no clouds except in the sky as yet snow sits atop cones
in long-needled pine
* * *
in long-needled pine, a gray hill
beyond the snow-covered cones
becomes cloudy sky
yet pussy willows are molting
gray clouds of snowy pine
yet the sky covers cones atop long-needled pine
in the primrose sunrise the snow covers
pussy willows before you believe summer is coming
yes, beyond the snow-covered gray hill
wisps of clouds are melting
into pussy willows and pinecones
with the melting snow atop cones
the long-needled primrose sun sets
in a gray hill of pussy willows
you believe summer is coming
no clouds with the melting
wall atop gray cones
beyond the pussy-willow clouds
with the melting gray wall
birch beyond pussy willows, not clouds
melting the gray wall atop long-needled cones
beyond the pussy willows
~*~
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson To see all 50 Preludes & Fugues, click here.
WATCHING THE FLITTING flashes of my mind, I jot down notes. Many of them later prompt poems or a scene in fiction or a line of thought that later bears fruit.
Some fall by the wayside. Others find development decades later. Consider:
Seasons of flight.
Seasons of nesting.
Seasons of doubt.
Seasons of turbulence.
Anger, jealousy, hurt, fear.
Encountering the demons: the Dark Night journey, melancholy, depression, loss, etc.
Seasons of awareness: times when we’re more open to revelation that others. Our usual defenses are stripped away, and we leap into change or retreat into solitude. In the immediate aftermath of divorce, for instance, or a close death.
Times of dreaming deeper or in new ways.
Seasons of praise and assurance.
Seasons out of the spirit: war / greed / oppression and oppressing.
Add to these and amplify them as you wish.
~*~
Few are prepared or willing for total immersion in the Spirit. Especially when we’re feeling our lives are already full.
There is reason to fear falling into the hands of a Living God.
This is acknowledged, “Thank God for the good old Church of England. It’s our last line of defense between God and ourselves.” Substitute your own institution or practice, as needed.
Giving, with nothing in return. (So it so often seems … route for burnout.)
~*~
Moses and Aaron, confronting graven images:
Aha! They’re fleeing sleek Egypt, so visual – they instead use words, an entirely different focus for worship from the image-driven supplication in Egypt.
They leave civilization for wilderness, where certain words are carefully repeated.
On the lips, from the heart: What we know could become singing.
~*~
Or else simply rootless:
How do we reach out while being so fragmented?
A lack of continuity instills clinging.
How will our paths cross more frequently?
People come and go, and we make no effort to find out why.
Diversity is no strength unless drawn into the circle.
A phantom church, with no telephone listing.
Here we go, warbling.
~*~
Make sense, as you can:
A handcuffed person.
Movie night in the meetinghouse: double features, free popcorn: invite the homeschool crowd.
Opera orgies … Met broadcasts.
Yes, we want the cost-free pleasures.
The Hebrew lack of first-person personal pronouns – it’s not my house, but the house God has blessed me with or gifted unto me for safe-care.
Just a taste of what’s popping up. In case you were looking for a prompt.
~*~
The amount of sunlight these days is equivalent to September. That equinox thing. But with snow and no foliage or even plain gray, the sensation’s quite different from autumn green turning golden and hazy.
Spring rainfall turns our side yard into a glade. Are ‘gators next?
So who do they resemble, these women in my life? Which movie stars? Which protagonists in fiction? Even before we get to the guys.
On a walk about town, I stop at a bakery and pick up a selection pastries as a surprise for later in the morning. As my wife and elder daughter view me strolling up our street, they notice the box wrapped in ribbon and the way I speak with other pedestrians, and quip, “What a perfect picture of a guy a woman would want to have coming home.”
How delightful, too, walking three miles on a leg of the Community Trail beside rapids and sparkling waters. No need to drive several hours to the mountains for a similar experience. Reminds me of my hidden retreat at Lake Massabesic, back when I was residing on Wellington Hill in Manchester.
When I enter a house of worship, I close my eyes and feel the vibrations. Too often, the air feels leaden or dead, rather than welcoming, warm, filled with deep calm. Maybe I’m spoiled by so many Quaker meetinghouses and other sanctuaries of quiet heart-centered devotion.
Suppose I’d wound up back in Dayton or Cincinnati, rather than moving on? The very thought has me feeling emotionally constrained.
A reminder. Be authentic to your dreams, even in the face of the Greek chorus intoning, “Yay,” “Boo,” Ahh,” even “Mmm,” throughout. Much less Job’s friends in those periods of siege.
What do we do with the superrich freeloaders?
Internally, I’m still on Standard Time. How can it be so late already?
we move. like the water, like the wind
– across rock, across soil –
until people speaking of common activities
and customs will completely baffle
sometimes the growing season’s quite short
compared to our place of origin
even so, she wants tropics
where everything in the closet
will mildew before sunrise
and there’s no worry of frost
we’ve gone underground, ourselves
after trusting too much in human love
emerged not on rock or air wholly
but collected from scattered places
and pieced back, as best anyone can
with blueberry-stained hands
so what’s the name of your divinity?
your desires? your natures?
the apple of your eye?
even the forest seeks climax
she’ll say, quartering a winesap
its burgundy ringing
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
A moment at the reflecting pool in Copley Square in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood.
They’re the national bird of many cities.
Boston is a rich and varied destination – the Hub of New England, or the Universe, as they used to say. Living a little more than an hour to the north, we’re well within its orb.
If you delve into genealogy or even read obituaries, you may run across references to someone as a “Mayflower descendant.” The assumption is that at least one of their ancestors arrived (and survived) the 1620 voyage to Plymouth Bay. Their lines have been carefully detailed.
More broadly, though, you’ll come across those who consider all Plymouth arrivals of the first decade as Mayflower ancestors, not that I’m finding that online at the moment. So I’ll leave it as a hearsay argument. Still, after all, the Mayflower itself made a second crossing in 1629 – one of 10 vessels to arrive there in that period – and this is where things can get confusing.
Add to that many others landing to the north in this period – at Salem, especially, and then Boston, plus a scattering at other New England ports. The region was quickly filled with settlers, including the Hiltons at Dover, where I live in New Hampshire.
These can all be long lines, some much better recorded than others.
Any workplace holds confidences you can never reveal. Not that you don’t want to expose company secrets. Then, considering the office computers, fax machines, and photocopiers, you realize they’re incapable of guilt. They simply do their job — and you might find that unsettling.
Whenever I do manage to tap genuine emotions regarding this employment, no one’s more shocked than myself. Take something as simple as a pane of glass between my desk and the trees outdoors. Even on my job in Appalachian mountains, I wanted a window. One the size of a book would suffice, although a picture view would be preferred. I’ve always appreciated a panorama, a sense of precisely where I fit into the weather of a particular day. Instead, I feel trapped underground, half-buried in regulations and routine. Only a band of natural light at the far end of the fluorescent-and-steel expanse hints of sun, moon, sky, or clouds — and even that aperture is tinted. Why are my hours on the job so cut off from the rest of life? “We may as well be coal miners in carbonized veins or muscular razorbacks sweltering in midnight foundries. Is it only the sun we miss? Examine the calendar. Check on the moon’s phase.”
I could just plot my escape. I am surrounded by desert. Trek there alone. Right to the heart.
He recall the words of another friend who spoke of the paradox of Zen Buddhist freedom: the very limitations the practice imposes also lead to an extraordinary freedom. An individual who’s free in the Spirit can be placed in prison and yet not be captive — persecuted and yet unbowed — denounced and still spotless.
The Dedicated Laborious Quest, as my Teacher taught, is a truly free way.
Free, yes, with the labor.
I pick up the phone and hear Kokopelli’s whistle. He wants us to get going. Then tells me of the dance where we’ll be playing.
For more insights from the American Far West and Kokopelli, click here.
Here’s a section from a collection of contemporary American sonnets I’ve done along the lines of those by the late and wonderful Ted Berrigan. It’s one of 60 from Braided Double-Cross.
~*~
As I said at the time …
In defining poetry, Berrigan’s concept of a windup toy serves well for me. How basic can I make it? (A single word? Maybe two?) As well as how extended or elaborate!
I still don’t like poetry that’s written as code, an intellectual equation of meaning.
Also, I prefer lines that are long enough to have something happen within each one.
I love when literature (or any art, for that matter) opens as a state of awareness – or fullest existence – which also expands into epiphanies of dancing or singing or perhaps, well, just imagine. Think twice about the chemically aided experiences – pinot, martini, pot? Yes, the Zone, when it graces. In a continuum, with differing specifics.
A set of skills and disciplined thought and, I would hope, tradition / culture. Not that every time I read a book or sit to write I’m there. Indeed, there may be good reasons we cannot dwell long in that Zone (Is it too isolated? Too exclusionary? Self-centered even when we find it occurring in Otherness?) …
A break, then. And then back to work.
~*~
CROSSING XXXVI
A green-streaked sentry flanked by thistles
on every town common is more explicit
than any boom box. Please, my darling, please
don’t let carnal memories expire between us.
I set forth at a disadvantage.
Ribbons of baby oil. Snaking Chinese dragons.
One flesh, lagoons. Trembling like the wind
in shrubs and flowers. You chained
criticism on my Academy of St. Martin
in the wallpaper, provoking blatant spice factory
peppers and cinnamon misrepresentations
of common logic, as if you were running for office.
Without proper camouflage, there’s nothing to repulse
destitution overtaking military-issue fortifications.
Poem copyright by Jnana Hodson (originally appeared in the journal Plungelit)
For more, click here.
what blows
to kindle sunset and sunrise
sprouts wings on the field
is faith planting
for a harvest at the end
all these tough nuts to open
amid rest
* * *
each day
always more
bands of light
turn within
fields and currents
tempted by more as well as less, but first
those cries being born
* * *
crossing water
invites rest
answering the call to dinner
2
when we are vanilla chocolate the strawberry rhubarb and asparagus a cake topped in cherries sweet corn and trout with apricots and peaches the scallions, leeks, garlic carrots, potatoes, yams spiced pumpkin whipped cream, fresh butter applesauce with pancakes a bowl of black walnuts yogurt and sharp cheddar or baby Swiss when we are sap returning to maple when we are …
when we are snow peas or sugar snaps a pear or … fordhooks or limas
3
I’ve had a taste of these things
Hindu Yogi
Zen Buddhist
Sufi
Amerindian
Mennonite, Dunker, Amish
Old-Style Quaker
all of them, with holy visions
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson To see the full set, click here.
Jnana's Red Barn 