When all but one summer day is left thundering here
I lean inward, and see you, wings folded in a loose shirt
Walking on my clean floor. Evening breezes are gentle
And cool, in a place autumn wind does not reach
Where are you from? Like a fireball, you make the metals in me shine
And tinkle, now left, now right… We hover
Over a crowd of strangers, in circles and spirals, … Ah, summer
Happiness attacking my heart, how do you enchant me so much?
Oh, higher, let us watch like birds. Look, a world
Of tiny hearts, wriggling. Look, there—
Our fated homeland. Ah, summer wants to ripen all the fruits
Below! Look, the fall wind is climbing over the snow mountains
Ah, why aren’t you the grand dream of a spider, all your life
Wearing ill-fitting clothes? Ah, why aren’t you a butterfly
Within a butterfly? In your warm body, there is sadness cold as water
Hot will turn cold. Ah, in the glimmer of your fire, I want to put on
A pair of summer wings! Following you, like a fireball
Collecting all the fleeting rays of the summer day, to make a song
Oh, my wings, see me leave the ground, elevate, choose a
Direction. Why do I find in your name the moon of my life?
-Zheng Danyi
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
Salt and a Flock of Sheep
Let me begin with a story.
Once upon a time, there was a narrow street lined with fine gardens and elegant courtyards. An emperor housed his one thousand beauties here. Each night, he would pick a name from his list and then shower his love on the lucky lady. He soon tired of this method and devised a sheep-drawn (or perhaps goat-drawn) carriage to let the sheep make the decision. Wherever the carriage stopped, a lantern would be hung at the door, and a night of tenderness would begin.
One clever lady, and the most beautiful of all, took fate in her own hands. Every day, she would have the freshest grass cut and put near her doorstep at dusk, thus she secured the emperor's favors night after night. But before long, fresh cut grass began to appear at nearly every door and things went back to usual. Determined to be the emperor's only love, the woman one day discovered that a little salt added to the grass would make the sheep much happier. From that night on, they would not eat any other grass but hers, and no one knew why.
When evening falls, the lanterns look fat. All is before me
But mind is on salt and flock of sheep
This twelfth-century story of an emperor and his concubines, condensed into two cryptic lines in the love poem Phoenix, gives a glimpse of the older, grander, and tenacious tradition that remains operative in Zheng Danyi's poetry. Remote, obscure, decadent, perhaps even politically incorrect, the story nonetheless intrigues, lending a seductive charm to the poem. In his poems, we feel the light and shadows of the ancient legacy, yet, like the story of salt and sheep, they shine through just enough to give depth and context, while their dates and facts may evade us.
The above is an excerpt from the introduction Zheng Danyi's Wings of Summer by Luo Hui.
And what do those lines of poetry suggest to me? Those moments in a relationship when all is before you, but the one thing you can think about is how to carry out your one little trick or ritual that somehow manages to keep the love flowing. Perhaps a strategy to control the experience. Or just get laid. Here is the full stanza.
Here is no home, but the summer breeze is just as cool
Now I see her drinking cold water. Then
She counts the freckles on my neck
When evening comes, the lanterns look fat. All is before me
But my mind is on salt and a flock of sheep.
Once upon a time, there was a narrow street lined with fine gardens and elegant courtyards. An emperor housed his one thousand beauties here. Each night, he would pick a name from his list and then shower his love on the lucky lady. He soon tired of this method and devised a sheep-drawn (or perhaps goat-drawn) carriage to let the sheep make the decision. Wherever the carriage stopped, a lantern would be hung at the door, and a night of tenderness would begin.
One clever lady, and the most beautiful of all, took fate in her own hands. Every day, she would have the freshest grass cut and put near her doorstep at dusk, thus she secured the emperor's favors night after night. But before long, fresh cut grass began to appear at nearly every door and things went back to usual. Determined to be the emperor's only love, the woman one day discovered that a little salt added to the grass would make the sheep much happier. From that night on, they would not eat any other grass but hers, and no one knew why.
When evening falls, the lanterns look fat. All is before me
But mind is on salt and flock of sheep
This twelfth-century story of an emperor and his concubines, condensed into two cryptic lines in the love poem Phoenix, gives a glimpse of the older, grander, and tenacious tradition that remains operative in Zheng Danyi's poetry. Remote, obscure, decadent, perhaps even politically incorrect, the story nonetheless intrigues, lending a seductive charm to the poem. In his poems, we feel the light and shadows of the ancient legacy, yet, like the story of salt and sheep, they shine through just enough to give depth and context, while their dates and facts may evade us.
The above is an excerpt from the introduction Zheng Danyi's Wings of Summer by Luo Hui.
And what do those lines of poetry suggest to me? Those moments in a relationship when all is before you, but the one thing you can think about is how to carry out your one little trick or ritual that somehow manages to keep the love flowing. Perhaps a strategy to control the experience. Or just get laid. Here is the full stanza.
Here is no home, but the summer breeze is just as cool
Now I see her drinking cold water. Then
She counts the freckles on my neck
When evening comes, the lanterns look fat. All is before me
But my mind is on salt and a flock of sheep.
Friday, May 29, 2009
June
At last, June is on her way. Sweetheart of the day. Coming here and going... This weekend Przemek and I plan on slipping away to the Polish Hall in order to drink lots of cheap red wine, stuff ourselves with pierogi, and listen to the only cellist in town that accompanies herself.
Postscript - She accompanied herself in Polish! It was a wonderful time.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Swieta Lipka
Also, it seems very early, but last night I thought I smelled the sweet, haunting fragrance of Linden trees.
Found
Found in my coat pocket after a long, sunny weekend; three shells like flower petals, white, nacreous, and transparent as the rosy snow that flutters down from the cherry trees; something that looks like a lumpy, cartilaginous potato, inanimate but concealing a mysterious force that squirts, when it is squeezed, a crystal jet of water; a broken knife, a stump of pencil, a ring of blue beads and a book of stickers; a small white handkerchief, very dirty... That is all.
Monday, May 18, 2009
L'Arret
I've been thinking a lot about my parents and grandparents. About the sorts of things they worried about,and how their worries, struggles and habits live in me. My ancestors; full of pride, ignorant, impractical, guilty, quick to shun, suspicious of gifts given freely. They were worriers, and a lot of other things. In some ways they were lovely, generous people and in other ways they were very destructive.
My grandfather, my mother, my father, and me. We struggle during the day, we struggle during the night, even in dreams, and we are not capable of letting go and relaxing.
If we are not struggling, we are running
And that is my heritage.
So I have to learn the art of stopping, L’arret.
If I don't learn how to stop, then my children will carry me and continue to struggle in the future. It seems to me that stopping is the best thing I can give to them.
My grandfather, my mother, my father, and me. We struggle during the day, we struggle during the night, even in dreams, and we are not capable of letting go and relaxing.
If we are not struggling, we are running
And that is my heritage.
So I have to learn the art of stopping, L’arret.
If I don't learn how to stop, then my children will carry me and continue to struggle in the future. It seems to me that stopping is the best thing I can give to them.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Paper Dolls
Tadzio stayed home sick from preschool today. While he napped, I spent hours constructing Wool and Water paper dolls for him (and to be honest, for me too). He loves them. I can hear him in the other room, talking to himself and gently moving their arms. I'll let him play for a while, and then hang the dolls on his bedroom wall.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Pigeon Fancier
This afternoon I was digging through boxes in the basement looking for my copy of Love in a Time of Cholera. I was looking for this book because I was in the mood to read Márquez's fable of the beautiful pigeon fancier, Olimpia Zuleta. She comes to a bad end, but her character is delightful and has stayed with me over the years. Many of my books are in boxes in the basement due to the waves of remodeling projects Przemek has embarked on in the past five years.
These projects have been major enough to require us to move out of the house (twice) for six or seven months at a time. Now the house is beautiful, and I think he is turning his attention to the garage. He doesn't talk about it very much because we are in the middle of the great recession and he suspects that I am tired of remodeling. Actually, I support ripping down the garage, particularly if it means that I can keep pigeons in the upper level. Last night, over dinner and lots of wine Przemek agreed to the idea.
Keeping pigeons may sound like a passing whim, but I do have some experience with the little fellows. Every woman in my family aspires to possess a pigeon flock of her own. My mother kept pigeons, as did her mother before her. My mother kept tumbler pigeons. I remember the flock flying overhead. She would clap her hands, and they would "tumble" while flying. They would tumble from side to side as well as provide entertaining tumbles backward while in flight. No doubt this skill originally developed as a clever means to avoid birds of prey. I would probably keep tumblers myself, although there is a romantic, impractical part of myself that is a little enamored with the idea of keeping white messenger pigeons. I could trade secret notes with other pigeon enthusiasts.
Anyway, let me leave you with the passage from Love in a Time of Cholera I was looking for.
Six months after their first meeting, they found themselves at last in a cabin on a riverboat that was being painted at the docks. It was a marvelous afternoon. Olimpia Zuleta had the joyous love of a startled pigeon fancier, and she preferred to remain naked for several hours in a slow-moving repose that was, for her, as loving as love itself. The cabin was dismantled, half painted, and they would take the odor of turpentine away with them in the memory of a happy afternoon.
Shortly after this passage, Florentino has a very bad idea that leads to Olimpia's death (how could she forget a painted message on her body?), but the story, even with its unhappy ending, stays with one.
These projects have been major enough to require us to move out of the house (twice) for six or seven months at a time. Now the house is beautiful, and I think he is turning his attention to the garage. He doesn't talk about it very much because we are in the middle of the great recession and he suspects that I am tired of remodeling. Actually, I support ripping down the garage, particularly if it means that I can keep pigeons in the upper level. Last night, over dinner and lots of wine Przemek agreed to the idea.
Keeping pigeons may sound like a passing whim, but I do have some experience with the little fellows. Every woman in my family aspires to possess a pigeon flock of her own. My mother kept pigeons, as did her mother before her. My mother kept tumbler pigeons. I remember the flock flying overhead. She would clap her hands, and they would "tumble" while flying. They would tumble from side to side as well as provide entertaining tumbles backward while in flight. No doubt this skill originally developed as a clever means to avoid birds of prey. I would probably keep tumblers myself, although there is a romantic, impractical part of myself that is a little enamored with the idea of keeping white messenger pigeons. I could trade secret notes with other pigeon enthusiasts.
Anyway, let me leave you with the passage from Love in a Time of Cholera I was looking for.
Six months after their first meeting, they found themselves at last in a cabin on a riverboat that was being painted at the docks. It was a marvelous afternoon. Olimpia Zuleta had the joyous love of a startled pigeon fancier, and she preferred to remain naked for several hours in a slow-moving repose that was, for her, as loving as love itself. The cabin was dismantled, half painted, and they would take the odor of turpentine away with them in the memory of a happy afternoon.
Shortly after this passage, Florentino has a very bad idea that leads to Olimpia's death (how could she forget a painted message on her body?), but the story, even with its unhappy ending, stays with one.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Like a Night Sky
little freckle
A face without freckles is like a night sky without stars. I write this to reassure myself.
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