mythic poetry

"In the beginning was the One, and It was infinite in all directions, neither male nor female. But It was alone, and loneliness is not good for the soul. Alone, the divine being yearned to love and be loved, to know and be known, to touch and be touched. And so It split Itself in two. One half male and the other female. The male half we call Shiva----pure, formless, unmoving spirit. The female half we call Shakti, our mother, who is matter and energy and form. Shiva and Shakti have always been one and will always be one, but to our eyes, they appear as two. The minute those two caught sight of each other, they fell in love and had no greater desire than to reunite. Always, we desire the opposite of what we have. This is how things are, even with the gods. The one wanted to become two, and the two wanted to return to their former oneness. Shiva desired Shakti, and she desired him. ...And because we are the children of these lovers, we too yearn for sacred union. "Tat twam asi," say the scriptures, "you are that." You are that divine light playing with itself, always creating, always molding, always seeking shape and form and expression. Therefore, you see, we must honor desire. Without desire there is no creation. This is why we tell our stories about desire and love."

-From Aphrodite's Daughters by Jalaja Bonheim

A movie review that Sounds and Feels like one I'd like to see follows after Scout's cute image:

• Poetry, directed by Lee Changdong — "It has a very simple-seeming premise. It's about an old woman in her '60s who's retired and on a pension, and who works as a maid to help support her grandson. Because her life is slightly boring and [she's] looking for something, she decides to take a poetry-writing workshop. And the poetry professor tells her that she needs to see life as it is. And what gradually happens over the next two hours is, she starts to see that. Her grandson gets involved in a scandal; the way that the parents try to deal with the scandal is kind of nasty. And in fact, she reveals herself to have a much deeper, richer and bigger inner life than you would have imagined. ... And along the way, she learns to see things she hadn't seen before. ... It's a movie centered on people writing poetry, or trying to write poetry, that uses the idea of poetry to take you into a way of seeing the world in a richer and more profound way. I think it was probably one of the two or three most admired films [at Cannes]." -Reviewed by John Powers of NPR

This is what there is to say today

MONDAY OR TUESDAY

by Virginia Woolf

Lazy and indifferent, shaking space easily from his wings, knowing his way, the heron passes over the church beneath the sky. White and distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly the sky covers and uncovers, moves and remains. A lake? Blot the shores of it out! A mountain? Oh, perfect—the sun gold on its slopes. Down that falls. Ferns then, or white feathers, for ever and ever——

Desiring truth, awaiting it, laboriously distilling a few words, for ever desiring—(a cry starts to the left, another to the right. Wheels strike divergently. Omnibuses conglomerate in conflict)—for ever desiring—(the clock asseverates with twelve distinct strokes that it is midday; light sheds gold scales; children swarm)—for ever desiring truth. Red is the dome; coins hang on the trees; smoke trails from the chimneys; bark, shout, cry “Iron for sale”—and truth?

Radiating to a point men’s feet and women’s feet, black or gold-encrusted—(This foggy weather—Sugar? No, thank you—The commonwealth of the future)—the firelight darting and making the room red, save for the black figures and their bright eyes, while outside a van discharges, Miss Thingummy drinks tea at her desk, and plate-glass preserves fur coats——

Flaunted, leaf-light, drifting at corners, blown across the wheels, silver-splashed, home or not home, gathered, scattered, squandered in separate scales, swept up, down, torn, sunk, assembled—and truth?

Now to recollect by the fireside on the white square of marble. From ivory depths words rising shed their blackness, blossom and penetrate. Fallen the book; in the flame, in the smoke, in the momentary sparks—or now voyaging, the marble square pendant, minarets beneath and the Indian seas, while space rushes blue and stars glint—truth? or now, content with closeness?

Lazy and indifferent the heron returns; the sky veils her stars; then bares them.

the basics

Getting back to the basics of "gardening a life," I thought I would explore the basics; ones that truly are basic to my life: shelter, bread, desire and rest. Can you find which one is not like the others?

Baking this bread a few days ago, my mother came to mind. She taught me and my sister how to make yeast bread many years ago, way before bread machines. What a way to learn patience and letting nature take her course, yeast rising is, though I still have a lot of patience to practice. This easy bread from 101cookbooks.com is really easy and enjoying it and sharing it is too. My friend Scout even likes it with peanut butter. Baking bread is very nourishing, like the *loaf itself. (To *loaf is a verb [ intrans. ] and means to idle one's time away, typically by aimless wandering; the word reminds me of Whitman and "Song of Myself").

My Pretty amazing grandmother turned 95 two days ago---an amazing woman we call "Pretty". By the end of the day when I spoke to her for the second time, she said, I "felt like a bride," her home full of flowers, her phone ringing many times, younger friends all of them wishing her well, loving her well, reminding her how important she is. Beau and Mary Ashley and Chapman visited her, while my Dad and his brothers took her to lunch where she imbibed a vodka/gin martini, her choice beverage, but only 1.-) Here's her Pretty doberge cake---wish we could all have a bite while we're here. Happy Birthday to You!

Part of my ritual of rest is reading before bed. It's basic to my day and I found a poem by Jane Hirshfield that speaks of another kind of basic we don't live without, "heat". How like horses, animals really to be absolutely honest about themselves! Another of Hirshfield's poems that I like is "The Conversation," which I found in a magazine recently while waiting for my student Katherine at the North Asheville Library. Here it is:

The Conversation

A woman moves close:
there is something she wants to say.
The currents take you one direction, her another.
All night you are aware of her presence,
aware of the conversation that did not happen.
Inside it are mountains, birds, a wide river,
a few sparse-leaved trees.
On the rivers, a wooden boat putters.
On its deck, a spider washes its face.
Years from now, the boat will reach a port by the sea,
and the generations of spider descendants upon it
will look out, from their near sighted, eightfold eyes,
at something unanswered.

The phrase "a spider washes its faces" shocks me every time. Seeing that spider wash its face makes me laugh; in my mind's eye and giggling. What animal isn't a beast of burden and beauty? What basic isn't a way to be grateful and satisfied? What bread isn't the best? What bed isn't home? What shelter isn't forever? As Whitman says, "Oh me, Oh life."

evidence

With a mind, you can find evidence for anything. Sometimes, we find what we are looking for by thinking of it. Our evidence is in our minds.

Nature isn't like this. Nature shows its evidence. Natures blooms and blossoms and sprouts and shoots out. Nature's spirit needs no thought. It has no mind. It thinks of no evidence. It is its own. I love that. How natural, how perfect, how real.


The singular and cheerful life
of any flower
in anyone's garden
or any still unowned field

if there are any---
catches me
by the heart,
by its color,

by its obedience
to the holiest of laws;
be alive
until you are not.

Ragweed,
pale violet bull thistle,
morning glories curling
through the field corn;

and those princes of everything green---
the grasses
of which there are truly
an uncountable company,

each
on its singular stem
striving
to rise and ripen.

What, in the earth world,
is there not to be amazed by
and to be steadied by
and to cherish?

Oh, my dear heart,
my own dear heart,
full of hesitations,
questions, choice of directions,

look at the world.
Behold the morning glory,
the meanest flower, the ragweed, the thistle.
Look at the grass.
*Mary Oliver

Back in Asheville, after a trip to New Orleans, I am steadied and grounded again by the trees in blossom, the succulence wateriness, the wind's influence on my face and body as I sit on my porch admiring the lilies in bloom across the street, lilac, rose, purple.