Annual Christmas/New Years Message 2021

 One of my favorite Christmas songs is "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," written in  1943 by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blaine; it became a standard, albeit with altered lyrics, when it was sung by Judy Garland in the 1944 film, Meet Me In Saint Louis.

The original song began as follows:

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,

it may be your last

Can you imagine a more un-American way to begin a song than with these opening lines? America, which has been the global Jingle Bells bellwether, spreading its sometimes mindless gospel of optimism around the world. Since the 1920s, America has swept death under the table; in this song, which, despite death and destruction (the song, I remind you, was written in 1943, when the defeat of fascism was far from certain), advocates having a Merry Christmas, albeit a little one, now.

The opening lines remind one of the mementos mori of 'yore.'  I imagine the following scene: a small family sits around a holiday table determined to celebrate despite everything. (The shades are drawn in anticipation of a possible air raid). One of the family members, feeling that the festive mood is a bit forced, lifts up the bright-green Christmas tablecloth, to see, as it were, what underlies the roasted turkey on the table. Suddenly he sees a skull, staring back from sockets which once sheltered eyes. Nevertheless, he lets the cloth fall back and continues the celebration with an ambiguous smile on his face.

This is not Schubert's  Winterreise, however; the song does indeed celebrate life despite its negative aspects.

The song ends with the following lines:

Faithful friends who were near to us

will be near to us no more.

But at least we all will be together,

if the Lord allows,

Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow;

so have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

(Italics mine.)

Uh-oh. There is at least a potential problem here. The song posits an afterlife compared to which all the suffering of this life is a mere 'flash in the pan.' Many moderns, myself included, have at best a very uneasy relationship with anything that sounds like 'pie-in-the sky.'  For us the sky extends in all directions for unimaginably long distances; we might look up at the universe and smile, but there is absolutely no evidence that the universe will ever smile back.

Is there room for optimism? You bet; remember, I'm writing a basically upbeat message. If we are involved with work which has a positive effect on society; if we focus on relationships; if we focus on loving our neighbor as ourselves; if we realize that everything is connected (wisdom), we will experience profound joy--at least to the degree that these habits are assiduously practiced. If one lives life in this way, one becomes inevitably spiritual, loving, and wise. What better fulfilment can one hope to have?

All right, let's admit it. The self is an illusion; elements within us, albeit in different proportions, are the same elements in the outside world. Bergson was wrong; there is no life principle that animates flesh. Evolution developed a sense of self for survival purposes--and, 'thank God' it did, for without it the glories of culture and science, etc, would not have been possible. But that's the subject of another essay, one, in fact, that I've already written.

Let's return to having a merry little Christmas. The song, as we have seen, advocates the celebration of life despite its negative aspects. The latter aspects are always there; they shouldn't, however, stop us from making merry periodically. When negativity looms larger, though, Christmases become more and more little.

We are, alas! living in such an age now. Climate change, the result of untrammeled greed, (in which, by the way, so many of our problems have their origin), assures that we cannot continue living lives of mindless consumption. (How can it be that the world is run by ostriches with their heads in the sand--sand, by the way, that was once, not long ago, fertile soil?)

Climate change, of course, is not the only major problem. Inequality has reached painful levels. For instance, the richest country in the world has yet to provide its citizens with universal health care! In a country plagued by violence, we have yet to pass meaningful gun-control legislation! Our country, like much of the world, is almost hopelessly divided! The great American experiment, democracy, is in grave danger!

Serious problems indeed.

We must simplify our lives. Climate change demands it. Chicken littles eating beef while the sky is falling...Is it too late? 

It is never too late.

If we opened Pandora's box now, I imagine that a Trumpy puppet  would pop up like a Mad Hatter Jack-in-the-Box. But hope, that thing with feathers, would still remain.

Never give up trying to make this world a better place. Have faith and be thankful; love and wisdom will get us through somehow. In other words, have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

It may be your last.

Failure:Success Part ll: De Religione Neminis

In part l, I alluded to my many failures under the pseudonym, Andrew K. I think I had been reading too much Kafka, (I recently gave a lecture about Kafka)--truth is that I have had a good deal of successes in my life as well.

In this essay, I would like to discuss one of my greatest failures of all: the failure to be an atheist. I don't know how I do it, but I do. After all, I know well that every statement about God is untrue. In the Upanishads, the source of being is called Brahman. If one makes a statement about Brahman, the correct response is Neti-Neti, i.e Not This, Not That. How many adherents to one of the three Abrahamic faiths would respond to the doctrine that God loves us with an absolute negation? Nemo. Sed quis nemo sum.

The Catholic catechism might forge a community of believers; none of its statements, however, makes any literal sense--unless one is ready to give up science. When the great mathematician, LaPlace was asked by Napoleon how God fit into his philosophy, he replied, "Je n'avais pas besoin de cette hypothèse-là," "I never had any need for that hypothesis." Most scientists today would agree with him.

For me, God is just a word. Regarding religion, I sometimes paraphrase Tina Turner's famous hit with "What does God have to do with it?" Do I believe in God? No. Do I believe in Silence? You bet.

Can you believe two things at the same time? Aristotle says no. Nicholas de Cuna says yes. (The latter is the  philosopher best known for the concept of 'coincidentia oppositorum,' or the unity of opposites.) In mathematics, you don't want anyone telling you that, while e=mc2, e can equal m times the square of something else as well. But life, but consciousness, but religion, but God, is not mathematics. 

We Westerners tend to use logic to prove a hypothesis which simultaneously disproves its opposite. This is quite valid when, say, transmission photometry indicates that an exoplanet contains oxygen in its atmosphere. This is thence accepted as a scientific fact, unless someone can falsify the results by proving the methodology of determining the atmospheric composition was faulty. This is science.

Linear reasoning, however, gets a bit dicey when describing the attributes of consciousness. For instance, many scientists are pure materialists--how can consciousness, a product of the brain, affect matter? That would be a form of dualism, a belief, as it were, in a Ghost in the Machine. Therefore, such scientists conclude, there is no free will. Does that mean we shouldn't plan for tomorrow?

Of course not. Evolution has convinced us that free will exists; without it, culture, not to mention jurisprudence,  would collapse. As long as the I is believed to be a separate entity, the concept of free will is essential. Thus, for practical purposes, free will and its lack exist simultaneously. (If you exist in a realm where free will doesn't exist, you're either dead or living in Nirvana. Maybe someone has actually achieved Nirvana in their lifetime; if so, such entities are extremely rare--in addition, I sure wouldn't want to vote for Mr. or Ms. Nirvana to be our next president! Who puts down the sword dies on the Cross, wrote Simone Weil).

Similarly with religion and science. I am at home with the scientific view of the world. I do not believe in any of the basic tenets of the three Abrahamic religions. This means I don't literally believe that God gave the decalogue on Mount Sinai, nor do I believe that Jesus of Nazareth is literally the son of God, nor do I believe that Muhammad was the last of the prophets. But I do believe that all three are poetic expressions of a universal truth. 

Before the enlightenment, it was possible to believe in dogma and Silence. Dogma, however, was always prose that posed as poetry; literal belief in dogma is no longer possible for those with a functioning, informed head on their shoulders. Silence, a matter of the heart, however, has and cannot ever be wounded by the sticks and stones of Doubting Thomases.

I think that many stick to the old dogmas because they want certainty and consolation. Why do we suffer so? A question for which there are no convincing dogmatic answers. Grown-ups realize that the cosmos isn't able to embrace us; it has no arms. That it 'fans fresh our wits with wonder' I have no doubt. If we want something that fans fresh our hearts with wonder, we have to immerse ourselves in the human realm; we have to experience the miracle of human relationships. The cosmos teaches us awe; humanity teaches us love--what more do we need? Silence is the umbrella that includes and shelters both.

The paradoxical nature of reality was beautifully captured by Buddha when he taught that those who believe in life after death are wrong while those who don't believe in an afterlife are wrong as well. On a prose level, the level on which most of our lives are lived, life is ambiguous. It has its joyous peaks; it has its terrible valleys. We must learn to live with this ambiguity, as the great scientist, Carl Sagan, taught. What better way to forget death for a while than through meaningful work and relationships? What better way to forget death forever than through Silence?

Death is going to hit us hard if it hasn't deeply wounded us already. It wounds us even more deeply by earlier removals from life of those whom we love. There is no getting around that. 

There is a time for mourning, as Ecclesiastes wisely proclaims. But death does not negate the continuation of life, as Nietzsche knew. An individual might not survive the death of a loved one, but no individual is the center of the world; to think so, as many do, is hubris of the worst kind. Those individuals who know what Silence 'means' will, with the help of loved ones who remain, survive and even thrive once again.

Hindus speak of jnana, wisdom; it is the awe we feel when we experience and study the wonders of the cosmos. Hindus also speak of bhakti, the wisdom of devotion, the wisdom of love. The wisest Hindus teach their version of coincidentia oppositorum, namely that jnana and bhakti are one. 

Silence has known that from before the beginning of time. Do you?

Failure:Success, Part 1

 I am a failure, I admit it.

In my late seventies, I've had a lot of opportunities to fail, and I sure have taken advantage of them. The fact of my having grown up in a dysfunctional family has kept me on track, riding the rails of an express train to nowhere; my long journey began at Failure Central, the great invisible railway station in Jersey City, where I was born.

Now, so many years later, I can still see, as it were, the countless houses that whizzed by. I couldn't make them out clearly, but I imagined them all to be perfect little upper-class houses, each with a white picket fence, each like a moat surrounding the home of a jolly, white family, the parents of which were epitomes of success. I also imagined, if I could only get off the train, that I would somehow be able to find a house of my own in a squeaky-clean neighborhood; a house for which, with a lot of work, I would be able to mortgage myself and squeak by. But the ghost engineer rushed on full-throttle; the landscape whooshed past houses in which I imagined a Mr. and a Mrs. Success in every one, dining on caviar, silver spoon-feeding their two brilliant kids.

Now, so many decades later, the conductor informs me I'm rapidly approaching the last stop before that once-dreaded final destination. I have to get off and I do.

Old age is indeed a desolate station, but I'm not alone; my wife and my son have been waiting for me. We embrace. "Where's your luggage?" my wife asks. "Doesn't my smile prove I have none? I threw them out the window long ago." Our son drives us home.

I have arrived. Slightly physically bent, yet more than slightly content, I'm in no hurry to walk down that lonesome valley; what mystics call 'one's true home,' I have found here. There, after the heart's last tick, I must go, this I know, and, and, and...Who knows?

Finally, a sort-of, a for so long unthought-of, Success!

--Andrew K.

Irgendwelche Ähnlichkeit zwischen Andrew K. und einem gewissen, unbekannten Gedicht- und Blogverfasser ist reiner Zufall. Zufallsreinigkeit, aber, kommt selten vor.

(To be continued)

Toxic Individualism

 "I pledge allegiance to the flag of The United States of America,,,one nation...individuals, with liberty and justice for all."

That ain't right.

"...one nation, inderisibles..."

Inderisibles? Independents who've become risible? That isn't even a word.

That ain't right, either.

"...one nation, indivisible..." Yes, those are the words, but, unfortunately, at present, thanks in no small part to our homegrown Little Caeser, America est omnes divisa in partes duo.

So let's return to the first example whose incorrect wording captures the American spirit much more succinctly: individuals.

America is without a doubt the land of individualism. It started early. Transplanted from a nation which prized the individual much more than other countries, Jefferson famously wrote in the Constitution of 'the inalienable rights'...'of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness;' --no mention of inalienable duties.

Individualism unbalanced by a sense of the collective is a cult. It is our cult.

The poem, Invictus, by William Ernest Henley, is a well-known (to many readers) poem that celebrates individualism. Many Americans would agree with its content; I quote the poem now in its entirety:

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

     For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud,

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

     Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

     I am the captain of my soul.

True, this solid poem was written by an Englishman who died in 1903, yet it is very applicable to current ideas of toxic individualism. (This aberration, like a virus, has spread to many countries and not only affects and infects America. The poem  has the distinction of being a largely unknown, a hymn-like modern Internationale which nevertheless expresses how many people feel today. We will concern ourselves here with its classic manifestation: American Individualism).

An example of the attraction of this poem to hyper-individualistic minds is the fact that Timothy McVeigh, the domestic terrorist responsible for the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995, wrote out this poem on the eve of his execution in 2001. It obviously represented his philosophy. He simply wrote out the poem in longhand, without  signing it with either his own or the author's name. A comic event occurred the next day. The now-disgraced announcer, Matt Lauer, discussed the execution on Good Morning America, a TV program which he co-hosted at the time. He mentioned the poem and commented that it was a badly written amateur poem. He thought McVeigh had followed in the footsteps of Chidiock Tichborne, who wrote a deservedly famous poem on the eve of his execution in 1586. The sexual predator and illiterate Lauer thought McVeigh had written the poem himself!

A hallmark of unbalanced individualism is an intense dislike of all things associated with government except for the military. I would dare say that the majority of Republicans would agree with Reagan's notorious dictum, spoken during his Inaugural Address in 1981: "Government is not  the solution to our problem, government is the problem."  The citizens of all other democracies respect their government and to a large degree identify with it. Only in America does a large swath of the population dislike, even hate, their own government. Why? Because government, in their minds, is there to limit their freedom as individuals. Some anti-Semitic 'patriots' once referred to the U.S. Government as Zog, (Zionist Occupied Government), a ridiculous designation which, thank goodness! has lost currency; but the view of government as something alien, worthy of hate and even violent opposition, unfortunately, remains.

These 'patriots' view government as a bunch of alien elites who want to impinge on their creed of rugged individualism. Don't tread on me me me; nobody is going to tell me what to do; this is the creed of me's in various states of ignorance. What happened to the plural of the first person, the we, the us?

Henley was definitely a poet, but the content of the poem is bosh. All one needs to do is change the workings of a self-sufficient consciousness by the administration of the right drugs, and that mind can become, depending on what is administered, confused, paranoid, depressed, etc. Yes, a so-called unconquerable soul can be conquered. A branch on a beautiful bonzai tree can be inexplicably majestic, and even usher in enlightenment in an enlightenment-primed beholder, it can, however, also be broken easily. 

An image has remained in my mind from an old movie about the Chinese invasion of Tibet. Enlightened monks, harboring no hatred, painstakingly created an elaborate sand painting to welcome the invaders. Chinese troops proceeded to step on the painting, ruining it without a shred of remorse, as if it had been nothing but dirt. Similarly, viruses can step on our souls, as it were, turning our brains into mush. 

Examples of toxic individualism abound in our culture. For instance, The I-I-I governor of Florida, Ron DeSantis, recently said that the Land of the Free is heading toward a "Faucian dystopia"--Aye Yai Yai! The relationship between toxic individualism and science is proving to be, well, toxic.

Hatred of government also very much includes hatred of public health, As a retired pediatrician, I am amazed that vaccines, which have saved countless lives, have become the center of such bitter controversy. When I worked in public health, those who refused vaccines tended to be poor individuals whose chaotic lives obviated having a sense that vaccines were important. Once the requirement of certain vaccines were mandated for school entry, the population largely fell in line. 

Those mandates are still in effect. Still, this being America, a so-called religious exemption is allowed. Yet very few--at least in Baltimore--utilize the religious exemption. Very very few refuse the law requiring drivers and passengers to buckle up. Why is the Covid-19 vaccination treated so differently?

I listened to a reporter on Fox News who claimed that vaccination should be between the doctor and the patient and government should keep out of the sacred doctor-patient relationship. In other words, the recommendations of top-notch government scientists, like Dr. Fauci, should be ignored. In this view, the government scientists are cheer leaders of creeping socialism; a bunch of fancy-schmancy urban elites trying to put ballet shoes, as it were, on the feet of true-blooded rugged individuals. Scientists like Dr. Fauci should be counted as among our greatest heroes; instead they receive death threats.

Toxic individuals seem to be saying, We are good and they are bad; not thinking makes it so. Next thing they'll try to do is take away our guns. (In the case of A-15s, one can only hope.)

The Faucian bargain is well worth the price. But you have to be humble; you have to be nice.

Increasingly, both sentiments are in very short supply.

Who's to blame for everything? Them, never us; and them is another word for government. Drivel does not turn into wisdom when amplified by brainless tweets and twitters, no matter how many. The pernicious role that social media play in all this is well documented. 

Life is hard for us all, especially for members of the so-called lower class. There might be comfort and safety in numbers, but not necessarily wisdom. The countless tweets of countless uncritical thinkers result in a solipsistic cacophony; harmony has nothing to do with it.

Recently, I gave a two-hour Zoom lecture--in German, no less--about Bertolt Brecht. As I said in the lecture, I think Brecht is just the artist America needs at the moment. According to Brecht, everyone is formed by society; in his world, the real world, an individual doesn't emerge fully formed as the mythical Athena was said to emerge from Zeus's head. The individual is largely formed by the milieu in which he is raised. (The inner milieu, developed by outer circumstance and the workings of genetics was neglected by Brecht, but no matter; it is merely another factor in the impersonal determination of personality.)

For Brecht, the fostering of a more just society is what is most important. The sacrifice of an individual to make the world better is a frequent Brechtian theme. He might have emphasized the collective over the individual a bit too much, but for present-day America, which worships the me and ignores the we, Brecht provides a much-needed alternative. The times are certainly out of joint; a balance between love of others and love of self would provide a much needed relief from the damage caused by the idol of toxic individualism.

As Delmore Schwarz once wrote, in dreams begin responsibilities. An unbalanced stress of the needs of the individual over the needs of society will turn, without a doubt, the American dream into a nightmare.

A government of the people, by the people and for the people shall not perish from the earth? Immortal words, Mr. Lincoln, but immortal words do not heal a festering wound. If toxic individualism, which is fueling the toxic divisions of our nation, gets any worse, the American experiment just might end with a bang or a whimper, for toxic individualism can destroy what has been built faster than termites. 

A house divided against itself can not stand, Mr. Lincoln? You and Jesus of Nazareth were certainly right about that.

 

Liebe (Botschaft eines sterbenden Falke)

Auch  die Dämonen, die die Nation zerteilen.

Musst auch dem Weltall Treue schwören,

Fröhlich Dich und die Nachbarn feiern;

Sei dankbar, gedeihe und gib;

Sei achtsam; Freund,

Selbst ohne Gott, vergib;

Nicht vergessen, die lange oder kurze Fahrt

Kommt an demselben Zielpunkt an.

Möge Deine lang und friedvoll,

Gut und befriedigend sein.

A Baker's Dozen, Favorite Poems by Basho, Part ll

This is Part ll of a two-part compilation of major poems by Basho, along with commentary. It is recommended, though not necessary, to read Part l first. 

8. Autumn winds blowing

    Yet chestnut burrs

    Remain green

All right, we know it's in the genes. Chestnut burrs don't decide to remain green as chestnut leaves turn color and fall. The time for harvesting chestnuts is September through late October, depending on the variety. The chestnuts inside burrs that remain green are not ready for harvesting. Green chestnut burrs can be found even in late fall, after the leaves of the parent tree have fallen.

Some people "remain green" and deal with the vicissitudes of life better than others. I interpret this poem to denote the fact that optimism is linked to quality of life and to longevity. Whether optimism is in the genes or not, a positive, that is, a 'green' attitude can keep one above ground longer. The beauty of this poem is that even the healthiest attitude can't keep you alive forever: by late fall, all the chestnut burrs are brown, empty shells; they might stay green longer than the chestnut's deciduous leaves, yet they, too, eventually leave without a trace.

I've read that optimism often extends the lives of cancer patients. A good reason for me to become more optimistic!

9. 

Visiting loneliness

Just one leaf

Of the kiri tree

The kiri tree (paulownia) is found around the world, but is especially abundant in Japan. It is a stocky hardwood with abundant leaves as the photo shows. The tree bears lovely pink blossoms in the spring. The Japanese make one of their classical stringed instruments, the koto, from wood of the kiri. It is very fast growing; that and the fact of its having abundant leaves make kiri trees important removers of carbon dioxide from the atmosphere--if only there were much more of them and much fewer pollutants! The beauty of this poem lies in concentrating on a single leaf, even through it is surrounded by countless others. "Visiting loneliness" implies a deliberate act, a choice. To identify with one leaf which is surrounded by countless others is perhaps contrary to nature. I doubt if loneliness was widespread or even existed until the agricultural age began only about 12,000 years ago--a blink of an eye compared to over a million years of human evolution. Loneliness is not in our genetic makeup. Two implied solutions: 1) we have the choice to visit something else and 2). a way out of loneliness is not identifying with a single, lonely leaf, but with the entire tree and, by extension, with all of nature. Once we identify with everything, perhaps after many years of meditation, loneliness is impossible. Easier said than done!

10.

During a noonday nap,

how doubly cool it is to have

the support of a wall at our feet!

Hans Küng (1927-2021), the influential, non-dogmatic theologian wrote of the importance of having a letzter Halt, an ultimate support. In keeping with the poem's imagery, without it we might toss and turn and find no rest. In Basho's case, the letzter Halt would, of course, be the teachings of Zen. As an old doggerel rhyme begins, "Many a ship is lost at sea/ for want of tar and rudder." This seems especially true today as traditional supports break down. A Catholic TV program from long ago was entitled, "Lamp unto my feet." In Basho's imagery, ultimate support is a wall at our feet. Who knows what's behind it? It doesn't really matter, since it supplies the support that we need. Without it, we could not rest comfortably.

11.

White-haired relatives

Each with a cane

Visiting graves

A striking image of the opposite bookend, (the first being birth), supporting the book of life. If we're lucky enough to escape major sicknesses; if we live long enough, this is what awaits us: old age and death. Even with the support mentioned in the previous haiku, life can be very difficult indeed.

12.

At autumn's close,

My neighbor, old,

what does he now do?

It is wisdom to know when it's time to retire--in every sense of that word. When we continue to try to act as vigorously as we once did after our acting ability significantly diminishes, age will--abruptly or slowly, painfully--yank us from the stage. Like it or not, everything has its season, including you. (This doesn't mean that life isn't to be lived purposefully to the very end, far from it; however, life changes and we need to change along with it.) Will the wall of support mentioned in a previous poem continue to support us as we lie down finally? It certainly can, as a Spanish proverb implies: When we're born, we cry, while those around  us smile; when we die, those around us cry; it's then our turn to smile. 

13.

Falling ill on a journey--

Dreams still moving

Above withered grass

This poem can be interpreted as an outer-body experience indicating the transcendence of consciousness. The  body, the withered grass, is already dead, or at least gravely diminished--yet dreams still soar above. Near-death experiences indicate that consciousness can survive brain death--but for how long?  Hamlet's words regarding death as "the undiscovered county from whose born no traveler returns" still hold. We should focus on fostering good dreams for our consciousness, that is, by being wise and acting wisely, for such dreams can last to the very end--perhaps even beyond. 

I hope you have enjoyed reading some of Basho's masterworks. They have become part of my life--May they also become part of yours!

Senex's Haiku: Twelve Poems About Aging

Suddenly trapped in

A gossamer web, Gnat

Will not fly again

 

Youth imagines youth lasts

The butterfly alights

The thistle bobs

Senex is an old man

The audience laughs

He exits the stage

 

Poppies and lavender

One more spring, please

Autumn chrysanthemums

 

Squirrels on asphalt

Vultures riding thermals

Narrow roads

 

Glaciers melt

Methane rises

Earth exposed

My silence is loud

I'm humble, I'm proud

That's not allowed

 

Innocence ants

Innocent fungi

Little brains explode

76 years of failure

Haven't defeated me yet--

Entropy is a mess

 

The poem he wrote out for us

When we moved away

Is now illegible

 

Within the bare branch

‘Spring’s crinkled leaf’

Remains unseen

 

Invisible friends

Visit my grave

A lark sings

A Baker's Dozen: Favorite Poems by Basho, Part l

 Basho (1644-1694) is widely recognized as Japan's greatest poet. He was a master of haiku, that is, brief unrhymed poems of three lines with a strict form: first line, 7 syllables, second line, 5 syllables followed by a third line of seven syllables. Haiku are imagistic poems that sometimes--in Basho's case, often--get at the very heart of reality. It is no surprise that he studied and practiced Zen for the latter part of his life, the time when his greatest poems were written. Details about his life can readily be obtained by the interested reader; I will focus on the poems.

1. First Poem, the Most Famous of All

old pond

a frog jumps in

the sound of water

There is an anecdote behind this poem. Basho was sitting in a garden with poets and pupils as company. He began composing a haiku, which began with the image, 'old pond'. Shortly thereafter a splash was heard and the poem was soon completed.

Japanese, a language I don't know, is apparently very different from English. The emphasis is on nouns unadorned by definite or indefinite articles, which by the way, don't even exist in Japanese. One gets the impression of a one-or-two paneled painting, a Still Life by a Master--a Zen Master, that is. At best, haiku are completely concrete and profoundly symbolic at the same time.

This poem is no different. I give one interpretation; many are possible. The 'old pond' can be considered to be the teachings of Zen--or of any other profound system which can make its disciples become wise.  Practice is what is most essential; reading about Zen without ardently practicing Zen in meditation and in life will get one nowhere. You, like the frog, have to jump in the pond and swim. The last line is so beautiful; you can almost hear the splash. 

It's like the story of a disciple--there are many such stories--who struggled to obtain the wisdom of Zen all his life; suddenly he hears the cry of a cuckoo and becomes enlightened. He would never have reached this level if he hadn't practiced Zen ardently for years; similarly, there would be no water-sound if the frog hadn't jumped in.

A very evocative poem! 

2.

On a wintry morning

I sit by myself

eating tough strips of dried salmon

I have known and loved this haiku for over forty years!

The first line reveals the cold indifference of nature; the second line reveals the tragic isolation humans are prone to; the third line reveals the anhedonia resultant from the experience--there is no pleasure, not even in food. When it rains, inside and outside, it sometimes pours; it sometimes never seems to stop.

We project our feelings onto nature--She is perceived as being warm and kind when one is feeling warm and kind. When not, not. The isolation and extreme loneliness that plagues many individuals today was not characteristic during most of human evolution; I doubt if any hunter gatherer was as lonely as Kafka's Gregor Samsa; he or she was always surrounded by kin.

If you're depressed or in a very bad and isolated mood, this is the poem for you.

3.

Rough seas

stretch across to Sado

Above, the Milky Way

One of my favorites.

The island of Sado, part of the Japanese archipelago,  is several miles off the west coast of Japan. In this haiku, I picture a boat and its passengers being tossed about by rough seas. In the distance, a mount on the island of Sado is seen. The storm seems to stretch all the way to the island, which it probably does. It is night. One looks up and sees the Milky Way.  One suddenly feels centered, despite being tossed about by waves. The Japanese word for the Milky Way is, transliterated, Ama-nao-gawa, which means Heaven's river, a much lovelier term for the river of light caused by countless stars toward the galaxy's center.

I interpret this with one of my favorite sayings, 'All storms are local.' One contrasts a tempest which occurs on Earth with the absolute serenity of the heavens. The poem acquires a deeper meaning as one interprets the storm on the sea as a storm taking place inside oneself. It is amazing when one witnesses 'a hurricane' occurring between the ears, say, in a disturbed person, while a person in the next room remains healthy and calm. All storms are local--all demons, horrible thoughts, stormy views, etc. do not correspond to the outside world, they occur within. I repeat: all storms are local.

True, if we were able to get close to the stars of the Milky Way, everything would not be at peace. There would be solar flares, occasional massive supernovae, stars being swallowed by an enormous black hole, etc. Similarly, it has been pointed out that a forest might transmit a sense of peace, but close-up the struggle for life is everywhere. Tall trees, for instance, deprive saplings of light, dooming them to death. Both of these arguments are missing something essential, however. Once we transcend our egos, once the I, along with inordinate desires, buzzes off like an annoying mosquito, everything is at peace, at least according to Buddhist teachings. In addition one cannot deny that contemplating nature brings respite to the troubled breast.

'All storms are local' is another way of saying storms, especially internal storms, do not last.  I wish more young persons would realize this fact! Also: Buddhist practice often proves that we  can control internal weather. And, if not, we can accept our finite storms and contemplate, say, the peace of the heavens or that of nature, thus finding a durable eye of the storm in ourselves.

4.

Surprised, without even

a hat on my head, by

cold rain  What?

First a note on how I translate the haiku without knowing Japanese. The collection of haiku I utilized is An Introduction to Haiku by Harold Henderson, 1958. For each haiku, Henderson provided, along with his translation, a transliteration of the Japanese and a literal English translation. In this case:

kasa  mo  naki ware wo  shigururu     ka nanto-nanto

hat   even  not  me   on  get-cold-rain ?  what-not

I ignored the book's translation, which in this case is entitled Sudden Shower:

Not even a hat--

   and cold rain falling on me?

       Tut-Tut! Think of that!

Regarding the concrete meaning of the poem, we can all relate to times when we, without an umbrella, have been surprised by a shower.  Regarding the metaphorical meaning of the poem, we are aware that good fortune can turn on a dime. One day, one is in good health; the next day a diagnosis of inoperable cancer comes along. Change is inevitable, sometimes for the better, sometimes--especially when one lives long enough--for the worse. Zen demands that we accept life as it is, not how we would have it. Think of that!

5.

Soon to die

without any indication,

the chirps of locusts

I'll let you interpret this one. Sic transit gloria mundi. The wise are always ready.

6.

Sun's road

hollyhocks turn toward it

despite the rains of May

If I were to write 'don't ever give up,' or 'the wise know, however hidden, that the sun still is shining, just beyond the clouds', it would sound hackneyed. Leave it to Basho to convey this important message with a striking image.

7.

In Kyoto

I long for Kyoto

The cuckoo calls

A Western version of this would be, 'In Jerusalem, I long for Jerusalem.'   Kyoto, a holy city of temples, is the Japanese equivalent. Imagine, after much hard spiritual work, arriving in a holy city expecting a bit of holiness to rub off. One is disappointed; thus, 'In Kyoto, I long for Kyoto.' I'm reminded of one of my favorite Latin proverbs, by Horace: "Caelum non animam mutant, qui trans mare currunt, that is, 'Those who travel abroad change the sky, not their nature.' In other words, you can't run away from yourself, If you're not ready for wisdom, especially Zen wisdom, traveling to a holy place is not going to help. The last line, however, changes everything. The cuckoo has great spiritual significance in Japan. There are many Zen stories of sudden enlightenment in those who have worked hard on spiritual matters. When one is ready, all it takes is a cry of the cuckoo to usher in enlightenment. As I interpret this wonderful poem, the protagonist, having heard the cry of the cuckoo, no longer yearns for Kyoto, for he has become Kyoto.

A little bird, much more prosaic that the cuckoo, has told me that seven poems with interpretations are enough for one blog essay. Seven more by Basho, along with interpretations,  will soon follow. I hope you are enjoying  these amazing poems. Comments welcome.

Butterfly and Peepers

Does eighty make sense to eighteen?

She's anxious, she's afraid

We have the solution

Why won't she listen

Does life exist beneath

The ice of Enceladus?

I'll never know. She will.

Gran's shelves were spotless

Until Gran broke her hip

Moth eggs in the rice

Who wrote The Marriage of Figaro?

She doesn't know, yet knows

Beyoncé's latest hits

Who was Janet Reno?

Groucho, Fripp and Eno,

Durwood Kirby? Who?

Cherry trees blossoming

On the Potomac;

Will I see them again?

At the computer

Old and alone

Looking at pictures of flowers

Peepers, Butterfly,

What's left?

Wings

Pre-radiation Haiku

I, too, have cancer

Part of me is unaffected

Part of me is terrified

Jedermann's comment: Everyone's heading toward peace

Reefs blanch in the Anthropocene

Skeletal gardens

Small fry have nowhere to go

Jedermann's comment: Have-nots will be the first to drown

Haves party till haves sink

An ancient wall

Open hands

No fists

Jedermann's comment: Open hands are universal

All fists are local

Water stridor

Wrinkles the face of a pond

Box turtle stares

Jedermann's comment: Pond doesn't care

Nature's Seurats:

Age spots, freckles,

Stippled trout

Jedermann's comment: Cancer cells, too

Two ancient skulls

One 45,000 years old

One 76

Jedermann's comment: Both are mine 

Spots on a boulder

Split by an oak

The moss spreads

Jedermann's comment: Zeno was wrong

Everything moves

Slow as lichen

Fast as mushrooms

Waiting for Death

Jedermann's comment: cummings was right

death is bad

Death is good

How Did We Get into this Mess?

1.

Today, I begin my seventy-seventh year on this planet. It has been quite a rough ride.

It is normal for some one in his seventy-seventh year--especially one, like me, with health issues--to think about one's impending obliteration. If this is true--and it certainly is--along with the exigencies of personality and other factors, I can be considered normal--and then some.

Yes, I might not have all that long to live. Yes, I'm getting used to that. Millions of Americans are in similar shoes, some whose soles are worn down a good deal more than mine. You get old and die.  That's nature. It's only natural to experience the 'slings and arrows' of advancing age; get used to it.

I have, or, more precisely, almost have. But one thing I wasn't counting on is the very real possibility that the country of my birth might not even survive my own death. A horrible thought!

Imagine a dialogue between my present self and the self I once was, aged about fifty.

Old man: I hate to tell you this, but in twenty years or so we will have elected a man who will be as qualified to be president as the milk man you remember from your youth. (The guy who used to collect the empty glass bottles and provide new ones filled with a liquid white as a Pepsodent tooth--remember the fifties jingle, "You'll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!") This president's term will be an unmitigated disaster. His handling of the pandemic (don't ask) alone would be enough to relegate him to join the company of Buchanon and Johnson as the very worst presidents in our country's history--a fact which will be attested by history books long after both of us are gone.

Imagine this president solidly losing an election, but, not only refusing to concede, insisting that he won by a landslide. It turns out that this is not so surprising, since that president is a pathological narcissist, but here's the kicker: his party will largely not contradict him. Republicans and their base will support what will be known as the Big Lie, namely, that he who lost won. Tell a lie insistently enough and it just might become an accepted truth. The author of 1984 knew this; totalitarian regimes then and now make telling Big Lies the cornerstone of their autocratic prisons. 

Before you die, this will not only have happened in Russia, China, Nazi Germany and elsewhere, but will be happening right here in the United States. What does your poor middle-aged self, think of that?

Younger Self: Impossible! This isn't Saudi Arabia. This isn't Pakistan. This isn't Rumania.

Old self: Nevertheless, I really hate to tell you this, but it's true.

We are now at a time when, if Trump or one like him wins in the next presidential election, democracy in this country might very well not survive. (This is not merely the ranting of an obscure old man; the distinguished foreign affairs specialist and academic, Fiona Hill, an expert on Russia, recently has said the same thing.

How did we get into this mess?

2.

If the the hands of the non-Black working class ever joined hands with the Black working class, we would have a different and better country. Such a coming together would strike terror into the hearts of the (mostly) white-skinned bodies whose pockets runneth over with dark money. They have so effectively pitted the two groups against each other, that it seems increasingly unlikely that such a wished for (by me at least) state will come to pass in the near future. Why is that?

Daniel Shor, a well known data analyst believes that the Democratic Party, the only one which could bring all members of the working class together, is, to use Ezra Klein's words, "sleep-walking to disaster."

Many members of the white working-class are angry and grossly misinformed; Democrats still need to reach out to them. There is no other way.

For the  white working-class racial identity nowadays trumps economic self-interest. Non-college educated whites feel that the Democratic Party, which they have traditionally supported, has abandoned them. College-educated elites, the so-called East Coast liberals, according to working-class whites, are more concerned with diversity than they are with traditional working-class values, such as support for unions and many of the items in Biden's Build Back Better proposal.

The Republicans have played the race card brilliantly. They very effectively have burdened the shoulders of liberals with the race issue on one, and its variant, immigration, on the other. They have convinced their base that the Democratic Party is the party for them. This would not be so bad if the Republican base were evenly distributed across America, but it is not. The Electoral College and the fact that underpopulated states, where so many of the white working class reside, elect two senators each, just like the most populous, and mostly blue states. Do we have a functioning democracy when a state like California, with a population close to 40 million, gets the same amount of senators as a state like Wyoming, which has a population of fewer than 600, 000 people? (Thomas Jefferson, what were you thinking?)

The Republicans know they are a minority party and therefore have to cheat to win. They have done an admirably immoral job. While the Democratic base focuses on presidential elections, the Republicans made sure that they got control of governorships and state legislators. The undemocratic nature of this arrangement is evinced by the fact that, even in red states, the Democrats usually receive more than fifty percent of the votes, yet they still lose seats due to the egregious gerrymandering of districts in favor of Republicans. 

The present situation is so bad that, even though two-thirds of the population support abortion on demand, it seems increasingly likely that Roe v. Wade might be overturned, according to the will of the Republican minority.

Each segment of the Democratic Party seems to want justice for itself rather than striving to win. We hear advocacy for reparations, but doesn't one realize that reparations, however justified, would radicalize the opposition? How can one advocate for reparations in a country that doesn't even have universal health service, etc, etc. 

I call the hindrance to the passing of progressive legislation the Tennessee factor. (Lincoln, before the Civil War, wanted to get more Southern votes by appointing Andrew Johnson from Tennessee as the vice president. We all know how that turned out. The racist Johnson looked the other way as Jim Crow conquered the South.)

What I mean by the Tennessee factor is that Democrats must become more practical and concentrate on winning. They should reach out to rural red states with traditional working-class policies and tamp down stress on 'identity politics" for a while. (Note, as a white member of a large brown and black family, I am an ardent supporter of integration. As a means to this goal, I want Democrats to win and win big. I believe this will not be accomplished if Democrats don't take the Tennessee factor into consideration and become more practical.)

These are heady times--if Democrats don't get their act together, the last act will belong to the Republicans. It will end in tragedy.

If Trump or someone like him gets elected, it may well signal the end of our democracy. Democrats, our only hope, please stop squabbling amongst yourselves and concentrate on winning. If you don't, liberty and justice will go down with you.

The Cosmic Heart

An Orthodox friend told me

some frumme Jews have holes

drilled into their coffins

to share their new housing

with worms. Whatever is

breaks down. It is not

seemly for the believer

to imagine otherwise--

I ponder this while listening

to dreadful piped-in music

in a room of stacked vaults.

A newly chiseled date upon

my friend's tomb--He would

have chosen a box with holes

of simple wood--You gotta get

me outta here--Just kidding--

Life is good; if you love as

water flows, death's also good:

somehow know a cosmic heart

transcends desiccation.

                           Thomas Dorsett

Sometimes the Unfittest Survive

How does one explain the Republican Party on an evolutionary basis? If the God of the Deists existed, that is, if the Argument of Intelligent Design were in fact true, The Creator would have an awful lot of explaining to do.

1.

As Darwin elaborated in 1859, life evolves by natural selection, favoring the survival of the fittest. Life is thought to have begun not too long--in cosmic terms-- after Earth came into being, about 4.5 billion years ago. For several billion years, the only life forms on Earth were unicellular organisms, bacteria and viruses. (The first bacteria arose about 3.5 million years ago.) Multicellular organisms began their long trek to the fauna and flora of today during the Cambrian Period, 500 million years ago.

Viruses and bacteria, being unconscious, follow the laws of evolution as strictly as stones follow the law of gravity when they fall to Earth. Viruses and bacteria have no need of the Biblical injunction of choosing life; they have no choice but to do so. Since these simple organisms--especially viruses--replicate so rapidly, chance genetic variations occur with greater frequency. If a variation increases the organism's chances of survival, it soon becomes dominant. This is what has happened with the Delta variant of the Covid-19 virus, the cause of the current phase of the pandemic. This variant has made the critter fitter.

That the universe originated in a chance, quantum event is widely theorized today. In the pre-modern era, a chance creation of the universe seemed illogical; many scientifically unsophisticated persons today would agree.

In the classical example of the 'watchmaker' metaphor, William Paley asserted in 1802 that, just as a found watch implies a watchmaker, so do complex organisms imply a creator. Most educated religious and scientific leaders agreed with this position for generations and generations. Since 1859, however, evolutionary Darwinism is 'the only game in town,' just as for the past century quantum theory is widely accepted as the 'creator' of the universe in which every town and city are located.

2.

If the American subset of Covid-19 viruses somehow became conscious, whom do you think they would vote for? Republicans, of course. For that political variant bears a good deal of responsibility in abetting the survival of the Delta variant.

How can it be that a virus mindlessly and flawlessly follows the law of survival, when some politicians seemingly do the opposite? If a politician is decent, whether conservative or liberal, he or she dedicates a goodly proportion of effort to the public good. If the desire to serve is not a main reason for entering politics, something is seriously wrong. Every politician must make compromises, such as conflicts of conscience, which arise, say, from the necessity of fund-raising. As those compromises impinge on one's ability to serve the public good, politicians become less and less good themselves. Yes, politics entails compromising, but not compromising too much.

The governors of Texas and Florida, to mention two notorious examples, are responsible for causing the deaths and sicknesses of constituents they are supposed to serve. How can one advocate that whether to take a life-saving vaccine is a personal choice? Don't all those irrational, angry people who refuse vaccines because they don't want to be told what to do, buckle up as required by law before driving a car? Freedom indeed. What about the freedom of those, even those who have been vaccinated, not to be infected by loopy anti-vaxxers? Is requiring one to wear  a mask really on the same level as requiring one to wear a suit of armor during a heat wave? Is wearing a mask too much to ask to save the lives of both oneself and one's neighbor?

Are the governors of Florida and Texas and their ilk stupider than viruses, which are congenitally unable to act in any way that imperils their survival? I don't think so.

Richard Dawkins in his seminal book, The Selfish Gene, demonstrated that animals' genetic endowment determines that genes act selfishly, that is, they act in accord with their own survival rather than group survival. In addition, humans with strong convictions follow cultural dictates in contrast, say, to the natural commandment to be fruitful and multiply. The celibacy requirement for Catholic priests is a good example.

We have therefore two ways of explaining the Abbott/DeSantis paradox. One is that they are genetically interested in their own survival, and not in the survival of those they are supposed to serve. But it's worse than  that. Blaming genetics only goes so far; they are human beings and should know better.

Therefore, they are in a very real sense worse than viruses. In other words, they are bad examples of humanity.

I contend that they, and other Republicans, know that they are harming fellow human beings; the primary interest of the former is political survival, plain and simple. They are convinced that pleasing their base is more important than doing the right thing. They want to survive politically at all costs--and the costs are high. DeSantis, for instance, is not afraid to fine government officials for enjoining the use of masks; he knows that although this might make him unpopular among some Floridians,  it keeps his approval rating in the state higher than Biden's. Love yourself above your neighbor is their cynical, egotistical, ungodly commandment. 

Viruses are amoral, they have no sense of self. DeSantis and Abbott are immoral: they know what's right but deliberately choose, for selfish reasons, to do wrong. One kills unconsciously; the other consciously.

The astounding thing is the ignorance of such a large swath of the American people. Forgive them, Lord, (not the  Abbotts and DeSantises), for they know not what they do. To which viruses would reply, if they could: yeah, right.

We get the politicians we deserve; yes, indeed, we're in serious trouble.

The Poetry of Dorothy Parker

 In a recent book club meeting, our group discussed the work of the author, wit, critic and poet, Dorothy Parker, (1893-1967).  She might not make the A List of great American writers, but, I think, she is at the top of the B. She is mostly known for her wit, but this is a bit unfair, since she authored short stories, poetry, and criticism of quality. She also, in later life, wrote the screenplay for several films. Parker  was also an activist, which got her blacklisted during the McCarthy era. She was, thus, a Renaissance woman; her work is still read today.

Some examples of her wit: When she was told of the death of Calvin Coolidge, who slept up to 12 hours daily, she responded: "How could they tell?"  After an abortion, she complained that she had put "all her eggs in one bastard." On another occasion, she was asked to say something witty about the word, 'horticulture.' Her reply: "You can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make her think."

Some of her short stories may be dated and uneven, but we certainly enjoyed many of them. We found her criticism and review less interesting--but interesting enough.

The book we read is entitled, "The Portable Dorothy Parker" from Penguin books, which has been in print for decades.

In this article, I will briefly discuss her poetry.

She was the author of three collections of poetry, Enough Rope, (1926), Sunset Gun, (1928), and Death and Taxes (1931). Editions of her collected poetry followed, including a posthumous collection of additional poems.

Her first poetry collection was widely popular. A reviewer from The Nation, in rather purple prose, described the poems as "caked with salty humor, rough with splinters of disillusion, and tarred with a bright black authenticity." A review for The  N.Y. Times, however, dismissed her verse, rather unfairly, I think, as "flapper poetry."

Undoubtedly her most famous poem is the two-liner, "Men seldom make passes/ At girls who wear glasses." There is, however, much more to her work than these lines suggest, as I hope to now demonstrate.

Let us n ow turn our attention to a poem from her first collection, entitled "Fighting Words.'

Say my love is easy had,

   Say I'm bitten raw with pride,

Say that I am too often sad--

   Still behold me at your side.

Say I'm neither brave nor young,

   Say I woo and coddle care,

Say the devil touched my tongue--

   Still you have my heart to wear.

But say my verses do not scan,

   And I get me another man!

A typical Parker poem--She is here brutally honest with herself. We see how easily line two leads to line three--that is, how raw pride often consigns one to long periods of sadness. All her obsessions are laid out in this poem: pride, sadness, worry about aging, and failed relationships, to name the most important.

Parker had a sad childhood, which often leads to a rather sad adulthood, as it did in her case. Perhaps her emotional life was so turbulent that she required extreme regularity in her versification. Methinks she doth scan verse too much. In the above example, each line contains seven syllables save for the last two, which have eight syllables each.  The rhyme scheme, ABAB CDCD EE is regular as can be and is totally unoriginal. The iambic lines of the poem receive a welcome rhythmic variation in the last line, which makes it come across as a sort-of punch line. Many of her poems are turned into quasi jokes by a last line surprise. They give a good indication of how witty her conversation must have been. Wit and perfect timing make excellent neighbors.

Due to the regularity of the meter, many of her lesser poems are almost boring; it didn't have to be that way. A generation or so before her, Gerard Manley Hopkins developed the theory of 'sprung rhythm,' in order to free the poet from too much regularity. He kept the background meter, as in a musical score, but allowed the poet to put as many syllables within each stress as the poet's ear deemed appropriate. He stated that nursery rhymes often evinced sprung rhythm:

Baa Baa black sheep,

Have you any wool?

Yes Sir, Yes Sir,

Three bags full

The rhythm of the second line is 'sprung,' which makes the poem more interesting. If Parker would have composed this poem, it would have read, perhaps, Baa  Baa black sheep/ Have you wool?/ etc. 

Another--and more famous--example from the same collection, Resumé, follows:

Razors pain you,

Rivers are damp,

Acids stain you,

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren't lawful,

Nooses give,

Gas smells awful,

You might as well live.

A critic once said of her, "That bird only sings when she's unhappy." Parker was also no stranger to suicidal ideation. Her most famous story, The Big Blond, is a thinly disguised autobiographical account of one of her attempts at self-destruction.  We can see from the last line of Resumé that those attempts were more or less 'cries for help,' rather than really trying to do herself in.

Her poems are almost never as deadly serious as the more powerful ones by Plath and Hopkins are. The wit, even meter, and regular rhymes of her poetry indicate that she could never wallow in despair for too long; they perhaps helped save her.

Aside from her mordant jocular poems, none of them are happy. I will quote now, to illustrate this, a longer poem of hers, Rainy Night.

Ghosts of all my lovely sins.

   Who attend too well my pillow,

Gay the wanton rain begins. 

    Hide the lamp and tearful willow.

Turn aside your eyes and ears,

   Trail away your robes of sorrow,

You shall have my further years--

   You shall walk with me tomorrow.

I am sister to the rain,

   Fey and sudden and unholy,

Petulant at the windowpane

  Quickly lost, remembered slowly.

I have lived with shades, a shade;

   I am hung with graveyard flowers,

Let me be tonight arrayed

   In the silver of the showers.

Every fragile thing shall rust;

    When another April passes

I may be a furry dust,

   Sifting through the brittle grasses.

All sweet sins shall be forgot;

   Who shall live to tell their siring?

Hear me now,  nor let me rot

   Wistful still, and still aspiring.

Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;

    I am frail, be you forgiving,

See you not that I have need

   To be living with the living?

Sail, tonight, the Styx's breast; 

   Glide among the dim processions

Of the exquisite unblest,

   Spirits of my shared transgressions,

Roam with young Persephone,

   Plucking poppies for your slumber...

With the morrow there shall be

   One more wraith among your number.

This is a beautiful poem, ample proof that there is a lot more to Parker's poetry than wit, broken relationships, and jocular irony. The tone is serious, almost funereal, throughout. The meter, as usual in Parker's poetry, is even but there are considerably rhythmic variations, e.g. the trochee at the beginning of the poem. One cannot fail to be impressed by the solemn dignity of the poem.

The theme of the poem is a petition to the ghosts, the protagonist's Eumenides, to stop rendering her life miserably difficult. The protagonist has no intention, however, of giving up her 'lovely' sins; nor will the ghosts stop making her feel guilty. Thus the irony of the last line. There will be one more ghost to pursue her tomorrow, after she gives them one more reason to make herself feel guilty. The result will be a continuation of a very unconventional, yet very unhappy life.

Many of Parker's obsessions are found in this poem, namely, sorrow, depression, defiance and irony. They have rarely sounded so good, however. I repeat: this is a beautiful poem.

Do I have a favorite poem of hers? I do indeed. It is entitled "Philosophy."

If I should labor through daylight and dark,

  Consecrate, valorous, serious, true,

Then on the world I may blazon my mark;

  And what if I don't, and what if I do?

I laughed out loud with delight when I first read this poem. It is a wise poem. At death, all the obsessions between one's ears will inevitably disappear without a trace. Why obsess then? Why not concentrate on the ego-transcending joys of life, namely love and wisdom?

Parker has given us many gems among the rare needles in her witty haystack. She is well worth reading.

I mentioned at the beginning that some poems were never included in her collections, and were published posthumously. Here is one of them, which an editor calls, "A Posthumous Parker."

Since a miss, my life's been amiss;

I wish I weren't old and done--

What consoles a misfit? This:

You are not the only one.

All right, I admit it, I wrote that poem myself. Did I fool you? Yeah, right.

Das Ichkahngleichnis

Vor vielen Jahren hörte ich eine Chanson, von Mireille Mathieu gesungen, die zu jener Zeit sehr populär war. Im Liede bewunderte die Sängerin einen Alten, der noch en pleine forme und aktiv war. Sie nannte ihn ihren abri, ihren Obdach in einer wirren, zum Teil fürchterlichen Welt. In der Mitte des Lieds rappte ein mir unbekannter franzözischer Schauspieler, der damals trotz seiner achtzig Jahren noch beshäftigt und helle war. Ich habe nach so vieler Zeit seine Worte nicht vergessen: Je suis vieux, mais j’ai des projets.

Je suis vieux, mais j'ai des projets!  Moi aussi!

Obwohl kaum l’abri von jemandem, bin ich schon längst alt genug, das Gleiche zu behaupten. Der Schauspieler ist wohl schon seit langem tot. Vielleicht werde ich auch unter der Erde sein, wenn Sie, Lieber Leser, meinen Blog in der Zukunft finden. Also muss ich behutsam vorgehen: eine Stimme vom Jenseits muss etwas zu sagen haben, anstatt wie ein Frosch im Sumpf der Welt weiterzuquaken, um seine eigene Stimme zu hören.

Es folgt ein Märchen, das man hoffentlich lesenswert finden wird.

Das Ichkahngleichnis

Ein junger Fischer findet sich auf seinem Ichkahn auf hohem See. Wer hat das Schifflein gebaut? Woher kam er anbord? Warum sich mit unbeantwortbaren Fragen plagen?

Die Sonne scheint, das Meer ist ruhig. Der Fischer schläft ein. Im tiefen Schlaf träumt er seine ganze Welt auf. (Manchmal sehr schön war sie; zur anderen Zeiten schrecklich. Noch schlimmer, nahm er sein Leben wie gegeben an; ewig würden sein Glück und  Unglück dauern, so traümte er.)

Endlich wacht er auf. Was ist mit ihm geschehen? Seine Haare, einst schwarz wie die Nacht, sind jetzt weiss wie der Wintermond. Seine Haut ist dünn; seine Glieder sind müde und alt. Keine Träume mehr; er ist allein auf einem schattenlosen, öden Meer.

Mit Schrecken bemerkt er dass das Schifflein zu sinken begonnen hat, wohl seit langem. Kleine Pfützen liegen am Boden; die Bretter werden immer weniger wasserdicht.

Nichts sind auf dem Ichkahn ausser er selbst und sieben Steine. Einige funkeln in der Sonne wie Juwelen; anderen sind so schwarz wie die Nacht.

Er hebt einen Stein auf und wirft ihn überbord. Du warst mein Neid, sagt er. Als er den Stein loslässt, liegt der Kahn bedeutend höher am Meer.

Der Zufall führt den Kahn durch Tage, durch Nächte, durch Tage; durch Stürme, durch Unwetter, und durch heitere Tage auch.

Wenn er ab und zu bemerkt, dass das Schiff mit Wasser füllt, hebt er einen anderen Stein auf, und wirft ihn ins Meer. Du bist mein Gier, nsagt er zum zweiten Stein beim Wegwerfen.

So geht es mit vier weiteren Steine: Hass, Wahn, Zorn und Depression. Jedesmal schwimmt das Schifflein bedeutend besser im Meer.

So viel Wasser ist unter dem Schifflein geflossen; aber noch kann der Fischer wähnen, dass er sich nicht aus purem Wasser besteht; aber sein trockenes Leben war nur ein Traum.

Kurz nachdem er den letzten Stein, den er Hoffung nannte, wegwirft, sinkt auch das Schifflein in die Tiefe. Wie bald, ach wie bald, schlagen die Wellen darüber!

Der Ichkahn sank, zufrieden.

Nach langer Zeit, schwimmt noch ein anderer Ichkahn herüber. Im tiefen Schlaf, ruft ein schwarzhaariger Fischer seinen Gott bittend  an.

Aus den Tiefen kommt nichts.