The Trumpian Nightmare (Based,in part on Tennyson)

 Ours  is a crucial election--

If we  select that clown

the grossness of his nature

will have weight to drag us down!

Ours is a crucial election--

If we select that jerk,

the rich will get their tax-cuts,

and the poor will become serfs.'

Ours is a crucial election--  

If we select Stupidity,

Project 25 might be

fatal to democracy.

Ours is a crucial election--

but we can't remove Liberty's pox

by an act of violence.  

Stop Bozo at the ballot box!

Ours is a crucial election--

We must defeat Narcissus.

Help Truth shut Cheeseburger Mouth

and lethenize his name!

The Debacle

 

Nirmala and I approached the big date, June 27,1024  with some trepidation. We had previously toyed with the idea that we would emigrate, perhaps to Canada, if Trump  won. Of late we decided that we are too old and that we will have to, as our knees demand, go down with the ship. Yes, it’s that bad. Who would have ever thought that a portly Pied Piper of New York would make children, angry children, out of so many of us. But that is exactly what happened.

Unfortunately, in U.S. debates, appearances always defeat substance. I remember the debate between Nixon and Kennedy so many years ago. Those that listened on the radio believed Nixon won, but those who watched the debate on live TV thought the opposite. I remember Kennedy’s winsome smile. I remember Nixon’s sweaty brow.

This debate was even worse. It seemed like, from my  perspective at least, that a very bad unqualified man was debating the remains of a good man. Yes, Biden came across as cadaverous.  He appeared to be much older than Trump.

I think he might have Parkinson’s Disease. His voice was very soft. He seemed to have mobility issues. He was very stiff. His facial expression was mask-like. All these are symptoms of Parkinson’s—but also of old age as well .

No, it isn’t a contest between Honesty and Deceit—if so, Biden would have easily won—but a debate of appearances Biden, unfortunately, lost.

Yes, Biden has done a lot for the country. He is a consummate politician. Trump, in contrast, is or was a ‘blowhard in chief’ as he was called by Jeb Bush in the past.

One would think that one should vote for the party, and not just for the individual. Which party would like to bring forth universal health care? Which advocates for raising the minimum wage and raising taxes on the very wealthy? (If you believe in the wild and mendacious imaginings of Ted Cruz that the Republican Party is the party of the working class, you might be interested in purchasing the Brooklyn Bridge. That so many white men and women have been seduced by this lie indicates how far we have fallen.)

Still, that Biden let him get away with stating that he never had sex with a porn star was too much. “Swear now, before your conscience and ours, that Stormy Daniels was lying!”

No, that didn’t happen. The debate devolved into a he said-he said confrontation. Trump came across as a more vigorous candidate. Truth lost, Trump won.

Perhaps we haven’t lost yet. Says the optimist within . Perhaps we already have, says the pessimist. Lots of things can happen between now and November. We can only hope that decency will prevail, even  against  all odds.

Democracy 1, Trump, Zero--Finally!

 I was a bit shocked when I heard the news that Donald Trump had been convicted on all counts. I don't feel triumphant. I don't feel schadenfreude. But I do feel happy for America.

I didn't laugh, but I did laugh previously whenever one asserted that no one is above the law. Finally, for perhaps the first time in his life, Donald Trump is being held accountable. For a man who has gotten away with horrible behavior all his life, this conviction is too little too late. For, say, a reckless alcoholic who has  ruined not only his own life but the life of so many others, to get up and say, "My name is Donald Trump and I'm an alcoholic,"--Well, I don't see that coming. 

One of the worst insults in Trump's world of playing with the Truth is not "You[;re fired," but "You're a loser." Well, he's a loser now. Will he ever  admit it? No. But let's hope that enough people will not elect someone who is not worthy to become president. 

Now, at last, it's democracy l, Trump zero. The final score--the 'jury,' (us),  is still out, but it now seems more likely that enough  Americans will come together to keep  this unqualified man out of the White House.

Who knows what the final score will be? The venomous Republican response to the verdict indicates that the battle is far from over. Still,  at last, it's Democracy 1, Trump, Zero. 

Sue! Sue!

 Neulich hat mir mein Schwager, Sudhir, ein Gedicht gesandt, das er im Nachlass von unserem lieben Neffen Ranjit gefunden hatte. Der im Juli 2023  so fruh verstobener wunderbsrer Mensch vermisen wir noch sehr sehr sehr. 

Es folgt das Gedicht, das ich vor Jahren verfasst habe. Moyses Purish, der auch night mehr auf Erden ist, war ein KoIllege, der ein sehr guter Artzt war. (Das Gedicht kannte er nicht. Jetzt ist es leider zu spaet.)

Sue! Sue!                                           for Moyses Purisch

Today they came and fired you,

Not because you're the incorrect hue

or because you don't know what you do,

it was simply because you are old.

They won't give you a pension or a gold

watch--Their words convey, "Go join the fold

of ancient kine put our to pasture--"

Winter's a oink slip. "Go get yourself a sinecure--

Rest assured, we are not against the mature,

however...  It's time for you to live in style!"

The true meaning behind every smile,

wildebeest meet crocodile.

A sick mother and kids meant that you couldn't save,

Serenity without a wage?

You'd have to be a Hindu sage.

Rage, rage--Nothing else for you to do?

This is America--Remember, you

haven't been fired in Timbuktu. Sue! Sue!

Our April/May 2024 N.Y./Bernuda Cruise

 

 

We recently returned from a cruise to Bermuda; we had a great time--I would like to tell you about it. It was a  rather brief; two days in New York followed by a five-day cruise.

We arrived at our New York hotel, The Giraffe Hotel, on 26^th St and Park Avenue Park Avenue South. This was a mere two blocks away from one of our favorite restaurants—bad décor but excellent food—Saravana Bhavan, which has a branch in Chennai which we have frequented. I had onion and tomato uttappam. I got sick the next day, but I’m not sure of the cause. Nirmala said the maavu might have been a little old, since it’s the same batter used for dosa.

We walked about a bit and picked up a sandwich at Pret-a-manger, which we ate at our hotel.

The next day, a beautiful one with a cloudless azure sky--I remember humming “Nothing but blue skies from now on,” as we headed for Central Park. Our walk through Central Park was really quite invigorating and brought back lots of memories from the time we lived in the city.

I made it to the Metropolitan Museum, although my Parkinson’s was acting up.

The visit to the museum was far from the highlight of our trip. I had a frequent need to sit down. I couldn’t read anything due to my poor vision. Nirmala wanted to see the exhibit on the Harlem Renaissance, which, when we found it, disappointed. It might have been a good exhibition, but there were no seats and I couldn’t see much.

We visited old friends in the Asian section; we had lunch at the museum. The food was not particularly good and I got very ill. We took the subway home.

 

That night, we attended a performance of John  Adams’s El Nino at the Met Opera, our old haunt. The music I found fascinating in parts, but not very emotionally riveting. We don’t need another oratorio about the nativity in this age full of doubting Thomases. (It was indeed an oratorio; little to no stage action, crucial in an opera. (I, of course, could not read the subtitles, so maybe I missed a great deal.) In spite of everything, we enjoyed the music and had a very good time. We took the subway back and arrived at the hotel around midnight. (Yes, New York is safe.)

On day three, we took an uber to the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal and boarded our cruise ship, the immense Meraviglia, an Italian liner operated by MSC cruises. It is an immense ship. After waiting a while I was whizzed on board via wheelchair.

 

Day four was spent at sea; days 5-7 were spent in Bermuda; after a day  at sea we returned to New York where we got our train back to Baltimore.

 

Days 3-7, The Cruise.  The ship was immense. We had a nice little room on floor 13. There were a whole lot of staterooms—if the ship were at full capacity, we could have been on a slightly rocking version of Grand Central Station. Unlike on other cruises, we could always find a seat at the food courts on deck 15.

 

The entertainment was better than on most ships. The highlight was an Irish comedian named George Casey. (I remember at least one memorable joke: two Irishman died and met St. Pater who told them they looked unsaved. “If you tell me a poem with Timbuktu in it, I just might let you through the Pearly Gates.” The first  person recited doggerel which didn’t please St. Peter at all. The second recited a little poem the content of which related that after two women entered a bar, Sean bucked one, but Tim bucked two! St. Peter laughed and let the man through.

Nirmala chose an MSC cruise because there were reportedly a lot of dance lessons.  There were. We participated in nearly all of them. We usually started the day with calisthenics.  Mostly Chinese tourists, who were in good shape and good form. So many whites and blacks were fat!  We received many compliments, especially from couch potatoes. (If you believe that someone with moderately advanced Parkinson’s is a good dancer, you’re not a good dancer)

We took an all-day tour around the island of Bermuda, We visited Hamilton the capital, and St. George on the opposite side of the island. The beaches were splendid and the water crystal-clear Wouldn’t want to live there, though.

The food wasn’t particularly good, but we got by quite well. We made friends with a couple at dinner. The wife was Ukrainiana; she loved it when I said, Slava Ukrainie! (Victory to Ukraine.)

There was a lot of shopping onboard; along a huge corridor on deck five were many shops. We didn’t buy much.

Most onboard were very kind and went out of their way to help me, a handicapped old man. When I fell flat on my back while exiting the theater, I was helped to my feet quickly. (I escaped with a few minor bruises.)

 

I wrote one poem onboard, but was unable to read it due to my Parkinson’s micrographia and also due to my very low vision. Here’s what I salvaged:

 

Be humble, yet noble; remain nobly and humbly selfsunfulfilled;

self-ish, self-critical, self aggrandizing; self-less, which

side of the dashes are, doubting Thomas, vanity of vanities,

you? Humbly and nobly accept the truth: you, liar you,

nobly and humbly, accept nonsense, your slippery self:

Almost Nothing, doubting Thomas, redemptively still is.

 

Although the trip home was a bit difficult, we had a very good time; a vey good time indeed.

The Potato

 

Not so long ago, I, like so many, took a DNA test, The result, quite unexpectedly, revealed that  I was about 35% of Celtic origin, basically from Wales, but Celtic nevertheless. I’d like to reprint here a poem I wrote long ago; maybe I was on to something. In any case, I loved visiting Ireland.

 

 
The Potato
 
What looks like a meteor
lands every night on our plates:
a light-brown to purple moon
 
scarred by a life-struggle fought
in a sunless cradle-grave
a few crow’s feet under the Earth.
 
Close-up, the skin is a brown sky
With blind stars, like galaxies
Spirally arranged; dark buds
 
On axils of aborted leaves
waiting for a single chance
to shoot up into space.
 
We eat them smothered
In butter or gravy, American
as frozen apple pie;
 
I owe my citizenship
to a tragic lack of spuds
in 1840s Ireland;
 
raised on elemental things
whose source is ancient supernovae
light-years away from Earth,
 
tubers, swollen stolen-ends
of the genus Solanum,
peeled then fried or boiled,
 
where I come from, what I am,
lands every night on my fork:
a side dish, the starch of the world.

 

 

Parkinson's Diary, Episode Nine--Handicap Travels

We just got back from a weeklong cruise to Bermuda, which began a few days after we got back from Ireland. I thought I’d start with a Parkinson’s update; I will begin with a report of how I fared on our recent trip to Scotland and Ireland:

Nirmala and I just came back from a trip to Europe. The purpose of the trip, other than having a good time, was to see if I could travel anymore. When we traveled to Europe in May, our trip to Amsterdam and other places, people came to me and said Sir, you need a wheelchair, sit down’ or you need a walker in the museum; this was something completely new to me. I never had difficulty. I didn't injure myself, I just couldn't walk anymore. When I came home. I went to a mobility specialist who performed several tests and diagnosed me with Parkinson's disease.

I have a walking stick with me, which I used on the trip.  I give myself a C minus or maybe even a C plus. I kept up with  the group as best I could. The tour director knew that I had Parkinson's disease and slowed down a bit.  I am on medication now and can tolerate walking a little bit better and I did keep up reasonably well. (This   review for my blog was written by my wife and me.) One of the other issues besides Parkinson's disease is that I'm just about legally blind and can't see anything; it's very difficult for me to type. So she typed a lot of it.

We just got back from a trip to New York and a cruise to Bermuda. We had a good time. Again, I graded myself regarding mobility and sight; this time I give myself a D or D+.

 I was handicapped and was viewed as a handicapped person by everyone on board. Regarding sight, I was walking along with my cane one morning and walked full-force into a glass partition. Ouch! No fun being nearly blind and suffering from Parkinson’s, I told a nearby person, more as n excuse to hide my embarrassment. He offered to help me—so many were so kind—but I told him all I needed was to find my wife, who was waiting for me on the other side of the partition., (She continues to do a wonderful job of dealing with me.)

On another occasion during the cruise, I fell flat on my back while climbing stairs after exiting  a theater performance. People around me gasped; did I break my hip? No, I didn’t; I rose quickly, (Nirmala noticed several bruises that night.) I was, however,  ok.

On still another occasion, I fell in our room in the middle of the night and couldn’t get up. Nirmala helped me get up, but it took a long time.

I walked about the ship with the help of a cane. I am definitely a handicapped person now. My mood, however, is quite good.

Born to Kvetch

 

On a recent visit to Amsterdam, (May, 2023), we visited the famous 1639 Portuguese synagogue, which still serves the Sephardic community of Amsterdam today. At the bookstore, Michael Wex's book on the Yiddish language, Born to Kvetch, leaped out to me. What a photo! Well, I had to purchase a copy. which proved to be a very good read.

You see, although I don't wear a bowler hat and do not sport my forelocks in a payes, I, too, was born to kvetch, no doubt about it. (Kvetch is a Yiddish word meaning to complain. I noticed, months later, that the winning word in the National Spelling bee was knaidel, dumpling, which was pronounced in three syllables, The Yiddish kn is, however, monosyllabic. Well, I would have won that spelling bee, along with the Indian youth who won the prize. No surprises there, once I saw a comedy sketch in which an Indian boy won first prize in Ebonics), but the youth who won the spelling bee apparently had no idea what the word knaidel meant.

I kvetch a lot. I sometimes feel quite inadequate, blaming myself for not helping my fellow human beings enough. And I kvetch about being old and afflicted with Parkinson's Disease; I torture myself that it might now be too late to accomplish things I would like.

Dorsett, stop complaining!  You still can talk; you still can walk; you still can write.

Yes, you still can walk, albeit with a cane. Maybe a little gratitude will help unkvetch the frown on your face when you  just have to sit down. So I decided to try it.   

So many things I take for granted. With a flip of a switch, day extends into the night. With a flip of the wrist, I experience the benefits of indoor plumbing. Though my handwriting has become unreadable, I can still tap words into my computer. I have friends; I have acquaintances. Even more important, I have a wonderful wife and a wonderful son. Though I don't see well at all, I am not totally blind, and still can read with the help of large-print books.  I've reached old age, no longer dependent on a so-called living wage. As my stepfather once said, any day that you're still breathing is a good day. Or as a comedian once said, if you're not in the obituary, eat breakfast. I shall with a smile. 

Yeah, right. I repeat: Dorsett, stop kvetching!

2.

For our nature book club, we recently read  a very good book, The Bird Way, by Jennifer Ackermann. We  learned that 'bird brain' is an unfair characterization of the neurology of birds. The neurons are small, yes but they pack a whallop. Birds are even theorized to start fires, so they can have easy access to stampeding prey. Some species, such as turkey vultures, use their keen sense of smell to locate carrion. Corvids and parrots are amazing problem-solvers. The species variation is great, although it’s hard to agree  with the alas! part of pigeons on the grass, alas, alas—pigeons are not the brightest bulbs in the avian kingdom, although they are far from simple.

Observing birds closely, I decided I needed to add a bird house to my back yard. My son Philip purchased a see-through bird house of clear plastic which I could attach to my window. This allows us to watch birds eat the feed we have placed in the bird house. We got to know a cardinal pair, (Cardinal Joseph and Sunyatta) and Morris the squirrel; plus a host of many other birds.

As you might imagine, it inspired me to write a poem, “The Diaphanous Bird House,” which follows:

John feels he has seeds left to scatter

Before he unmatters forever--

Soon, on the snowside of the glass,

Scarlet amazement appears.

 

The cardinal takes what Crumplejohn offers:

A handful of protein, caraways seeds.

A robin alights; a squirrel approaches;

Red wings soar skyward; John disappears.

John’s ego disappears at the amazing sight; for a while there is no border between the world and him. (I hope he doesn’t come across as being too ‘crumpled.’) John was ecstatic, that is, beside himself with joy. A good approximation about how I felt.

O the glorious existence of nature, who is neither a he, she, or it. Existence without ego is the garden of Eden, which is populated not only by birds, but by (sometimes) wise flightless beings, us—we sometimes come close to reality and all of us can put in effort to come closer. But there is a catch.

Birds are ‘nervous,’ always on alert for potential predators. . If, say, a sparrow weren’t alert and ready to fly away at the slightest hint of danger, from a perceived threat to a warning call from fellow feathered creature, how long would the sparrow survive? If a sparrow’s perennial alertness relaxed, you’d find more satisfied raptors in the world than there actually are. Birds have to be always alert; if not, there wouldn’t be any birds.

So here’s another reason not to kvetch. Humans are no longer prey to other animals. We don’t have to worry—the vast majority of us, at least—that a tiger or bear is going to pounce and remove us from Earth as efficiently as an eagle with a mouse in its talons.

So be thankful! And let me end with a final kvetch. Human beings prey on each other.  homo homini lupusi man is wolf to ,man. (Which is an insult to wolves; wolves  need to hunt to feed fellow wolves; their ‘evil’ is thus severely limited.

So be thankful that planes overhead contain passengers and not bombs. Be thankful and do what you can to bring peace to those areas where planes drop bombs.

So let me be very thankful for what we have. While it lasts. Stop kvetching and start helping~ Kvetching doesn’t do any good. I have, in my old age, still a lot to learn.

Parkinson's Diary: Episode Seven, Another Progress Report

 

Yesterday, I had an appointment with my neurologist/mobility physician who handles my issues with Parkinson's Disease. I am doing well, although I definitely have that ailment.  He increased my dosage of Sinemet, the mainstay in Parkinson treatment. This was a four month follow-up.

I certainly have problems with ambulation, but this is to be expected. My tremor is not a big issue; it’s mostly on the left side. One of the main things that it affects is my typing—this blog, for instance, has to be carefully edited and all those extra z’s and s’s removed. My handwriting continues to be awful—being almost legally blind doesn’t help. I’ve given up writing long-hand, since it is so difficult to read my own writing that I have to recompose whatever I’m writing when I try to enter it into a computer. Since vision is such a problem, I need to dictate into the computer.

--Stop! A significant new problem: the new dose of the Parkinson’s medicine. I took it for a few days, and noticed a distinct improvement with my mobility issues. However, a side effect soon became apparent. The medicine, Sinemet, is a combination of carbidopa and  leva dopa. The carbidopa helps the medicine pass through the blood brain barrier into the brain. There it can enter the basal ganglia, the mobility centers of the brain, and help motor function. Yet, I imagine, that its effects on the brain aren’t limited to the basal ganglia. I began to be confused. I still was aware of my surroundings, but the feeling bordered on panic. Is this a side effect that would diminish with continued use of the drug? Perhaps, but the side effect was so great that I’d rather deal with reduced mobility, at least for the time being. So I decided to take the increased dosage at night, which, I presume, will help me get out of bed better in the morning.—The medicine works, but if I can’t function, it’s best to stay seated!

….Well,I'm  seate--again.

R.I.P. Alexei Navalny

Today we  learned about the death of Alexei Navalny, who died--undoubtedly an unnatural death--at the age of 47, while imprisoned in the Russian gulag. I mourn him as an American Russian literary patriot. It's as if Anna Karenina came back to life, only to put her neck down on the tracks of the Long Island Railroad during rush hour after listening to the news--with an emphasis on the dreadful news from Russia. The bloody mess on the tracks leaves us with an imitation Stalin who has killed  a real hero. Yes, another tear trickles down the cheek of Mother Russia, beset as she is with the attempts of Tucker Carlson to  suckle at her breast. (Poor Mother Russia! One breast free only because Trump is trying to grab her by the p.)

Was Navalny murdered in prison? Judging from Putin's well-deserved reputation of brutality and the fact that Navalny had  previously been poisoned by him, it is likely. But we may never know for sure. Putin's denial of involvement is what we expect from such a brutal dictator, who cannot tolerate opposition--and Navalny was his chief opponent in Russia. Yet even if we never know the cause of the Russian hero's death, it is clear that Putin at the very least significantly contributed to it.  Putin unjustly imprisoned him, and an Arctic prison is light-years away from a family picnic.  The fact that he was photographed the day before indicates the possibility both of poisoning and of a heart attack. In either case, Putin should be put on the death certificate as cause of death. One thinks of Dostoevsky before a firing squad, that unbenownst to him, shot blanks by order of the secret police. Except here the brutality of the secret policeman is not in question.

It's as if all the greats of Russian culture are pointing toward that neo-Stalinist monster while chanting, "j'accuse."  As in the past, Russian people  don't seem to be listening.

Yesterday, I listened to a performance of Tchaikowsky's great Sixth Symphony.  The famous, deservedly very famous melody from the  first movement, repeated later on, for me was the pefect musical expression for the contemporary Russian mess. Tchaikowsky died soon after he composed it; society was crushing him. When will there be a silver lining to the dark storm cloud that is Putin? Not any time soon, I'm afraid.

But it will come. Music expresses all emotions, so let me end with positive notes. Putin's barbarity will not defeat Mother Russia forever. (In my lifetime? Alas...)

But that day of liberation will come. The day when Putinism will be gone forever, is beautifully expressed by a chorus from Mozart's opera,  Idomeneo. "The sea is calm. Let's proceed; everything is reassuring.  We will have a happy future. Hush, hush, let's get going."

This music reveals what human beings are  capable of. Mother Russia, please wake up! Now!

(If you can't play this video, type in "Placido e il mar" on YouTube and please listen to it there.)

What Parkinson's Has Taught Me

I slwalk, yet still practice my art. (I can!

Can I still travel with walker and cane?)

My secret is happiness: I still love! I still breathe! Yet

the knives in my knees haven’t crippled my heart.

What a privilege it is to be humble! What a privilege it is to believe.

Thomas Dorsett,  Colombia, 2024

A 'Terrible' Sonnet by Hopkins

 

My own heart let me more have pity on; let

Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,

Charitable; not live this tormented mind

With this tormented mind tormenting yet.

     I cast for comfort that I can no more get

By groping round my comfortless, than blind

Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find

Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.

Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise

You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile

Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size

At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile

's not wrung, see you, unforseen times rather--as skies

Betweenpie mountains--lights a lovely mile.

In this poem, Hopkins gives himself good advice, which he unfortunately never heeded. Hopkins was, of course, very religious in the conventional sense; but he got, in my opinion at least, the message of religion only half-right. The commandment of all religions is to love one’s neighbor as oneself; attempting to love one’s neighbor while despising oneself is always misplaced. We can look at the great commandment then not as a commandment at all but as a statement of fact: One loves one’s neighbor only to the degree that one has love for oneself. Hopkins once wrote this beautiful line: “There lives the deepest freshness deep down things.” If one couldn’t find that deepest freshness deep down things in oneself, one wasn’t looking hard enough or was looking in the wrong direction.

It is well known that Hopkins had a strong carnal nature. His sexual orientation was basically homosexual. He once wrote that he decided not to become a painter or sculptor because he would have to deal drawing naked men, which presumably caused him much grief and even panic.  He decided that the only way for him to overcome his self-disgust was by giving himself up to God--The god of the Catholic Church, which strictly forbade homosexuality and masturbation.

We’ve learned a lot since Victorian times. Homosexuality is no longer synonymous with sin for the very reason that gays are able to love--one must agree with the current pope that in this regard, “Who am I to judge?”

I do not wish to psychoanalyze Hopkins’s sexuality here; I just present it as a potential source of his self-disgust. That he was a very unhappy man and rejected himself is obvious from reading his poems, especially his later poems, when God didn’t deliver that which he expected: peace and joy. Obviously, you don’t have to be gay to suffer from an animus against the self; family pathology, peer rejection, and insistence in getting from the universe what the universe is unable to deliver are other frequent causes of self-rejection.

Life is a rare phenomenon in the universe, advanced life even rarer. We have all won the lottery, as it were, and are incredibly lucky to be alive. Most of us realize this; the genius Hopkins apparently did not. Let us now turn our attention to Hopkins’s great sonnet and indicate why his noble idea to be less hard on himself ultimately failed. Notice the obsession with self; the poem begins with ‘My own heart.’  He admits that he is ‘comfortless' and finds no way out from the hell he is in.

He refers to himself as 'poor Jackself’ who is 'sad' and ‘jaded’—not a good start. One gets the impression that Hopkins at this point in his life saw himself as a mess and threw himself on the mercy of God for relief. But God, for whatever reason, remained silent, which abetted Hopkins’s despair.

The poem ends with one of the most beautiful images in all poetry. Hopkins acknowledges that joy does indeed come sometimes, but it arises spontaneously. It ‘lights a lovely mile,’ as sunlight does when breaking through  clouds. Whenever I read these lovely lines, I seem to see sun breaking through; a beautiful image. That the clouds in his internal sky were largely self-caused, however, Hopkins would have probably denied. Too, too bad.

One has no right to reject oneself. If you share Hopkins’s despair, fight, fight, fight for your right for a happy life. (Humility and despair are polar opposites.) Remember what nuns and priests used to say, and perhaps still say, "God loves you just the way you are." Some of us moderns might say instead, "The universe accepts you just the way you are," not the way your ego insists how things should be.

A beautiful poem about a man who is stuck in a hell of his own making.

The Soul--Two Poems from the Deronda Review

 Two of my poems, along with the work of many other poets, appeared in the current edition (Vol. 10,  Vo, 1, 2023). 

The editor is Esther Cameron, who lives in Israel. She is an old friend. The subject of the curent edition was announced as, "The Soul."

Consummation

A shriveled prune accepts its pit.

Mouse on a glue trap, why resist?

Phantoms burn; limbs toss and turn,

Face mind's mirror: who exists?

Silence is also communication.

Expect nothing at all from death.

God hasn't sent you a postcard'

Answer it! Answer it!

Nature's unsigned letter is enough?

Advanced age lacks consolation?

It's never to late to meditate;

What joy it is to finally give up!

The Soul 

                  --for Esther Cameron

Everything is nothing to a star

Not to little you or me

With soul we thrive

Without it we flail

Even Leonardos nod

It's not in the pineal gland

With it we rise

Without it we fail

Martin Buber was right

Between us almost nothing yeasts

Despite lean and angry years

We're still at it

Whatever it is

It is

Ranjit and Nataraja

At Earlam we'll offer in each aging hand

the outstretched palm of Shiva, dancing

the it-doesn't-matter--though it-really-does

sidesteps of late middle-age.

On  the telephone he tells me

half of Richmond thinks he’s a terrorist,

while those on campus whose idol is diversity

think he’s very special since he’s brown.

 

He received the mint chutney I sent him;

he broke up with Ivana from Prague.

He switches the subject to beef in French fries

and, not that they should, but can’t they tell

 

a mullah from Saudi Arabia

from a half Catholic boy from Madras?

Shiva intervenes with the sound of creation,

static.  It bristles with loneliness.

 

Feminists, curries, Foucault.

I tell him, we’ll be there in June—

He, tossed between drums and fire;

We, falling beneath Shiva’s foot.

 

We arrive at Earlam sixteen hours late.

He has a new friend. Everything’s fine.

That night she shows us new moves she’s taught him.

Right, left, one, two—We join in the dance.

Note: I'm putting together my sixth book--it may well be my last-- and found this poem in an old file. The subject matter concerns  our dear nephew Ranjit, who passed away last year. At that time in our lives,  the time of the poem, Nirmala and I were in loco parentis for Ranjit. He came here about 25 years ago, and stayed with us for about a year. After much applying, he was accepted at Earlam College, a liberal college  in Richmond, Indiana. The poem has to do with our subsequent visit to Earlam for Ranji's undergraduate graduation. The reference to beef in French fries has to do with a  controversy at that time when, after years of assuring the Hindu community that there was no beef in Macdonal's French fries, they had to admit that beef fat was used to prepare the fries. 

I forgot about Ivana from Prague, one of Ranji's Earlam friends!

Nataraja, Lord of the Dance, is, of course, Shiva. I have been heavily influenced by Shaivite Hinduism, a.k.a. vedanta. There are many references to Shiva on my blog.

Oh, and thanks to Sudhir, Ranjit's uncle, for supplying the photo.