Sauntering Vaguely Downward

Pablo Neruda - excerpt from Oda al gato/Ode to the Cat (from Navigations and Returns translated from the original Spanish by many - I have chosen among them to construct a favourite.)

I don't think I need to explain why I love this poem, do I?



( Espa�ol )

Man wants to be fish or fowl,
the snake wants wings
the dog is a baffled lion,
the engineer wants to be a poet,
the fly studies to be a swift,
the poet tries to imitate the fly,
but the cat
only wants to be a cat
and any cat is a cat
from his whiskers to his tail,
from his anticipation of a rat
to the real thing,
from the night to his golden eyes.

There is no completeness
like his,
the moon and the flower
do not have such scope:
he is just one thing
like the sun or the topaz,
and the elastic line of his contours
is firm and subtle like
the line of a ship's prow.
His yellow eyes
have just one
groove
to coin the gold of night.

Tachibana Hokushi - untitled haiku (translated into English from the original Japanese)

yakeni keri / saredomo hana wa / chiri sumashi

My house burned down
But anyway, it was after
The flower petals had already fallen.

~*~

I think there are two common misconceptions about haiku written by the masters of the form. The first is that they are all solemn, serious or sad. The second is that they must be purely observational and about nature, with the responsibility for bringing emotion to them laid upon the reader. This blackly comedic one does a fine job of disproving both.

Sandra Cisneros - I the Woman (from My Wicked Wicked Ways)

I	I’m	I am
am she	the Thursday	your temporary
of your stories	night	thing
the notorious	the poor	your own
one	excuse	mad
leg wrapped	I am she	dancing
around	I’m dark	I am
the door	in the veins	a live
bare heart	I’m	wildness
sticking	intoxicant	left
like a burr	I’m hip	behind
the fault	and good skin	one earring
the back street	brass	in the car
the weakness	and sharp tooth	a finger-
that’s me	hard lip pushed	print
	against	on skin
	the air	the black smoke
	I’m lightbeam	in your
	no stopping me	clothes
		and in
		your
		mouth

This one is dedicated to recessional.

Wisława Szymborska - Theatre Impressions (from Could Have, translated from the original Polish by Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh)

For me the tragedy's most important act is the sixth:
the raising of the dead from the stage's battlegrounds
the straightening of wigs and fancy gowns
removing knives from stricken breasts,
taking nooses from lifeless necks,
lining up among the living
to face the audience.

The bows, both solo and ensemble -
the pale hand on the wounded heart,
the curtseys of the hapless suicide,
the bobbing of the chopped-off head.

( The bows in pairs - rage extends its arm to meekness )

~*~

This poem captures the feeling I get when I'm on the brink of finishing the absorption of a new piece of creative work, whatever the medium. When I encounter a piece of music, a novel, a play, a film or a television show, I am completely engrossed in that world. I am not good at ironic detachment. My mental world becomes my physical one, and the point of release from that entwining disorients me.

When I was a child, I found that moment even more shocking as I experienced it frequently on a daily basis. My internal world was so real to me that I often couldn't determine if I'd spoken aloud or simply thought something, leading to confusing conversations with peers and adults. My dreams were so vivid that the recurring players in them seemed as real as my friends at early school.

I can decouple my internal and the external worlds with much greater facility now, but I struggled with it well into adulthood. I have to be cautious about the amount and type of media I consume, because experiencing them is just as immersive, and leaving them is just as startlingly moving, as this poem implies.

( Photo of this poem as recorded in my journal. )

Golden Palominos - Ride

Slow, slow, quickquick slow, ride (x2)

At any moment, you know,
Your manufactured cool could blow
Welcome to the land of pointless and destructive

You keep whining and crying into your beer,
Complaining the reception doesn't come in clear
You just can't make a connection

What are all the pretty people on?
No one ever learns to speak American
There are only so many Kung Fu movies you can watch

Haircut, hometown, heroin friends
You make excuses, you should make amends
Who do you call for help when all your friends are dead?

( Slow, slow, quickquick slow, ride (x2) )

Golden Palominos - Ride (MP3, 4.5 MB)

This song comes from the album "Dead Inside", which features Nicole Blackman doing her spoken-word thing over Bill Laswell's creepy atmospheric noodling. It's one of my favourite albums ever. I recommend picking it up. (Comments screened.)