“Sister Jean”Webster, a former sou chef for one of the Atlantic City casinos, started feeding the homeless from her home and now serves hundreds daily at the First Presbyterian Chuch, across from the Trump Taj Mahal. This marvelous photo essay at Corbis will give you the picture(s). (Thanks Rix.) 

Writers! Get ready for a pep talk from . . . Emily Dickinson.

John L. said life is what happens to you while you’re making other plans. Nick D. agrees.

Oscar-winning screenwriter may be Twittering from behind bars.

A different kind of giving thanks.

Resolution: Bring poetry into the 21st century.

You can find the strangest things while hiking through the desert.

After a dry spell, Bat Segundo is posting again.

Now that the initial wave of ridicule has passed, some listeners are having second thoughts about Bob Dylan’s Christmas in the Heart. I’m not one of them, but a lot of people whose opinions I respect are coming around to liking the thing.

Igual que succeeix amb Gustave Flaubert, de qui parlàvem aquí fa uns dies, Emily Dickinson és alguna cosa més que una escriptora: és també un símbol, un emblema d’una certa forma de viure i practicar la literatura.

Quan va néixer Emily Dickinson, tot el món que l’envoltava ja semblava molt antic. (Això, parlant de 1830 i dels Estats Units, sembla estrany; però a Nova Anglaterra, a la vella Nova Anglaterra del puritanisme estricte, dels judicis de Salem i dels descendents orgullosos del Mayflower, 1830 semblava realment la fi d’alguna cosa important.) La seva família era antiga, respectable i molt avorrida; una llarga estirp d’homes públics, educadors i advocats de renom que feien la seva vida d’acord a un principi de màxima prudència i austeritat: si alguna cosa semblava divertida, millor no fer-la. No fos cas que fos pecat. 

Emily Dickinson va néixer a Armhest, Massachusetts, el 10 de desembre de 1830, i a Amherst va morir 55 anys després. Entremig no va succeir res d’extraordinari, excepte  la gestació d’una obra poètica de primer nivell mundial. (També van haver-hi, segons sembla, un parell de possibles enamoraments no resolts en matrimoni i alguna intensa amistat de caire intel·lectual.) La resta és una reclusió, una solitud, un enfosquiment personal tan perfectes que, al seu costat, el nostre amic Gustave Flaubert sembla un company de farres de la senyoreta Paris Hilton. Amb vint anys, encara se la podia veure al poble anant a misa o passejant el gos pels prats; als quaranta, l’Emily era un fantasma sempre vestit de blanc que mai no posava un peu fora dels límits del jardí de casa seva. 

Aquesta reclusió és l’element constitutiu fonamental del «mite Dickinson», però hi ha un altre aspecte de la seva personalitat igual d’atractiu: la seva negativa gairebé absoluta a publicar els seus poemes. Només van publicar-se cinc en vida seva, i no tots amb el seu consentiment; ni tan sols Franz Kafka iguala aquest récord negatiu.  De fet, eren comptadíssimes les persones a les què Dickinson deixava llegir la seva obra: ella sí era, en el sentit més estricte de la paraula, una escriptora secreta. Els seus més de 800 poemes es van descobrir com allò que són, com un dels corpus més personals i coherents de tota  la poesia en llengua anglesa, només després de la mort de la dona que invertir tota la seva vida en escriure’ls. 

Us copio, per acabar, un d’aquests poemes, traduït per Marià Manent. «Al turonet, una dama vermella»:

Al turonet, una dama vermella
amaga, com cada any, el seu secret;
hi ha una dama blanca al bancal, adormida
dins un lliri quiet.

Les brises endreçades, amb escombres,
espolsen el turó, l’arbre i la vall, enllà.
Jo us ho prego, mestresses gentils, ¿voldríeu dir-me
quin hoste ha d’arribar?

No gens encara els veïns ho sospiten.
Va un somriure d’un bosc a un altre bosc.
L’hort, el ranúncul i l’ocell… Si falta,
perquè arribin, tan poc!

Però el paisatge té gran quietud encara;
la cleda no traspua l’averany:
com si ressuscitar fos una cosa
que no té res d’estrany.

An essay on hope that I wrote for Human Stories, a history class focused on the concept of utopias. It’s a little longer than my usual posts, but I think once you start reading it, you’ll find it worth it. And if you read nothing else, read the last paragraph. What gives you hope?

Every once in a while, a word will get stuck in my head and I’ll begin to notice it everywhere. It was a simple word this last time: a four-letter, one-syllable gem. Hope was, as Emily Dickinson would describe it, a little thing with feathers that had perched itself in my soul, singing a beautiful wordless song. The little bird carrying its song of hope found its home in my heart this past June, and with its arrival I began to notice hope in the world around me.

Graduation had happened less than a week ago, and already, everything was changing; suddenly, I was growing up too fast. After one night’s experience, I felt like giving up. I had gone through enough, life felt too overwhelming to deal with anymore. But hope surrounded me, and in the most unexpected way.

I’d like to think that I am a woman of words. When I was younger, I read everything I could find –from cereal boxes to mysteries to National Geographic magazines. Reading was my way of withdrawing from the world, but still feeling a part of it. As I’ve grown up, my love of words still remains, although now I’d rather share them on an audible level.

But the next morning, instead of feeling comforted by words, which I should have found comfort in, if merely because they had been my source of security for so long, I found hope in silence.

Not knowing where else to go, I found myself walking along Goshen’s Millrace with Lydia. Walking the path in silence, I felt a sense of relief as I surrendered to the overwhelming feeling of despair and cried out all the pain and disgust I was feeling. Stopping at a bridge, narrow and patterned by holes in the green steel that let us see through to the murky water beneath, Lydia simply held me. Crying in the arms of my best friend, silence was more healing than words would have been.

Words of comfort came later, but for the time being, just feeling the physical reassurance of someone who never failed to understand me was enough. Later, Lydia told me, “I know you’re scared but please be aware I’m always here… you’re not flying solo in this endeavor.” As grateful as I was to hear those words, I felt like I already knew that she was with me –her previous actions had said that more eloquently than words ever could. Instead of talking and discussing and overanalyzing, Lydia just paced with me in silence.

As our feet traced similar patterns on the bridge, I felt overwhelmed again. But this time, instead of being overwhelmed by all that was going wrong in life, I was overwhelmed by how comforting it felt to pace in silence with someone, and feel the care and love that sifted its way through the quiet.

I shouldn’t have been so shocked to realize how nice it felt to just be with someone. Conversation isn’t necessary to know your importance to the people you are with, sometimes more is said through feeling comfortable enough with the people you’re with to not feel the need to fill the space with idle chatter.

——————————————-

While I’m glad to have learned the value of silence for finding where hope still lies, I believe that song is what lets us show others that there are still things to hope for.

Lunches in Canada meant a chance to run around on the island, bask in the sunlight, swim in the river if it was warm enough. It meant that Crazy Ted fried up potatoes and onions with a half bucketful of grease, that the girls got their feet wet as we washed the fish filets, that Grandma made coffee and hot chocolate. Most of all, lunches on “the Rock” were a chance for us to take some time out of our days spent fishing in small groups of four, and to enjoy everyone else’s company: fish stories, cribbage, euchre, teasing, and sharing a meal.

Before eating, we always gathered in a circle around the fire used to cook our food, and Grandpa hummed around until he settled on a pitch. We were quite a sight: my uncles unshaven, the cousins wet and wearing our shabbiest clothes, my grandma wearing her bright yellow raingear, my aunts and mother wearing holey jeans and oversized sweatshirts. “Old Hundredth” is my grandpa’s favorite, and once he sang the starting note, four parts broke into the stillness found in the Canadian wilderness:

Praise God from whom all blessing flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below,
Praise Him above ye heav’nly hosts,
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen.

Ted, our guide and host for the two weeks we stayed just outside of Atikokan, Ontario, constantly on the verge of bankruptcy and addiction to hard drugs, never joined us in singing. Instead, he stood slightly out of the circle and listened.

“That was beautiful,” he said, his eyes looking as if tears could fall any moment. “You folks make me believe that there may really be a God out there.”

From a man unrelentless in his smoking, talking, and cursing, the fact that our song got less than three sentences from him really meant something. Ted’s usual gruff nature, reflected in his thin scruffy body, softened as we added our song to the calls of the loons, the occasional tap-tapping of a pileated woodpecker, and the whisper of the wind as it whipped through the moss-covered trees.

I found comfort in the singing too, and I always tried to get the spot between my grandparents as we formed the circle. Listening to my grandma, with her powerful alto voice, was how I first learned to hear the harmony lines in hymns. As Grandpa floated up to the tenor notes, he was well aware of the other parts and an honest judge of how I sounded: the squeeze of my hand signifying a job well done was all I wanted from him.

After the last chord floated over the water to the rocks and moss on the other banks, Grandpa would let go of my hand and reach for his hanky to wipe the tears out of his eyes. Every time we sang this song, I would watch my grandfather, the wisest and most intelligent man I know, bite his bottom lip as he stopped singing and could only listen to his wife, children, and grandchildren sing his favorite hymn.

——————————————-

A long time has passed since I first learned that it feels better to harmonize, that crying is not a sign of weakness, that sometimes all someone needs is a squeeze of the hand to make them feel valued.

Coming to Goshen College this fall, I was worried about leaving my old friends behind. Anika, a friend from church, was one I ended up missing the most. Although she is two years younger than me, singing brought us together when from an outsider’s viewpoint it probably seemed as though we had nothing in common.

At Silverwood, our home church, Anika and I bonded over singing. Wednesday nights leading the youth, Sunday mornings leading the entire congregation; we had learned to trust each other, realizing that we needed each other to sound good. It was an unwritten rule that I would harmonize as she sang melody, that I would ask the congregation to stand, that she would flip pages.

Anika always sings melody because she claims she doesn’t know how to sing harmony. But in the summer months leading up to my leave for college, I noticed that she was becoming more and more willing to try finding a harmony line. Even though it didn’t always sound perfect, she was willing to put herself out there, to try something new, to risk being judged by those listening.

Anika still sings on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings at church, and someone else has filled in my spot beside her.  I was expecting to feel jealous knowing this, but instead, I find myself hoping that she builds a bond with this new girl.  That by first opening themselves up through singing, that they can also share stories, and fears, and joys.

I’m going home to sing with Anika next Sunday. It’s a song we’ve sung before, and will never cease to remind me of the beginning of the past summer.  As I was struggling to find hope in my life last June, this song appeared.

Waiting for the children to come back for the closing song time of Vacation Bible School, we circled around the grand piano in the sanctuary with a pile of hymnals among us. One song in particular stuck out that night as Anika, her brother Stefan, our Pastor Ron, and I sang through handfuls of hymns. A soulful, gospel feeling filled the otherwise quiet sanctuary: “The Lord is my light, and my salvation. Whom shall I fear?”

That muggy June night when we first sang this song I was blown away by the simplicity of the chords and the repetition of the words, but how powerful the song still managed to be. We never sang the song for our congregation, but every night at Bible School someone would plunk out the starting notes and we would sing and re-sing the words that spoke to everyone present.

Soon, the four of us are going to share this song again. It probably won’t sound as good as it did five months ago –we haven’t sung together in since I left for college, and singing for a hundred others is a lot harder than singing for four. But I have no doubt that with a little practice, it will sound like that week we first sang it. Even though we’ve been apart for so long, singing with people is something that comes easily. As we each show a little vulnerability in letting our voices be heard, we build each other up, realizing that we are incomplete without others to rely on.

As we hum our starting pitches, I will squeeze Anika’s hand –reassuring her that no matter how we sound, I already appreciate how the song went, and that she was willing to put herself out there with me.

——————————————-

The little bird of hope is still perched in my soul. Through all changes I’ve been through, hope has remained. And its song, though still wordless, now has an identifiable tune. Its song has a gospel, soulful feel to it, and it whispers to me when I feel alone, scared, and out of place in my new surroundings. Sometimes its tune gets covered completely, but I am starting to realize that it never stops singing. If I let myself find a place of silence in my hectic life, the bird’s subtle whistle is there, constantly reminding me: “Whom shall I fear?”

Giorni brevi di pieno autunno di fine novembre,  umido e nebbie di mattina e pomeriggi che declinano nel grigio. Nel mese dei morti la campagna scolora e lentamente si prepara al riposo invernale. Abbandonati dai colori accesi delle foglie gli alberi adesso ci appaiono nudi. E freddi. La città è avvolta in un velo cupo.  Si sente  la mancanza di luce,  quanto mi mancano le belle giornate di sole!                                                                                                                        In assenza di luce ricorro alla cromoterapia. Stamattina ho comprato tre vasetti di ciclamini, fiori  splendidi  dai colori rosa e fucsia e li ho invasati in una grande ciotola. Coloreranno in inverno il mio balcone.   

 Il giorno diventò piccolo…

Il Giorno diventò piccolo, circondato tutto
Dalla precoce, incombente Notte -
Il Pomeriggio in Sera profonda
La sua Gialla brevità distillò -
I Venti smorzarono i loro passi marziali
Le Foglie ottennero tregua -
Novembre appese il suo Cappello di Granito
A un chiodo di Felpa -

                                                                    Emily Dickinson                

                                 (da  Tutte le poesie 1866)

Carl Larsson 

 pittore e illustratore svedese (Stoccolma 1853 - Sundborn 1919)

November, 1882

To Make a Prairie

By Emily Dickinson

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,

One clover, and a bee.

And revery.

The revery alone will do,

If bees are few.

Less is more
To a hungry stomach;
Much more the starkest cravings
‘T is the chocolate
In this, as all, prevails
Divulge, and you are satisfied;
Abstain–you’re straightaway starved,
And handled with a fork.

.

Yo no puedo vivir contigo (640)

.

Yo no puedo vivir contigo–
sería la vida–
y la vida está ahí–
detrás de los anaqueles
.
El sacristán guarda las llaves para–
alojar bien
nuestra vida–su porcelana–
como una taza–
.
apartada por el ama de casa–
primorosa– frágil–
una nueva Sèvres convendría–
las viejas se rompen–
.
no podría morir–contigo–
pues uno tiene que esperar
para cerrar las miradas–
tú–no podrías hacerlo–
.
y yo–¿podría detenerme a tu lado
y verte–frío–
sin mi derecho a la congelación–
privilegio de la muerte?
.
No podría elevarme–sin ti–
porque tu faz
borraría la de Jesús–
esa nueva gracia
.
ardiendo simplemente–y extraña
en mis nostálgicos ojos–
excepto que tú y Él
brilláis más cerca
.
nos juzgarían–cómo–
pues tú–serviste al cielo–lo sabes,
o trataste–
yo no pude–
.
porque saturaste la vista–
y yo no tenía más ojos
para sórdida excelencia
como el Paraíso
.
y si estuvieras perdido–y yo también–
aunque mi nombre
resonara más
en la fama del cielo–
.
y si te salvaras–
y yo–condenada estaría
donde tu no estuvieras–
ese yo mismo–sería infierno para mí–
.
de modo que debemos unirnos separados–
tú ahí–yo–acá–
con la puerta apenas entreabierta
que océanos hay–y oraciones–
y ese puro sustento–
desesperación–
.

.
I cannot live with You (640)

.

I cannot live with You –
It would be Life –
And Life is over there –
Behind the Shelf
.
The Sexton keeps the Key to –
Putting up
Our Life — His Porcelain –
Like a Cup –
.
Discarded of the Housewife –
Quaint — or Broke –
A newer Sevres pleases –
Old Ones crack –
.
I could not die — with You –
For One must wait
To shut the Other’s Gaze down –
You — could not –
.
And I — could I stand by
And see You — freeze –
Without my Right of Frost –
Death’s privilege?
.
Nor could I rise — with You –
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus’ –
That New Grace
.
Glow plain — and foreign
On my homesick Eye –
Except that You than He
Shone closer by –
.
They’d judge Us — How –
For You — served Heaven — You know,
Or sought to –
I could not –
.
Because You saturated Sight –
And I had no more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise
.
And were You lost, I would be –
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame –
.
And were You — saved –
And I — condemned to be
Where You were not –
That self — were Hell to Me –
.
So We must meet apart –
You there — I — here –
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are — and Prayer –
And that White Sustenance –
Despair –
.
.
Traducción de Silvina Ocampo
Transcripto de Poemas
Barcelona, Tusquets editores, 1985
.

Jag vet aldrig vad jag ska svara när folk frågar mig om jag känner någon som “lider av Aspergers syndrom”. Visserligen känner jag många som har asperger, men jag brukar inte fråga dem om de lider av det. Själv lider jag i alla fall inte av min asperger.

Det har varit svårt för mig att veta hur jag ska prata om asperger på något annat sätt än i form av “syndromet”. Å ena sidan vet jag att människor har behov av stöd och insatser, och då måste man ha en diagnos – men å andra sidan är asperger i mångt och mycket snarare ett sätt att fungera på än något funktionshinder. Från vårdens sida har man försökt att bena ut det, och i det tredje diagnoskriteriet slår man fast:

“Störningen orsakar kliniskt signifikant nedsättning av funktionsförmågan i arbete, socialt eller i andra viktiga avseenden.”

Det är alltså så att om man passar in på alla kriterier i övrigt, men inte egentligen har någon “nedsättning av funktionsförmågan” så kvalificerar man inte för diagnosen Aspergers syndrom. Massor av människor har en aspergerpersonlighet, men inte några större svårigheter – och de människorna får alltså inte heller någon diagnos.

Det här var en av de sakerna som kom upp igår, när jag lyssnade på Torbjörn Anderssons fenomenala föreläsning om “Radikala perspektiv på asperger och högfungerande autism”. Torbjörn använder nämligen ordet asperger i en vidare bemärkelse, och inte som en förkortning för Aspergers syndrom. Det han menar är snarare det som man kanske borde kalla aspergerpersonlighet; människor som fungerar på ett visst sätt – oavsett om de har en diagnos eller inte, och oavsett om de uppfyller det tredje diagnoskriteriet eller inte.

Att se asperger som en personlighetstyp istället för en störning är grundförutsättningen för att verkligen kunna prata om positiva sidor, möjligheter och begåvningar. Det gör det också möjligt att kunna diskutera aspergerdrag hos kända personer som inte fått någon formell diagnos: Albert Einstein, James Joyce, Charles Darwin, H.C. Anderssen, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Isaac Newton och Emily Dickinson levde alla på den tid då ingen diagnos fanns att ställa, och många av dem hade kanske inte heller tillräckligt för att få en diagnos – men det faktum att så många av de stora vetenskapsmännen, författarna, konstnärerna och kompositörerna i historien hade autistiska drag är ändå något som är värt att fundera över.

Problemet med att se autismspektrum ur ett strikt medicinskt perspektiv – som något som ofelbart är en störning och helst borde gå att förebygga eller bota – är att man direkt diskvalificerar alla som är “för duktiga” för att räknas in. Därmed förstör man möjligheten att se bakåt och upptäcka den autistiska historien, och man hindras också från att läsa in autistiska drag – eller bokstavsdrag generellt – i framgångsrika människor som lever idag: De är ju inte störda, de har ju inget handikapp, de är ju lyckade. Det är inget fel på dem…

Att diskutera varför en känd person gör si eller så, och säga “hon fick ett DAMP-ryck och skrev mästerverket på tre dygn”, eller “hans förmåga att föreläsa är verkligen autistisk!” är inte självklart smickrande, hur mycket jag än önskar det. Men Torbjörn Andersson har verkligen en autistisk förmåga – inte savant, men autistisk på så sätt att han vet vad han pratar om och att det är det han brinner för. Asperger är förmodligen ett av hans specialintressen, och det märks.

Jag vill att det ska gå att prata om asperger och ADHD som något mer än diagnoser, utan att för den skull förminska betydelsen av den hjälp man kan behöva. Jag vill att det ska vara självklart att det inte är något negativt att ha autistiska drag. Jag vill att folk slutar vara rädda för att stämplas som psykiskt sjuka, som störda, som handikappade. Eller som jag precis upptäckte att min kompis Jörgen hade skrivit på min Facebook:

“Autisten är guld värd, ty Au är ju den kemiska beteckningen för just guld”

Läs även andra bloggares intressanta åsikter om autism, Aspergers syndrom, NPF, diagnoser, funktionshinder, sjukdomar, personlighet, kändisar, förebilder, historia, fördomar, normer, neuronormer, neuromångfald, autismspektrum, vård, stöd, psykologi, psykiatri, cripteori, Albert Einstein, James Joyce, Charles Darwin, H.C. Anderssen, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Isaac Newton, Emily Dickinson

Listening To My Feet

I find my feet have further goals.
Emily Dickinson

My Feet Have Further Goals

In the land of Pop Psychology
and Pseudo Spirituality –
I am told that I must learn to find my role
In this or that problem.
And Know – there is no problem,
That my thinking has not made it so.

I must consider the ‘Other’ –
Their views, needs, wants desires.
I am admonished, before feeling for myself,
I ought first to feel for them.

I must brush up on my sharing skills.
I must learn to … compromise.
If there is a problem, I invited it, invented it.
Indeed, I signed on for it,
Contracted to it – to you – before my birth.
We agree.

I will drown in my responsibility
To save you from your own.
I will apologize for your mistakes
I will embrace them as mine.
You will sleep comfortably.
I will weep.
We agree.

I must love my anger, gentle it, tame it
Talk it down.
I must teach it a lesson -
‘Little Anger, there is no home for you here. Be happy”.

I learn being a Realist, is not acceptable.
The way to lovable is to be agreeable.
Optimism must be cultivated.
Silence will serve almost as well.

My thoughts create my reality – and should you hurt me,
It is simply a reflection of my deeply recessed desire to sport my bruises.
I survive – as though survival is of itself, commendable
- As if it excuses hell.

I have very bad karma, you say.
You say a lot of things, behind my back, to my face
- It makes no difference.
You must think me incredibly deaf.

I regret to inform, ”I find my feet have further goals”.

Faith Barret, Inclusion and Exclusion: Fictions of Self and Nation in Whitman and Dickinson, The Emily Dickinson Joural, Vol. V, No. 2

• “In Leaves of Grass, Whitman establishes a lyric self by way of metaphors that include the whole nation…In Dickinson’s poems, by contrast, the inventing of the self entails metaphors for the exclusion of the world.” (240)

• The ‘lyric self’ in Whitman and Dickinson are “inseparable from the invention of the poet’s public persona: the lyric self overlaps with the poet’s public dimensions.” (241)

• “Futhermore, the destabilizing of metaphors for the self in these poets’ works seem integrally related to the crisis of national identity that occurred with the Civil War.” (241)

• “Dickinson’s work, then, betrays a profound uneasiness with locating truth in the witnessing and representation of another individual’s suffering.” (242)

• “If  Dickinson’s poems explore the impossibility of bridging the gap between the speaker and other’s sufferings, the Whitman’s poems insist that this leap is possible…he is able not only to witness suffering but also to become the sufferer.” (244)

• “Many of Dickinson’s poems from the war years, however, could be read as measuring the distance between the speaker’s suffering and the nation’s suffering.”

• Whitman obsessively added details to Leaves of Grass, hoping to include every possible detail and voice in the final version. Dickinson refused to publish her poetry “positing a self isolated from the world” (245). Her poems illuminate the “instability of all metaphoric constructs for the self” (245).

Here is a list of my favorite poets and lines from some of my favorite poems.  I find inspiration in their words.

Emily Dickinson:

PROUD of my broken heart since thou didst break it,

Proud of the pain I did not feel til thee.

William Shakespeare:

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances.

Pablo Neruda:

My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.

I love what I do not have.  You are so far.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

TELL me not in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream! -

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

William Ernest Henley:

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

I have always been a fan of poetry and writing my own poems.  Leave a comment and let me know what your favorite poems and poets are.  I’d love to find new poetry to read.

Keith Waldrop::Transcendental Studies was just announced as the National Book Award winner for poetry.  One of the more interesting selections in recent memory.

One of my favorite sections (section 7 of “Shipwreck in Haven”):

I was hardly dead, when you
called. Now are you convinced?
Infinitely soft strum.

As if night. As if im-
perceptibly. Slowly you fall. Break
somewhat the blackness of the day.

Might also be any
direction, every start
takes us to other time.

Forth across the sands. From
sky or from the liver,
divined. Endless beginning.

From the first line, the oddity of the punctuation and the necessity of rethinking the role of punctuation becomes necessary.  “I was hardly dead, when you called”–the comma that separates the two sections is, technically, grammatically incorrect.  The punctuation of this section (and throughout this first chapbook of sorts) indicates movement of thought, rather than syntactic rule.  “when you called” is a sub-set idea of “I was hardly dead”, but the transition is a movement of idea.  The second clause is a transformation of the initial clause, so the two are separated by a comma, which in this specific use indicates this connection.  There are only two other commas in the poem:  the second line of the third stanza and the second line of the fourth and final stanza.  The comma separating “direction” and “every” functions similarly to the first comma.  The comma separating “liver” and “divined” is a bit different.  If one ignores meaning, the syntax of the sentence is at the least more correct or more normal.  But what is divined?  The liver?  The sky?  The idea of from-ness?  The idea of or-ness?  All of the above?  Divined in a way seems more connected to “Endless beginning” than the liver or the sky.

Only one sentence is typical when it comes to syntax, or at least somewhat typical: “Slowly you fall.”  Though placed between “As if imperceptibly” and “Break somewhat the blackness of the day” any move towards standard meaning becomes difficult.  There is no direct and obvious progression of ideas, yet there is seemingly an underlying logic to the poem.  An origin of “I was hardly dead” moving towards an ending of “Endless beginning” seems to make sense.

This entire poem seems to exist within the Emily Dickinson moment “I heard a fly buzz when I died”.  In that instantaneous moment before death, there are endless beginnings.  A fly begins to buzz.  Births occur.  The entirety of humanity breaths.  The repetiton of “As if…” in the second stanza represents these endless potential beginnings that “might be” in “any direction”.  And “every start” including the start that is death “takes us to other time”.  Every moment precedes logically into the next moment.  There doesn’t have to be an imposed logic on the succession of moments and events because by simply moving from moment to moment, each end creates the next beginning, and each beginning marks the end of the previous beginning.

Or that is what I can cobble together immediately after seeing the results of the NBA awards.

Congrats to Keith Waldrop for his NBA ‘09 winning Transcendental Studies, certainly one of the better books I’ve had the pleasure of reading this year.

Parlano, parlano di libertà,
ma quando vedono la penna libera,
allora il panico li provoca.

[liberamente, da Easy Rider:
in claris fit interpretatio]

«Non mi sono mai sentita a Casa – Quaggiù» scrive Dickinson. «Riporta questo selvaggio a Casa» canta Dickinson. Emily e Bruce. E nello stesso sentire: sentirsi sempre fuori luogo. Perché fuori di testa, fuori dai denti, fuori dal coro e fuori dal metro. E ne parlavo con l’amico. L’amico della kerkoporta. Mi ricorda, ancora, la kerkoporta: «devi farti kerkoporta, basta farsi kerkoporta. Costantinopoli – si dice – cadde a causa della kerkoporta, una piccola porta secondaria».
Alla quattrocentocinquatatreesima volta che mi sprona a diventar kerkoportiforme gli comunico che, per contrappasso dantesco, sarà concluso in una belìn di kerkoporta per l’eternità… E nel delirare e demandare all’Alighieri i tormenti di chi ci/mi cianura/cianurò la vita in vita, nasce la Metalli Commedia. E l’amico della kerkoporta offre occhio e orecchio all’opera. E presta mano: per contenere le cascate chiare [ché lui computa accenti e corregge e contiene i *cazzi* che Dama usa/abusa come virgola], per assegnare assilli all’arco dell’alloro che – no! Non è peccato mortale  sostituire Virgilio con Alice Cooper! E se – sì: è peccato mortale, m’ho da confessare…
E l’amico della kerkoporta presta i polsi: per formulare fastidi e ferrare il forte sentire – altro. Oltre il BellPaese buonista che caramella carmina e canta cliché: zecca l’oro che copre tutte le carie e tutte le carenze. Carenza che buca la pagina la parola il plasma: nella marea massmediatica di bbbuoni/socialmente impegnati/altruisti/benefattori/attivisti d’ogni sorta – chi sono i cattivi? E se non sono i giovani sono i metallari e quando sono giovani&metallari – sono prede prelibate da patibolare. E se prima l’etichetta [dai gloriosi esponenti della gloriosa Italietta Ipocrita] era: *alfiere dell’anoressia*, ora è: *paladina dei metallari*. Vera è la violenza con cui difendo ogni mio dire/dare – e non ho nessuna intenzione di smettere. Perché e per chi – non è difficile comprendere: troppo comodo parlare/prosare/poetare nei corposculi di qualche/qualsivoglia corrente. Assuefatti e accecati e accomodati nell’Arcadia e nell’Ammmore – asserire che la parola è cruda e crudele, che l’essere umano [tanto perfettibile quanto fallibile] prova e provoca Rabbia – è [ancora] realtà che non si vuole accettare.

E allora? Non potendo assumersi la responsabilità di tutta la gamma emotiva, non sforzandosi più d’indagare quelle scomode zone d’ombra – che non è mai piacevole percorrere quelle pieghe, quelle delle passioni più pericolose – la maggioranza deve *trovare i colpevoli*. Gli aizzapopoli, i corpi violenti da violentare. Gli abiti da bruciare per purificarsi. Abiti e ambiti naturalmente adatti allo scopo: e allora – attacca i metallari che, AnimaliBruttiCattiviDannati, suonano/sondano anche gli stati più scuri/secreti dell’umanissimo sentire/sentirsi!

E allora: vi dico non basta! Non basta dirsi controcultura e poi bigottare buone azioni. E allora vi dico: affarinculo le denunce davanti e dietro lo schermo, mentre si coccolano scheletri armadi e maschere – quando nessuno vede [ma qualcuno vede/vedrà sempre: OGNI mondo è un mondo piccolo]. E allora vi dico: dedico tutto – al popolo borchiato che conosce la Rabbia e – quando distrugge – è per costruire: domani migliori.

E, in primis, ringrazio il di lui kerkoportante Guglielmo Amore. E si ringrazia – sempre – Fabrizio Centofanti e LPELS tutta per aver permesso la pubblicazione dei primi estratti [ché lapidazione da parte dei puristi si prepara. E no: non cercate la perfezione delle terzine. E sì: “Lo spirito creatore giuoca con gli oggetti che ama” avverte il buon Carl Gustav.  E no: nessuna numerologia già data, la cabala Chiara digita il dado di Dama, colorando Dante – e segue il grido del globulo: il metallo ha forgiato. Da sé. Questo sì: non esiste cambiamento quando canoni/controlli sono le sole *cure/curie*].
Omaggio senza tempo, nei tempi dispari: alla [mia] famiglia di Metallari. La [mia] casa di Marshall e doppiacassa!

«La società va compiaciuta, laddove è possibile; se non la si compiace, bisogna sbalordirla; se non la si può né compiacere né sbalordire bisogna provocarla e farla INORRIDIRE» [Jordan in: Jung, Psychologische Typen]

I

Nel mezzo del gran sol di Satriani
mi ritrovai per caso tra poeti
che non vi so dir le lagne immani

né lo girar di gonadi per vieti
ch’imposer alla di me mia scrittura
di ferro – in quel mollo di profeti

Ahi quanto maledir esta uggia pura
esta massa massiva d’arroganza
che sol nel rum ne vinsi la lordura

tanto pedanti lator di mattanza,
torma munta dallo monatta stanco
quale Infame Colonna ch’avanza…

Così rimembrando il Manzo mastro
in sua gran pompa or’è al mio fianco
ecce Lisandro! E il dice capestro:

«memento memento Renzo e l’Arno
memento mori, voi turpi metallati!
null’è casto nello custom indarno,

echi neoclassici avete infangati?
in settenari sarete puniti:
studenti a vita e disoccupati!»

Quand’ecco qual dardo divino scocca:
«Vade retro! bigotta co’pruriti
I’son l’Alice ch’elogia la potta!

Vade retro: fermo, vetusta bocca!
I’son l’Alice che scuole conclude
e’l pitone sul bavero – arrocca!»

«O dello metallo il primiciglio,
padre mio, mie ghigliottine sì crude
Tu’l solo tu’l veleno tu’l piglio

macabro tu mentr’ io mi maraviglio
Cooper nostro, sia tu il benvenuto
in mio incubo ché dolor sferraglio

l’atro censore m’impone bavaglio
m’impone sestine carche di pianto
m’impone sua sola – guisa di canto
secca per me codesto psicopompo!»

E al Manzo or preme suo meato,
sì piange per lo supplizio inflitto:
scuoio perpetuo, dal Simmons leccato

Manzo si spela, di strato in strato,
perde pelle sotto sferza di lingua
sua condanna: damnatio ad metalla

all’osso reso, mero cranio roso
miracola e membra e midolla
e torna assillo: daccapo abraso.

«Dove mi è?» il padre mio novella
«nei tre giri dell’Arte» – il canticchia:
«nell’inferno di chi strupò favella

sei, di giustizia, nella prima cerchia!
Diffida! Spetti sempre diffidare
dell’oro, credi al chiodo che borchia

la fine dello falso formulare!
Vendica con nota che luce brilla
tutto’l corrotto cinico fangare

nel nero ch’all’occhio goccia, pupilla
pinta pura, spada sarotti e scudo
nel tristo guadar stilla coccodrilla:

spartito – mira – nel fangoso feudo
più d’uno che ragliò, stonato musico,
come il piaga il suo guardian crudo»

[to be continued…]

Look back on time with kindly eyes

~ Emily Dickinson

Conscious am I in my Chamber -
Of a shapeless friend -
He doth not attest by Posture -
Nor Confirm – by Word -

Neither Place – need I present Him -
Fitter Courtesy
Hospitable intuition
Of His Company -

Presence – is His furthest license -
Neither He to Me
Nor Myself to Him – by Accent -
Forfeit Probity -

Weariness of Him, were quainter
Than Monotony
Knew a Particle – of Space’s
Vast Society -

Neither if He visit Other -
Do He dwell – or Nay – know I -
But Instinct esteem Him
Immortality -

§

Io so bene che dentro la mia stanza
c’è un amico invisibile,
non si rivela con qualche movimento
né parla per darmi una conferma.

Non c’è bisogno che io gli trovi posto:
è una cortesia più conveniente
l’ospitale intuizione
della sua compagnia.

La sola libertà che si concede
è di essere presente.
Né io né lui violiamo con un suono
l’integrità di questa muta intesa.

Non potrei mai stancarmi di lui:
sarebbe come se un atomo ad un tratto
si annoiasse di stare sempre insieme
agli innumerevoli elementi dello spazio.

Ignoro se visti anche altri,
se rimanga con loro oppure no.
Ma il mio istinto lo sa riconoscere:
il suo nome è Immortalità.

EMILY DICKINSON