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Showing posts with the label Ken Ireland

A Dream

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Ken Ireland I don’t know if it’s possible but I’ll continue to dream it, juggling the fine points when I have to to lend it a kind of reality. Some kinds of hope are just virtuous dreaming. I’m just dreaming back to last night, glimpsing at men walking down the sidewalk, wondering what they dream of. The carpenter hadn’t hammered the last nail— I heard his banging for the first time in many years when I thought he too had vanished. What was it that disappeared before I noticed something missing? Was that a dream? How could I have missed it? Are we forced to carve a purpose out of nothing? Did we dream it like a vision, or did it dream us? (This is, I guess, a technical question, and no one can be expected to provide more than a best guess.) I juggle the timing of the wash cycle so that I can try to keep a date with my dreams. My future doesn’t seem to be pretending to be something, someone—not me. I didn’t patch it together with tinsel, latex, fabric, and strut on the stage when heels

Psalm 90 going on 18

The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away. Psalm, 90 KJV The Psalms have nothing Good to say About Old Age and Death Few religions do. It’s their last chance to convert The Libertine.  Fear mongering fanatics were numbered Among the psalmists. Legend says this writer was David,  Who died at four score minus 10. Being generous And at the outside of his limits I might have another 2 good years Before I fly away. I grow old But damn it At 78 I’m 18 I don’t move as fast Or go as far But my shorter step And slower pace Suit me well.   At 22 Elliot was full of himself Moaning about old age. Couldn’t he get hard? Fantasyland. I won't Roll up my trousers And go chasing mermaids. I promise. From "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" T.S. Elliot  “I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hai

Basho Sings a Psalm

From Psalm 104:19 He made the moon for the seasons; The sun knows the place of its setting. Monsoon might have ended.  Its descent into the cold Autumn breeze Has certainly begun. Last night the rain only started  After darkness had completely Enveloped our highest peak. It’s colder. The sun sets well before dinner Change shows its face. When the moon couldn’t show its face. The only sound was the loud  Thunder shaking the grass. The dogs didn’t bark It was sudden.  It woke me from a fitful sleep. Dussehra was just a few days ago. Hoping that good wins the day They burnt Ravana  Just a flimsy scarecrow. Evil is far more terrifying Ask the thunder. Basho says, “Here’s a foolish notion—       the spirit world is like       an autumn evening.” Foolish flimsy Zen. Harsh drives me in a battered taxi. He’s played both Bhishma and Parjánya. He woke up this morning  Like a snow-covered mountain. I woke up knowing that something had changed. I felt it to the bones of my feet.

A Snake and a woman. This short story has a happy ending.

Song 7, Psalm 58 Reshma Didi told me that she discovered a snake in her kitchen this morning Before the sun rose. It was more than a meter long. Scared and startled in equal parts, she knew it carried no venom. Still waking to a snake eating carrots in the food locker is unsettling. She coaxed it into a bag and released it in the forest  Far from the house. The story of the a blessed garden invaded by a snake Metaphysical question, predictable answer equals eternal condemnation. Lying and subterfuge Condemn us to listen this devil story forever We believe. There is a small snake temple by Bhagsunag. The captive serpent is fat and lazy Plus Baba has defanged him so that There is no real danger to his devotees. I have not witnessed the charming, but I think that  It is not deaf to priestly incantations.  This Song of David and the damn snake may not make the world an evil place But there is little room for making them into Family pets. That’s universal. Go release your snakes in the fore

There’s a Boulder in the Road. Is this the hand of god?

Song 6, Psalm 119:29-39 No one had come to work By noon. Even at the snail’s pace  Of mountain life This was unusual. Shivam hiked down the slope  to Sushil’s shop.  Legs sturdy enough for the adventure He texted, complete with click   A massive boulder slid  Onto our narrow slip of road. Paths both up and down  Blocked.  A car tumbled down the steep ravine, Trapping a Tibetan family in mud. The rain had not stopped after it had done its damage. It was cold and wet. This was the situation. I turned and tried to pray-- The situation seemed to demand some response. The psalmist sees a blocked road As all about lying, law, judgment And fear. Throw in some revelation. The expected response. Certainly I am not startled by any surprise Or innovation. He loves his roadmap to  The High and Dry. My path allows me to Simply put one foot After the other Perhaps forced to stop While resourceful Indian men Dig a Tibetan family out of the mud. Not the first time we can thank Indians  In a time of ne

Psalm 90 going on 18

Song 5, Psalm, 90 The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away. The Psalms have nothing Good to say About Old Age and Death Few religions do. It’s their last chance to convert The Libertine.  Fear mongering fanatics were numbered Among the psalmists. Legend says this writer was David,  Who died at four score minus 10. Being generous And at the outside of his limits I might have another 2 good years Before I fly away. I grow old But damn it At 78 I’m 18 I don’t move as fast Or go as far But my shorter step And slower pace Suit me well. At 22 Elliot was full of himself Moaning about old age. Couldn’t he get hard? Fantasyland. I won't Roll up my trousers And go chasing mermaids. I promise. From "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" “I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind?

Wipe away your tears, then deal with the closing line.

Song Four, Psalm 137 By the Rivers of Babylon Wipe away your tears You survived Rejoice You can still taste salt  In your tea You’re not captive Yet you cry  Poor fools Today the rivers swell  And wipe away whole villages You remember Lhasa And weep again Death has that effect You saved your mother But other mothers left behind Died A few now trickle across Mount Meru Camps built for thousands Receive one or two No more god-throne Hoping that freedom  Might birth democracy  Instead a new president  Gets drunk And rips up the work of  Generations  Still we chant Tibet In hushed tones It has come to symbolize Enlightenment of a Buddha We use his name To call ourselves home We no longer rejoice When little ones are dashed  Against the stones of Babylon If only for that It is enough King James version By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there they that carried us away captive requ