YES, AQUARIUS

Why wait for the dust to settle? Here are 10 bullets from my end.

~*~

  1. Since we don’t put up a Yule tree and decorate it until Christmas Eve, ours stays on display longer than any of our neighbors’. The lights make January a less forbidding stretch. Make it more festive and relaxing. So what do you do special this otherwise cold, dark month?
  2. She’s really at home in a grocery store. Knows all the comparative prices, what’s a bargain, what’s special. Not so in other retail settings. Still, you should see our pantry. Or the two big freezers in the barn.
  3. Swami had long ago said I didn’t need a job (I’m an old soul) because that’s not the work I should be offering. That was long, long ago.
  4. How often does it seem: Fashion = Money … along with the race for something better?
  5. Would I be satisfied with a single-line poem that said everything? Stake my reputation on it?
  6. Considering all the hours I put in on my “personal writing” over the years – the poetry and fiction, especially, or genealogy and Quaker fare – it would have added up to a lot of overtime pay. Even at 10 hours a week, though I suspect with vacations and holidays thrown in, the average would have been closer to 20. I’d really have to land a bestseller to come anywhere close to recouping that investment.
  7. The frustration of my twilight years in journalism, seeing us increasingly pander to stupidity, ignorance, and hatred rather than trying to lead and enlighten.
  8. As the funeral director told me, “We hate holidays. Holidays suck.”
  9. Fortune cookie: You will make many changes before settling satisfactorily.
  10. Can this really be happening to America? Or the world?

~*~

 

Looks like white-painted architectural touches to me.
Still looks like white-painted architectural touches to me.

 

HONORING THE MARITIME LEGACY

 

Suspended overhead.
Suspended overhead.

A reconstructed whale skeleton suspended in the New England Aquarium pays homage to the region’s close relationship to the sea. For generations, whaling was a major industry that provided essential oil to illuminate the night. The aquarium sits on a wharf in Boston Harbor.

The city 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.

And you knew all along it was a flipper, right?
And you knew all along it was a flipper, right?

 

WITH PRAYERS TO OUR LADY OF THE ASPHALT

In the congregation of pleasure:

Some are fat; some, skinny.
Some cute; a few, beautiful.
They smile, frown, dimple, blink.
Hair short, curled, long and free.
They come from anywhere.

~*~

“Roger was in my room again till five
telling me he didn’t want to sleep alone again,”
she said, glancing at her lover

while he simply smiled, facing away.

~*~

One votive burns
twice as fast
as the other.

Both, invoking
departed honeybees.

To continue, click here.
Copyright 2015

HOPING FOR ANOTHER ACCOUNTING

She liked to bite fingers.
She braided my beard.
Her nose and big toe were square.
Her tresses were thirteen years long.

~*~

She devoured the translation like a cheeseburger
and refused to understand me.

She spent her paycheck
on clothes she bought on layaway
while she was one unemployed
good dresser who had to do something.

She said Kayak poetry review
looked like a Sunday school booklet
with a cannon on the cover.

~*~

She didn’t like the antique silver fork
with the engraved W
I’d bought for a dime

– the yellowed marriage
whose bride was no doubt long dead
held no treasure in her eyes.

Why else would we have it?

To continue, click here.
Copyright 2015

HOW ABOUT A SUTRA?

As I revisit my copy of The Diamond Sutra and the Sutra of Hui Neng, the binding falls apart. How appropriate! The price, $2.95, says everything: this is a volume that has been carried from one end of the continent to the other and back, with a world of spiritual practice and discovery in between.

A sutra typically is a Hindu or Buddhist teacher’s discourse for aspirants.

The scarab, a symbol of ancient Egypt, originates as a beetle, By extension, it also becomes a symbol of transportation in the hippie era, leaping from there to the Hindu and Buddhist texts and back.

Break away from routine – job, home, neighborhood and friends, the commerce of community – just long enough to let the mind clear. Don’t fill the silences with radio, conversation, any music or dialogue but your own. From somewhere deep in the nervous system, atypical even random bits of memory and observation rise in unanticipated sequence. What ought to have been obvious all along suddenly asserts itself, perhaps with bold surrealism or jarring candor.

In a flash, the mind dances, as it will, with whatever engages it. Field notes, the words themselves, appear unadorned, without apology. Here something other than straight thinking presents its original mental hopscotch.

To a generation of Americans, the Volkswagen Bug represents cheap, easily repaired, carefree transport – often accompanied by adventurous first-time experiences and personal growth. In ways, the plain VW depicts a break between the routines of schooling and establishing families and careers to follow. A time, too, of spiritual exploration, with a flowering of Yoga and Zen, especially.

Here, then, the machine serves as a vessel into the Void, where the mind glimpses and tastes “all this fleeting world: a star at dawn; a flash of lightning in a summer cloud; a flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream,” in the words the Diamond Sutra (Vajrachchedika).

Listen to this teaching. As Hui Neng insists, “Mirror-like Wisdom is pure by nature.” And persevere!

~*~

Ripples in a Bejeweled Prayer Flag
Ripples in a Bejeweled Prayer Flag

Well, these are all at play in my newest poetry collection, Ripples in a Bejeweled Prayer Flag. Take a look at Thistle/Flinch editions.

STARTING OUT BEHIND ONCE AGAIN

The mind dances here and there, rarely in a linear fashion. So what’s on my mind these days? How about counting on these fingers?

~*~

  1. This month’s annual perusal of seed catalogs leads to opening our shoeboxes of seeds themselves – counting and inspecting all the packets remaining from previous seasons. Makes for quite an impressive array, even if I’m not the principal gardener. Just listen to all that considered discussion and dreaming on the part of the actual planters, the mother and daughter and their friends.
  2. Even in retirement, I require a timetable – a to-do list – some sense of priorities and direction, in addition to routine. What does that say about me?
  3. From spam email: “Man Snake Enlargement.” Also, “Man Pole.” (Um, like a May Pole?) English terms pale by comparison.
  4. My Motets move in poetic processes that largely lack images. It’s a curious twist for me.
  5. At a holiday gathering with friends and family, one of the tots picks up my Peterson bird guide. Claudia intercepts it, opens it, and, as if it’s an illustrated children’s text, begins inventing a story. “This is Emily. And what’s this duck doing? It’s FLYING! And this one …” Anyone else think there’s another book waiting to take off there?
  6. Taking a few risks, looking at the proposal and rules. If I fail, it’s more on my own terms.
  7. Memory, as counterpoint and harmony for the present. Or maybe dissonance and discord.
  8. Still can’t take in the news.
  9. Parasite: a freeloader, usually fatal. Lives off the work of others. Seldom demonstrates gratitude or other qualities of good upbringing.
  10. What happens when we lose our sense of mission?

~*~

Fennel seeds dusted in snow.
Fennel seeds dusted in snow. Our herb garden at rest.

 

SQUIRREL TAXI

who knows exactly when it happened
that he realized he held more in common
with squirrels than any of his colleagues?

he couldn’t quite fly, no matter how much
he admired birds, and had climbed
enough trees as a kid to nearly qualify

still, he had little taste for nuts, other than cashews,
unless you mean a strange people,
and he rarely raked fallen leaves

maybe it was all a matter of some vague sense
he didn’t exactly belong in this apartment or house,
except by clandestinely rearranging his peculiar insulation

maybe it was simply a nickname
for the way he rummaged frenziedly in search
of some missing item suddenly remembered

he would dash, then, in and out of the trap
in and out of the trap and, with a snap,
wonder where he was being carried

Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems,
click here.

 

HANCOCK TOWERS, OLD AND NEW

Designed by I.M. Pei, it's the tallest building in Boston. I love how its surroundings reflect in its mirror.
Designed by Henry N. Cobb of I.M. Pei & Partners, it’s the tallest building in Boston. I love how its surroundings reflect in its mirror. Trinity Church, lower right, is an architectural masterpiece in its own right.

The John Hancock Insurance Co. is celebrated in the two skyscrapers it erected in Boston’s Back Bay.

The city is a rich and varied destination – the Hub of New England, or even of the Universe, as they used to say. Living a little more than an hour to the north, we’re well within its orb.

Here we are, closer to the ground.
Here we are, closer to the ground.

FARM GIRLS

“Those aren’t bulls, they’re steers”
she corrected from the passenger seat.

Now a waitress at the country club.
“I bet you get some pretty far-out passes.”

“More than that!” She giggled.

Here she was living with a man
in a hotel in town. He was a Mohawk

who raised horses and died
two days after landing a paying job.

“I guess I’ll never go back”
– to the farm, to the city –
it didn’t matter.

~*~

Sometimes it’s the Baptist upbringing.

~*~

She couldn’t understand why her parents
were still together. Thought her mother

once had a lover. She’d hear kissing
after being sent to bed, after her father’s

best friend had come over. Now
he couldn’t stand him.

There was a big waterfall on their farm
which they had to sell.

And she told me
she had laryngitis the previous week,

making me wonder
if I should have kissed her good-night

so much.

To continue, click here.
Copyright 2015