little dog

Little I* was nearly lost at weeks old.  Second and smaller of the two pups, he didn't get enough milk; not with a sibling like W*.  He had to be handfed to survive; had grown to be introverted, shy; and protective, all the time wary of strangers.  He had also learned to be cautious, also fearful, having nearly broken a leg at three months old after falling the steps for the first time.  The second time, he was accidentally pushed down the flight.  He isn't demonstrative, except during dinnertime; and not very affectionate, except at certain times.  He likes to stay at my feet, lay his head on the foam of my house slippers.  His brown eyes always with a little sadness I don't think I will ever know why (although he is most happy playing chase)

Because of circumstances, I* has been home-groomed.  Until last Sunday.  The wild coat had become beyond me.  Also the paws.  Last week, he limped a little; I didn't want it to be a case of tangled coat and nails.  Of course he didn't want to be at the vet's.  Didn't want to be left alone.  Didn't want to be in a kennel.  So I stayed with him in a corner, we waited for our turn, for nearly four hours.  All my work stood still.  He kept his end of the bargain and didn't bark at all the strangers streaming in and out; except, maybe, growl back at the dog who'd been growling.

Now, little I* is shaved like a different dog.  We arrived home and I watched him from afar, like someone else's.  He seems happier, of a better disposition; although I've spent the first few hours talking with him.  Telling him it's alright, he'll grow his coat in time.

Rainbow

At one time, he says, what does it matter to a little girl whose father i am sentencing in court that the trial judge is also a poet?



Rainbow


And do you wonder if the rainbow
Would reappear, now that you're here?
I saw it just minutes ago.
Rainbows are indescribable,
But this is no excuse for not
Writing about them in a poem,
Although I'd rather write about
My sadness that there was no one
To talk to when towards the sea
Silk filaments of various colors
Wove themselves into the sunlight,
And all I'd need to say was "Look!"
And then we would look at each other
Next to, as much as at, the rainbow.
There's nothing that I'll say that can
Picture that singular moment,
A sight that is closest to speech,
A word that disappears once spoken
Whether or not we are together.





by Simeon Dumdum Jr.

from Wideawake Field

Pennant
by Eliza Griswold


Love was the illusion,
the tent on the beach
with an ivory peak
that said you're never alone.
The tent is gone.
It takes you days to notice.
No pennant sings from the hill,
no slip of bright everlasting
pretends to be home.  The last night comes.
The bald dunes sleep.   The pilot fish leap
to bare their glistening skin.

if you see the world a reservoir

how no love is ever lost



who was it who said everything has to go somewhere.  that nothing disappears.  in this world, in this cosmos.  even the chromium and cadmium may find themselves in the bodies of weeds, absorbed by plants, long after they are disposed on garbage heaps.  how nothing disappears.  no matter the ephemeral.  every thing a palimpsest.  even this world, layer after layer of events, known as histories, known as peoples, also known as love.  do you believe in energy? in warm thoughts, as well as warm bodies?  do you believe in the vast-ness of this universe, in the minute-ness of atoms, in the indefatigable force that binds us all?

         

an old song

an old song drifts itself.  a familiar one, even, a little more.  the old song was once played in public, upon request, in dedication.  all the coy, and all the bravura of teenage years.  when love meant spirit.  and spirit meant eternal joy.  that little love story lasted a month or so, but took nearly half a year to finally move on.  its worth now: a little anecdote.  something to smile about:  how young was that "i" in another lifetime; what kind of version was love at that time.
 

there is a street

i ask her to read a piece of the new work, the work about a city, re-imagined, not appearing the way it is, appearing translucent, unreal.  she is a local, in many ways, i am not.  i think i see the city only now, even though, have seen it many times in dreams, in re-imaginings.  there are many things i have missed, many things not known.  she used to take me to the streets and show the alleys, the secret corners of Chinese men and herb women, among others.  streets for textiles only, streets for glass, streets for cutflowers, streets for these, and streets for that.  streets for motor bolts, for rubber slippers, for half starving children, for pet fish, for castoff rags, for fiber ropes, for stolen goods, for dogs, for women, for fruits, including the seasonal.  also including the dark and darker stories i can only imagine under the naked bright noon.  she had spent fragments of childhood in these streets, their eccentricities.  i had spent hours with her, held by hand lest i get lost.  the streets, the entire city, always a novelty.  i ask her to read a piece of the new work, the work about a city, re-imagined, not appearing the way it is, appearing translucent.  this is unreal, she says on the piece about the infamous red light street.  i ask why: is it because you want realism?  she cannot make up her mind. 

half a morning

away from the calendar, it is easier to pretend an endlessness.  an easy-ness of being.  this morning, i cut the flowers growing from the basil.  the flowers were beautiful, but the basil will die if they are let be.  i talk to the dogs who have the gift of contentment.  they are lucky.  yesterday, there were strays at the streets and i thought, someday i shall be a fosterer.  not now, not yet, when still preoccupied with the many things that speed time.  who ever said life is a race, and we are all racehorses?

at the conference, someone cried semi-feudalism and nearly raised a fist.  it started with the talk of horse-rig system.  an old way that lingered, half-dead, into the present.  and the word she cried so confrontational.  the large room was quiet.  no one said a word.  not everybody agreed.  i thought, why worry about men?  worry about the horse.  who cannot say a word.  who cannot have a god.

this country has a history of gods.  It is standing on a huge island of a God.  everyone prays.  too many claims.

Jayvee asked me to write something to close his exhibit on transcendence.  a one-man show of 3x4 paintings of acrylic and mixed media.  layerings of washes and drips, transparency in monochromatic whites, blues, grays.  non-figurative sense of the form.  i finished this morning, while the sky is in September downcast.  the news earlier was urgent about war and a mass burial.  i also wrote Jayvee a poem.  not one of us mentioned a god.













  

design

"Art as life is design," I recall saying, "an appearance
of random.  Even though it is not."  
What would I have thought if I were across the room,
thinking of the pieces of today:
a conversation on diplomacy, a paper stack,
a calendar with running days, an unanswered letter.

























  

today in the middle of nowhere

Today in the middle of nowhere, I held your imaginary hand
the van was dark, crowded with strangers familiar with each other  
the ride, long.  We did not talk.  You looked outside the window
I tried not to listen to the news, public television blaring too loud.
South of this country, men are shooting each other over religion.
Up north, there is talk about plunder.  Somewhere, three men
raped a twelve-year girl, who had fallen asleep with her homework
before she was carried off to a rooftop.  Neighbors thought
she was duffel bag.  Her mother cried, the media feasted.
I wanted to bury my face on your hair.
Heave my burden.
But then you turned and smiled a weary smile,
the van was crossing the bridge and the city lights
looked near from a distance.




shane

on essentialism and selves

possibly not the same person who takes the foil and the épée and point at another's chest to kill.  for sport.  a physical version of another involving the killing of hundreds and millions in several stages until one's own pawn becomes greater than another's king.  plans for war.  kill time while sharping the mind.  possibly 

not the same person who tends the basil, the tarragon, the wild mint, the parsley, the dill.  who takes time to watch the sunrise glow and dreams of sea.  not 

the same person, angry and a vise, who throws without regret, lines, lives.  not the same one who collects.  memories and serenity, joys in souvenirs.  the one who sings with a guitar and writes

the world as it is as is, and life as is, it is.