"Across trench and rift and otolith..." Wow. It's a good day when your poems arrive.
In our session with Dougald, Lynn Richards posted this article in the Gleanings (https://www.thesunmagazine.org/issues/304/saving-the-indigenous-soul) and several images from it have stayed with me, but this image here of the "hollow" has the sense of your siddur, I think. (And forgive me for always adding "indigenous" stories to your and David's profound Abrahamic musings, but as I said, I dig many holes...).
From an interview with Martin Prechtel:
The Catholic priests abandoned the village in the 1600s because of earthquakes and cholera, then came back fifty years later and found a big hole in the middle of the church. “What is that?” they said.
By then, the Indians knew the priests destroyed everything relating to the native religion, so the Indians said, “When we reenact the crucifixion of Jesus, this is the hole where we put the cross.”
In truth, that hole was a hollow place that was never to be filled, because it led to another hollow place left over from the temple that had been there originally, and that place was connected to all the other layers of existence.
For four and a half centuries, the Indians kept their traditions intact in a way that the Europeans couldn’t see or understand. If the Spaniards asked, “Where is your God?” the Indians would point to this empty hole. But when the American clergy came in the 1950s, they weren’t fooled. They said, “This is paganism.” And so, eventually, they filled the empty place with concrete.
I was there when that happened, in 1976. I was livid. I went to the village council and ranted and raved about how terrible it was. The old men calmly smoked their cigars and agreed. After an hour or so, when I was out of breath, they started talking about something totally unrelated. I asked, “Doesn’t anybody care about this?”
“Oh, yeah,” they said. “We care. But these Christians are idiots if they think they can just eradicate the conduit from this world to the next with a little mud. That’s as ridiculous as you worrying about it. But if you must do something, here’s a pick, shovel, and chisel. Dig it out.”
So some old men and I dug out the hole. Then the Catholics filled the hole back up, and two weeks later we dug it out again. We went back and forth this way five times until, finally, somebody made a stone cover for the hole, so the Catholics could pretend it wasn’t there, and we could pull the cover off whenever we wanted to use it.
That’s how the spirit is now in this country. The hole, the hollow place that must be fed, is still there, but it’s covered over with spiritual amnesia. We try to fill up that beautiful hollow place with drugs, television, potato chips — anything. But it can’t be filled. It needs to be kept hollow.
Though I too begin to be more and more unsure what precisely to do with the word indigenous, I can, without reserve, suggest you never apologize for any such story, especially the hole you open with this here. Should I ever wish to reenact the crucifixtion that is exactly where I would suspect as footing for the tree. I don't think I have paid the admission fee needed to bring a shovel to that ground but I would lay my ear on the tracks heading down there and place my palms in the diggings and feel lucky enough.
I have an idea I am trying to stammer out about a way to look at the table set by that G-d-Human-Nail-Tree meeting that hollow. As usual, this helps.
Your too kind, wildman. I was thinking today about how important to me our meeting on here last year has become. Really. We should revisit that back and forth with a part two.
Praise Yah, man -- yes, we're working on Something, who knows what! I'd love to do a part two -- definitely -- let's do it. What's the next question? Where're we going next?
Thank you Andrew. Your poems help me to realize I have filled many (likely most) days with meaningless speech, thinking I’ve made some traction on certainty or the Truth. Encountering your words is such a relief and blessing as I feel glimpses of deep Truths, but they remain (thankfully) just out of reach of my understanding and allow me to momentarily reside blissfully in the mystery. Yes, it’s a very good day when your gifts arrive over the airwaves that connect us. ♥️
Andrew, this morning, after a session of live readings of poetry on Grail Country, I think I am filled up. But after reading these I realize that there is always room for more. It’s as if all the other poets on the bench scooch down to make room for the new guy and no one ever falls off the end of the bench. Does the bench get longer or do the poets meld together into one living Word? Either way it’s magic. Yes, it is a very good day when your poems arrive. I love the idea of building on the last words of Amelia Earhart. I never knew she was a poet in her own right. Makes sense. She loved to fly.
Hey Shari. I was just listening to dougald and ed's substack podcast the Great Humbling and they brought up the zero point from Hospicing Modernity, that place where we give up the plus one or minus one game aganst each other, especially in art. Its your infinite bench in some sense. Salut that.
"Across trench and rift and otolith..." Wow. It's a good day when your poems arrive.
In our session with Dougald, Lynn Richards posted this article in the Gleanings (https://www.thesunmagazine.org/issues/304/saving-the-indigenous-soul) and several images from it have stayed with me, but this image here of the "hollow" has the sense of your siddur, I think. (And forgive me for always adding "indigenous" stories to your and David's profound Abrahamic musings, but as I said, I dig many holes...).
From an interview with Martin Prechtel:
The Catholic priests abandoned the village in the 1600s because of earthquakes and cholera, then came back fifty years later and found a big hole in the middle of the church. “What is that?” they said.
By then, the Indians knew the priests destroyed everything relating to the native religion, so the Indians said, “When we reenact the crucifixion of Jesus, this is the hole where we put the cross.”
In truth, that hole was a hollow place that was never to be filled, because it led to another hollow place left over from the temple that had been there originally, and that place was connected to all the other layers of existence.
For four and a half centuries, the Indians kept their traditions intact in a way that the Europeans couldn’t see or understand. If the Spaniards asked, “Where is your God?” the Indians would point to this empty hole. But when the American clergy came in the 1950s, they weren’t fooled. They said, “This is paganism.” And so, eventually, they filled the empty place with concrete.
I was there when that happened, in 1976. I was livid. I went to the village council and ranted and raved about how terrible it was. The old men calmly smoked their cigars and agreed. After an hour or so, when I was out of breath, they started talking about something totally unrelated. I asked, “Doesn’t anybody care about this?”
“Oh, yeah,” they said. “We care. But these Christians are idiots if they think they can just eradicate the conduit from this world to the next with a little mud. That’s as ridiculous as you worrying about it. But if you must do something, here’s a pick, shovel, and chisel. Dig it out.”
So some old men and I dug out the hole. Then the Catholics filled the hole back up, and two weeks later we dug it out again. We went back and forth this way five times until, finally, somebody made a stone cover for the hole, so the Catholics could pretend it wasn’t there, and we could pull the cover off whenever we wanted to use it.
That’s how the spirit is now in this country. The hole, the hollow place that must be fed, is still there, but it’s covered over with spiritual amnesia. We try to fill up that beautiful hollow place with drugs, television, potato chips — anything. But it can’t be filled. It needs to be kept hollow.
Though I too begin to be more and more unsure what precisely to do with the word indigenous, I can, without reserve, suggest you never apologize for any such story, especially the hole you open with this here. Should I ever wish to reenact the crucifixtion that is exactly where I would suspect as footing for the tree. I don't think I have paid the admission fee needed to bring a shovel to that ground but I would lay my ear on the tracks heading down there and place my palms in the diggings and feel lucky enough.
I have an idea I am trying to stammer out about a way to look at the table set by that G-d-Human-Nail-Tree meeting that hollow. As usual, this helps.
Andrew, just saw that Dark Mountain is taking submissions with the sea as a theme…
"I am an island where lost flyers make landfall."
Wow, wow, wow. Astonishingly beautiful -- as is the whole poem it sits nestled in.
All three poems. Wow.
I'm getting to these two days late, so for me today is a very, very good Bog-down and Aster day...
Your too kind, wildman. I was thinking today about how important to me our meeting on here last year has become. Really. We should revisit that back and forth with a part two.
Praise Yah, man -- yes, we're working on Something, who knows what! I'd love to do a part two -- definitely -- let's do it. What's the next question? Where're we going next?
Thank you Andrew. Your poems help me to realize I have filled many (likely most) days with meaningless speech, thinking I’ve made some traction on certainty or the Truth. Encountering your words is such a relief and blessing as I feel glimpses of deep Truths, but they remain (thankfully) just out of reach of my understanding and allow me to momentarily reside blissfully in the mystery. Yes, it’s a very good day when your gifts arrive over the airwaves that connect us. ♥️
Let's drink to mystery and the recuring business of that thirst. Thanks, Heather. The interaction keeps me up.
Andrew, this morning, after a session of live readings of poetry on Grail Country, I think I am filled up. But after reading these I realize that there is always room for more. It’s as if all the other poets on the bench scooch down to make room for the new guy and no one ever falls off the end of the bench. Does the bench get longer or do the poets meld together into one living Word? Either way it’s magic. Yes, it is a very good day when your poems arrive. I love the idea of building on the last words of Amelia Earhart. I never knew she was a poet in her own right. Makes sense. She loved to fly.
Hey Shari. I was just listening to dougald and ed's substack podcast the Great Humbling and they brought up the zero point from Hospicing Modernity, that place where we give up the plus one or minus one game aganst each other, especially in art. Its your infinite bench in some sense. Salut that.
Hey Andrew,
My unmet poetry host..... it seems that every time I attend your poems, something deeper and fresh awakens in me. Thanks brother!
Hey Buddy. We can meet anytime. Always grateful.
Oh wow.