A few weeks ago, I heard on NPR a program that narrated the stories of a Vietnam War veteran. This soldier -- now in his later years -- had enlisted and was sent into the jungles of Vietnam. At such a young age, he never anticipated the difficulties he would have to face, and even now still can't understand the experiences that he endured.
In a chance encounter inside the dense jungle, he shot and killed a Viet soldier. North or South he doesn't know, but it was a young Vietnamese boy not much younger than him. The young man had apparently been strolling through the forest unaware of US military presence.
The American soldier killed the Vietnamese soldier and if I remember correctly also took some letters which he mailed home to the US. For about 30 years he kept these tokens, these memories of the life and voice and spirit of the young Viet soldier.
What did it mean for him to keep them? Did he fully understand the family's need for closure? As the NPR program documented his anguish and confusion and grief, I felt particulary sympathetic to the family that had been searching for all these decades for some semblance of normality even as they tried to deal with the absence of their son. Missing in action, wandering spirit, restless souls...
At the same time that I feel sorry for this war veteran, the family's loss is imprinted into my memory with greater force because the retelling of this narrative is skewed since it is presented from only one perspective. The story -- what is spoken by the war vet and what is unheard from the family -- has multiple perspectives. Yet, whenever Vietnam/American War stories are retold, the limelight is on the US soldier, the US veteran who survived so much loss and suffered indescribable pain. Always, we focus on the self, on the individual, and that "I" happens to be from the US side of war.
I am reminded of the awful experiences that my own grandmother continues to relive and endure as she hopes in vain for some news of her MIA son. The youngest in a brood of eight, he disappeared somewhere in the central region of Vietnam. There have been no letters, no notices, no body, no telegrams, nothing. She continues to think about Cau Tam, Luan. Who knows whether he was killed or lost his memory or escaped or...? Perhaps he too met someone and was shot unwittingly and his identification papers and letter were taken by some US soldier and sent back to the US, stored in some damp cellar waiting for the US vet to find closure.
Hearing these kinds of stories, I wonder whether there will ever be a time when we can truly understand ourselves as a global community. The link between soldier and soldier, the connection between mother and son, that bond, that tie can never be relinquished. But until one lets go, the other will always be unnameable.
November 30, 2006
November 29, 2006
Sudoku: smart new date
So I don't do the New York Times crossword puzzle. Not Monday, not even Tuesday, and definitely not Sunday. Perhaps it is in an effort to feel less dumb that I actually would if I tried to pick up a Times puzzle on Sunday morning. Perhaps it is due to a spectacularly lame sort of apathy on my part, half in hopes of resisting -- on a minor, minor level trying to differentiate myself from -- all those folks like Bill Clinton and Jon Stewart and, yes, the Indigo Girls -- who spend their free time puzzling.
So I sudoku. I don't need to pull out the OED, or the GRE hit-parade word list, or the thesaurus to find the synonyms for this or the antonym of that. I just need to know 9 numbers, and I pretty certain I know that b/c I can count my fingers and toes. It's rather easy to understand: fill in the blank spots so that all the rows, columns, and squares are filled with the numbers 1-9. A ha. I can follow the logic inherent in each puzzle (Will Shortz, you are a genius puzzler, but sudoku can't be attributed to you.) and eventually find my way to the very last square in the puzzle.
Though the "light and easy" can still stump me, I've managed to finish a puzzle in 5 minutes (ok, ok, only once did I do that), and a scond puzzle was done in 7 minutes. The rest, well, unfortunately still, they range from 15 to 30 minutes per puzzle. According to puzzlemaster Will, an ideal puzzle would be solved in 30 minutes. Any less, it's not a challene. Any more, too much of a challenge. It demands to much of us, of our time and energy. Will thinks that a puzzle which takes longer than 30 minutes to solve will be too much of a demand and stretch of our resources.
30 minutes. What a speed-demon world. Imagine if all our dates were half-hour. If we slept for only 30 minutes. If lunch breaks were 30 minutes. If everything were 30 minutes, why waste our time with a puzzle, then? Sadly, I'm guilty of sudoku-ing almost every free moment of the day. I do more than the usual 1 per day. I do them back to back. They are soooo fun!
Deja Vu
We all live our lives on a ledge, all the time. We may not expect it, and we may not be able to anticipate the end, but it is true that it doesn't take much to push us over the edge.
When we've finally taken the first steps on a path, the road is being created, if it hasn't already been paved. I think of the US presence in Iraq. Were in so deep that we can't seem to get ourselves out without being guilty of abandoning the tasks we began in the first place. But remaining in Iraq -- that isn't a viable option either -- unless we remain responsibility and admit our culpability in the events that have transpired and which will continue to play out.
This war is scarily similar to the Vietnam/American War. We start it, then we leave it when things get rough. We now do the same thing... we push and push for this war, in which innocent lives are taken (conspicuous consumption of human life!!) under false pretenses. Now that we've messed things up so badly, torn up the land, interrupted their lives on both sides of the war, etc., we want to get out...
We need to bring our troops home, without a doubt. But we cannot in good conscience insert ourselves -- our politics, our policies, our war ideologies, our culture, etc. -- into the lives of the people in Iraq and then easily and quickly pull out as if our presence(s) were negligible. We were there, and we made a huge impact -- whether good or bad -- in that area of the world. We cannot in good conscience then just leave our messes for someone else to clean up.
Yet, how many more lives can we commit to this war? How many more innocent lives will we sacrifice before we realize we are wrong and that we must become better stewards of our resources.
When we've finally taken the first steps on a path, the road is being created, if it hasn't already been paved. I think of the US presence in Iraq. Were in so deep that we can't seem to get ourselves out without being guilty of abandoning the tasks we began in the first place. But remaining in Iraq -- that isn't a viable option either -- unless we remain responsibility and admit our culpability in the events that have transpired and which will continue to play out.
This war is scarily similar to the Vietnam/American War. We start it, then we leave it when things get rough. We now do the same thing... we push and push for this war, in which innocent lives are taken (conspicuous consumption of human life!!) under false pretenses. Now that we've messed things up so badly, torn up the land, interrupted their lives on both sides of the war, etc., we want to get out...
We need to bring our troops home, without a doubt. But we cannot in good conscience insert ourselves -- our politics, our policies, our war ideologies, our culture, etc. -- into the lives of the people in Iraq and then easily and quickly pull out as if our presence(s) were negligible. We were there, and we made a huge impact -- whether good or bad -- in that area of the world. We cannot in good conscience then just leave our messes for someone else to clean up.
Yet, how many more lives can we commit to this war? How many more innocent lives will we sacrifice before we realize we are wrong and that we must become better stewards of our resources.
November 28, 2006
Out with the old-new, in with the new-new...?
Mexico's about to install their new President, but there's a certain somebody who thinks he can do better, and thus has elected himself the new President of Mexico. In fact just last week, there was a huge ceremony in which he was sworn in (by which crazy totalitarian group, I wonder) as the new president, promising to protect the land and ideals of Mexico, to be the voice and leader of a people that did not officially or legally elect him president.
What do we think of that! Doesn't this sound suspiciously familiar? No other methods except to step up and out like political maniac with his own manifesto and oust the other candidate. Strange how this seems to happen so easily...
Where are the protestors? Where are the legal advisors? Where are the leaders of the government state? What are they doing...?
What do we think of that! Doesn't this sound suspiciously familiar? No other methods except to step up and out like political maniac with his own manifesto and oust the other candidate. Strange how this seems to happen so easily...
Where are the protestors? Where are the legal advisors? Where are the leaders of the government state? What are they doing...?
November 25, 2006
Conspicuous consumption of people
Conspicuous consumption of human life, says Mel Gibson, is a tragedy of which we are all guilty. But mostly, just W. and his cohorts, and anyone of us who refuses to speak, act, take a stand against the American-triggered, American-led violence in the Iraq.
My sister thinks me foolish for quoting a raving, ranting, prejudiced, and discriminatory anti-semitic. But, there is merit in what he speaks - at least in this regard.
If we consider it carefully, aside from his blotchy bio, it is still useful for us to investigate further the notion of "conspicuous consumption". We are indeed living in a consumerist society driven by supply and demand...
My sister thinks me foolish for quoting a raving, ranting, prejudiced, and discriminatory anti-semitic. But, there is merit in what he speaks - at least in this regard.
If we consider it carefully, aside from his blotchy bio, it is still useful for us to investigate further the notion of "conspicuous consumption". We are indeed living in a consumerist society driven by supply and demand...
November 22, 2006
When the Towers Fell by Galway Kinnell
WHEN THE TOWERS FELL
From our high window we saw the towers
with their bands and blocks of light
brighten against a fading sunset,
saw them at any hour glitter and live
as if the spirits inside them sat up all night
calculating profit and loss, saw them reach up
to steep their tops in the until then invisible
yellow of sunrise, grew so used to them
often we didn’t see them, and now,
not seeing them, we see them.
The banker is talking to London.
Humberto is delivering breakfast sandwiches.
The trader is already working the phone.
The mail sorter has started sorting the mail.
...povres et riches
...poor and rich
Sages et folz, prestres et laiz
Wise and foolish, priests and laymen
Nobles, villains, larges et chiches
Noblemen, serfs, generous and m
Petiz et grans et beaulx et laiz
Short and tall and handsome and homely
The plane screamed low down lower Fifth Avenue
lifted at the Arch, someone said, shaking the dog walkers
in Washington Square Park, drove for the north tower,
struck with a heavy thud, releasing a huge bright gush
of blackened fire, and vanished, leaving a hole
the size and shape a cartoon plane might make
if it had passed harmlessly through and were flying away now,
on the far side, back into the realm of the imaginary.
Some with torn clothing, some bloodied,
some limping at top speed like children
in a three-legged race, some half dragged,
some intact in neat suits and dresses,
they straggle out of step up the avenues,
each dusted to a ghostly whiteness,
their eyes rubbed red as the eyes of a Zahoris,
who can see the dead under the ground.
Some died while calling home to say they were O.K.
Some died after over an hour spent learning they would die.
Some died so abruptly they may have seen death from within it.
Some broke windows and leaned out and waited for rescue.
Some were asphyxiated.
Some burned, their very faces caught fire.
Some fell, letting gravity speed them through their long moment.
Some leapt hand in hand, the elasticity in last bits of love-time letting — I wish
I could say — their vertical streaks down the sky happen more lightly.
At the high window, where I’ve often stood
to escape a nightmare, I meet
the single, unblinking eye
lighting the all-night sniffing and lifting
and sifting for bodies, pieces of bodies, anything that is not nothing,
in a search that always goes on
somewhere, now in New York and Kabul.
She stands on a corner holding up a picture
of her husband. He is smiling. In today’s
wind shift few pass. Sorry sorry sorry.
She startles. Suppose, down the street, that headlong lope...
or, over there, that hair so black it’s purple...
And yet, suppose some evening I forgot
The fare and transfer, yet got by that way
Without recall — lost yet poised in traffic.
Then I might find your eyes...
It could happen. Sorry sorry good luck thank you.
On this side it is “amnesia,” or forgetting the way home,
on the other, “invisibleness,” or never in body returning.
Hard to see clearly in the metallic mist,
or through the sheet of mock reality
cast over our world, bourne that no creature ever born
pokes its way back through, and no love can tear.
The towers burn and fall, burn and fall —
in a distant, shot, smokestacks spewing oily earth remnants out of the past.
Schwarze Milch der Fruhe wir trinken sie abends
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
we drink it at midday at morning we drink it at night
wir trinken und trinken
We drink it and drink it
This is not a comparison but a corollary,
not a likeness but a lineage
in the twentieth-century history of violent death —
black men in the South castrated and strung up from trees,
soldiers advancing through mud at ninety thousand dead per mile,
train upon train headed eastward made up of boxcars shoved full to the
corners with Jews and Gypsies to be enslaved or gassed,
state murder of twenty, thirty, forty million of its own,
atomic blasts wiping cities off the earth, firebombings the same,
death marches, starvations, assassinations, disappearances,
entire countries turned into rubble, minefields, mass graves.
Seeing the towers vomit these black omens, that the last century dumped into
this one, for us to dispose of, we know
they are our futures, that is our own black milk crossing the sky: wir shaufeln
ein Grab in den Luften da liegt man nicht eng we’re digging
a grave in the sky there’ll be plenty of room to lie down there
Burst jet fuel, incinerated aluminum, steel fume, crushed marble, exploded
granite, pulverized drywall, mashed concrete, berserked plastic,
gasified mercury, cracked chemicals, scoria, vapor
of the vaporized — wafted here
from the burnings of the past, draped over
our island up to streets regimented
into numbers and letters, breathed across
the great bridges to Brooklyn and the waiting sea:
astringent, miasmic, empyreumatic, slick,
freighted air too foul to take in but we take it in,
too gruesome for seekers of the amnesiac beloved
to breathe but they breathe it and you breathe it.
A photograph of a woman hangs from a string
at his neck. He doesn’t look up.
He stares down at the sidewalk of flagstone
slabs laid down in Whitman’s century, gutter edges
rasped by iron wheels to a melted roundedness:
a conscious intelligence envying the stones.
Nie staja sie, sa.
They do not become, they are.
Nie nad to, myslalem.
Nothing but that, I thought,
zbrzydziwszy sobie
now loathing within myself
wszystko co staje sie
everything that becomes.
And I sat down by the waters of the Hudson,
by the North Cove Yacht Harbor, and thought
how those on the high floors must have suffered: knowing
they would burn alive, and then, burning alive.
and I wondered, Is there a mechanism of death
that so mutilates existence no one
gets over it not even the dead?
Before me I saw, in steel letters welded
to the steel railing posts, Whitman’s words
written as America plunged into war with itself: City of the world!...
Proud and passionate city — mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!
words of a time of illusions. Then I remembered
what he wrote after the war was over and Lincoln dead:
I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war,
But I saw they were not as was thought.
They themselves were fully at rest — they suffer’d not,
The living remain’d and suffer’d, the mother suffer’d
And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer’d...
In our minds the glassy blocks
succumb over and over into themselves,
slam down floor by floor into themselves.
They blow up as if in reverse, exploding
downward and outward, billowing
through the streets, engulfing the fleeing.
As each tower goes down, it concentrates
into itself, transforms itself
infinitely slowly into a black hole
infinitesimally small: mass
without space, where each light,
each life, put out, lies down within us.
Copyright © 2002 by Galway Kinnell. All rights reserved by the author. First appeared in The NEW YORKER, Sept. 16th, 2002 issue. Published in Strong is Your Hold by Houghton Mifflin.
From our high window we saw the towers
with their bands and blocks of light
brighten against a fading sunset,
saw them at any hour glitter and live
as if the spirits inside them sat up all night
calculating profit and loss, saw them reach up
to steep their tops in the until then invisible
yellow of sunrise, grew so used to them
often we didn’t see them, and now,
not seeing them, we see them.
The banker is talking to London.
Humberto is delivering breakfast sandwiches.
The trader is already working the phone.
The mail sorter has started sorting the mail.
...povres et riches
...poor and rich
Sages et folz, prestres et laiz
Wise and foolish, priests and laymen
Nobles, villains, larges et chiches
Noblemen, serfs, generous and m
Petiz et grans et beaulx et laiz
Short and tall and handsome and homely
The plane screamed low down lower Fifth Avenue
lifted at the Arch, someone said, shaking the dog walkers
in Washington Square Park, drove for the north tower,
struck with a heavy thud, releasing a huge bright gush
of blackened fire, and vanished, leaving a hole
the size and shape a cartoon plane might make
if it had passed harmlessly through and were flying away now,
on the far side, back into the realm of the imaginary.
Some with torn clothing, some bloodied,
some limping at top speed like children
in a three-legged race, some half dragged,
some intact in neat suits and dresses,
they straggle out of step up the avenues,
each dusted to a ghostly whiteness,
their eyes rubbed red as the eyes of a Zahoris,
who can see the dead under the ground.
Some died while calling home to say they were O.K.
Some died after over an hour spent learning they would die.
Some died so abruptly they may have seen death from within it.
Some broke windows and leaned out and waited for rescue.
Some were asphyxiated.
Some burned, their very faces caught fire.
Some fell, letting gravity speed them through their long moment.
Some leapt hand in hand, the elasticity in last bits of love-time letting — I wish
I could say — their vertical streaks down the sky happen more lightly.
At the high window, where I’ve often stood
to escape a nightmare, I meet
the single, unblinking eye
lighting the all-night sniffing and lifting
and sifting for bodies, pieces of bodies, anything that is not nothing,
in a search that always goes on
somewhere, now in New York and Kabul.
She stands on a corner holding up a picture
of her husband. He is smiling. In today’s
wind shift few pass. Sorry sorry sorry.
She startles. Suppose, down the street, that headlong lope...
or, over there, that hair so black it’s purple...
And yet, suppose some evening I forgot
The fare and transfer, yet got by that way
Without recall — lost yet poised in traffic.
Then I might find your eyes...
It could happen. Sorry sorry good luck thank you.
On this side it is “amnesia,” or forgetting the way home,
on the other, “invisibleness,” or never in body returning.
Hard to see clearly in the metallic mist,
or through the sheet of mock reality
cast over our world, bourne that no creature ever born
pokes its way back through, and no love can tear.
The towers burn and fall, burn and fall —
in a distant, shot, smokestacks spewing oily earth remnants out of the past.
Schwarze Milch der Fruhe wir trinken sie abends
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
we drink it at midday at morning we drink it at night
wir trinken und trinken
We drink it and drink it
This is not a comparison but a corollary,
not a likeness but a lineage
in the twentieth-century history of violent death —
black men in the South castrated and strung up from trees,
soldiers advancing through mud at ninety thousand dead per mile,
train upon train headed eastward made up of boxcars shoved full to the
corners with Jews and Gypsies to be enslaved or gassed,
state murder of twenty, thirty, forty million of its own,
atomic blasts wiping cities off the earth, firebombings the same,
death marches, starvations, assassinations, disappearances,
entire countries turned into rubble, minefields, mass graves.
Seeing the towers vomit these black omens, that the last century dumped into
this one, for us to dispose of, we know
they are our futures, that is our own black milk crossing the sky: wir shaufeln
ein Grab in den Luften da liegt man nicht eng we’re digging
a grave in the sky there’ll be plenty of room to lie down there
Burst jet fuel, incinerated aluminum, steel fume, crushed marble, exploded
granite, pulverized drywall, mashed concrete, berserked plastic,
gasified mercury, cracked chemicals, scoria, vapor
of the vaporized — wafted here
from the burnings of the past, draped over
our island up to streets regimented
into numbers and letters, breathed across
the great bridges to Brooklyn and the waiting sea:
astringent, miasmic, empyreumatic, slick,
freighted air too foul to take in but we take it in,
too gruesome for seekers of the amnesiac beloved
to breathe but they breathe it and you breathe it.
A photograph of a woman hangs from a string
at his neck. He doesn’t look up.
He stares down at the sidewalk of flagstone
slabs laid down in Whitman’s century, gutter edges
rasped by iron wheels to a melted roundedness:
a conscious intelligence envying the stones.
Nie staja sie, sa.
They do not become, they are.
Nie nad to, myslalem.
Nothing but that, I thought,
zbrzydziwszy sobie
now loathing within myself
wszystko co staje sie
everything that becomes.
And I sat down by the waters of the Hudson,
by the North Cove Yacht Harbor, and thought
how those on the high floors must have suffered: knowing
they would burn alive, and then, burning alive.
and I wondered, Is there a mechanism of death
that so mutilates existence no one
gets over it not even the dead?
Before me I saw, in steel letters welded
to the steel railing posts, Whitman’s words
written as America plunged into war with itself: City of the world!...
Proud and passionate city — mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!
words of a time of illusions. Then I remembered
what he wrote after the war was over and Lincoln dead:
I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war,
But I saw they were not as was thought.
They themselves were fully at rest — they suffer’d not,
The living remain’d and suffer’d, the mother suffer’d
And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer’d...
In our minds the glassy blocks
succumb over and over into themselves,
slam down floor by floor into themselves.
They blow up as if in reverse, exploding
downward and outward, billowing
through the streets, engulfing the fleeing.
As each tower goes down, it concentrates
into itself, transforms itself
infinitely slowly into a black hole
infinitesimally small: mass
without space, where each light,
each life, put out, lies down within us.
Copyright © 2002 by Galway Kinnell. All rights reserved by the author. First appeared in The NEW YORKER, Sept. 16th, 2002 issue. Published in Strong is Your Hold by Houghton Mifflin.
Galway Kinnell's When the Towers Fell
Visit the New Yorker to listen to Galway Kinnell reading his poem, "When the Towers Fell", written in response to 9/11 events.
Laying it to rest...
My response to a conversation we had about Thich Nhat Hanh's piece which was circulated post-9/11:
First, thank you for the conversation Monday night! Andrea, I didn't mean to be negative about a piece of writing (and a writer) that you appreciate, but I'm glad that we were able to talk about it!
In light of that conversation, I think it's necessary for us to reconsider whether or not this is poetry. By this, I mean that we can't easily dismiss this as not poetry. Just because it is written in free form (I haven't looked carefully at the prosody - line, meter, and rhythm of the poem so I can't say for certain) doesn't mean it isn't a poem.
The truth is, this could very certainly be poetry -- just very bad poetry (in my humble opinion) -- unless he says specifically that this is not poetry. So, I will approach this as a poetic text (otherwise, I have very little to offer except banal reflections).
I agree that this is a very poignant piece that strikes at the heart of most readers who have been touched by the violence of our recent histories. I think that there will always be a need for reflections such as this one written by Thich Nhat Hanh, whether or not those pieces are poetry or prose or whatever form(s) of art. Where there is need, there will always be room/space made available for this kind of writing, however good or bad the author creates it. It really is up to the discerning reader whether or not they prefer a certain kind of writing over another kind.
Not unlike the both of you, this piece evokes in me a visceral response. That is, I react more because of the context of the events that motivated TNH to write this prayer. When I (re)read this, I am reminded of the feelings that I felt when I saw the tower fall, when I heard of the airplane crashes, etc. There are certainly elements employed in this piece which in totality tug at my heart strings. If we look only at the effects produced in the reader which are evoked by this writing, then in a way it is poetic -- but not necessarily excellent poetry.
[On a side note -- Isn't this similar to biblical texts and theology? I mean, how do we reconcile the fact that there are many texts and certain kinds of theology that are "wrong" in some ways but which nevertheless form a strong basis for people's faiths/spirituality?]
No doubt there are many others who respond like we did-- we are called to respond to the prayer on an emotional and thoughful/reflective way. That was my first reaction. But, that is only one kind of appreciation. Beyond the initial "tug" at my emotions, after the brief moment of quiet meditation and reflection, I become distracted/frustrated by the technical form of the piece.
My reaction is colored by the awareness of other kinds of writing that evoke in me such similar responses -- writings that are better crafted and whose contents speak of the same (different) issues, raising the same (more complex) questions.
That consciousness, added to my biases against his personality (here, insert the thoughts that Mai-Anh has already articulated), make me less appreciative as a reader and writer. I am, unfortunately, biased against such kinds of writing (in a creative writing program TNH's piece would never pass muster as literary craft) because I think that there is much more that can be done... that is, this could be presented and has been presented with more artful aesthetics, with purer (?) motives (purer than what I'm willing to allow for his writings) that I can see.
I'm reminded of the poetry world's outcry when Laura Bush wanted to have a poetry reading in support of the war... It was, in essence, an abuse of the powers of poetic art, which in itself isn't uncommon, but it was so flagrantly displayed. On a personal level, I feel that somehow TNH was using poetry to not only diffuse a situation and remind us about peace and reconciliation, but I wish he could have done it better. It makes (some) folks misunderstand the craft so that they think if you need to use poetry for practical purposes, then you must present it in this simplified, formulaic way in order to have meaning and application in the real world.
We all know of course, there is a difference between simplicity and simplistic poetry. That distinction needs to be made, but I don't know whether or not I'm capable of talking about that now.
Read his text at: "Rest in Peace" on the website Images and Voices of Hope.
First, thank you for the conversation Monday night! Andrea, I didn't mean to be negative about a piece of writing (and a writer) that you appreciate, but I'm glad that we were able to talk about it!
In light of that conversation, I think it's necessary for us to reconsider whether or not this is poetry. By this, I mean that we can't easily dismiss this as not poetry. Just because it is written in free form (I haven't looked carefully at the prosody - line, meter, and rhythm of the poem so I can't say for certain) doesn't mean it isn't a poem.
The truth is, this could very certainly be poetry -- just very bad poetry (in my humble opinion) -- unless he says specifically that this is not poetry. So, I will approach this as a poetic text (otherwise, I have very little to offer except banal reflections).
I agree that this is a very poignant piece that strikes at the heart of most readers who have been touched by the violence of our recent histories. I think that there will always be a need for reflections such as this one written by Thich Nhat Hanh, whether or not those pieces are poetry or prose or whatever form(s) of art. Where there is need, there will always be room/space made available for this kind of writing, however good or bad the author creates it. It really is up to the discerning reader whether or not they prefer a certain kind of writing over another kind.
Not unlike the both of you, this piece evokes in me a visceral response. That is, I react more because of the context of the events that motivated TNH to write this prayer. When I (re)read this, I am reminded of the feelings that I felt when I saw the tower fall, when I heard of the airplane crashes, etc. There are certainly elements employed in this piece which in totality tug at my heart strings. If we look only at the effects produced in the reader which are evoked by this writing, then in a way it is poetic -- but not necessarily excellent poetry.
[On a side note -- Isn't this similar to biblical texts and theology? I mean, how do we reconcile the fact that there are many texts and certain kinds of theology that are "wrong" in some ways but which nevertheless form a strong basis for people's faiths/spirituality?]
No doubt there are many others who respond like we did-- we are called to respond to the prayer on an emotional and thoughful/reflective way. That was my first reaction. But, that is only one kind of appreciation. Beyond the initial "tug" at my emotions, after the brief moment of quiet meditation and reflection, I become distracted/frustrated by the technical form of the piece.
My reaction is colored by the awareness of other kinds of writing that evoke in me such similar responses -- writings that are better crafted and whose contents speak of the same (different) issues, raising the same (more complex) questions.
That consciousness, added to my biases against his personality (here, insert the thoughts that Mai-Anh has already articulated), make me less appreciative as a reader and writer. I am, unfortunately, biased against such kinds of writing (in a creative writing program TNH's piece would never pass muster as literary craft) because I think that there is much more that can be done... that is, this could be presented and has been presented with more artful aesthetics, with purer (?) motives (purer than what I'm willing to allow for his writings) that I can see.
I'm reminded of the poetry world's outcry when Laura Bush wanted to have a poetry reading in support of the war... It was, in essence, an abuse of the powers of poetic art, which in itself isn't uncommon, but it was so flagrantly displayed. On a personal level, I feel that somehow TNH was using poetry to not only diffuse a situation and remind us about peace and reconciliation, but I wish he could have done it better. It makes (some) folks misunderstand the craft so that they think if you need to use poetry for practical purposes, then you must present it in this simplified, formulaic way in order to have meaning and application in the real world.
We all know of course, there is a difference between simplicity and simplistic poetry. That distinction needs to be made, but I don't know whether or not I'm capable of talking about that now.
Read his text at: "Rest in Peace" on the website Images and Voices of Hope.
New software analyst at TXU!
Introducing my little brother: TAT. (He hates being called "little brother." He's a big, strapping young man. NOT baby brother. NOT the young one in the family. NOT the PK recovering from PK-syndrome. In fact, he's pretty cool now... handles himself very nicely with Vietnamese and English. Ladies, in fact, he is a MUSICIAN, and knows how to translate songs. Any day now he'll be writing his own music. Keep an eye on him now!) He isn't particularly fond of me using the family nickname in public, so I've imposed a new one on his personage... He's got a hot new job at one of the larger companies in TX, so now he is incommunicato. I can't seem to find him anywhere. When I call him, I get this very official message asking me to leave him a message and he'll return the call. Of course, I'm not a client so I haven't heard from him in weeks now... I've put in 4 personal calls, and have asked the parents whether he's still alive. I think he is.
Poetry with a bit of cheeeeese...
Thich Nhat Hanh...
Dr. Bieler asks why I have such strong reactions to his poetry. That's precisely it. The content of his messages -- I cannot say. But the form with which he articulates his messages... As a spiritual leader, he has immmense power and influence. His words create ripple effects and he is admired and respected because of his ideology, his spirituality, and his influence in the political scenes. In these areas, he is a strong leader. As a poet, not so much.
Outside of certain contexts, his poetry falls flat for me. I do not find it objectionable that he uses poetry as one (of many) mediums to convey his messages of peace, love, and reconciliation. But I think there is a certain leniency that is granted to people like him which places less of a burden on them regarding technical craft.
Here, it becomes complicated b/c of questions like: What is meant by "people like him?" "What kinds of burdens?" Why less of a burden? Who imposes these responsibilities/burdens? Who carries them? Why? Why not?
Dr. Bieler asks why I have such strong reactions to his poetry. That's precisely it. The content of his messages -- I cannot say. But the form with which he articulates his messages... As a spiritual leader, he has immmense power and influence. His words create ripple effects and he is admired and respected because of his ideology, his spirituality, and his influence in the political scenes. In these areas, he is a strong leader. As a poet, not so much.
Outside of certain contexts, his poetry falls flat for me. I do not find it objectionable that he uses poetry as one (of many) mediums to convey his messages of peace, love, and reconciliation. But I think there is a certain leniency that is granted to people like him which places less of a burden on them regarding technical craft.
Here, it becomes complicated b/c of questions like: What is meant by "people like him?" "What kinds of burdens?" Why less of a burden? Who imposes these responsibilities/burdens? Who carries them? Why? Why not?
November 20, 2006
Crash: the movie
See details about Crash on IMDB!
In a significantly impressive way, this movie deals with issues of race, gender, economic and social status, discrimination, etc. The tagline says:
Moving at the speed of life, we are bound to collide with one another.
These collisions are unpretty. In fact, violent and uncompromising, these intersections become places/spaces where these characters discover who they really are and begin to understand the histories that created who they have become. At these intersections, at these points of connection, one character after another comprehend their part in human history, and they see more fully their potentials in stepping into/out of the great weight of humanity.
I am disappointed, however, that this powerful movie does not include the rich and dynamic -- and pained -- realities of some of the Asian American communities, whether they are East Asian, Southeast Asian or whatever. The pan-Asian communities in the U.S. is a large part of the American demography, and yet there isn't anything substantial that is mentioned. It is yet another subtle reminder that the discussion about race and ethnicity revolves around -- in large part -- the black/white issue. The histories that comprise the United States have proven that there is so much more to who we are as Americans, and that isn't just black or white, no, not even that.
In a significantly impressive way, this movie deals with issues of race, gender, economic and social status, discrimination, etc. The tagline says:
Moving at the speed of life, we are bound to collide with one another.
These collisions are unpretty. In fact, violent and uncompromising, these intersections become places/spaces where these characters discover who they really are and begin to understand the histories that created who they have become. At these intersections, at these points of connection, one character after another comprehend their part in human history, and they see more fully their potentials in stepping into/out of the great weight of humanity.
I am disappointed, however, that this powerful movie does not include the rich and dynamic -- and pained -- realities of some of the Asian American communities, whether they are East Asian, Southeast Asian or whatever. The pan-Asian communities in the U.S. is a large part of the American demography, and yet there isn't anything substantial that is mentioned. It is yet another subtle reminder that the discussion about race and ethnicity revolves around -- in large part -- the black/white issue. The histories that comprise the United States have proven that there is so much more to who we are as Americans, and that isn't just black or white, no, not even that.
Mendelssohn's St. Paul oratorio
Friday night, November 17th. 8:00 p.m.
First Congregational Church of Berkeley
2345 Channing Way at Dana, Berkeley, CA
San Francisco City Choir performed Mendelssohn's oratorio St. Paulas.
Larry H. Marietta, Conductor
John R.S. Walko, Organ
Ellen St. Thomas, Soprano
Jeffrey Fields, Baritone
www.sfcitychorus.org
The show began with a rocky start, especially with the sopranos not quite warmed up yet. Their voices betrayed some strain as they tried to hit those high notes, but the male voices (tenors, basses) were strong and well-controlled.
Mendelssohn was so young (28?) when he composed St. Paul. It is unfortunate that his father died before seeing his son's accomplishments.
First Congregational Church of Berkeley
2345 Channing Way at Dana, Berkeley, CA
San Francisco City Choir performed Mendelssohn's oratorio St. Paulas.
Larry H. Marietta, Conductor
John R.S. Walko, Organ
Ellen St. Thomas, Soprano
Jeffrey Fields, Baritone
www.sfcitychorus.org
The show began with a rocky start, especially with the sopranos not quite warmed up yet. Their voices betrayed some strain as they tried to hit those high notes, but the male voices (tenors, basses) were strong and well-controlled.
Mendelssohn was so young (28?) when he composed St. Paul. It is unfortunate that his father died before seeing his son's accomplishments.
November 18, 2006
Chuyen cua Pao
She is Hmong, living in the mountains of north Vietnam. A young woman on a journey to recover the biological mother she once lost. On the way, she discovers secrets of a family she thought she knew...
In the panel discussion after the screening, Ngo Quang Hai, the film's director, talked about the ending of the film. After she embarks on this journey, she realizes that she needed the security provided by the familiarity of the little window in her modest home. After traveling for days and covering hundreds of miles searching for her biological matter, she discovers that there are certain secrets that she would rather not know, rather not reveal. She acknowledges that she hopes to return to the square window, where she sits gazing out into the world, observing from the safety of her home, where she is comfortable and protected.
Pao confesses this to the audience in a voice-over as the audience is shown scene after scene of the ending images. However, these visual offerings suggest something different from what Pao, the narrator, recounts to the audience, for one of the very final scenes of the film shows her walking hand in hand with her lover down a wide, open road. This stunning image presents a contrast to the little window of security in the wooden house. The road is wide and long, and she is ambling comfortably down this road (interestingly, it is strikingly similar to the road which her father worked on years before) without any fear or hesitation.
For me, the visual is a stronger testament to the changes that Pao has undergone during her journey. She has grown in ways that are deeper and more complex than even she can articulate.
In the panel discussion after the screening, Ngo Quang Hai, the film's director, talked about the ending of the film. After she embarks on this journey, she realizes that she needed the security provided by the familiarity of the little window in her modest home. After traveling for days and covering hundreds of miles searching for her biological matter, she discovers that there are certain secrets that she would rather not know, rather not reveal. She acknowledges that she hopes to return to the square window, where she sits gazing out into the world, observing from the safety of her home, where she is comfortable and protected.
Pao confesses this to the audience in a voice-over as the audience is shown scene after scene of the ending images. However, these visual offerings suggest something different from what Pao, the narrator, recounts to the audience, for one of the very final scenes of the film shows her walking hand in hand with her lover down a wide, open road. This stunning image presents a contrast to the little window of security in the wooden house. The road is wide and long, and she is ambling comfortably down this road (interestingly, it is strikingly similar to the road which her father worked on years before) without any fear or hesitation.
For me, the visual is a stronger testament to the changes that Pao has undergone during her journey. She has grown in ways that are deeper and more complex than even she can articulate.
Journey of Van Nguyen
She is an Israeli-born Vietnamese woman in her early twenties. She lives in a world conflicted and marginalized by a Jewish community that was once ostracized and persecuted for their own religious beliefs. As a Vietnamese-Israeli (she speaks such poor Vietnamese that I have a hard time differentiating her Hebrew from her Viet!) living among them, she is the one ridiculed, critiqued, marginalized and confused...
Her return to Vietnam is similar to my journey to Vietnam, and the similarities make me think more critiqually about my own experiences...
Her return to Vietnam is similar to my journey to Vietnam, and the similarities make me think more critiqually about my own experiences...
November 17, 2006
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
How astonishing it is that language could almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.
Renga: Cityscapes
36
Pins drop into a steel cup.
The shake of a passing train.
Rainfall will end
up with a thin ice crust,
synchronizing storm drains.
Today: one more baby born
or border crossed, 300 million.
Street lights splice traffic,
Provinces of fire-blown trees
perilous paradise
Make-up kit spilled on the 3rd ave. bridge,
Minneapolis, red leaves, red lights.
Steaming custard buns
white surface, one dotted red
Mars hangs in night sky
Mother's microwaved dinner
Salty with laughing crying
Carefully prepared
in an old fashioned homestyle -
come home to old friends
Hiss of espresso monster
Conversation bubbles up
walk into the cafe,
to the back of the room
to the one face, beaming
Alphabet soups for sale, one
by one, constructing letters
Plate stained purple,
typewriter minus letter H,
free with any purchase.
Jackhammer shredding sidewalk
Farmer's market crushed berries
Migrant workers camp by
the millennial library:
the wait, the weight
Fishboats at the marina,
City of water and ash
The line snakes over
Boat rail, turbulent water
Dead fish on the pier.
Imprints of hands on windows
just before shattering
Each to a word, lines
traced in wartime letters
maps to our past
Still--we're under the spell of
the alphabet of retaliation
Wings rise east
misguided by burning treelines,
charred city -- a speck, a speck
Yellow bulldozer snorting
launches a swirl of seagulls.
Plastic covers sag with rain,
cranes halt above
the future hospital
Ideas of her self lurking
underneath overpasses
Leaf in clover leaf
Cartoon school bus wiggles by
Scattering the wind
She sketches loops and spirals
Pencil resting against her thumb
Labyrinth turnpikes
On the daily commute-
Tolls along the way
Speedbumps glazed with yellow paint
Sleeping roadway log lizards
Filmy fog distances blue
Structures, milks signals
From the tips of antennae
Peering down on the plaza
Speckled with light and foot traffic
Beveled histories
Facades of pilaster, plinths
Speak, La Place Vendome
Interpret the messages
The speech of cogs and branches
The coming of storm?
Trees in the margin
Italicized by the wind
From the bus window, the miles
Float under well-traveled wheels
Poised in the center,
Flung to the edge of the
Roundabout turning
Towers in the east are there
So she knows she is here
Saigon: motorbikes
Jammed at stoplights, exhaust fumes
Scattering insects
Pins drop into a steel cup.
The shake of a passing train.
Rainfall will end
up with a thin ice crust,
synchronizing storm drains.
Today: one more baby born
or border crossed, 300 million.
Street lights splice traffic,
Provinces of fire-blown trees
perilous paradise
Make-up kit spilled on the 3rd ave. bridge,
Minneapolis, red leaves, red lights.
Steaming custard buns
white surface, one dotted red
Mars hangs in night sky
Mother's microwaved dinner
Salty with laughing crying
Carefully prepared
in an old fashioned homestyle -
come home to old friends
Hiss of espresso monster
Conversation bubbles up
walk into the cafe,
to the back of the room
to the one face, beaming
Alphabet soups for sale, one
by one, constructing letters
Plate stained purple,
typewriter minus letter H,
free with any purchase.
Jackhammer shredding sidewalk
Farmer's market crushed berries
Migrant workers camp by
the millennial library:
the wait, the weight
Fishboats at the marina,
City of water and ash
The line snakes over
Boat rail, turbulent water
Dead fish on the pier.
Imprints of hands on windows
just before shattering
Each to a word, lines
traced in wartime letters
maps to our past
Still--we're under the spell of
the alphabet of retaliation
Wings rise east
misguided by burning treelines,
charred city -- a speck, a speck
Yellow bulldozer snorting
launches a swirl of seagulls.
Plastic covers sag with rain,
cranes halt above
the future hospital
Ideas of her self lurking
underneath overpasses
Leaf in clover leaf
Cartoon school bus wiggles by
Scattering the wind
She sketches loops and spirals
Pencil resting against her thumb
Labyrinth turnpikes
On the daily commute-
Tolls along the way
Speedbumps glazed with yellow paint
Sleeping roadway log lizards
Filmy fog distances blue
Structures, milks signals
From the tips of antennae
Peering down on the plaza
Speckled with light and foot traffic
Beveled histories
Facades of pilaster, plinths
Speak, La Place Vendome
Interpret the messages
The speech of cogs and branches
The coming of storm?
Trees in the margin
Italicized by the wind
From the bus window, the miles
Float under well-traveled wheels
Poised in the center,
Flung to the edge of the
Roundabout turning
Towers in the east are there
So she knows she is here
Saigon: motorbikes
Jammed at stoplights, exhaust fumes
Scattering insects
Round Renga Round
The introduction to the book Round Renga Round:
http://www.ahapoetry.com/zabegan.htm
An interesting read about how a book about rengas began.
http://www.ahapoetry.com/zabegan.htm
An interesting read about how a book about rengas began.
What is Renga?
"Renga was a form of collaborative poetry, usually written by three or more poets, that was created by giving the tanka, the five-line poem of the classical anthologies, a sort of call-and-response form. One poet wrote a first verse of three lines in a five syllable-seven syllable-five syllable pattern [called a HOKKU], and the second poet completed the tanka with two seven-syllable lines...
A third poet writes another three lines, which, together with the previous couplet, make an entirely new poem. Then the next poet adds another couplet to make a third poem, which is completely independent of the first two. And so on. The seasons change, the subject changes, and, in the classical renga, the poem proceeds through a hundred verses.
Rules developed. The renga had to be written in a certain way. No story could be developed, the seasons had to keep changing, a traditional image of the autumn moon had to be introduced at least twice, images of spring flowers three times, and so on. The form became immensely popular among educated people at court and in the monasteries. Treatises were written on appropriate ways of making links, and anthologies of examples were published... And it began to spread, as a social activity, to cities and towns, and was taken up by merchants and farmers, some of whom were imitating the refinements of the court, some of whom were drawn to it from the learned traditions of the monastery.
These renga often used a more informal language, treated their subjects playfully, and were shorter, often thirty-six verses long. The 36-verse form was called a KASEN, and the style of the poetry was called HAIKAI NO RENGA."
Text taken from The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson, & Issa. Edited by Robert Hass. (c) 1994, Ecco Press.
A third poet writes another three lines, which, together with the previous couplet, make an entirely new poem. Then the next poet adds another couplet to make a third poem, which is completely independent of the first two. And so on. The seasons change, the subject changes, and, in the classical renga, the poem proceeds through a hundred verses.
Rules developed. The renga had to be written in a certain way. No story could be developed, the seasons had to keep changing, a traditional image of the autumn moon had to be introduced at least twice, images of spring flowers three times, and so on. The form became immensely popular among educated people at court and in the monasteries. Treatises were written on appropriate ways of making links, and anthologies of examples were published... And it began to spread, as a social activity, to cities and towns, and was taken up by merchants and farmers, some of whom were imitating the refinements of the court, some of whom were drawn to it from the learned traditions of the monastery.
These renga often used a more informal language, treated their subjects playfully, and were shorter, often thirty-six verses long. The 36-verse form was called a KASEN, and the style of the poetry was called HAIKAI NO RENGA."
Text taken from The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson, & Issa. Edited by Robert Hass. (c) 1994, Ecco Press.
Moving: nothing but HAT's
I've meandered over to this newer blog, and am feeling a bit bereft leaving my old postings on the other site. But of course, thanks to the ingenuity of the cyber world in which we now exist, everything I've shared on the old blog still exists at www.hoanganhtran.blogspot.com
There is, somehow, a greater sense of loss in this transition. The movement from old to new didn't result from the arrival of newer, more well-thought out ideas. Instead, it's because of a (selfish?) desire for gimicky gadgets. Blogger says it is to be standards-compliant. But it's not, really. Could this substitution originate from a desire to be decked out in fresh new attire -- laid out on display...?
Blogs are created for the personal needs of the writer, the individual wishing to make her mark on the world, vying for some attention in cyber space. Blogs are also created with the audience in mind. Who am I writing for? Who sees this page? Why do I do this? Does it matter whether or not anyone views my blog? Does it matter whether or not anyone makes a comment? Why do I care? Why suddenly this concern about what the blog looks like, about who sees it, etc.? Ultimately, it comes down to me, me, me, me -- there's not enough room here... I am a product of my environment? Yikes!
There is, somehow, a greater sense of loss in this transition. The movement from old to new didn't result from the arrival of newer, more well-thought out ideas. Instead, it's because of a (selfish?) desire for gimicky gadgets. Blogger says it is to be standards-compliant. But it's not, really. Could this substitution originate from a desire to be decked out in fresh new attire -- laid out on display...?
Blogs are created for the personal needs of the writer, the individual wishing to make her mark on the world, vying for some attention in cyber space. Blogs are also created with the audience in mind. Who am I writing for? Who sees this page? Why do I do this? Does it matter whether or not anyone views my blog? Does it matter whether or not anyone makes a comment? Why do I care? Why suddenly this concern about what the blog looks like, about who sees it, etc.? Ultimately, it comes down to me, me, me, me -- there's not enough room here... I am a product of my environment? Yikes!
Genesis
It was the sixth day. Adam was ready.
He saw the oaks firmly rooted
in the void. Power is a matter of branching.
He had seen the mountains, vast storerooms holding
only themselves, high empty cellars.
And deer. With legs as thin as stethoscopes
they stood listening to the breast of the earth,
and as soon as they heard something, they ran away,
inventing pizzicato as they fled the horizon.
And he had seen the sea, the busy swelling and receding
that makes one calm. And the empty, provocative gestures
of the wind, come along, come along, though no one followed.
And the depths, gulfs that make one uneasy. And being silent,
because that's what everything was doing, and being too big.
Then God said: and now you. No, said Adam.
By Herman de Coninck, trans. by Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Kurt Brown
The Plural of Happiness: Selected Poems of Herman de Coninck, Oberlin College Press
Read this poem on Poetry Daily
He saw the oaks firmly rooted
in the void. Power is a matter of branching.
He had seen the mountains, vast storerooms holding
only themselves, high empty cellars.
And deer. With legs as thin as stethoscopes
they stood listening to the breast of the earth,
and as soon as they heard something, they ran away,
inventing pizzicato as they fled the horizon.
And he had seen the sea, the busy swelling and receding
that makes one calm. And the empty, provocative gestures
of the wind, come along, come along, though no one followed.
And the depths, gulfs that make one uneasy. And being silent,
because that's what everything was doing, and being too big.
Then God said: and now you. No, said Adam.
By Herman de Coninck, trans. by Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Kurt Brown
The Plural of Happiness: Selected Poems of Herman de Coninck, Oberlin College Press
Read this poem on Poetry Daily
November 16, 2006
Fierce Chaos
"But mark how beautiful an order has sprung from the dust and blood of this fierce chaos! how the world, as from a resurrection, balancing itself on the golden wings of knowledge and of hope, has resumed its yet unwearied flight into the Heaven of time. Listen to the music, unheard by outward ears, which is as a ceaseless and invisible wind, nourishing its everlasting cause with strength and witness." -Percy Shelley
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)