sand to stone

        in media res

Like Kino, none of us

pined to find this pearl,

the Pearl of the World,

the pearl to pay bills for

some scorpion’s sting,

Nod’s scourge of nature.

Cicadae of cancer returns

to my brother’s brain.

As was the case a quarter

century past, the bolus

lays above the stem,

the size of Kino’s pearl.

What irritant decides to

roost again inside my

brother’s head? What gel

turns gem-like to circle

’round the sore? Who

governs such design?

Who fathoms such store?

Who gathers who frames

into stanzas, who blathers

in signs without sense

who follows who’d rather

resign from it all……

At my brother’s bedside

I look into his eyes and

see in each an different

kind of pearl: a Peter

sand-to-stone, a faith

that pulls him through.

So, in media res, spare

a prayer for Kino, Juana,

lepers they defied to be.

Our brother transcends

such praline dreams.

He prays instead for thee.

The Fifth Stage Speaking to the Fourth Stage

I think I speak for everyone in noting how the Symposia, decidedly plural, have boosted our spirits repeatedly over the years, and today I speak for one of you, to another and to you all with three ways to put this forum to some well timed optimistic use.

First, speaking for one of you, I have another silly poem.  Josh directly commissioned this one when he essentially spoke the first few lines of the poem and inspired my retort of “learning to walk is what young people do,” then told me I should make a poem out of that. So I did, leaning very much on and away from As You Like It.

Second, I encourage a more profound poem from Dan, based on a germ he was tossing around a couple of days ago, relating Steinbeck’s The Pearl to what Josh has been going through.  Take more time at this than my Stages poem, Dan, I think this could be a beautiful one.  And may I also suggest for you: lean on but also away, to where your own thoughts are.

And finally, speaking to you all, at Josh’s request: let’s revive the “Songs you can play over and over again” project.  Josh intended this to be not a comparative argument, because there is no right or wrong, but a celebration of each symposian’s go-to playlist.  He also meant this to be revisited every year or so, to keep our individual and mutual spirits going.  So, for the few of you who have not yet contributed, now is the time!  And for those of you like me who thought they had already made the definitive list, think again! And repeat tracks if you want, or take from other people’s list if you must, but share!

Here is my poem.

The Fifth Stage (feeling like the Sixth Stage)
Speaking to the Fourth Stage (reminding him of what he learned in the Second Stage)

“I feel so old, having to be
helped with walking short distances,
the world ever holding my hand
and the room being a constant adventure.”

Old? I’m your older brother; let me be
the voice of wisdom through childish treble
with my pant legs rolled up: dignity
be damned, we walk as we are able.

You are a soldier, reminding me
even now like a bearded pard
of what you’ve told me repeatedly
over the years and across the ages,

“Every day is a gift,
and we are all survivors.”

Mom's Journal Entry, June 18, 2014

Before all the happenings of this week, Mom (and Anne, and Kirsten, and Jean Paul Sartre) had invited us to this conversation.  So, from Mom's emailed journal entry, with her permission:

Whole bunch of blessings to report, and I've just gotten as far as the hymnal this morning.  Anne's blog yesterday, on the Sartre phrase which she gifted to Kirsten for her dorm room, "Hell is other people", we struggle to understand.  For one thing, that came on the very day - yesterday - when I knew that "HEAVEN was other people."  I was so profoundly blest by the folks I delivered meals to.  Several long visits - Jeanette, Lolly, Alan.  Dick, at breakfast, surmised that maybe it means "other people are judgment."  (They words they say or refrain from saying?)  I know existentialism has something to do with "you are how you act".  Where words come into that I don't know.  We are a family exulting in the joy, the power, the flavor, the turn, of WORDS.  And then I happen upon a delightful hymn, "As Rain from the Clouds".  (It's raining - lightning and thundering - right now, awesome, breathtaking to watch by our deck window.)

"As rain from the clouds will your WORD come to earth, as snow from the heavens refreshing the land.."  (and we thought it was a terrible winter!).. "then soften our soil that the good seed may grow, and ripen rich fruit to return to your hand.  We praise you, our God, for the dew (vs. 2 the seed, vs. 3 the light) of your WORD; we thank you, good gardn'er for your tender toil.  We bless you, best farmer, for hundredfold yield, for harvest of grace in our once-barren soil."  Word.  Word made flesh,  Dwelling in us.  "One little word shall triumph."

Oh yes, I'm confused.  Need more study.  But already feel so rich.  Besides that, leg is healing, I walk almost normally.

Oh!  Psalm 105:1  "Give thanks to the Lord!  Call upon His name; make know his DEEDS among the peoples!...  Talk of all His wondrous works!"  There's more - verse 8, "He remembers His covenant forever, the WORD which He commanded for a 1000 generations."  And then today's Proverb, 4: 20-22  "My son, give attention to my WORDS; . .  for they are life to those who find them."

Since journalling is largely stream-of-consciousness, you get what you get.  But I look forward to dialogue for my untutored mind.  Love you all, Mom

Another Free Sonnet: Words to Hang on the Dormroom Wall.

Hell is other people — 
Heaven is the presence of God.

Hell is a closed room — 
Heaven is an open field.

Hell is being forever judged — 
Heaven is being accepted.

Hell is seeing ourselves as others see us — 
Heaven is putting ourselves aside.


Hell is the dark glass of human mirrors — 
Heaven is seeing face to face.

Hell is the parsing of pimples — 
Heaven is the end of imperfections.

Hell is inescapable reflections — 
Heaven is the lark flying free.

Hell refuses to look at loveliness —
Heaven is knowing love.


Hell is the end of hope and the continuation of fear — 
Heaven is all we hope for and the end of all we fear.

Hell is remaining alive but being forever dead — 
Heaven is being born anew, having defeated death.

Hell is a faithless existentialism — 
Heaven is a higher existence.

Hell is existing in the company of absentees — 
Heaven is living in the presence of God.


Hell is a room with no exit.
Heaven is a doorway and the will to walk through it.

Hell is here and now, for those who live it — 
Heaven is here and now, for those who believe it.

Sonnet #44

Picking up where we once left off,
     as though the last twenty five years
     weren’t amazingly full of rich, rich stories,
every season a lifetime unto itself,
     every hour brimming with possibilities
—I could tell you a hundred of them,
     a thousand if you had the time— 
but where were we? Twenty five years ago,
before we set off on our unexpected
     adventures, and who were we then,
before the news... You were twelve,
     you were twenty two, I was twenty six,
and you: you were still in your teens,
not even thinking of all the world had
     in store for you, even in the whisper of
     a day. But rest now. We’ll talk more tomorrow.

—I like all those stories of in-between,
I want to hold on to them, making sure
     they don’t slip away or change into something
unrecognizable, forgettable. And you,
     encouraging me with your eyes, your smile,
     could almost make me forget the bookends.
Remember when? I could muster
     a thousand smiles and turn around
     to look at them a hundred times more:
Life, after all, is all about reliving,
and where we were once, and where
     we are now, is only about forgiving.

Not for Naught

The menagerie is not for naught, as

Bronko, coming to my aid tonight—

a broken soul in need of something

—satisfied despite. He’d heard the

arguing, knew the limits of the fight

and waited for the chance at salving:

a tongue on open knee I’d otherwise

rebuke, but not this overheated night.

He vied to stay where I was working

and while I prodded him away, a may-

fly (now in June) was taking flight

from whatever spot it had in hiding

to the upstart interest of the dog.

The mayfly, prone to show the blight

of its existence, bounced in ping

pong leaps upon the land-seal’s nose

and inevitably, of course, into his bite.

Bronko, for his part, spit up the thing

and so I clambered up to sweep the scene,

pinch the writhing weakling and invite

the nearby turtles—sort of slumbering

—to finish off what didn’t suit the dog.

They let the insect float about its plight

around their metric pond, never sinking

yet also never thinking of a possible

reprieve. In artificial current it might

have swirled beyond its own surviving:

fancy that! I counted rounds and hoped

it would defy the odds—earn the right

to live miraculous release, what any being

would pray to see. “As flies to wanton

boys are we to th’ gods;” for who’s contrite

in food and general chains of suffering?

Bronko’s long since lost the paltry plot,

and I should follow in his lead and insight,

bid all creatures a quietude of evening.

The world turned June

Dear Symposians, it was so good to have family here this spring--Lena in early March, and Mom, Dick, Greg and Lola here in late May. Prague is famous for its 'spring', unfortunately hampered by an historical misnomer, as 1968 is infamous for its Prague 'fall' (the August 20th invasion of Warsaw Pact watchdogs). History aside, it is lovely here as I write and make the following request:

Please take a look at this draft for my annual contribution to our leave-taking party of colleagues, numbering ten this year. I have a couple imperatives in mind as I draft: a) keep an animal in bay, for better or worse--this time, the hedgehog that may represent Czech Republic better than a nonsensical lion national emblem, or ISP better than its mascot falcon, hijacked from the 'Sokol' movement of Masaryk's First Republic; and b) honor the leave-taking event without pronouncing by 'eulogy' or 'roast' any particulars of a person, as biographical instances--times ten individuals--is a nightmarish matrix.

We all know campsites--from boundary waters to Camp Grow--and we all have ways of weighing in. Add to that any sense of 'ethics', as my working title is 'Hedgehog Ethics':

to Kathleen, Peter, Dianne, Stephen, Anke, Melissa, Shelley, Loic, John, Caroline

An adage of the ages:

leave a campsite cleaner than it was

then, in incremental stages,

campsites cleanse ourselves.

Here, the hedgehogs hold the night—

what presence they assume is barely known

to those who grope in daylight;

they leave well enough alone

and then tidy up the floor.

We wake to worlds unseemly fresh and

so… we sleepwalk out the door

and trample hedgehog land.

But then again, they wait to

trample what we’ve paved—the earth

is rounded with such residue,

with throes of death and birth

travail, dreaming in between.

A curious thing a hedgehog does to wile

away its time: a ‘self-anoint’ routine

to smell like other selves awhile,

to sleep that off and venture

out again. Camouflage, the experts say,

and let them think they’re sure.

Would you anoint yourself today?

We’ve seen good friends and stewards

come and go. To name them now would

satisfy some chronicle, but few words

satisfy their goal for good:

they leave the campsite clean. Scouts

who tread itinerant tracks will know (if not

acknowledge) what it means to grout

the natural foundations, what

they found and what they, too,

will leave again anew. We keep the campsite

clean. We learn from hedgehogs who

glean in kind from us—we might

talk mutual shop some day. Now,

we batten down the hatches, steady selves

for storms unseen, with forecasts how

the fort is stronger than it was.