocence of our childhood\, and the question of whether we can regain that lost innocence  \n  \n(https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-7-2-20/). \n  \n \n  \nHere are some of my favorite poems\, quotes and writings of William Blake: \n  \nLove to faults is always blind; \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d and unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind. \n* \n  \nArt Degraded\, Imagination Denied\, War Governed the Nations. \n* \n  \nChildren of the future Age \nReading this indignant page\, \nKnow that in a former time \nLove! sweet Love! was thought a crime. \n* \n  \nThe GARDEN of LOVE \n  \nI went to the Garden of Love\, \nAnd saw what I never had seen: \nA Chapel was built in the midst\, \nWhere I used to play on the green. \n  \nAnd the gates of this Chapel were shut\, \nAnd “Thou shalt not” writ over the door; \nSo I turn’d to the Garden of Love \nThat so many sweet flowers bore; \n  \nAnd I saw it was filled with graves\, \nAnd tomb-stones where flowers should be; \nAnd Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds\, \nAnd binding with briars my joys and desires. \n* \n  \n \n  \nTo see a World in a Grain of Sand \nAnd a Heaven in a Wild Flower\, \nHold infinity in the palm of your hand \nAnd Eternity in an hour. \n* \n  \nSome aphorisms from “THE MARRIAGE of HEAVEN and HELL”: \n  \nThe road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. \nHe whose face gives no light\, shall never become a star. \nEternity is in love with the productions of time. \nIf the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise. \nPrisons are built with stones of Law\, Brothels with bricks of Religion. \nOne thought fills immensity. \nThe thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest. \nThe soul of sweet delight can never be defil’d. \nAs the catterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on\, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys. \nExuberance is Beauty. \n* \n  \n \n  \nFrom the Preface to Blake’s poem “Milton”: \n  \nShakespeare & Milton were both curb’d by the general malady & infection from the silly Greek & Latin slaves of the Sword. \nRouze up\, O Young Men of the New Age! set your foreheads against the ignorant Hirelings! For we have Hirelings in the Camp\, the Court & the University\, who would\, if they could\, for ever depress Mental & prolong Corporeal War. \n* \n  \nThe Little Vagabond \n  \nDear Mother\, dear Mother\, the Church is cold\, \nBut the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm: \nBesides I can tell where I am us’d well\, \nSuch usage in heaven will never do well. \n  \nBut if at the Church they would give us some Ale\, \nAnd a pleasant fire our souls to regale\, \nWe’d sing and we’d pray all the live-long day\, \nNor ever once wish from the Church to stray. \n  \nThen the Parson might preach\, & drink\, & sing\, \nAnd we’d be as happy as birds in the spring; \nAnd modest dame Lurch\, who is always at Church\, \nWould not have bandy children\, nor fasting\, nor birch. \n  \nAnd God\, like a father rejoicing to see \nHis children as pleasant and happy as he\, \nWould have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel\, \nBut kiss him\, & give him both drink and apparel. \n* \n  \nFrom “THE MARRIAGE of HEAVEN and HELL”: \n  \nThe ancient Poets animated all sensible objects with Gods or Geniuses\, calling them by the names and adorning them with the properties of woods\, rivers\, mountains\, lakes\, cities\, nations\, and whatever their enlarged & numerous senses could perceive.  \nAnd particularly they studied the genius of each city & country\, placing it under its mental deity; \nTill a system was formed\, which some took advantage of\, & enslav’d the vulgar by attempting to realize or abstract the mental deities from their objects: thus began Priesthood; \nChoosing forms of worship from poetic tales. \nAnd at length they pronounc’d that the Gods had order’d such things. \nThus men forgot that All deities reside in the human breast. \n* \n  \nFrom Enion’s lament from “The Four Zoas\, Night the Second”: \n  \n“…What is the price of Experience? do men buy it for a song? \nOr wisdom for a dance in the street? No\, it is bought with the price \nOf all that a man hath\, his house\, his wife\, his children. \nWisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy\, \nAnd in the wither’d field where the farmer plows for bread in vain. \nIt is an easy thing to triumph in the summer’s sun \nAnd in the vintage & to sing on the waggon loaded with corn. \nIt is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted\, \nTo speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer\, \nTo listen to the hungry raven’s cry in wintry season \nWhen the red blood is fill’d with wine & with the marrow of lambs. \nIt is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements\, \nTo hear the dog howl at the wintry door\, the ox in the slaughter house moan; \nTo see a god on every wind & a blessing on every blast; \nTo hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies’ house; \nTo rejoice in the blight that covers his field\, & the sickness that cuts off his children\, \nWhile our olive & vine sing & laugh round our door\, & our children bring fruits & flowers. \nThen the groan & the dolor are quite forgotten\, & the slave grinding at the mill\, \nAnd the captive in chains\, & the poor in the prison\, & the soldier in the field \nWhen the shatter’d bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead. \nIt is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity: \nThus could I sing & thus rejoice: but it is not so with me.” \n* \n  \nTwo passages from “A Vision of the Last Judgment”: \n  \nMen are admitted into Heaven not because they have curbed & govern’d their Passions or have No Passions\, but because they have Cultivated their Understandings. The Treasures of Heaven are not Negations of Passion\, but Realities of Intellect\, from which all the Passions Emanate Uncurbed in their Eternal Glory. The Fool shall not enter into Heaven let him be ever so Holy. Holiness is not The Price of Enterance into Heaven. Those who are cast out are All Those who\, having no Passions of their own because No Intellect\, Have spent their lives in Curbing & Governing other People’s by the Various arts of Poverty & Cruelty of all kinds. Wo\, Wo\, Wo to you Hypocrites. \n  \nand:  \n  \nThe Last Judgment is an Overwhelming of Bad Art & Science. Mental Things are alone Real; what is call’d Corporeal\, Nobody Knows of its Dwelling Place: it is in Fallacy\, & its Existence an Imposture. Where is the Existence Out of Mind or Thought? Where is it but in the Mind of a Fool? Some People flatter themselves that there will be No Last Judgment & that Bad Art will be adopted & mixed with Good Art\, That Error or Experiment will make a Part of Truth\, & they Boast that it is its Foundation; these people flatter themselves: I will not Flatter them. Error is Created. Truth is Eternal. Error\, or Creation\, will be Burned up\, & then\, & not till Then\, Truth or Eternity will appear. It is Burnt up the Moment Men cease to behold it. I assert for My Self that I do not behold the outward Creation & that to me it is hindrance & not Action; it is as the Dirt upon my feet\, No part of Me. “What\,” it will be Question’d\, “When the Sun rises\, do you not see a round disk of fire somewhat like a Guinea?” O no\, no\, I see an Innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying ‘Holy\, Holy\, Holy is the Lord God Almighty.’ I question not my Corporeal or Vegetative Eye any more than I would Question a Window concerning a Sight. I look thro’ it & not with it. \n* \n \n  \nBlake created a mythology that he elaborated in what are known as his “prophetic” poems. Carl Jung spoke of four basic functions: thinking\, feeling\, sensing (sense perception)\, and intuition. Blake had a similar idea. He said: “Four Mighty Ones are in every Man.” These four “zoas” are Los (Imagination)\, Luvah (Love or Emotion)\, Urizen (Reason)\, and Tharmas (the Senses or Body). The biggest difference is that Jung uses the term “intuition\,” while Blake uses the term “imagination.” For Blake\, a healthy person\, or a healthy Humanity\, should have these four things in balance. In his day\, he felt that Reason had usurped the throne\, and everything was tyrannizing over everything else. Imagination\, especially\, was in prison. \n  \nThis is just the tip of the iceberg. If these quotes have piqued your interest\, start by exploring Blake: Complete Writings\, edited by Geoffrey Keynes. Abridged versions of Blake\, leave out all kinds of treasures that he wrote in his notebooks\, et cetera. A good introduction to William Blake is Eternity’s Sunrise by Leo Damrosch. If you want to really get into William Blake\, the best book is Northrop Frye’s Fearful Symmetry. S. Foster Damon’s A Blake Dictionary is a helpful guide to Blake’s mythology. You can find out about Zoas and Enion and Albion and Vala and Nobodaddy and the Eyes of God\, et cetera… \n  \n  \nThe tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the Eyes of others only a Green thing which stands in the way. \n—William Blake (November 28\, 1757-August 12\, 1827)
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-9-1-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220915
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20221015
DTSTAMP:20260426T165304
CREATED:20220915T231129Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220915T231534Z
UID:3250-1663200000-1665791999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  9/15/22
DESCRIPTION:photo by Howard Thoresen \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nSeptember 15\, 2022 \n  \nThe corn was orient and immortal wheat\, which never should be reaped\, nor was ever sown. I thought it had stood from everlasting to everlasting. The dust and stones of the street were as precious as gold: the gates were at first the end of the world. The green trees when I saw them first through one of the gates transported and ravished me\, their sweetness and unusual beauty made my heart to leap\, and almost mad with ecstasy\, they were such strange and wonderful things. The Men! O what venerable and reverend creatures did the aged seem! Immortal Cherubims! And young men glittering and sparkling Angels\, and maids strange seraphic pieces of life and beauty! Boys and girls tumbling in the street\, and playing\, were moving jewels. I knew not that they were born or should die; But all things abided eternally as they were in their proper places. Eternity was manifest in the Light of the Day\, and something infinite behind everything appeared: which talked with my expectation and moved my desire. The city seemed to stand in Eden\, or to be built in Heaven. The streets were mine\, the temple was mine\, the people were mine\, their clothes and gold and silver were mine\, as much as their sparkling eyes\, fair skins and ruddy faces. The skies were mine\, and so were the sun and moon and stars\, and all the World was mine; and I the only spectator and enjoyer of it. I knew no churlish proprieties\, nor bounds\, nor divisions: but all proprieties and divisions were mine: all treasures and the possessors of them. So that with much ado I was corrupted\, and made to learn the dirty devices of this world. Which now I unlearn\, and become\, as it were\, a little child again that I may enter into the Kingdom of God. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne (1636-1674)\, writing about his childhood\, from Centuries of Meditations\, Third Century\, Meditation 3 \n* \n  \nSlowness \n  \n Eighteen years ago I was living in a small homesteader’s cabin in Central Oregon. One day I was chopping vegetables\, preparing a meal with great efficiency\, when for some reason\, or no reason\, I suddenly slowed down. Instead of moving rapidly from cutting board to stove\, I walked s-l-o-w-l-y. And something happened. It was quiet. I hadn’t noticed it\, but my mind had been busy with something or other\, while I was busy preparing dinner. Now I wasn’t “preparing dinner.” As I took each step\, my bare feet felt the floor. It felt like a blessing to be walking\, to be alive. The broccoli was beautiful. Everything was perfect. \n  \nI have performed this experiment thousands of times since then. I know that if I slow down I see what I’m looking at. I taste what I’m eating. Every thing is beautiful. Perfect. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nWill We Wake? \n  \nThe main project of life is to wake from the dark— \nto rise up\, to step forth foraging for the good. Do we \nhave it in us now? When the newsreel at the Sunday \nmatinee is a bad dream\, you leave the theater\, right? \nYou decide it’s high time to choose a different story. \nWhy worship lies\, denial\, heartless swagger\, when\, \noutside\, the sun shines on both suffering and true joy? \nAren’t we here to leave the cave of fables\, help \nthe hurt\, and begin to repair the injured Earth? \n  \nAm I preaching to the choir? Yes\, I speak to \nthose already singing. Sing ever more ravishing  \nsongs\, I say\, so sleepers may awake. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \n#292 Every Step a Prayer \n  \n“In the spirit of Buddhism\, anything you do that is accompanied by mindfulness\, concentration\, and insight can be considered a prayer. When you drink your tea in forgetfulness\, you are not truly alive because you’re not there\, you’re not mindful\, and you’re not concentrated. That moment is not a moment of practice. \n    When you hold your cup and drink your tea in mindfulness and concentration\, it’s like you’re performing a sacred ritual\, and that is a prayer. When you walk\, if you enjoy every step\, if every step nourishes and transforms you\, then every step is a prayer. When you sit in solidity and freedom\, when you breathe in and out in mindfulness\, when you touch the wonders of life\, that is meditation and that is also prayer.” \nfrom Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \n    Well\, I love this idea: every step a prayer\, anything done in mindfulness\, concentration and insight can be considered a prayer\, a meditation. \n    Sometimes just the word\, ‘meditation’ can sound daunting and not attainable—or attainable only with difficulty. And the idea of prayer\, the same. Does meditation require a Buddhist temple\, a zafu\, half-closed eyes\, touching fingertips? Does prayer require a church\, prayer book\, kneeling in a pew\, fingers steepled solemnly? Thank goodness—no! \n    It simply requires paying attention to whatever you’re doing\, in that moment\, and always. It may be difficult\, but it isn’t daunting. I can breathe deeply and place each boot on the trail and look up at the mountain in front of me and feel the cool air bathing my arms and listen to the chuckle of the creek beside me… \n    And that is prayer? That is meditation?  Piece of cake! I’m on it! \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nAugust 7\, 2022  #328  Anywhere You Go (from Your True Home) \nI like Thây’s point that mindful practice isn’t limited to an ashram\, zendo\, or other “formal” space for practice. First\, I settle in and pay attention to my breath. Then\, I open up my awareness to all that is around me—without any judgement and/or without assigning any “meaning” to the NOW moments as they pass. And\, that’s it. I can participate in the NOW by simply (and only) attending to my breath—grounding in the NOW— and not spinning stories about what is going on around me. I can simply breathe and simply enjoy the experience of NOW. Nothing more is needed. \n  \nAugust 8\, 2022  #329  A New Holiday (from Your True Home) \nI like this one! It reminds me of an aphorism my friend Carl likes to share from time to time—it’s his view of birthdays. In essence he expresses the same ideal. Why wait for a “special” day to celebrate a friend’s life and import in one’s own life? Celebrate every day. Happy un-birthday all! Thây’s idea goes only one small step further: Why not celebrate every day by living NOW?—breathing deeply of each moment\, touching Earth\, seeing sky\, hearing all life as it surrounds\, leave nothing out. \n  \nEmbrace the NOW for all it has to offer. Celebrate life as it is\, NOW. We can let go of how we “want” or “think” life should be and embrace it for what it is NOW. We can celebrate alone or with others\, as much or as little as we choose. Let us enter Today (NOW)\, live fully within\, celebrate through conscious\, deliberate breath and touch NOW. \n  \nAugust 9\, 2022  #330  A Loving Community of Two (from Your True Home) \nThis is simple life guidance. It expresses the ideal of “real” love requires and external object of love; therefore\, love is action\, or requires action to be seen\, felt and known. Love can’t simply be spoken\, or\, worse\, unspoken. (Some operate from there. “Oh\, she knows I love her.” My reply: “Oh really?! How?”) \n  \nI thought\, recently\, that I had finally found one who would draw me out of my shell. One who would challenge my façades and masks. One who would “complete me.” One in whom I could trust and with whom I could\, as Thây suggests today\, practice (learn) being a two-person community of love. Instead…well\, it wasn’t what I hoped for; it was more infatuation with my own ideals embodied in another person—(Was I even on the right track? I don’t know any more.)—than a joining together of mutual love\, respect and admiration. But it gave me hope—hope that someday I will find a person who is a positive match\, and with whom I can build a loving community. \n  \n—from the meditation journal of Michel Deforge
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-9-15-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220925
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20221009
DTSTAMP:20260426T165304
CREATED:20220923T163859Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220929T203306Z
UID:3261-1664064000-1665273599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: POETRY  9/25/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n \npoem written and engraved by William Blake\, from “Songs of Innocence” \n  \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!  \n  \nOn September 25th we read poems to each other via Zoom. Here are some of the poems we read: \n  \nMartha read this poem  by Andrea Hollander: \n  \nOverture   \n Portland\, Oregon\, February 2012   \n  \nSo I stepped off the streetcar   \nand walked to the bus stop\,   \nmarveling at the city around me\,   \nand at the young woman I could never be   \nstanding as if beautiful   \nwith her tattooed neck   \nand metal studs through her nose and ears\,   \nand actually she was beautiful\,   \nsinging a familiar tune\, its notes of grace   \nfilling the space between the two of us\,   \nand suddenly too a limping man   \nwith his cardboard WILL-WORK-FOR-FOOD sign   \nlike the title of a poem and not his life\,   \nbut who was he then\,   \nbecause he began to hum\, and the woman\,   \nteeth not yellow like his\, smiling at him\,  \n reached into the breast pocket   \nof her denim jacket while she sang\,   \nand fluttered a five-dollar bill toward him   \nlike some butterfly\, which reminded me   \nof my mother\, who sang on the bed of her death   \nas if song could keep her alive\, or maybe   \nit was I who imagined this\, a prayer   \nnot for the dead but from the dying\,   \nmy mother in her purple gown   \nsinging as if Death were not the name   \nof anything\, but part of an overture\,   \nher brown eyes earnest like those   \nof the woman at the bus stop in my new city   \nwhere I did not yet know who I would become   \nbut now it seemed I was at least a singer   \nat a bus stop\, for my own voice joined in   \nwithout my permission and the three of us hovered   \nin the mellifluous air on the darkening sidewalk   \nas the bus came to us and lifted us   \ntogether and away.   \n  \n—Andrea Hollander \n* \n  \nJude read a poem by Vern Rutsala and some Autumn-themed haikus: \n  \nThe Fat Man \n  \nI call everyone  \nshriveled. Dried apples \nfit for cellars\, \nnothing more. \nThey have no folds\, \nNo flesh to touch— \nGangling reminders \nof the grave. \n  \n Existence melts \nin my mouth. \nI relish\, I taste \nthe sweet jams of life; \nI gorge and worship \nthe place of love: \nall kitchens everywhere. \n  \n Diet is sin: \nan effort \nto turn limbs \nto razors that slice \na lover’s hands. \nRight angles \npierce my eye; \nI love the arc \nsoft ovals\, the curve— \nthings molded \nto be touched\, \nthe soothers of sight. \n  \n I feel at least  \nten souls \nswimming in my flesh\,  \nI feed them  \nwith both hands. \nSomeday \nI will become  \na mountain. \nI eat the world. \n  \n–Vern Rutsala \n* \nThe Boddhisattva’s Necklace \n  \nWhen from the moor the autumn mists have fled\, \nA spider’s web holds dew on every thread. \n  \n–Hakuyu \n  \nInspiration  \n  \nThe autumn wind: leaves patterning the air; \nAnd for the poet\, haiku everywhere. \n  \n–Kyoshi \n  \nSacrilege  \n  \nBefore this perfect white inviolate \nChrysanthemum—the scissors hesitate. \n  \n–Buson  \n* \n  \nElizabeth read this poem by Margaret Atwood: \n  \nThe Loneliness of the Military Historian \n  \nConfess: it’s my profession \nthat alarms you. \nThis is why few people ask me to dinner\, \nthough Lord knows I don’t go out of my way to be scary. \nI wear dresses of sensible cut \nand unalarming shades of beige\, \nI smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser’s: \nno prophetess mane of mine\, \ncomplete with snakes\, will frighten the youngsters. \nIf I roll my eyes and mutter\, \nif I clutch at my heart and scream in horror \nlike a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene\, \nI do it in private and nobody sees \nbut the bathroom mirror. \n  \nIn general I might agree with you: \nwomen should not contemplate war\, \nshould not weigh tactics impartially\, \nor evade the word enemy\, \nor view both sides and denounce nothing. \nWomen should march for peace\, \nor hand out white feathers to arouse bravery\, \nspit themselves on bayonets \nto protect their babies\, \nwhose skulls will be split anyway\, \nor\, having been raped repeatedly\, \nhang themselves with their own hair. \nThese are the functions that inspire general comfort. \nThat\, and the knitting of socks for the troops \nand a sort of moral cheerleading. \nAlso: mourning the dead. \nSons\, lovers\, and so forth. \nAll the killed children. \n  \nInstead of this\, I tell \nwhat I hope will pass as truth. \nA blunt thing\, not lovely. \nThe truth is seldom welcome\, \nespecially at dinner\, \nthough I am good at what I do. \nMy trade is courage and atrocities. \nI look at them and do not condemn. \nI write things down the way they happened\, \nas near as can be remembered. \nI don’t ask why\, because it is mostly the same. \nWars happen because the ones who start them \nthink they can win. \n  \nIn my dreams there is glamour. \nThe Vikings leave their fields \neach year for a few months of killing and plunder\, \nmuch as the boys go hunting. \nIn real life they were farmers. \nThey come back loaded with splendour. \nThe Arabs ride against Crusaders \nwith scimitars that could sever \nsilk in the air. \nA swift cut to the horse’s neck \nand a hunk of armour crashes down \nlike a tower. Fire against metal. \nA poet might say: romance against banality. \nWhen awake\, I know better. \n  \nDespite the propaganda\, there are no monsters\, \nor none that can be finally buried. \nFinish one off\, and circumstances \nand the radio create another. \nBelieve me: whole armies have prayed fervently \nto God all night and meant it\, \nand been slaughtered anyway. \nBrutality wins frequently\, \nand large outcomes have turned on the invention \nof a mechanical device\, viz. radar. \nTrue\, valour sometimes counts for something\, \nas at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right— \nthough ultimate virtue\, by agreed tradition\, \nis decided by the winner. \nSometimes men throw themselves on grenades \nand burst like paper bags of guts \nto save their comrades. \nI can admire that. \nBut rats and cholera have won many wars. \nThose\, and potatoes\, \nor the absence of them. \nIt’s no use pinning all those medals \nacross the chests of the dead. \nImpressive\, but I know too much. \nGrand exploits merely depress me. \n  \nIn the interests of research \nI have walked on many battlefields \nthat once were liquid with pulped \nmen’s bodies and spangled with exploded \nshells and splayed bone. \nAll of them have been green again \nby the time I got there. \nEach has inspired a few good quotes in its day. \nSad marble angels brood like hens \nover the grassy nests where nothing hatches. \n(The angels could just as well be described as vulgar \nor pitiless\, depending on camera angle.) \nThe word glory figures a lot on gateways. \nOf course I pick a flower or two \nfrom each\, and press it in the hotel Bible \nfor a souvenir. \nI’m just as human as you. \n  \nBut it’s no use asking me for a final statement. \nAs I say\, I deal in tactics. \nAlso statistics: \nfor every year of peace there have been four hundred \nyears of war. \n  \n–Margaret Atwood\, from  Morning in the Burned House (1995) \n* \n  \nNick read this poem he wrote: \n  \nextreme close-up  \nsleight of hand \nwhen the unique individual life cycle of a plant or animal has run its course \n there’s a significant final event that triggers the return of its physical form \nto an elemental state releasing any remaining life-energy to parts and \ndimensions that can be seen as scientific or metaphysical or both \nmeanwhile the swift dispersal of animating energy and \nthe timely return of the physical form to its essential state \nare familiar steps in the universal process of renewal \na creative procedure so routine \nthat we barely notice \nand seldom \ncelebrate \nits seamless \nefficiency \nas in the larger domain of \nimploding stars and merging galaxies \nwhen the relentless wheel of cosmic creation \nspins the remains of a failing form into a new possibility \nactive energies are released and recombined in chaotic harmony \nwith those fundamental laws of physics we humans have managed to grasp \nas well as laws still drifting beyond the firelight of our understanding \nmicroscopic or galactic \nevery combination or collision or expansion of originating energies \ngenerates a new creative surge in the essential power \nthat keeps our universe expanding and unfurling \nacross potentially endless time and space \nextreme close-up sleight of hand \noccurring everywhere \nalways \nNick Eldredge \n2022 \n* \n  \nDave read Bitter Sweet Symphony by The Verve: \n  \nBittersweet Symphony \n\n\n\n‘Cause it’s a bittersweet symphony\, that’s life\nTryna make ends meet\nYou’re a slave to money then you die\nI’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down\nYou know the one that takes you to the places\nWhere all the veins meet yeahNo change\, I can change\nI can change\, I can change\nBut I’m here in my mold\nI am here in my mold\nBut I’m a million different people\nFrom one day to the next\nI can’t change my mold\nNo\, no\, no\, no\, no\nHave you ever been down?Well I’ve never prayed\nBut tonight I’m on my knees yeah\nI need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me\, yeah\nI let the melody shine\,\nLet it cleanse my mind\,\nI feel free now\nBut the airwaves are clean and there’s nobody singing to me nowNo change\, I can change\nI can change\, I can change\nBut I’m here in my mold\nI am here in my mold\nAnd I’m a million different people\nFrom one day to the next\nI can’t change my mold\nNo\, no\, no\, no\, no\nHave you ever been down?\nI can’t change it you know\nI can’t change it‘Cause it’s a bittersweet symphony\, this life\nTryna make ends meet\nTryna find some money then you die\nI’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down\nYou know the one that takes you to the places\nWhere all the veins meet yeahYou know I can change\, I can change\nI can change\, I can change\nBut I’m here in my mold\nI am here in my mold\nAnd I’m a million different people\nFrom one day to the next\nI can’t change my mold\nNo\, no\, no\, no\, noI can’t change my mold\nNo\, no\, no\, no\, no\nI can’t change my mold\nNo\, no\, no\, no\, no[Ad-libs:]\nYou’ve gotta change my mold\, no\, no\, no\nIt’s just sex and violence\, melody and silence\nGotta\, can’t change my violence\, melody and silence\nI’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been downBeen down\nEver been down\nEver been down\nEver been down\nEver been down\nHave you ever been down?\nHave you ever been down? \n\n\n\n–Richard Ashcroft \n*\n\nJohnny read this poem by Wordsworth and a couple poems by William Stafford:\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWe Are Seven\n  \n-—A simple Child\, \nThat lightly draws its breath\, \nAnd feels its life in every limb\, \nWhat should it know of death? \n\nI met a little cottage Girl: \nShe was eight years old\, she said; \nHer hair was thick with many a curl \nThat clustered round her head. \n\nShe had a rustic\, woodland air\, \nAnd she was wildly clad: \nHer eyes were fair\, and very fair; \n—Her beauty made me glad. \n\n“Sisters and brothers\, little Maid\, \nHow many may you be?” \n“How many? Seven in all\,” she said\, \nAnd wondering looked at me. \n\n“And where are they? I pray you tell.” \nShe answered\, “Seven are we; \nAnd two of us at Conway dwell\, \nAnd two are gone to sea. \n\n“Two of us in the church-yard lie\, \nMy sister and my brother; \nAnd\, in the church-yard cottage\, I \nDwell near them with my mother.” \n\n“You say that two at Conway dwell\, \nAnd two are gone to sea\, \nYet ye are seven! I pray you tell\, \nSweet Maid\, how this may be.” \n\nThen did the little Maid reply\, \n“Seven boys and girls are we; \nTwo of us in the church-yard lie\, \nBeneath the church-yard tree.” \n\n“You run about\, my little Maid\, \nYour limbs they are alive; \nIf two are in the church-yard laid\, \nThen ye are only five.” \n\n“Their graves are green\, they may be seen\,” \nThe little Maid replied\, \n“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door\, \nAnd they are side by side. \n\n“My stockings there I often knit\, \nMy kerchief there I hem; \nAnd there upon the ground I sit\, \nAnd sing a song to them. \n\n“And often after sun-set\, Sir\, \nWhen it is light and fair\, \nI take my little porringer\, \nAnd eat my supper there. \n\n“The first that died was sister Jane; \nIn bed she moaning lay\, \nTill God released her of her pain; \nAnd then she went away. \n\n“So in the church-yard she was laid; \nAnd\, when the grass was dry\, \nTogether round her grave we played\, \nMy brother John and I. \n\n“And when the ground was white with snow\, \nAnd I could run and slide\, \nMy brother John was forced to go\, \nAnd he lies by her side.” \n\n“How many are you\, then\,” said I\, \n“If they two are in heaven?” \nQuick was the little Maid’s reply\, \n“O Master! we are seven.” \n\n“But they are dead; those two are dead! \nTheir spirits are in heaven!” \n’Twas throwing words away; for still \nThe little Maid would have her will\, \nAnd said\, “Nay\, we are seven!” \n\n\n\n\n\n  \n–William Wordsworth \n* \n  \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAt the Un-National Monument along the Canadian Border \n  \n\n\n\nThis is the field where the battle did not happen\,\nwhere the unknown soldier did not die.\nThis is the field where grass joined hands\,\nwhere no monument stands\,\nand the only heroic thing is the sky.\n\nBirds fly here without any sound\,\nunfolding their wings across the open.\nNo people killed—or were killed—on this ground\nhallowed by neglect and an air so tame\nthat people celebrate it by forgetting its name.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n&\n\nGod snaps your picture–don’t look away–\nthis room right now\, your face tilted\nexactly as it is before you can think\nor control it. Go ahead\, let it betray\nall the secret emergencies and still hold\nthat partial disguise you call your character.\n\nEven your lip\, they say\, the way it curves\nor doesn’t\, or can’t decide\, will deliver\nbales of evidence. The camera\, wide open\,\nstands ready; the exposure is thirty-five years\nor so–after that you have become\nwhatever the veneer is\, all the way through.\n\nNow you want to explain. Your mother\nwas a certain–how to express it?–influence.\nYes. And your father\, whatever he was\,\nyou couldn’t change that. No. And your town\nof course had its limits. Go on\, keep talking–\nHold it. Don’t move. That’s you forever.\n\n–William Stafford\n*\n\nBecause Halloween is coming soon\, Todd read this poem by Robert Frost:\n\n\nThe Witch Of Coos \n  \nI staid the night for shelter at a farm  \nBehind the mountains\, with a mother and son\,  \nTwo old-believers. They did all the talking.  \n  \nMOTHER: Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits  \nShe could call up to pass a winter evening\,  \nBut won’t\, should be burned at the stake or something.  \nSummoning spirits isn’t ‘Button\, button\,  \nWho’s got the button\,’ I would have them know.  \nSON: Mother can make a common table rear  \nAnd kick with two legs like an army mule.  \nMOTHER: And when I’ve done it\, what good have I done?  \nRather than tip a table for you\, let me  \nTell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.  \nHe said the dead had souls\, but when I asked him  \nHow could that be – I thought the dead were souls\,  \nHe broke my trance. Don’t that make you suspicious  \nThat there’s something the dead are keeping back?  \nYes\, there’s something the dead are keeping back.  \nSON: You wouldn’t want to tell him what we have  \nUp attic\, mother?  \nMOTHER: Bones – a skeleton.  \nSON: But the headboard of mother’s bed is pushed  \nAgainst the’ attic door: the door is nailed.  \nIt’s harmless. Mother hears it in the night  \nHalting perplexed behind the barrier  \nOf door and headboard. Where it wants to get  \nIs back into the cellar where it came from.  \nMOTHER: We’ll never let them\, will we\, son! We’ll never !  \nSON: It left the cellar forty years ago  \nAnd carried itself like a pile of dishes  \nUp one flight from the cellar to the kitchen\,  \nAnother from the kitchen to the bedroom\,  \nAnother from the bedroom to the attic\,  \nRight past both father and mother\, and neither stopped it.  \nFather had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.  \nI was a baby: I don’t know where I was.  \nMOTHER: The only fault my husband found with me –  \nI went to sleep before I went to bed\,  \nEspecially in winter when the bed  \nMight just as well be ice and the clothes snow.  \nThe night the bones came up the cellar-stairs  \nToffile had gone to bed alone and left me\,  \nBut left an open door to cool the room off  \nSo as to sort of turn me out of it.  \nI was just coming to myself enough  \nTo wonder where the cold was coming from\,  \nWhen I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom  \nAnd thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.  \nThe board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on  \nWhen there was water in the cellar in spring  \nStruck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone  \nBegan the stairs\, two footsteps for each step\,  \nThe way a man with one leg and a crutch\,  \nOr a little child\, comes up. It wasn’t Toffile:  \nIt wasn’t anyone who could be there.  \nThe bulkhead double-doors were double-locked  \nAnd swollen tight and buried under snow.  \nThe cellar windows were banked up with sawdust  \nAnd swollen tight and buried under snow.  \nIt was the bones. I knew them – and good reason.  \nMy first impulse was to get to the knob  \nAnd hold the door. But the bones didn’t try  \nThe door; they halted helpless on the landing\,  \nWaiting for things to happen in their favour.’  \nThe faintest restless rustling ran all through them.  \nI never could have done the thing I did  \nIf the wish hadn’t been too strong in me  \nTo see how they were mounted for this walk.  \nI had a vision of them put together  \nNot like a man\, but like a chandelier.  \nSo suddenly I flung the door wide on him.  \nA moment he stood balancing with emotion\,  \nAnd all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire  \nFlashed out and licked along his upper teeth.  \nSmoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)  \nThen he came at me with one hand outstretched\,  \nThe way he did in life once; but this time  \nI struck the hand off brittle on the floor\,  \nAnd fell back from him on the floor myself.  \nThe finger-pieces slid in all directions.  \n(Where did I see one of those pieces lately?  \nHand me my button-box- it must be there.)  \n  \nI sat up on the floor and shouted\, ‘Toffile\,  \nIt’s coming up to you.’ It had its choice  \nOf the door to the cellar or the hall.  \nIt took the hall door for the novelty\,  \nAnd set off briskly for so slow a thing\,  \nStill going every which way in the joints\, though\,  \nSo that it looked like lightning or a scribble\,  \nFrom the slap I had just now given its hand.  \nI listened till it almost climbed the stairs  \nFrom the hall to the only finished bedroom\,  \nBefore I got up to do anything;  \nThen ran and shouted\, ‘Shut the bedroom door\,  \nToffile\, for my sake!’ ‘Company?’ he said\,  \n‘Don’t make me get up; I’m too warm in bed.’  \nSo lying forward weakly on the handrail  \nI pushed myself upstairs\, and in the light  \n(The kitchen had been dark) I had to own  \nI could see nothing. ‘Toffile\, I don’t see it.  \nIt’s with us in the room though. It’s the bones.’  \n‘What bones?’ ‘The cellar bones- out of the grave.’  \nThat made him throw his bare legs out of bed  \nAnd sit up by me and take hold of me.  \nI wanted to put out the light and see  \nIf I could see it\, or else mow the room\,  \nWith our arms at the level of our knees\,  \nAnd bring the chalk-pile down. ‘I’ll tell you what-  \nIt’s looking for another door to try.  \nThe uncommonly deep snow has made him think  \nOf his old song\, The Wild Colonial Boy\,  \nHe always used to sing along the tote-road.  \nHe’s after an open door to get out-doors.  \nLet’s trap him with an open door up attic.’  \nToffile agreed to that\, and sure enough\,  \nAlmost the moment he was given an opening\,  \nThe steps began to climb the attic stairs.  \nI heard them. Toffile didn’t seem to hear them.  \n‘Quick !’ I slammed to the door and held the knob.  \n‘Toffile\, get nails.’ I made him nail the door shut\,  \nAnd push the headboard of the bed against it.  \nThen we asked was there anything  \nUp attic that we’d ever want again.  \nThe attic was less to us than the cellar.  \nIf the bones liked the attic\, let them have it.  \nLet them stay in the attic. When they sometimes  \nCome down the stairs at night and stand perplexed  \nBehind the door and headboard of the bed\,  \nBrushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers\,  \nWith sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter\,  \nThat’s what I sit up in the dark to say-  \nTo no one any more since Toffile died.  \nLet them stay in the attic since they went there.  \nI promised Toffile to be cruel to them  \nFor helping them be cruel once to him.  \nSON: We think they had a grave down in the cellar.  \nMOTHER: We know they had a grave down in the cellar.  \nSON: We never could find out whose bones they were.  \nMOTHER: Yes\, we could too\, son. Tell the truth for once.  \nThey were a man’s his father killed for me.  \nI mean a man he killed instead of me.  \nThe least I could do was to help dig their grave.  \nWe were about it one night in the cellar.  \nSon knows the story: but ’twas not for him  \nTo tell the truth\, suppose the time had come.  \nSon looks surprised to see me end a lie  \nWe’d kept all these years between ourselves  \nSo as to have it ready for outsiders.  \nBut to-night I don’t care enough to lie-  \nI don’t remember why I ever cared.  \nToffile\, if he were here\, I don’t believe  \nCould tell you why he ever cared himself-  \n  \nShe hadn’t found the finger-bone she wanted  \nAmong the buttons poured out in her lap.  \nI verified the name next morning: Toffile.  \nThe rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway. \n  \n—Robert Frost (1922) \n* \n\n\npeace\, love & happiness  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-poetry-9-25-22/
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