There Is Perfect Peace

Thom Gunn (1929 – 2004)

Happiness is impossible, and even inconceivable, to a mind without scope and without pause, a mind driven by craving, pleasure, or fear. To be happy, you must be reasonable, or you must be tamed. You must have taken the measure of your powers, tasted the fruits of your passion, and learned your place in the world and what things in it can really serve you. To be happy, you must be wise.

George Santayana

Mont Brevent

by George Santayana (1863 – 1952)

O dweller in the valley, lift thine eyes
To where, above the drift of cloud, the stone
Endures in silence, and to God alone
Upturns its furrowed visage, and is wise.
There yet is being, far from all that dies,
And beauty where no mortal maketh moan,
Where larger planets swim the liquid zone,
And wider spaces stretch to calmer skies.
Only a little way above the plain
Is snow eternal. Round the mountain’s knees
Hovers the fury of the wind and rain.
Look up, and teach thy noble heart to cease
From endless labour. There is perfect peace
Only a little way above thy pain.


We are at day 23 this summer of days over 90 degrees by end of July, which for central Minnesota is trending towards shattering the record for a season.  My partner and I have found our new swimming lake and are trying to get a swim in each night as the sun is going down to relax and cool off, before heading back to a farm house without air conditioning.   Although we may someday install air conditioning, there is something about the lack of it that brings us both back to our childhoods, where keeping windows closed during the day and opening them at night with a small fan circulating the evenings cool air, that feels energy efficient and familiar at the same time.   Yes, there is a bit more sweat on the sheets some nights and a bit of tossing and turning, but as a Minnesotan that also needs to prepare for -10 to -20 F some night this winter, I see it as my bodies need to store some of that latent heat deep in my bones so that I can call upon it when faced with sub zero temperatures. 

I don’t know if I can explain the joy of swimming in clean, clear fresh water, its softness, its crystal embrace.  There is no other feeling like when you dive head first into clear water in a lake just cold enough to refresh and yet warm enough to be comfortable.  Swimming in fresh water is so different than swimming in the ocean.  It smells different, tastes different, feels different.  Our new favorite swimming lake has a great city park that is not too crowded, and yet part of the fun is there are others there sharing the lake with us.  Most nights we get there about 8:00 pm, and there are several groups of families speaking multiple languages, taking their kids down for a dip in the evening before bed.   The scene in the evening are toddlers all the way up through teenagers frolicking in the shallows of the sandy beach up to their waist, throwing balls or wrestling, each age group with its own rituals of rough housing and play, while older kids and adults take out paddle boards and kayaks or swim, like we do each night, out into the middle of the lake and back.  Our goal is to swim as many nights as possible the next 2 weeks, each night going a little farther and farther out into the lake, until one night we will swim all the way across it.  It’s not a small lake and more than once as we return we get comments from fellow beach goers about how far out we swim each night.  We swim close to each other, but not on top of each other, keeping an eye out for the other, but letting each take their own pace, letting the silence of the water cleanse our minds and bodies.  There is a family of loons, one juvenile and its parents, that are frequent companions on these swims, diving for fish and swimming close enough we can observe their behavior, their calls of joy punctuating the silence now and again, a sound that connects us to past summer’s swims on lakes far more remote than this one that takes us back in time and connects it to the present.   If you haven’t swam recently in a clear, cool lake, particularly one with a loon calling as you swim, seek it out, and get out and dive in sometime in August.  Find water worthy of protecting the unique experience, find your own swimming perfection.

From the Wave

By Thom Gunn

It mounts at sea, a concave wall
     Down-ribbed with shine,
And pushes forward, building tall
     Its steep incline.

Then from their hiding rise to sight
     Black shapes on boards
Bearing before the fringe of white
     It mottles towards.

Their pale feet curl, they poise their weight
     With a learn’d skill.
It is the wave they imitate
     Keeps them so still.

The marbling bodies have become
     Half wave, half men,
Grafted it seems by feet of foam
     Some seconds, then,

Late as they can, they slice the face
     In timed procession:
Balance is triumph in this place,
     Triumph possession.

The mindless heave of which they rode
     A fluid shelf
Breaks as they leave it, falls and, slowed,
     Loses itself.

Clear, the sheathed bodies slick as seals
     Loosen and tingle;
And by the board the bare foot feels
     The suck of shingle.

They paddle in the shallows still;
     Two splash each other;
Then all swim out to wait until
     The right waves gather.

Plashless As They Swim

A July Butterfly on Our Walkway

A power of Butterfly must be –
The Aptitude to fly
Meadows of Majesty concedes
And easy Sweeps of Sky –

Emily Dickinson

A Bird Came Down The Walk

by Emily Dickinson

A Bird came down the Walk—
He did not know I saw—
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,

And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass—

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad—
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought—
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home—

Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam—
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,
Leap, plashless as they swim


I have struggled lately to listen to the news on NPR (National Public Radio) on my daily commute.  It feels like a drum beat of negativity on COVID, environmental degradation, global warming, growing political ineffectiveness.  I find myself disconnecting from the chaos of the outside world and drawing back inwards and outwards towards nature.  It makes me appreciate the pheasant feather I found in the driveway,  the butterflies resting in the sun along our sidewalk, the red deer standing in the hay field, the sand hill crane calling from the wet land, the lilies blooming in the garden, the little birds flitting about in the garden.  The crazier the world becomes the more solace I find in the tiny slice of nature I am able to experience on a daily basis.  The problem with science and technology is the endless improvement in efficiency of natural resource extraction.   We are becoming so highly specialized in every field of mining and drilling we are getting too good at draining the natural world of its resources. 

I spent last Saturday with my father and we visited the house and town he grew up in from age 3 to 5th grade.  The house is still there, as are most of his neighbor’s homes from that period, but the connection to the simplicity of his life that prepared him for the modern world is gone.   He described his childhood as idyllic, a small town in Iowa in the 1930’s, surrounded by farms, forests and meadows.  He described learning to swim in the nearby creeks in the summer and sledding on the local hills on home made sleds made from crate lumber from the town’s feed mill.  He grew up in the depression, when everyone was on a level playing field economically, trying to scrape by with big gardens, chickens, and resourcefulness to make your own things and make your own fun.   I took a picture of him out front of the house on Saturday in what was then Ontario, Iowa, now lost inside the city limits of Ames.  We later that day were given a picture of him around 4th grade outside the same house, in a hand me down overcoat, far too big for him that he had yet to grow into, but had fond memories of being worn by all the boys in his family that had preceded him. Maybe its inevitable that modernity slowly devours the past.  But I am grateful the one room school house my father attended from Kindergarten through 5th grade still stands, even if it has been re-purposed as a  single family home. 

The inventiveness of Dickinson’s poetry continues to surprise and delight me as I become more familiar with her work.   Her ability to invent language is remarkable.  I had to look up several versions of the poem above to confirm that plashless was indeed accurate in its spelling of what she intended.   Splashing is something different than plashing and the absence of plash with a butterfly on a pool of water is the kind of unique observation of the natural world that makes the poem live in imagery far beyond the words.    As I mentioned early in the month, Frost seems to be on my mind right now in ways I can’t explain.  I find his poem below remarkable in its ability to convey an aroma that only a person with an apple tree in their yard or farm can understand.   The smell of slightly fermenting rotting apples upon the ground that bequeath one final act of benevolence in their gift as an apple, an aroma of the potential that was once their bounty. 


Unharvested

by Robert Frost

A scent of ripeness from over a wall.
And come to leave the routine road
And look for what had made me stall,
There sure enough was an apple tree
That had eased itself of its summer load,
And of all but its trivial foliage free,
Now breathed as light as a lady’s fan.
For there had been an apple fall
As complete as the apple had given man.
The ground was one circle of solid red.

May something go always unharvested!
May much stay out of our stated plan,
Apples or something forgotten and left,
So smelling their sweetness would be no theft.

Joy Rises Laughing

Rudy Burckardt (left) and Edwin Denby (Right)

There is a bit of insanity in dancing that does everybody a great deal of good.

Edwin Denby

Ravenna

by Edwin Denby (1903 – 1983)

A governing and rouged nun, she lifts the cubed
Jewels, garlanded heavy on hair, shoulders
Breasts, on hands and feet, the drak-blue the cell-roomed
Splendor’s fountain lifts sunken to Him Who holds her;
But the emperor is running to his pet hens
Cackling like a hermit, and his foolish smile
Alone on the vacancy of noon-glazed fens
Haunts a blossoming water-capital’s guile;
Holy placidity of lilylike throats
Ravenna of fleets, silent above the cows
A turnip plain and stagnant houses floats
Exultance of sailor hymns, virginal vows;
In a church’s tiered and April-green alcoves
Joy rises laughing at ease to love God’s loves

 


Edwin Denby was born in Tientsin, China in 1903. He spent his childhood first in Shanghai, then in Vienna, where his father served as consul general from 1909-1915, before coming to the United States in 1916. He attended Harvard and University of Vienna without completing a degree.  He found his life long partner Rudy Burckhardt in Switerland in 1934 while looking for someone to take his passport photo. 

Denby is an artist’s artist.   He is one of those names whom you have never heard of but seemed to rub shoulders with the artistic elite in New York and Europe.  Long time friends with Willem de Kooning, Orson Welles, John Houseman, Paul Bowles, Eugene Labiche and Aaron Copland just to name a few.   He is best remembered as a ballet critic in New York and Europe and for adapting several scripts for theater and movies. 

As a fellow lover of ballet, I had come across his name in his main area of work back as a writer about ballet in the 1980’s when I had season tickets to Northrop Ballet Series and the best in the ballet world would come to  town including Baryshnikov with American Ballet Theater more than once.  So, I was pleasantly surprised to discover he wrote poetry and excellent poetry at that as well.  Denby published multiple books of poetry over a 25 year period. 

I am particularly taken with Song.   It is obviously inspired by his experience with his partner Burkhardt.   It is a simple poem, but expresses the gift of true love as good as any.   Its rhyme makes the serious a little less serious, the playfulness of love, more playful, the force of love, more forceful.   Its meter sneaks up on you and  is more sophisticated in its construction than on first glance when read the second time through.  It is the kind of poem if it was written for you it might be better than a wedding ring.   It is the kind of poem that everyone should write for their true love.  And, if you aren’t up to that task, read them this one over breakfast tomorrow and clink your coffee cups in honor of Rudy and Edwin. 


Song

by Edwin Denby

I don’t know any more what it used to be
Before I saw you at table sitting across from me
All I can remember is I saw you look at me
And I couldn’t breathe and I hurt so bad I couldn’t see.

I couldn’t see but just your looking eyes
And my ears was buzzing with a thumping noise
And I was scared the way everything went rushing around
Like I was all alone, like I was going to drown.

There wasn’t nothing left except the light of your face,
There might have been no people, there might have been no place,
Like as if a dream were to be stronger than thought
And could walk into the sun and be stronger than aught.

Then someone says something and then you spoke
And I couldn’t hardly answer up, but it sounded like a croak
So I just sat still and nobody knew
That since that happened all of everything is you.

I Saw A Wilderness of Stars

Louis L’Amour – The High Graders

“All loose things seem to drift down to the sea, and so did I.

Louis L’Amour

 

Library Lovers

by Austin MacRae

She devours Steel, and he L’Amour.
She leads him to the fiction, where they part
for different shelves. He’s eager to explore
the tough ol’ west, and she the tough ol’ heart.
They meet me at the desk with separate piles.
Unthinkingly, I mix the books together.
I sense his wave of nervousness. She smiles
and quickly sorts the titles out. ‘Nice weather
today,’ she says. He slides his pile away,
averts his eyes, and waits for her to pull
out bags. ‘Let’s eat at Lou’s,’ I hear her say.
She grabs his arm and leads him, tote bag full
of cowboy stories swinging at his heel,
his sidearm holstered by her whim of steel.


Louis L’Amour wrote fiction but his life was purely genuine.  Born in Jamestown North Dakota as Louis LaMoore in 1908, he moved with his father in 1923 after family finances suffered from a series of bank failures and hard times in the farming business in North Dakota.  They moved west and for the next 20 years, L’Amour lived the life that would infuse his stories as a writer.  Ranch hand, professional boxer, dock worker, itinerant laborer and merchant seaman, he traveled the west and the world before serving in WWII in the Army. 

L’Amour always had an interest in writing and had some success placing articles on boxing along with short stories about a sea captain during the 1930’s and 1940’s.  It was during this time he published poetry including a number of sonnets. It wasn’t until the early 1950’s that L’Amour’s big break as a writer occurred when a short story of his was published in Collier’s with a western theme.  John Wayne and the producer Robert Fellows read it and Fellows offered L’Amour $4,000 for the rights to the screen play.  L’Amour wisely kept the rights to the novel, rewrote the short story as a full length novel that mostly followed the plot of the movie, changed the title of the novel to Hondo, same as the movie, with a quote on the cover from John Wayne saying; “this is the finest Western I have ever read.”  L’Amour’s success was cemented from there.  L’Amour wrote pulp fiction in a style that was popular and was prolific in his output. Many of his books might not pass the sniff test for political correctness of today, but as a writer, he was unflagging in his focus on entertaining with the novels he created.   I have probably read 10 to 15 Louis L’Amour books over the years, although none in the last 35 years. Although none of them are on my book shelves today, I look back and enjoy them all the more, knowing he also was a writer of sonnets.  


An Ember In The Dark

by Louis L’Amour

Faintly, along the shadowed shores of night
I saw a wilderness of stars that flamed
And fluttered as they climbed or sank, and shamed
The crouching dark with shyly twinkling light;
I saw them there, odd fragments quaintly bright,
And wondered at their presence there unclaimed,
Then thought, perhaps, that they were dreams unnamed,
That faded slow, like hope’s arrested flight.

Or vanished suddenly, like futile fears-
And some were old and worn like precious things
That youth preserves against encroaching years-
Some disappeared like songs that no man sings,
But one remained- an ember in the dark-
I crouched alone, and blew upon the spark.

At One Time I Had Said

Hayden Carruth (1921 – 2008)

“Why speak of the use of poetry? Poetry is what uses us.

Hayden Carruth

Sonnet #10

By Hayden Carruth
 
You rose from our embrace and the small light spread
like an aureole around you. The long parabola
of neck and shoulder, flank and thigh I saw
permute itself through unfolding and unlimited
minuteness in the movement of your tall tread,
the spine-root swaying, the Picasso-like éclat
of scissoring slender legs. I knew some law
of Being was at work. At one time I had said
that love bestows such values, and so it does,
but the old man in his canto was right and wise:
ubi amor ibi ocullus est.
Always I wanted to give and in wanting was
the poet. A man now, aging, I know the best
of love is not to bestow, but to recognize.
 

Let’s start with ubi amor ibi ocullus est, which means; where love is, there is insight.    I have read several translations of The Divine Comedy over the years, and although I know they skillfully portrayed Dante’s words in English, the true wit and intelligence of Dante can only be understood in Italian.  Maybe when I retire I’ll take on learning enough Italian to be able to read it in its original verse.   The Divine Comedy takes place on the eve of Good Friday to the Wednesday after Easter in the spring of 1300.  Dante descends into hell with the Roman poet Virgil at his side, continues on with him into Purgatory before meeting up with his longtime platonic lover Beatrice, who guides him through Heaven.  Dante wisely avoided controversy by not drawing heavily upon the bible in constructing his afterlife, allowing the theater of his literature to inform the critiques and humor that are contained within. It is only at the very end that he meets God, for whom he describes as being beyond words in the manifestation of the love of creation that surrounds us.  In many ways The Divine Comedy is about love, how love heals, corrupts, tempts, tortures and purifies.  Beatrice is Dante’s guide to help him rid himself of human frailties and absorb more fully a natural love that comes from all of creation’s higher power. 

Hayden Carruth was a poet, critic, essayist and faithful anthologist, who spent his life connecting poetry to matters of the mind that matter. I particularly like his first line of the poem below; The shells that men secrete are made of words.   A question I’ll pose is whether the use of the word “men” is limiting in that sentence?  Is it sexist, symbolic, or inclusive for his time?  Or as man who writes from a man’s perspective is it just his opinion, among other men and women of letters, that men’s secretions can be different than women’s in what they leave behind?   Secretions being a thing that connects these two poems and obviously something that captured his imagination.

Hayden Carruth is well respected by the scholarly, but he is not a name that you come across frequently.   His poetry is far superior to his current reputation.  I need to look no further than the list of volumes of work he left behind to understand that he was as devoted to the craft of poetry as any writer of his era. 

I keep coming back to Dante and Carruth; Where love is, there is insight.   I worry that in our current environment of binary polarizing debate, we fail to find insight into “the others” point of view, because we fail to love  those with which we disagree.   I think Dante and Carruth have it right.   If you want to understand, recognize each other through eyes of love and insights will open before our eyes. 

 


 

Three Sonnets On The Necessity of Narrowly Escaping Death

Restrictions

by Hayden Carruth 

The shells that men secrete are made of words,
And even those undignified by print
Are hard and multiple.  Through cracks, asquint
We twist for primed glimpses of the birds
The flash and wheel and cry, the hundred herds
Whose thundering hooves roar over the earth in sprint.
We ache for motion, now and then by dint
Of impulse move a nerve and think in surds.

Motion is meaning, meaning knowledge.  Locked
In shells of words, the mollusks know that things,
Nor even selves, the crimped and cramped, unblocked,
Unwatched and unexpressed.  The radio sings,
We think with archness of the Pleistocene,
And fuel our flaccid hearts with gasoline.

Give Me The Hearts Last Love

Wheeler
Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I heard the sweet voice of a robin,
High up in the maple tree,
Joyously, singing his happy song
To his feathered mate, in glee!…
If we could be like this tiny bird,
Just living from day to day,
Holding no bitterness in our hearts
For those we meet on our way…

Gertrude Tooley Buckingham

Solitude

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,—
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.


Last Love

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The first flower of the spring is not so fair
Or bright, as one the ripe midsummer brings.
The first faint note the forest warbler sings
Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare
As when, full master of his art, the air
Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings
Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings.
The artist’s earliest effort wrought with care,
The bard’s first ballad, written in his tears,
Set by his later toil seems poor and tame.
And into nothing dwindles at the test.
So with the passions of maturer years
Let those who will demand the first fond flame,
Give me the heart’s last love, for that is best.

Earnest Love That Laid The Swale In Rows

Freshly baled hay smells so good!

The fears of what may come to pass, I cast them all away, Among the clover scented grass, Among the new-mown hay

Louise Imogen Guiney

Mowing

BY ROBERT FROST
 
There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.
 

It was a busy week at the farm.   The alpaca got sheared, the hay field was cut and baled and the 160 new square bales stacked in the shed.  You can tell by Captain Crunch’s grin that he’s pleased about it too.  Our barn yard has a pleasant smell.   We have a small Case IH utility tractor, 1956 55 HP with a loader that makes quick work of cleaning up the horse stall and the alpaca pen.  Alpaca have this interesting trait in that they defecate and urinate in the same place, outside their stall in the barn yard.   It makes it very easy to clean things up every other week or so.   

There is something immensely satisfying in cutting your own hay field.   This is a hay field that is in need of some agronomic attention next year, a bit scant on clover, but nothing a little fertilizer and over seeding can’t cure.   It is the kind of hay field that doesn’t lend itself to much else, too rolling in some areas, too wet in others, it fits its purpose as pasture for the horse and hay cut once a year.   The hay field is surrounded by huge preserve and wetlands, which makes for great habitat for birds and insects and wildlife.  It is the kind of hayfield that is disappearing in my county, sadly to development and new houses.   We are hoping to hold on to this little slice during our lifetimes.  

When you see pictures of Robert Frost, it’s clear he was a farmer at heart.  The poetry of his that I am most attracted to are his postcards in words of his life and observations of nature on the farm.   Frost is at his best in my mind when he is simplest in his words.   I hope to follow in his foot steps and grow old tending to fruit trees, a chicken or two, some bees and a garden that requires daily attention.  It is not surprising that there are many references to pastures in poetry.    Seek out a pasture and lay down in it.  Watch the clouds go by for a bit quietly, hiding in the grass.  And then slowly peek above the grass,  look about and see what comes to visit you.  Is it any surprise that pastures are an inspiration to writers throughout history?  

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.  He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul; 

Psalm 23

Butterfly in our pasture in June.

The Pasture

By Robert Frost
 
I’m going out to clean the pasture spring;
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.
 
I’m going out to fetch the little calf
That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.
 
 

We Gave Ourselves Outright

Fourth Of July

The Gift Outright

 
by Robert Frost
 
 
The land was ours before we were the land’s.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England’s, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become
 

When I was a child my Mother hung the stars and strips flag outside our front door each fourth of July.   She did it on Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day as well.  It was a gesture to honor her Father, who served in both World War I and World War II.  She was genuinely patriotic.  It was a high quality flag, with a good wooden pole and gold knob at the end.  It was stored in our front coat closet and sometimes when we played hide and seek when I was little I would hide in that closet in the dark corner and unfurl a bit of the flag and cloak myself behind it.  It was a winning strategy.  

Hiding behind the flag has been a winning strategy for politicians forever.   An inflated sense of patriotism seems to be a requirement to become a politician.   It feels harder to for me to be patriotic these days.  Yesterday NPR read the entire Declaration of Independence.  The opening is beautiful and poetic.   It gets tougher to listen to as it rolls into the myriad of grievances it spells out and the pomposity of white men declaring everything their sovereign right to ownership, ignoring the in inalienable rights of women, Native Americans and slaves. I am surprised there has not been a larger movement to redress the language of the Declaration of Independence to eliminate the blatant racism that exists within the document.   NPR did a good job of both reading it as written and unpacking the parts that should be questioned and condemned, specifically clause 27; 

“He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.”

To all who believe racism is not structurally still present in our systems of government, we need look no further than our most important documents.  Why do we continue to allow language to exist that is offensive, simply because its historical?  This is  not just a federal issue, the same problems exist at the state level.  As late as February 2020, Minnesota’s state constitution still had a reference to slavery.  Although slavery was illegal from Minnesota’s founding in 1857, it contained a clause that slavery was a justifiable form of punishment for crimes unspecified, leaving plenty of room for interpretation; “There shall be neither slavery nor involuntary servitude in the state otherwise than as punishment for a crime of which the party has been convicted.”

Apparently slavery is illegal, unless you deserve it, according to my state’s constitution.  Of course that’s ridiculous, but if it’s so ridiculous, why is that language remain, unquestioned for so long?   Removing racist, idiotic, hurtful language, in my mind is not being politically correct, it’s about being politically aligned with how we define our democracy today.  When we allow vestiges of our racist history to remain in our most important government institutions, we give racism a foot hold for justification, a Trojan horse of hate, that continues to wreak havoc on our ability to unify as a nation, with respect for all people.  Let’s read beyond the pretty parts of our government documents, the parts that make our hearts swell with patriotic pride and dig a little deeper.   And then let’s task our politicians with living our collective values and striking down through legislation the racist sentiments that linger still in our government institutions. 


Grandmother’s Land

by William Oandasan

around the house stood an
orchard of plum, apple and pear
a blackwalnut tree, one white pine,
groves of white oak and willow clumps
the home of Jessie was largely redwood

blood, flesh and bone sprouted
inside her womb of redwood
for five generations
the trees now stand unpruned and wild

after relocating so many years before the War
the seeds of Jessie have returned

afternoon sunlight on the field
breezes moving grass and leaves
memories with family names wait
within the earth, the mountains,
the valley, the field, the trees

She Drinks Of Living Waters

Tiger lilies at the end of the drive way.

“Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.”

Pablo Neruda

A Calendar of Sonnets:  July

by Helen Hunt Jackson

Some flowers are withered and some joys have died;
The garden reeks with an East Indian scent
From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent;
The white heat pales the skies from side to side;
But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content,
Like starry blooms on a new firmament,
White lilies float and regally abide.
In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed;
The lily does not feel their brazen glare.
In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share
Their dews, the lily feels no thirst, no dread.
Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head;
She drinks of living waters and keeps fair.


Having traveled rural Minnesota, North and South Dakota and parts of Wisconsin roads for all of my career, I can tell you  orange day lilies (Hermerocallis fulva) are ubiquitous along roadsides and at the end of driveways of farms and rural properties.   Mistakenly called Tiger lilies sometimes, because of the orange coloring, this day lily is an introduced species that has gone rogue and grows wild.   I am rather fond of this perennial, invasive or not, as it reminds me of roads traveled as a child.  I am rather pleased there is a nice clump thriving at the end of our driveway, no surprise as its close to a wetland/seasonal creek and is the perfect setting for this plant.  Obviously day lilies came west with settlers early on, a tuber tucked away to brighten up a vegetable garden.  To the orange day lilies credit, it is hearty enough to take care of itself and naturalize into areas in which it was never cultivated.   I find Jackson’s reference to the lily in her poem a reminder of how gardeners observations don’t change much over time. 

I am far enough along in the Fourteenlines project, that I have an archive of drafts I have set aside waiting for the right time to possibly use them.  I was surprised as I reviewed potential July drafts there were a number of Robert Frost poems waiting for me that I have found over the past year or so.   Frost’s talent sneaks up on me.  I tend to not think of him when people ask me who are my favorite poets, and yet I find myself more and more attracted to his poetry. 

The poem below maybe hard to interpret unless you have some experience with an old fashioned well.   A well-curb is a masonry, stone or brick structure around the above ground portion of a well that protects anyone from falling in it and also to keep things out from contaminating the water.   If you have never lived on a property with a well, modern or old, you may not have an understanding of the frequent ways you interact with your water source.  To relate to this poem, you have to become a little boy or a curious adult, who is fascinated by the cool water that comes out of the well and likely the hand made structure from stone and mortar or concrete or brick that protects this vital asset of your home and farm.  Wells were hand dug in the 19th century, generally maintained by the family and a source of clear, sweet drinking water was something to be prized.   Frost’s poem below is an opportunity to transport yourself back in time, when water didn’t come out of the tap, and see the wonder that lays just beyond our reach. 


For Once, Then, Something

Robert Frost – (1874-1963) 

 

Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths—and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.