Flying with the Swallows
—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
[See Medusa's Facebook page for a new photo album
by Cynthia: Cooling Off in Santa Cruz.]
THE BLUE SWALLOWS
—Howard Nemerov
—Howard Nemerov
Across the millstream
below the bridge
Seven blue swallows divide
the air
In shapes invisible and
evanescent,
Kaleidoscopic beyond the
mind’s
Or memory’s power to keep
them there.
“History is where tensions
were,”
“Form is the diagram of
forces.”
Thus, helplessly, there on
the bridge,
While gazing down upon
those birds—
How strange, to be above
the birds!—
Thus helplessly the mind
in its brain
Weaves up relation’s
spindrift web,
Seeing the swallows’ tails
as nibs
Dipped in invisible ink,
writing…
Poor mind, what would you
have them write?
Some cabalistic history
Whose authorship you might
ascribe
To God? to Nature? Ah,
poor ghost,
You’ve capitalized your
Self enough.
That villainous William of
Occam
Cut out the feet from under
that dream
Some seven centuries ago.
It’s taken that long for
the mind
To waken, yawn and
stretch, to see
With opened eyes emptied
of speech
The real world where the
spelling mind
Imposes with its grammar
book
Unreal relations on the
blue
Swallows. Perhaps when you
will have
Fully awakened, I shall
show you
A new thing: even the
water
Flowing away beneath those
birds
Will fail to reflect their
flying forms,
And the eyes that see
become as stones
Whence never tears shall
fall again.
O swallows, swallows,
poems are not
The point. Finding again
the world,
That is the point, where
loveliness
Adorns intelligible things
Because the mind’s eye lit
the sun.
_________________
THIS USED TO BE A CITY
—Taylor Graham,
Placerville
A long climb to the
saddle—ventana,
Ramon would call it—between
watersheds,
a dusty trail flecked with
granite.
My dog's saddlebags are
full of hikers' litter.
Granola wrappers, one
dried-out, muddy
sock; a length of twine; pair
of sunglasses.
From a fire-circle by the
lake, a frying
pan without a handle. I
sling it in a Woodsy-
Owl bag over my shoulder.
One more
reminder of my fellow man.
We haven't met
a hiker since we crossed
the divide.
Now, a thousand vertical
feet of switchbacks
to the river, down a
snake-winding path
between volcanic peaks.
Not a human
sound. How many men once
made a home
here, mining the mountain—then left
the canyon to its sun and
stars. To wind.
My dog lifts her nose,
sniffs the air.
She sparkles. Her eyes say
“someone's
to be found.” She lies.
There's not another
soul for twenty miles.
She's crittering—
shoving her head deep in
sagebrush.
Ground squirrel? Who can I
trust, if not my
dog? And here, tucked
under gray-
green leaves, an OD-green
commando
sweater. It still holds
human scent.
One more mystery the
canyon keeps in its
long memory. Its river, a
moving well
of stars. Its ages of rock
and man.
SWALLOWS TRAVEL TO AND FRO
—Robert Louis Stevenson
Swallows travel to and
fro,
And the great winds come
and go,
And the steady breezes
blow,
Bearing perfume, bearing
love.
Breezes hasten, swallows
fly,
Towered clouds forever
ply,
And at noonday, you and I
See the same sunshine
above.
Dew and rain fall
everywhere,
Harvests ripen, flowers
are fair,
And the whole round earth
is bare
To the moonshine and the
sun;
And the live air, fanned
with wings,
Bright with breeze and
sunshine, brings
Into contact distant
things,
And makes all the
countries one.
Let us wander where we
will,
Something kindred greets
us still;
Something seen on vale or
hill
Falls familiar on the
heart;
So, at scent or sound or
sight,
Severed souls by day and
night
Tremble with the same
delight—
Tremble, half the world
apart.
______________________
NEW BEGINNING
—Caschwa,
Sacramento
Here is
the dilemma
Fear
the inevitable
No, no
notice
So, So
sorry
Keep
your memories
Deep
down a dark path
Shield
your eyes from the
Field
of glaring sunflowers
Soon
you will become a
Goon,
moron, idiot
Take
your pick
Fake
fit in
Star of
the stage
Car
careens
Out of
control
Doubtful
survival
Rhymes,
iambs, meter
Times
have changed
Go with
the
Flow
down river
____________________
SWALLOWS
—Pedro Serrano
Gripping wires like
clothes pegs,
small seagulls made of
wood,
agile and tiny against the
brutal blue,
bound to midday, they
fall, one then another,
moving clothes, arms,
smiles,
white breasts, black
hoods,
pointed wings aligned, minimal
agitation,
until they all fly off but
one—
which takes wing then
flits back,
like a swift goodbye,
breaking free of the
morning.
The wires stay put, the
sky in intense abandon,
like a Sunday village
wedding,
then it's done.
(The literal translation of
this poem was made by Gwen MacKeith; the final translated
version is by Sarah Maguire.)
_______________
Today's LittleNip:
I stretch out for a nap in my little hut.
In the fields, frogs chant their songs
And the birds in the bamboo grove sing along.
—Ryokan
______________
—Medusa
for photos of swallows' nest and other
wonderful bird things.
