Ampersand &

2010-11-11T10:16:00.000-08:00

from "Omeros" by Derek Walcott

2010-07-27T09:13:00.000-07:00

BOOK SIX

Chapter XLIV

In hill-towns, from San Fernando to Mayagüez,

the same sunrise stirred the feathered lances of cane

down the archipelago’s highways. The first breeze

rattled the spears and their noise was like distant rain

marching down from the hills, like a shell at your ears.

In the cool asphalt Sundays of the Antilles

the light brought the bitter history of sugar

across the squared fields, heightening towards harvest,

to the bleached flags of the Indian diaspora.

The drizzling light blew across the savannah

darkening the racehorses’ hides; mist slowly erased

the royal palms on the crests of the hills and the

hills themselves. The brown patches the horses had grazed

shone as wet as their hides. A skittish stallion

jerked at his bridle, marble-eyed at the thunder

muffling the hills, but the groom was drawing him in

like a fisherman, wrapping the slack line under

one fist, then with the other tightening the rein

and narrowing the circle. The sky cracked asunder

and a forked tree flashed, and suddenly that black rain

which can lose an entire archipelago

in broad daylight was pouring tin nails on the roof,

hammering the balcony. I closed the French window,

and thought of the horses in their stalls with one hoof

tilted, watching the ropes of rain. I lay in bed

with current gone from the bed-lamp and heard the roar

of wind shaking the windows, and I remembered

Achille on his own mattress and desperate Hector

trying to save his canoe, I thought of Helen

as my island lost in the haze, and I was sure

I’d never see her again. All of a sudden

the rain stopped and I heard the sluicing of water

down the guttering. I opened the window when

the sun came out. It replaced the tiny brooms

of palms on the ridges. On the red galvanized

roof of the paddock, the wet sparkled, then the grooms

led the horses over the new grass and exercised

them again, and there was a different brightness

in everything, in the leaves, in the horses’ eyes.

Ian Berry. 2000. Bangladesh. Magnum Photos.

2010-07-27T09:01:00.000-07:00

2010-07-22T14:11:00.000-07:00

Conversation
by Ai

for Robert Lowell

We smile at each other

and I lean back against the wicker couch.

How does it feel to be dead? I say.

You touch my knees with your blue fingers.

And when you open your mouth,

a ball of yellow light falls to the floor

and burns a hole through it.

Don’t tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.

Did you ever, you start,

wear a certain kind of silk dress

and just by accident,

so inconsequential you barely notice it,

your fingers graze that dress

and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,

you see it too

and you realize how that image

is simply the extension of another image,

that your own life

is a chain of words

that one day will snap.

Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,

and beginning to rise heavenward

in their confirmation dresses,

like white helium balloons,

the wreaths of flowers on their heads spinning,

and above all that,

that’s where I’m floating,

and that’s what it’s like

only ten times clearer,

ten times more horrible.

Could anyone alive survive it?

"Highway In Autumn" - A Poem

2009-10-06T12:47:00.000-07:00

When it came it came suddenly, and short—
something lonesome and deep,
calling to him from deep in his heart,
something involving highways and a few autumn leaves.

He wanted to transport to those places of distance.
Wine gave the illusion of that.
Rain on a windowsill did, too.
But always he woke on the same couch wearing the same shoes.

If only he could stay there, outside the window,
chilly autumn clouds, walking that highway with his arms
wrapped in self-embrace, a few notes of music lilting in the air,
coming from somewhere—

"New York, Mid-Afternoon" - A Poem

2009-10-06T12:46:00.000-07:00

It was one of those wet-hot days,
bright brief summer shower
soaked every inch of concrete
as if the sky were cleansing the sins
like scabs off the city's skin.

Muggy. Puddles everywhere, reflecting gold.
Women staring like I was the long-lost brother
they'd been trying to find for years.
Deliberate footwork, pointing my toes around curbs and cabs.
Self-conscious.

Suddenly I realized I'd sailed from January to June.
For a moment I was lifted to a higher realm—
a kind of reshaping of existence.
Where do I go from here? I thought.
Then it was gone.

"The Judgment" - A Poem

2009-10-06T12:43:00.000-07:00

At the gate of heaven he was approached by angels,
seven of them, with large wings that flapped slowly
and created a thick, warm wind.
He stretched his neck,
looking up at golden bars which rose as high as he could see.
Clouds and a golden spray of light covered everything.

An angel asked the others, “And what of this one?”
“Yes,” they responded, “he is to be judged now.”
“And did he lie?” the first angel asked.
“Yes,” they responded, “he lied.”
“And did he steal?” the first angel asked.
“Yes,” they responded, “he stole.”
“And did he cheat, and swear, and hate?” the first angel asked.
“Yes,” they responded, “he did all those things.”
“And was he selfish, and lustful, and proud, and gluttonous, and full of envy?”
“Yes, they responded, “he was all those things.”
“And did he love?” the first angel asked.
“Yes,” they responded, “he loved.”
“Then part ways, and let him enter.”

"Childhood" - A Poem

2009-10-06T12:38:00.000-07:00

Eight years old.
I think it was my first day outside alone,
to explore the world.
I didn’t get farther than the poplar in our backyard,
its leaves bending low and open,
broad-backed and beckoning,
so green and desirable, a kind of wet and sticky
glisten from morning.
I supposed the Sandman had visited it, too.

Well I could wipe it clean.
And in the meantime unclothe this world.
So I approached, blessing myself,
and rubbed the green green leaves,
rubbed them greedily with my soft, plump fingers,
feeling it, feeling the sweat, the soft spine spreading
over its hidden underbelly, the lighter, paler part.
I could taste its essence with my hands.

Then I grew embarrassed and suddenly ran back inside,
the screen door on the porch slamming behind me
with a violent echo.
So I had learned the world.
For the rest of the day, I could not get
that green off my hands,
though I scrubbed and scrubbed
with the certainty of the experienced.

"The Wanderers" - A Poem

2009-10-06T12:31:00.001-07:00

We walked out into the snow.
It came down through the air,
straight down and at times from angles,
hitting our warm faces, wetting our noses.

The road was slippery and steep
so we held onto each other and sort of shimmied down.
Above us streetlamps watched
silently like silent hovering angels, their quiet halos
spreading out into the darkness,

dividing the space into two halves,
separating truth from falsehood,
all that is known and all that is unknown.

At the bottom of the hill we found a little gazebo,
and we sat there, inside the silent womb of night
with our hands in each others’ coat pockets,

waiting for something extraordinary,
waiting for significance.

A Few Haiku

2009-10-06T12:29:00.000-07:00

lunch after breaking up
she reaches out
to touch my hair

snow falling outside
my reflection
in the window

table for two
waiting alone
at the restaurant

the rocks don’t seem to mind
the waves
spilling over them

following the red hat
I wait for her to turn
and wave

"The Drunkard" - A Poem

2009-10-06T12:14:00.000-07:00

All across the night he stole,
softly and swiftly,
delicate as a doe,
his hands chained at the wrists.

He tried to hold a stranger, a bum,
a neighbor and an old lover.
But he frightened them with the red in his eyes
and instead he swam with the smoke in the sky,

Pluming into the darkness,
as if it lit up the stars themselves
from a great distance,
shrouding into infinity all that is abstract.

The bricks in the walls became his friends,
he rubbed the red stone with his fingers.
God, he could taste the mortar and dust!
It whispered to him and shattered the illusion of detachment.

And in that deep umbra of blackness,
the perfume of his soul—so fragile now—
lilted in the air somewhere between his mind
and the moon’s.

"The Secret" & Buddhism

2008-12-18T14:09:00.000-08:00

Rhonda Byrne's self-help book The Secret is all the rage these days. The idea is that you create your own reality by your thoughts, or what is scientifically known as the "law of attraction". The book does not pretend to have invented this concept; it cites several historical figures and religions that used it in their teachings. Take The Dhammapada, for example - a collection of sayings from the Buddha (translated by Thomas Byrom), which sum up The Secret in a few simple lines:

We are what we think.
All that we are arises with our
thoughts.
With our thoughts we make the
world.
Speak or act with a pure mind
And happiness will follow you
As your shadow, unshakable.

Happiness is the reward the Buddha promises. It is the result of a pure mind. One follows the other naturally. A pure mind seems to suggest one that is free from attachments of any kind. What's disappointing about The Secret is its concentration on acquiring things - especially money. It's taken ancient teachings meant to liberate and awaken dormant minds to the truth of the universe, and twisted it into a get-rich-quick scheme. If you want to be wealthy, it says, think wealthy. Wealth is mentioned as early as page 6 and it is the first subject of concentration in the book.

So now we've got millions of people who are thinking about their thinking, and the goal is to get something: money, relationships, health - all having the glint of a new diamond ring. Even happiness in this context has become material, not the natural product of a pure mind divorced from any attachments whatsoever. And, of course, Ms. Byrne has practiced what she preached: the book has sold nearly 4 million copies to date.* I suppose the only way to describe that is, well, very American.

*Source: Nielsen Bookscan (12/08)