Sunday, June 16, 2013
Sunday Night Poetry
THE FLYING HOUSE OF LORETO*
I’ve always wanted to meet one of those gray, bug-eyed aliens,
the ones who get blamed for our missing time, for the little metal
beads found stuck up our noses, the sexual probings, egg implantations.
It never happens. I make myself available to them: walk the beach
at night far from buildings, lights, anything that might scare
them away. I think they avoid me. I’m too willing to cooperate,
say yes to the cc’s of blood, the clumps of follicles, yes to the speculum,
(as long as it’s body-temperature, space-age plastic). I’m wild to have them
take specimens to Coma Bernices with my name printed in Alien on each vial.
In Loreto, Italy, they say the Virgin’s house was transported on the backs
of angels from Nazareth to the Anconan coast. Why not?
I want my aliens; they have their flying house.
--S.K.
*The Virgin's House in Loreto
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12 comments:
Could it be
We need our fantasies
And fond illusions
More than we need
Mundane reality?
Did ancient astronauts
Visit Earth aeons ago,
Plant Colonies - perform
Wondrous Feats of Engineering
Still unexplained?
The eternal Mystery of
The Pyramids - The Sphinx
Stonehenge - Gigantic Chalk Figures,
Discernible only from great heights -
Easter Island - Machu Pichu?
The miracles of Music -
Painting - Sculpture -
Poetry - and Thought.
The Star of Bethlehem -
The Virgin Birth - The Magi -
Betrayal, Death and Resurrection?
Patterns of Migration?
Courtship Rituals?
Attachment - Dependency -
Illness - Abandonment -
Grief - Tedium -
Decline - Decay -
The eternal Search
For Acceptance - Appreciation -
Affection - Understanding -
ESCAPE!
~ FreeThinke (6/16/13)
Careful Shaw, if they're doing all that stuff they're probably not nice. Who's to say some distant world hasn't also produced its Josef Mengele types?
Since today happens to be Father’s Day, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to allow me to share this memoir? It involves Emily Dickinson in a most curious fashion.
I never lost as much but twice --
And that was in the sod --
Twice have I stood a beggar
Before the Door of God.
Angels twice descending
Reimbursed my store.
Burglar -- Banker -- Father!
I am poor once more.
~ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Years and years ago my mother and father and I watched Julie Harris in the televised production of The Belle of Amherst -- the one-woman play in which Miss Harris portrays Emily Dickinson at various stages in the poet’s life. My father had been gravely ill since having had a stroke at the age of 44. By the time we saw this play must have been in his early sixties.
At one point in the nearly two-hour monologue Miss Harris, as Emily Dickinson, speaks of her father, and says something like "Poor father! He died before he ever had a chance to live."
At that my own dear father, usually a stoic, undemonstrative person, burst into tears and started to weep uncontrollably.
I was terribly shocked. I had never seen him cry before -- not ever -- it was something men just did not do in father's time.
It was an odd, unsettling moment to be sure, but I don't think I had ever felt closer to my dad before than I did during this incident. All at once I understood how much he had suffered, how much he had sacrificed for my mother and me, and how little credit we had given him for it. I had taken it all for granted -- until then.
After that my dad and I grew much closer, and we spent the last few years before he died at the age of 69 much more able to help and comfort each other than before. Those few years made up for much that had been lacking earlier in our relationship.
He had been trained from birth never to show his feelings. Because of that, I never knew he loved me -- until we experienced that play together.
Perhaps now you will understand why Emily Dickinson has played such an important role in my life?
God works in mysterious ways, indeed!
Mr. Free Thinke, that is such a touching and heart-breaking story.
I think on of the nicer things about contemporary age is that men feel more at ease about expressing their feeling to their children.
But count your self fortunate for having had the play encourage father and son to be more open with each other.
I, too, saw Julie Harris in "The Belle of Amherst." Unforgettable.
I think I'll search YouTube to see if it's there.
I can remember the thrill of hearing Julie Harris recite Miss Dickinson's "Wild Nights."
Infidel753,
It is depressing to contemplate another planet with a Josef Mengele. Let's hope monsters like him are confined to this hunk of rock.
I've always wanted to meet one of those gray, bug-eyed aliens
I met one. It's true: I was abducted by aliens from another planet. Click the link to read all about my encounter.
Holy ET! D.Sanders! A Progressive Alien!
Did he stick a metal bead up your nose?!
None has ever made contact with moi! C'est dommage!
I'm intriqued by the concept of parallel universes.
Thank you for your understanding, Ms Shaw. At another blog someone shared this -- I think -- powerfully touching poem by Robert Hayden. It's a more potent iteration of the theme I touched on in remarks about The Belle of Amherst.
____ THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS _____
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house.
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
~ Robert Hayden (1913-1980)
Pretty far afield from longings for an encounter or two with aliens from outer space, but I don't think you meant that literally, Ma'am. The first words I posted were an off-the-cuff impression I got of what I imagined you might be reaching for with your fantastic, whimsical, yet-exquisitely-precise images.
At root, perhaps we're all reaching for something beyond ordinary, everyday experience. But, Mr. Hayden found extraordinary poignancy and power in the humble-but-life-enhancing activities of his father that everyone took for granted.
"No one ever thanked him."
A stunning observation.
I think we should make the effort to find things to appreciate in each other, and take the trouble to thank each other whenever it seems even the least bit appropriate.
Good night, and thank you very much for these Sunday Poetry occasions.
"The Belle of Amherst" is worth owning. I bought the DVD last year from Amazon. Under $20.
From Nazi's to aliens visited me
Inquiring people want to know
SK: Did he stick a metal bead up your nose?!
I've never heard of that, but no to any of that. FYI, it's the Conservative aliens that do the anal probing.
You're a sick dude WD.
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