And, most of the World, well, at least, the entire mattering World came together for one brilliant night and even part of the next morning with a somewhat contemplative, protracted, very long, somewhat meditative five ENTIRE minutes squeezed in between
And, it came to pass that there were nearly 18 continuous hours of agreed-upon global activism and change-making that had not been witnessed for exactly 364.24153644 days, previously
The World’s manifesto:
Whereas, starting tomorrow, January 1 life will be better, so much better, different, good, great even
Again, they each individually proclaimed: starting tomorrow, January 1 life will, might, may, could be better, so much better, different, good — or great, even!
Ahem, that is, to be clear, not your life, just mine. new year, new me. Me. Me. Me.
And she took a bath and washed her hair and cleansed her [w]hol[l]y self of that grimy year though 365 memories remain in the dark roots of thousands of her golden strands, but, more are silver now
Out into the cold air, pitch black, save for waxing gibbous Moon naked, open pores, bare feet, wet hair, pouring her bathwater into a remnant patch of snow-covered ground drain and septic are unfit for this ceremony
Let this vintage permeate the garden/ recharge the aquifer from which she bathes and drinks/ evaporate into cycles of the atmosphere that she breathes /
The Song of the Lark has always been one of my very favorite works of the French naturalists – the gorgeous, day-glo, corally-salmon Sun and the woman’s arrested and reverent attention — her ear-witness to the birdsong — she reminds me of myself on any given day at golden hour — dawn or dusk //
while most criticism — almost all criticism of this work agrees that this painting depicts a woman at dawn — at Sun’s rise: i’m not wholly convinced.
i have experienced Jules Breton’s “The Song of The Lark” twice in two separate exhibits — at its home in the collection of The Art Institute of Chicago; and most recently, in 2015, at the University of Nebraska’s Sheldon Museum of Art for “Visual Cather: The Writer’s Pictorial Imagination” — where i was able to linger a mere foot away from the painting, studying it, for as long as i wanted — i stayed there for a reverent half hour in its glow.
Author Willa Cather spent her formative years in Nebraska and was an alumnus of the University of Nebraska; her third novel, published in 1915, was named for Breton’s painting — The Sheldon was a natural recipient for a loan of this magnetic artwork ///
while viewing the painting at The Sheldon, i conversed and queried with the fellow-Chicago-born docent — the only other person in the gallery:
will the lark sing their song most sweetly or urgently at sunrise or sunset?
does this work actually depict a neon sunset in the west; or is it, in fact, a day-glo sunrise in the east?
DayGlo color, pigment, paint would not be invented and commercially available until the 1930s — yet, Breton painted his glorious Sun in 1884 — he had already figured out the recipe ///
and, is the woman’s fatigue residual — from yesterday — she, a worker rising so very early, again, — or, might it be fatigue from a just-completed long and hard day’s work under the Sun?
i asked the docent the rhetorical questions i had been silently asking myself.
Do not love half lovers Do not entertain half friends Do not indulge in works of the half talented Do not live half a life and do not die a half death
If you choose silence, then be silent When you speak, do so until you are finished Do not silence yourself to say something And do not speak to be silent
If you accept, then express it bluntly Do not mask it If you refuse then be clear about it for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance
Do not accept half a solution Do not believe half truths Do not dream half a dream Do not fantasize about half hopes
Half a drink will not quench your thirst Half a meal will not satiate your hunger Half the way will get you nowhere Half an idea will bear you no results
Your other half is not the one you love It is you in another time, yet in the same space It is you when you are not
Half a life is a life you didn’t live, A word you have not said A smile you postponed A love you have not had A friendship you did not know To reach and not arrive Work and not work Attend only to be absent What makes you a stranger to them closest to you, and they strangers to you
The half is a mere moment of inability, but you are able for you are not half a being. You are a whole that exists to live a life, not half a life.
“The Distances They Keep”, Howard Nemerov, the blue swallows, 1967
this is no time to evict centipedes, spiders, the occasional, lone boxelder bug, dozens of out-of-season ladybird beetles or the almost-always odorless stinkbugs
i am going to bed, now at 7:08 to lessen the ache of being awake
this is a poem this is the business of us — “artists”, this is our “business correspondence”
inform a collaborator, a “coworker”- if you will, of your passwords and processes before taking those pills
my corazón has nearly bled-out migrating across my torso, my limbs, and my crown settling into my cornflower blue eyes bloodshot — with or without, drops and disguise
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 