Back and Forth Ben Bag Bag said: Turn it over, and [again] turn it over, for all is therein. (Pirkei Avot 5) Playing catch at dusk in a broke-bottle field, two barefoot lamed vavniks—unknown—rowing the world through the straits to the slow drumming of mitt slap.
Graham, I hear and share the refusal to be incinerated by te idea of the Tzaddik. All Tells of such stories are new wine with each speaking. The idea of the Thirty Six Just Men upholding the world must be spoken anew, and poured into a new wine skin, unmanned, re-animal-ed, and many worlded. Mybe to each of us a world, and to each world thirty six lamed vav, and so the Just become infinite and anonymous only in that which world we uphold in our turn (be we woman, whale, or wind) is unknown to us. It peoples the world in a never ending entertainment of angles unaware. Unaware on both sides of the exchange. Peace, Ego, I say to me. You too shall be as god when you no longer are.Just hold up the sky that is at hand.
I've read this 8 or 9 times now, and find myself rocking back and forth, as if it were a holy wind of sunlight bent on incinerating me, were it not for the miracle that i can look in my own heart and see the entire universe there, also, rising to meet itself in the mirror of your poem -- which is to say, only by the grace of being human, being alive -- that is, being an image of the Holy One myself, even though i'm always trying to hide away and destroy myself, per the usual human tragedy -- am i able to withstand the poem, though I haven't "earned" it, and the little loudmouth of the ego, as usual, does its best to get in the way of all these vital forces...
In a displaced time, home comes in flashes--a song, a smell, Sun glint off the mosquito-breeding puddle in the black plastic garden tarp. Thank you for these gorgeous turns of phrase. This is lively language.
This. Is. Stunning. Clearly, mixing the Lamed Vav with a game of catch is exactly right and perfectly captures the steady, humble focus required to quietly keep saving the world.
Graham, I hear and share the refusal to be incinerated by te idea of the Tzaddik. All Tells of such stories are new wine with each speaking. The idea of the Thirty Six Just Men upholding the world must be spoken anew, and poured into a new wine skin, unmanned, re-animal-ed, and many worlded. Mybe to each of us a world, and to each world thirty six lamed vav, and so the Just become infinite and anonymous only in that which world we uphold in our turn (be we woman, whale, or wind) is unknown to us. It peoples the world in a never ending entertainment of angles unaware. Unaware on both sides of the exchange. Peace, Ego, I say to me. You too shall be as god when you no longer are.Just hold up the sky that is at hand.
"...marked by marigold and spit,
smelling of the Summer
where we first gripped then let go.
Let’s not go in yet.
I can still see...."
I've read this 8 or 9 times now, and find myself rocking back and forth, as if it were a holy wind of sunlight bent on incinerating me, were it not for the miracle that i can look in my own heart and see the entire universe there, also, rising to meet itself in the mirror of your poem -- which is to say, only by the grace of being human, being alive -- that is, being an image of the Holy One myself, even though i'm always trying to hide away and destroy myself, per the usual human tragedy -- am i able to withstand the poem, though I haven't "earned" it, and the little loudmouth of the ego, as usual, does its best to get in the way of all these vital forces...
"incanted home
to a moment’s nesting"
In a displaced time, home comes in flashes--a song, a smell, Sun glint off the mosquito-breeding puddle in the black plastic garden tarp. Thank you for these gorgeous turns of phrase. This is lively language.
This. Is. Stunning. Clearly, mixing the Lamed Vav with a game of catch is exactly right and perfectly captures the steady, humble focus required to quietly keep saving the world.
It is just good to have a place to put words that are met with such open hands. Thanks.