tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89336384103712697462024-03-17T02:15:42.930-07:00mygrationsGary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-44484859568287377692020-11-11T15:20:00.116-08:002020-11-14T05:51:16.878-08:00I am an American<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AOXpYtuwJwo/X6xoAnEg6FI/AAAAAAAABSA/K3HtXxLIVMkwxijAJLhxjcs8YQmEzoogACLcBGAsYHQ/s960/i%2Bam%2B.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AOXpYtuwJwo/X6xoAnEg6FI/AAAAAAAABSA/K3HtXxLIVMkwxijAJLhxjcs8YQmEzoogACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/i%2Bam%2B.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>A group of poems offered by the poets to be a part of the "I Am An American" show at Cove St. Arts, Portland, Maine. </p><p><br /></p><p>What is the face of America</p><p>granite, limestone, rock face</p><p>upthrust delta rich</p><p>soil and deep forest</p><p>swift rivers flowing</p><p>deep ice and first peoples</p><p>where are the borders</p><p>mountain, river, glacier's edge</p><p>everything moving</p><p>wind water night sky stars</p><p>great flocks flying</p><p>great schools swimming</p><p>great herds moving</p><p>crossing, crossing</p><p>touching the edge of ice</p><p>seeds on the breeze</p><p>put your roots down and</p><p>you are welcome here</p><p><br /></p><p>Gary Lawless</p><p>*****************************</p><p><br /></p><p>Ten Haiku</p><p><br /></p><p>1</p><p>The Earth-wide waste dump</p><p>is half full</p><p>half empty</p><p><br /></p><p>2</p><p>The chain saw</p><p>to the giant trunk of the tree</p><p>nothing lasts</p><p><br /></p><p>3</p><p>If there is smoke</p><p>there is a gun</p><p>or a barbecue</p><p><br /></p><p>4</p><p>I am alone in the basement</p><p>panting on the treadmill</p><p>how vast this country</p><p><br /></p><p>5</p><p>Driving on I-95</p><p>I think how the Mississippi River</p><p>flows only in one direction</p><p><br /></p><p>6</p><p>Spring 2019</p><p>all the cherry trees blossomed</p><p>even those around the White House</p><p><br /></p><p>7</p><p>From the top of the Washington Monument</p><p>I see the capital city from all directions</p><p>my hand touches the air</p><p><br /></p><p>8</p><p>Silk Road Silk Road</p><p>everybody is talking about the Silk Road</p><p>caterpillar go in your cocoon</p><p><br /></p><p>9</p><p>It may take a deluge</p><p>for my house to float</p><p>toward your house</p><p><br /></p><p>10</p><p>There is light</p><p>at the end of the tunnel</p><p>of hope</p><p><br /></p><p>Sharif Elmusa</p><p>*****************************</p><p><br /></p><p>I Am An Arab American</p><p><br /></p><p>Because I tend the fig tree as earnestly as the dogwood and the pine</p><p>Because nutmeg and anise, cumin and cardamom inhabit my shelves and senses</p><p>Because I make both baklava and blueberry pie for my family</p><p>Because melodies of the oud and guitar dwell in my ears</p><p>Because poems by Mahmoud Darwish and Lucille Clifton are my daily bread</p><p>Because I am awed by the blueness of the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea</p><p><br /></p><p>Because I see Gaza when a protester raises a fist in Ferguson</p><p>Because I've touched the splendor of a brown child in my womb</p><p>Because I write in languages that flow in opposite directions</p><p>Because Arabic and English are both my touchstones</p><p>Because my name is unfamiliar to some and a comforting word to others</p><p><br /></p><p>Because I grow jasmine to conjure the fragrance of my first home</p><p>Because to me, the olive tree is an ancestor, a food source, a healer</p><p>Because my Palestinian parents were refugees and I am an immigrant</p><p>Because my children see more than one world, inherit stories that astonish</p><p><br /></p><p>Because I want to protect the purple mountains and shining seas everywhere</p><p>Because I know that everything we decide now affects the next seven generations</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Zeina Azzam</p><p>**********************************</p><p><br /></p><p>I am an American. </p><p>Today, not someday.</p><p>Inserting my authentic African self in every city, every state, and every history book that</p><p>has been written.</p><p>I am an American.</p><p>Not because I was born here.</p><p>But because my heart, my soul, my sorrows, and my future promises are buried deep</p><p>down into the soil and concrete of this nation.</p><p>Yes, I am an American.</p><p>Not because I speak English.</p><p>But because my tongue knows how to roar in many languages,</p><p>knows how to comprehend, read, and rewrite the stories that haven't been written.</p><p>I am an American.</p><p>Not because I drink my morning coffee with a little cream but because I drink it dark,</p><p>just like how I was taught in the motherland.</p><p>With every sip I take tasting the bitterness of my experiences.</p><p>I am an American.</p><p>Not because I take the subway to my place of work, but because I have walked miles on</p><p>stones to find my final destination that I call home.</p><p>I am an American.</p><p>Not because I wear a T-shirt and pants but because I wear my Abaya and hijab proudly</p><p>with no fear.</p><p>Not sitting at the dining room table or eating from one plate, it's the floor in the center</p><p>of our living room that has become our threshold.</p><p>Our Thanksgiving meal does not include turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, but expect</p><p>Fufu and plantains to be at the center of our meal.</p><p>I am an American not because my father fought in the Civil War that eventually ended</p><p>slavery,</p><p>but because he, I, and many others still have cut open wounds with no medication or a</p><p>plan for a renewal healing.</p><p>My eyes cry for my America while my feet dance to my African beats.</p><p>Holding on to home on the tip of my tongue.</p><p>Sewing this diverse piece of fabric of my many identities,</p><p>leaving each needle to write its own story.</p><p>I am an American.</p><p><br /></p><p>Ekhlas Ahmed</p><p>***********************************</p><p><br /></p><p>DOLMA</p><p><br /></p><p>Whole Food dolma, I explain, is simply</p><p>grapeleaves rolled with rice, a paradox</p><p>oilysmooth, lemontart, crisp stone</p><p>mountains wrapped in viridescent fields</p><p>breeze leavened, the hot summer days.</p><p><br /></p><p>I cannot make them see</p><p>my great-grandmother's hands,</p><p>roadside gathering, mason jars filling</p><p>browngreen leaves like pondlilies</p><p>underwater strata, layers of lost growth.</p><p><br /></p><p>How once, even my grandmother canned</p><p>acorn squash, rich earth of her own garden</p><p>tomato vine, hidden arbor. How once,</p><p>there were blueberries wild on Federal Hill</p><p>my father picked them as a child, his favorite</p><p><br /></p><p>memory, how morning tasted on the backporch</p><p>brightknit like a rainbow afghan and I</p><p>leave all these things on my tongue</p><p>unspoken, taste the dolma somewoman,</p><p>somewhere, has made.</p><p><br /></p><p>Katherine Hagopian Berry</p><p>*********************************</p><p><br /></p><p>10/30/18</p><p><br /></p><p>For Adrienne Rich</p><p><br /></p><p>You tell us that we have</p><p>the drive/to connect. The dream of a common language.</p><p><br /></p><p>That No one sleeps in this room without/the dream of a common language</p><p><br /></p><p>But how do you dream</p><p>of a common language</p><p>when you are surrounded </p><p>by faces that do not know you?</p><p><br /></p><p>There are those who</p><p>have been in this room for a lifetime.</p><p>Who dream stories in languages</p><p>that aren't written down</p><p>in this place.</p><p><br /></p><p>I once heard a story about a man with dementia who walked into an industrial bread mixer.</p><p>No grand metaphor here, just a man</p><p>dazed/ and/ confused.</p><p>Lost his way.</p><p>Walked through a door and a door and a door and off a ledge.</p><p>Found himself trapped - in a concave well - mixed in with remnants</p><p>yeast/ and/ flour.</p><p>Can you imagine?</p><p>The smoothness of the walls.</p><p>The futility of motion.</p><p>The fear giving way to surrender.</p><p>And so, as the story goes, he tired and lay still</p><p>at the bottom of the basin</p><p>in the fetal position.</p><p>This is how they found him - covered in white</p><p>fetal/ and/ flour.</p><p>How could he explain his journey?</p><p>What led him to leave his home</p><p>to walk, through a door and a door and a door?</p><p>What language to describe what compelled him?</p><p>How does he respond to the why? To the how?</p><p> How can we name a common language that makes him intelligible to these faces that</p><p> surround him?</p><p> How do I wrap my tongue around that, Adrienne?</p><p><br /></p><p>You tell us that Language cannot do everything.</p><p><br /></p><p>You tell us that No one lives in this room/ without confronting the whiteness of the wall</p><p>/ behind the poems.</p><p><br /></p><p>For a moment</p><p>think of whiteness</p><p>and think of</p><p>walls.</p><p><br /></p><p>For a moment</p><p>think of other journeys.</p><p>think of other migrations.</p><p>of collective movement.</p><p>of diaspora.</p><p><br /></p><p>Know that migration is beautiful.</p><p>Migration is human.</p><p>Migration is animal.</p><p>Hold in your mind a tapestry.</p><p><br /></p><p>Know that behind the poetry of promise</p><p>is something ominous</p><p>barbs/ and/ teeth</p><p>that will shred the tapestry</p><p>reconfigure it into a new likeness</p><p>translate it beyond recognition</p><p>that will scoff at dreams</p><p>will deny common language</p><p>will bark out</p><p>how/ and/ why</p><p>will</p><p>bruise/</p><p>and/</p><p>break.</p><p><br /></p><p>I cannot conjure a common language that will save us.</p><p>I don't know what to tell you, Adrienne.</p><p><br /></p><p>Samaa Abdurraqib</p><p>******************************************************</p><p><br /></p><p>guantanamo</p><p><br /></p><p>american flags from red wounds</p><p>blue bruises shredded pulp</p><p>of human flesh</p><p>people torn from ancestral lands</p><p>for brown skin blankets</p><p>of blood bouquets</p><p>of ripped muscle</p><p>stomped light</p><p>crushed back...broken bones</p><p>blown up</p><p>balloon hands</p><p>heads drowned chained to cold</p><p>concrete starved & suffocated forced</p><p>to take drugs american citizens safe</p><p>comfortable from the agony</p><p>& murder</p><p>of brown people</p><p><br /></p><p>Lisa Panepinto</p><p>**********************************</p><p>I AM AN AMERICAN (VETERAN OF THE AMERICAN WAR IN VIET NAM)</p><p><br /></p><p>1.</p><p>Low Intensity Warfare (1985)</p><p><br /></p><p>Up here</p><p>we're working up</p><p>this winter's wood</p><p><br /></p><p>Down there</p><p>below the Rio</p><p>below the Durangoes</p><p>in the fruit section</p><p>of our global IGA</p><p>deep in the sweet underbelly </p><p>of America</p><p><br /></p><p>Down there</p><p>we're stacking up</p><p>the bodies</p><p><br /></p><p>Up here</p><p>fall is in the air</p><p>the mornings are crisp and clear</p><p>the leaves die beautifully</p><p>in earth browns</p><p>translucent yellows</p><p>blood reds</p><p><br /></p><p>Down there</p><p>young peasants</p><p>are slipping into puddles</p><p>of mangled skin</p><p><br /></p><p>Down there</p><p>Willie Peter*</p><p>is hard at work</p><p><br /></p><p>Down there</p><p>the morning air</p><p>smells of burning flesh</p><p><br /></p><p>Up here</p><p>business</p><p>is as usual</p><p><br /></p><p>* "Willie Peter" is army slang for white phosphorous</p><p><br /></p><p>2.</p><p>Prometheus Again (1976)</p><p>When the infantry ran into trouble, they'd call on the artillery to "bring fire down on such-and-such coordinates"</p><p><br /></p><p>He once brought fire down</p><p>on some village children</p><p>in that latest crazy forgotten war</p><p>of ours</p><p><br /></p><p>Now he's come home</p><p>to spend his days asleep</p><p>beneath newspapers of inconsequence</p><p>to spend his nights chained</p><p>against our trash cans</p><p>drunk on</p><p>Ripple</p><p>Muscatel</p><p>Thunderbird</p><p><br /></p><p>Retching our guts up</p><p>into the relentless dawn</p><p><br /></p><p>3.</p><p>Unexploded Ordnance: A Ballad (2007)</p><p>for Chuck Searcy and the thousands of Vietnamese who have labored off and on since 1975, working to undo what we have done</p><p><br /></p><p>So I was maybe all of twenty-one</p><p>when they whipped me</p><p>into some kind of soul-less shape</p><p>Yet another one of America's</p><p>weeping mother's sons</p><p>sent forth into this world</p><p>to raze, pillage, and rape</p><p><br /></p><p>And now it's coming on</p><p>to another Christmas Eve</p><p>and the songs of joy and peace</p><p>fill up our little town</p><p>How I ask myself</p><p>could I possibly believe</p><p>I could do what I did</p><p>and not reap what I had sown</p><p><br /></p><p>In that land far away</p><p>from what I call home</p><p>a grandfather leads</p><p>his granddaughter by the hand</p><p>into a field where we did</p><p>what had to be done</p><p><br /></p><p>They trip into a searing heat</p><p>brighter than a thousand suns.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Doug Rawlings</p><p>7/15th Artillery</p><p>Vietnam 1969-1970</p><p>**************************************</p><p><br /></p><p>I embrace colder than a witch's tit.</p><p>New Year's Eve 2017</p><p><br /></p><p>The predator-elect stated, after comments were made that his 14 cabinet appointees are collectively worth as much as the "bottom" one third of the US population,</p><p>"What's wrong with Rich, isn't that what we want?"</p><p><br /></p><p>I am here to say I embrace</p><p>colder than a witch's tit</p><p>hoar frost, bitch, dyke,</p><p>the entire list of Samantha Bee's vagina monologue.</p><p><br /></p><p>I embrace squaw mountain, Nasty woman, man hater</p><p>I embrace every pejorative name for women,</p><p>from mother in law to Indira Gandhi, Margaret Thatcher,</p><p>I embrace them in every language for the 3.5 billion women on the planet</p><p><br /></p><p>I am here to say</p><p>We are not backing down,</p><p>you can call us whatever, we aren't biting that bait</p><p>if you think calling us names will make us think we aren't woman enough,</p><p>good enough, smart enough, tough enough sweet enough sexy enough</p><p>man enough to play the game and join the club, you're wrong.</p><p>Hillary did that, and if she can't break the misogyny wall</p><p>if she can't win with 3,000,000 more votes</p><p>none of us can.</p><p><br /></p><p>I am here to say</p><p>we are going back to our radical roots,</p><p>the ones we never left</p><p>we don't want to join the club,</p><p>the pistol, the rifle, the drone, the bomb.</p><p>We don't want the weapons glorified in the shape of your penis</p><p>wreaking havoc and destruction over and over again ad nauseum</p><p><br /></p><p>We don't want to be rich-queen,</p><p>we want none of us to be poor,</p><p>and clean water.</p><p><br /></p><p>I am here to say I am done with</p><p>the glorification of the father</p><p>the adoration of the son, whatever you call them</p><p>I am so over the male narrative, the hero and the golden fleece,</p><p>I am so done with boys will be boys.</p><p><br /></p><p>I am here to say</p><p>I totally embrace the mother</p><p>and celebrate the daughters</p><p>the people who make life happen every sunrise every sunset,</p><p>all that unpaid labor</p><p>who give birth, get food on the table, laundry done,</p><p>who nurse, teach languages, manners,</p><p>the women who do all the work at churches, nursing homes hospitals schools</p><p>while a few men at the top push papers and a few men off to the side at the</p><p>bottom push brooms and fix the washing machines</p><p>I embrace the mother goddess,</p><p>who has no name in patriarchy</p><p>I embrace the 101 names of the mother</p><p>the billions of nameless daughters.</p><p><br /></p><p>And for any men squirming in the audience</p><p>I am over White supremacy too,</p><p>I reap the benefits of institutionalized racism,</p><p>absolutely have access to more resources easier,</p><p>cause I'm white.</p><p>Being, oh gee, uncomfortable cause we get called out on privilege,</p><p>Buck up, become men against patriarchy, white people against racism</p><p><br /></p><p>I am here to say I am totally over</p><p>not acknowledging, recognizing,</p><p>this country's wealth was built on</p><p>the labor and legacy of black people</p><p>being enslaved by white people,</p><p>there is no poetry in that</p><p>or that our glorious first black president</p><p>wasn't obstructed at every point because he was black.</p><p>and even he...can and did last week address the nation, saying</p><p>"we didn't take the territory of our enemies after the wars, we helped</p><p>rebuild."</p><p>Completely</p><p>leaving out that we took a continent</p><p>and nearly annihilated its first people</p><p>ain't no poetry in that.</p><p><br /></p><p>I am here to embrace Nasty woman, Code Pink, One Billion Rising,</p><p>Veterans for Peace, Black Lives Matter, Seed Savers, Greenpeace -</p><p>I am here to embrace disarmament, Standing Rock.</p><p><br /></p><p>I am here being</p><p>embraced by the Mother,</p><p>The Earth, our planet,</p><p>that force of nature who gives us the whole kit and kaboodle</p><p>every sunrise, every sunset</p><p><br /></p><p>I don't want a gold throne, to be Queen,</p><p>I want no one to be poor and</p><p>clean water, clean water...clean air</p><p>for the great and glorious diversity</p><p>of all living beings</p><p>who make my world</p><p>So so Rich.</p><p><br /></p><p>Karin Spitfire</p><p>*************************</p><p>WORD FOR THE DAY:</p><p><br /></p><p>hubris.</p><p>Greek <i>hu</i>- (in compound <i>hubris) violence, outrage, insolence</i></p><p><i>+</i></p><p>Latin <i>brutus</i>- (suffix) heavy, unwieldy, dull, stupid, brutish</p><p>"pride goeth before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall"</p><p>(<i>Book of Proverbs</i>, 16:18)</p><p>pride that blinds/ a committer of hubris acts in foolish ways that belie common sense</p><p>often associated w/lack of humility; also ignorance</p><p>as for pleasure in hubris, its cause is this:</p><p>naive men think by ill-treating others</p><p>they make superiority their own.</p><p>in ancient Greece, hubris was outrage, actions that violated</p><p>the natural order,</p><p>sometimes for gratification of the abuser</p><p>a crime at least from the time of Solon</p><p>it indicates overestimation of one's own accomplishments,</p><p>lost contact w/normal reality</p><p>When the rich or young men think they are better than others they are</p><p>hubristic.</p><p>hubris lusts for victory not reconciliation</p><p>General George Armstrong Custer's decisions in the Battle of the Little Big Horn illustrate</p><p>hubris as history:</p><p>"Where did all those damned Indians come from?"</p><p>asked Custer</p><p>or,</p><p>as the incumbent president cruises along in his motorcade surrounded by throngs of</p><p>adoring supporters, he rasps to the Cabinet Secretary seated beside him,</p><p>"Incredible isn't it? After this I could never return to ordering windows.</p><p>It would be so boring."</p><p><br /></p><p>Eero Ruuttila</p><p>*******************************************</p><p><br /></p><p>Sir Thomas's Baptismal Rite on the 5th of July (he was born on the 4th):</p><p>Soliloquy from a homeless encampment on the Kennebec River</p><p><br /></p><p>" Oh and how the dark forces celebrated with</p><p>bombs offending the sweet night air, and frightening</p><p>the fauna, whose tender steps hurried</p><p>to dens to hide from the sulfurous wind. The lights</p><p>of war as if boasting that death can assume</p><p>yonder rainbow's gentle arc, and the epicurean</p><p>crowds in a bacchanalian feast of short haggis, small</p><p>bread and mead looked with glee upon this</p><p>colored display of fallen innocent ones.</p><p><br /></p><p>Are we to gaze upon this hour</p><p>of our discontent idly whilst the</p><p>hounds of hell's dominion smiled</p><p>upon by Mars himself decimate</p><p>the innocent blush of young lovers</p><p>on this plane?</p><p><br /></p><p>Having not known a kiss from their</p><p>beloved, so saddened the crushed</p><p>rose upon the hand of darkness where</p><p>even Odin is bruised and dug</p><p>in the rib as to not allow an unkindness</p><p>of ravens to fly the night sky.</p><p><br /></p><p>Is it the condiment that resembles blood that</p><p>makes them thirst for hardship against not their own.</p><p>Bloodlust inspired by what they eat, making it possible</p><p>for genocidal tendencies towards Native Americans and</p><p>putting Africans to slavery, and closing borders to</p><p>immigrants, and spending as Midas bringing some</p><p>fool's gold to the dark tendencies of their consciousness.</p><p><br /></p><p>Or perhaps the pickled condiment is the fiend spread</p><p>upon their short haggis; does it intimate a</p><p>sweet relish for suffering, giving feasts whilst our defeated</p><p>army lay in this forest with tattered tents and clothes ill fit.</p><p><br /></p><p>Methinks it is the mead, however. The sweet elixir of</p><p>Falstaff that creates from blank canvas masterpieces</p><p>of life's mundane moments, that shows no talent beyond</p><p>what a fond moment can be in unrivaled beauty when</p><p>articulated with unencumbered mind.</p><p><br /></p><p>Oh what a day this is, good sir!</p><p>What day breaks across the hills, sweet Silas?"</p><p><br /></p><p>"It is July 5th, sir."</p><p><br /></p><p>"Come, dear friend, we have only moments before the day</p><p>steals our good nature and we become again a huddled mass</p><p>of tormented memories unfit for angels, children of</p><p>humanity's brutality and apathy."</p><p><br /></p><p>Thomas leads the community of the homeless and baptizes</p><p>in the river. Next week a caseworker will show up and try</p><p>to convince Thomas to take medication and to come away</p><p>from the forest to live in relative comfort.</p><p><br /></p><p>His answer is always the same:</p><p><br /></p><p>"Who shall guard the ramparts of palatine dreams of</p><p>righteousness, before innocence is stolen yet again</p><p>and the very night air lay heavy with sulfuric wind..."</p><p><br /></p><p>Jason Grundstrom-Whitney</p>Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-92006331640942711812020-10-16T20:25:00.006-07:002020-10-17T14:12:43.423-07:00Marble, Breathing<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6AISP-hdeWE/X4piIrAum7I/AAAAAAAABRQ/vAkw9F_taE4DGEL84ZH8BwmG3ayhUf54ACLcBGAsYHQ/s900/Tinos-Green-.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="900" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6AISP-hdeWE/X4piIrAum7I/AAAAAAAABRQ/vAkw9F_taE4DGEL84ZH8BwmG3ayhUf54ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Tinos-Green-.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>the green marble of Tinos</p><p>the creamy white of Paros the</p><p>Venus de Milo, Virgil's "loveliest marble"</p><p>soft white Naxos, rich with crystals -</p><p>Pentelic marble, rising to the sun above Athens -</p><p>black Varenna marble</p><p>Murano's grey marble from Marmara</p><p>the red African marble at</p><p>San Angelo Raffaele with</p><p>the Archangel and his dog -</p><p>Gesuiti marble becomes</p><p>Fortuny fabric</p><p>(altare, marmorino, navata)</p><p>and Carrara, Michelangelo's marble -</p><p>heat and pressure turn limestone</p><p>into marble</p><p>limestone is organisms made stone</p><p>marble was once alive and</p><p>maybe, just maybe,</p><p>we can hear it, </p><p>breathing.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nZQoPxjh7zU/X4pj6QrGBsI/AAAAAAAABRc/0ElBRPlE9Ko3aNVAhsenghHMPFqFJv6cACLcBGAsYHQ/s512/gesuiti.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="452" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nZQoPxjh7zU/X4pj6QrGBsI/AAAAAAAABRc/0ElBRPlE9Ko3aNVAhsenghHMPFqFJv6cACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/gesuiti.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-59129219731872260832020-09-25T19:45:00.000-07:002020-09-25T19:45:19.131-07:00In Cuba<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KfBBs_MSRdQ/X26o-TcOY3I/AAAAAAAABQ0/gZq9jWx_a9kPeaReCSK5PmlHIUiWTNKQQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1245/cuba1.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="837" data-original-width="1245" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KfBBs_MSRdQ/X26o-TcOY3I/AAAAAAAABQ0/gZq9jWx_a9kPeaReCSK5PmlHIUiWTNKQQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/cuba1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Jim, Paul, and Gary, after a night of music in Trinidad, Cuba.<div><br /></div><div> I am waiting for a boat</div><div>just offshore, stalled</div><div>in the fog -</div><div>a boat of revolution,</div><div>a boat of hope and joy.</div><div>I am waiting for the men, for the women,</div><div>long hair and beards, smoking</div><div>big cigars, who will</div><div>ride down from the mountains</div><div>on donkeys and mules.</div><div>I am waiting for whole</div><div>towns to rise up,</div><div>calling for justice, for liberty -</div><div>I am waiting for the courage</div><div>to step into my own life,</div><div>move toward the sound of</div><div>people, singing, join them in</div><div>our walk to freedom.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gary Lawless</div><div>Trinidad, Cuba</div><div>2004</div>Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-81131566816220218052020-05-10T06:46:00.000-07:002020-05-10T06:59:23.811-07:00obsidian<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wnFnpEMqSvQ/XrgFp5iZ-zI/AAAAAAAABPI/lHALMZa1Xy4lBiUzA9H4jB8jY4IBXHFSQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/rainbow%2Bobsidian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wnFnpEMqSvQ/XrgFp5iZ-zI/AAAAAAAABPI/lHALMZa1Xy4lBiUzA9H4jB8jY4IBXHFSQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/rainbow%2Bobsidian.jpg" width="320" height="208" data-original-width="960" data-original-height="623" /></a></div>Rainbow Obsidian, Lassen Region, California<br />
<br />
<br />
Obsidian<br />
<br />
<br />
I am dreaming of<br />
Armenian obsidian -<br />
Satan's Nails, on the<br />
road to Mount Arteni.<br />
Of Yerevan, and that view,<br />
Ararat, across borders -<br />
stone cut thin almost<br />
transparent, like water -<br />
<br />
<i>We come singing from the river<br />
we come singing from the sky</i><br />
<br />
I am dreaming of<br />
Modoc obsidian<br />
Mount Lassen - they say<br />
obsidian spirits speak just once<br />
they say<br />
obsidian came walking,<br />
out of the river, singing -<br />
<br />
<i>We come singing from the river<br />
we come singing from the sky</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Gary Lawless<br />
Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-53784619119643951142020-02-06T06:52:00.003-08:002020-02-06T07:21:20.313-08:00Fortuny: marble to cloth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ffBFHRqehmw/XjwngvioQTI/AAAAAAAABMg/67Lma2VzJnMgAF9aQeVqjARLL5SEykFwgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/fortuny10002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ffBFHRqehmw/XjwngvioQTI/AAAAAAAABMg/67Lma2VzJnMgAF9aQeVqjARLL5SEykFwgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/fortuny10002.jpg" width="320" height="189" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="946" /></a></div>(short velvet cape, printed in silver and gold - Mariano Fortuny)<br />
<br />
Woven into the fabric<br />
of islands<br />
beads for stars<br />
dark water dark sky<br />
<br />
deep in<br />
Fortuny blue<br />
night lagoon<br />
<br />
In Venice, the Gesuiti Church of Santa Maria Assunta has a wall of detailed marble work designed to resemble draped fabric. The Fortuny designers have created a new line of fabric patterns based on the Church's marbles, called "Sectile 1729". (the Church was completed in 1729). The three patterns are called Altare, Marmorino, and Navata. Here are links to the designs:<br />
<a href="https://fortuny.com/?s=Altare&post_type=product">Altare</a><br />
<a href="https://fortuny.com/?s=marmorino&post_type=product">Marmorino</a><br />
<a href="https://fortuny.com/?s=navata&post_type=product">Navata</a><br />
Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-42454288969654561472019-12-10T06:15:00.001-08:002019-12-10T06:15:23.273-08:00stone vibration<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QdcUTux-KUc/Xe-jstHNXvI/AAAAAAAABLw/dr1GVlLVaIwYijjB1vNXPaQzilU5VDDngCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/faraglioni-capri.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QdcUTux-KUc/Xe-jstHNXvI/AAAAAAAABLw/dr1GVlLVaIwYijjB1vNXPaQzilU5VDDngCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/faraglioni-capri.jpg" width="320" height="167" data-original-width="900" data-original-height="470" /></a></div><br />
Faraglioni these<br />
sea stacks, off Capri three<br />
rocks rising, out of the<br />
sea<br />
<br />
On the island of Capri, the Bay of Naples. We were walking a coastline path, to see the Faraglioni, the sea stacks rising from the sea. For Homer, they were boulders thrown by Polyphemus. For Virgil, they were the meeting place of the Sirens, from which their songs would enchant the sailors of passing ships. Looking at this lovely rock, I have a thought, a feeling, an intuition, that if I could somehow reach the same vibrational level as the Faraglioni, I could experience the world as they do - outside of human time, outside of human history - a longer, slower story, connected to everything.<br />
<br />
A few years later, again in Italy, in Ravenna, I am looking at a very old painting of the Virgin, remembered now as painted directly onto the wall, simple colors, faded, but she calls to me - again the feeling that if I could reach the vibrational level of the painting, the world could change.<br />
<br />
These two moments stay with me, live inside me. Recently , while reading "Sacred Instructions", a new book by Penobscot author/activist/attorney Sherri Mitchell, I came to this passage: "Our challenge is to remember all of who we are. We begin this process by expanding our awareness to include the entire creation...(to) alter my awareness by shifting my vibrational level to match the vibrational level of the world around me. This awareness created a kinship between me, the ant, the grass, the field, the birds, and the trees. I was able to experience a glimpse of the fullness of our inter-relatedness. These simple moments in time changed the way that I saw the world, completely. A full layer of illusion faded away and a new view of reality appeared before my eyes. This did not happen because I am special or unique. Everyone possesses the same ability to shed their illusion and see the world as a unified whole, simply by expanding their awareness and shifting their vibration. Once we have mastered these vibrational shifts, we begin to shift the reality that we live in to one that is more harmonious and balanced with our divine source."<br />
<br />
Sometimes the stones speak to us. Sometimes they are the best teachers.Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-1903686386010094152019-11-20T09:25:00.000-08:002019-11-20T12:26:45.807-08:00marble, granite, and anarchyCarrara, Italy<br />
<br />
"In Carrara", the Italian anarchist Galileo Palla said, "even the stones are anarchist." "A Carrara anche le pietre sono anarchiche."<br />
Carrara - the white mountain - Michelangelo's mountain - Carrara has produced more marble than any other place on earth.<br />
By the late 1800s Carrara had become a "cradle of anarchy", especially among the quarry workers. The first organized anarchist group in Italy was founded there - with the New York Times remarking, in January of 1894, that Carrara was "the original hotbed of anarchism in Italy".<br />
<br />
Barre, Vermont<br />
<br />
In Barre, the local granite was dreaming - "Let's bring over some Italian anarchists and stir things up" - and they came.<br />
<br />
Italian stoneworkers came to America to work the quarries in Barre and a number of other towns. In Barre, by 1899, 90 % of the quarry workers were union members. By 1914, one quarter of Barre's population was Italian. One of these Italians was Luigi Galleani - at the time called " the most dangerous man in America" or the most important anarchist in early 20th century America. Galleani had previously been deported from both France and Switzerland, and had escaped from internal exile on the Italian island of Pantelleria, off the coast of Sicily.<br />
Coming to the United States, Galleani was arrested for inciting a riot (one fellow anarchist said "You heard Galleani speak, and you were ready to shoot the first policeman you saw." Galleani fled to Canada, but was expelled back into the United States, arriving in Barre.<br />
Galleani was befriended in Barre by anarchist and artist Carlo Abate. The two of them created what would become the leading Italian language anarchist periodical in America -Cronaca Sovversiva (Chronicle of Subversion). The first issue was published in Barre on June 6, 1903.The periodical continued for 15 years (its first office in Barre mysteriously burned to the ground) at its highest point claiming over 5000 subscribers. It was closed down by the US government under the Sedition Act of 1918. Galleani was deported back to Italy, eventually dying there.<br />
Galleani and others brought a number of speakers to Barre, including Mother Jones, Eugene V. Debs, and Big Bill Haywood. Emma Goldman came to town, speaking to a crowd of over 900, and was later arrested and run out of town.<br />
Galleani also published a widely circulated pamphlet called "La Salute e in voi" - roughly "The health is within you". This pamphlet was actually a manual for the manufacture of explosives and weapons.<br />
Carlo Abate established a drawing school in Barre to enable young men to earn a living without working in the dust of the quarries ( because of silicosis, explosives, and rough conditions, the average lifespan of a quarry worker at the time was 42 years -)<br />
One worker, Innocent Belli, has one word on his tombstone - "Anarchist" - He was arrested in 1900 after a "nearly successful" assassination attempt on Barre's chief of police. Another worker, a leading anarchist stone sculptor Elia Corti, was shot and killed when a fight broke out between anarchists and socialists at Barre's Socialist Hall. Corti's brother carved Elia's tombstone from a single piece of granite.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TCzz45SsPPo/XdV4iNIhiMI/AAAAAAAABLE/ehgS7Pw6HVAnTWo9491zaA4OZQYuIylvACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/elia-corti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TCzz45SsPPo/XdV4iNIhiMI/AAAAAAAABLE/ehgS7Pw6HVAnTWo9491zaA4OZQYuIylvACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/elia-corti.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="600" data-original-height="800" /></a></div>Due to the skills of the Italian stonecarvers, Barre's Hope Cemetery has become a sculpture garden, with the workers carving stones for their families and themselves.<br />
We rest in the rock. Stone tells our stories, carries us into the future. What would the stories of these places be, without the stone...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XIZjk5XzOxE/XdV8BnMFC-I/AAAAAAAABLQ/oC8LVOPpQyADFPNUSAA_iSgeW_PHCn-jgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/hope%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XIZjk5XzOxE/XdV8BnMFC-I/AAAAAAAABLQ/oC8LVOPpQyADFPNUSAA_iSgeW_PHCn-jgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/hope%2B2.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1067" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5P-Ijn9pG8Y/XdV8OSlx0nI/AAAAAAAABLU/BZ10GxIECT08z5nMJGW_g3J6qNozZo2EACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/hope.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5P-Ijn9pG8Y/XdV8OSlx0nI/AAAAAAAABLU/BZ10GxIECT08z5nMJGW_g3J6qNozZo2EACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/hope.jpeg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1063" /></a></div>Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-9180574267847887082019-06-04T19:51:00.000-07:002019-06-04T19:51:08.280-07:00Granite: Ekphrastic poemAn ekphrastic poem in collaboration with two sculptures by Andreas von Huene at the Centre Street Art Gallery, Bath, Maine<br />
<br />
<br />
Granite<br />
<br />
I<br />
Echo<br />
(Jay white granite)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sG2jmMvaZy4/XPcrpuW00GI/AAAAAAAABJg/_lOcpJz32L0p8fLSLQ3wkNjluLeDyniFACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_20190510_184617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sG2jmMvaZy4/XPcrpuW00GI/AAAAAAAABJg/_lOcpJz32L0p8fLSLQ3wkNjluLeDyniFACLcBGAs/s320/IMG_20190510_184617.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
Before language, there was granite.<br />
In granite, the echo of all things -<br />
rock wraps around, re-sounds,<br />
echo of sunlight<br />
echo of starlight<br />
echoes of all<br />
the rock has heard -<br />
a larger sound than we can know,<br />
found below -<br />
granite wraps around me I<br />
rest in the rock my<br />
grandfather worked in the quarries -<br />
Mosquito Mountain, Mount Waldo -<br />
granite time is slow, slow time -<br />
in granite time, my grandfather<br />
is just leaving.<br />
I can almost hear his voice<br />
echoing.<br />
<br />
II<br />
Wave<br />
(Freeport stone)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1ecmf0EaDlw/XPcs0dRSp6I/AAAAAAAABJs/ifUFkFD1aTUeBekmZCAb2z7VjSnwBKMWgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_20190510_184640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1ecmf0EaDlw/XPcs0dRSp6I/AAAAAAAABJs/ifUFkFD1aTUeBekmZCAb2z7VjSnwBKMWgCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_20190510_184640.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
Granite was once liquid, and moving.<br />
You can see the flowlines, currents<br />
in the moving rock.<br />
wave and flow, the<br />
grain within,<br />
interstitial.<br />
Everything rises from rock,<br />
granite in waves, flowing -<br />
I find myself touching<br />
granite, asking who are you,<br />
where are you from -<br />
Frankfort, Prospect,<br />
Stonington, Vinalhaven,<br />
Freeport, Jay -<br />
I'm saying hello to<br />
whole mountains moving -<br />
I'm waving back<br />
into the rock.<br />
<br />
Poem by Gary Lawless<br />
Sculpture by Andreas von HueneGary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-60186221661471291262019-01-22T13:42:00.000-08:002019-01-22T13:42:07.953-08:00origin stories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YiSxs632mDM/XEeNkgnedAI/AAAAAAAABF8/glHW0KLuilMlcUxtYRUJyWXrPwS985r6wCLcBGAs/s1600/garysnyder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YiSxs632mDM/XEeNkgnedAI/AAAAAAAABF8/glHW0KLuilMlcUxtYRUJyWXrPwS985r6wCLcBGAs/s320/garysnyder.jpg" width="186" height="320" data-original-width="929" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>postcard from Gary Snyder to Gary Lawless<br />
<br />
in 1973 I hitch-hiked from Maine to California to live with Gary Snyder at Kitkitdizze. My home was a red tent under a large madrone tree with tatami and books. It didn't rain for six months.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IPSlHhd7zcg/XEeOJMTpHlI/AAAAAAAABGE/46Tws4oAuhIjaw8bd409n-kWpnwiZQpiQCLcBGAs/s1600/garysnyder2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IPSlHhd7zcg/XEeOJMTpHlI/AAAAAAAABGE/46Tws4oAuhIjaw8bd409n-kWpnwiZQpiQCLcBGAs/s320/garysnyder2.jpg" width="320" height="229" data-original-width="1510" data-original-height="1080" /></a></div>Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-89299996365509903822018-12-10T19:26:00.000-08:002018-12-10T19:26:07.214-08:00Birds Fly Through<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ujZ2vHMfAQM/XA8tFVzdcKI/AAAAAAAABE0/3gGBZCvZ-TsvkJpMOp9H_GSV4dWFI0u2gCLcBGAs/s1600/creazione-e1501516730502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ujZ2vHMfAQM/XA8tFVzdcKI/AAAAAAAABE0/3gGBZCvZ-TsvkJpMOp9H_GSV4dWFI0u2gCLcBGAs/s320/creazione-e1501516730502.jpg" width="320" height="187" data-original-width="740" data-original-height="433" /></a></div><br />
Tintoretto - The Creation - Accademia - Venice<br />
<br />
Birds in a line what<br />
language do they<br />
speak - lagoon talk -<br />
who flew through and<br />
who are you<br />
(your song, like smoke,<br />
on wind over water)<br />
the saints heard you singing -<br />
birds fly through the sacred,<br />
every dayGary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-73936744223578508842018-12-04T11:15:00.001-08:002018-12-04T11:15:30.881-08:00Tell Me Your Name<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8HOTzhHPaq8/XAbRr4MeRRI/AAAAAAAABEg/9PZO9iK03zQPIRtyRC9B3kWFyVKFmHNuQCLcBGAs/s1600/greek%2Bowl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8HOTzhHPaq8/XAbRr4MeRRI/AAAAAAAABEg/9PZO9iK03zQPIRtyRC9B3kWFyVKFmHNuQCLcBGAs/s320/greek%2Bowl.jpg" width="320" height="225" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1125" /></a></div><br />
I asked the fox to<br />
speak to you,<br />
in your dreams.<br />
He said there are<br />
universes and universes,<br />
stars move stars<br />
move, everything<br />
has another name.<br />
I asked the fox to<br />
tell me your name.Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-22216060797347648402018-10-28T10:57:00.000-07:002018-10-28T12:03:37.262-07:00Nanao and Bikki<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-08ZyNyuvdoU/W9X2ev_qCRI/AAAAAAAABDk/giKoEgOQl9cxTSISc9MDqIcrKnRyEbSsgCLcBGAs/s1600/let%2527s%2Beat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-08ZyNyuvdoU/W9X2ev_qCRI/AAAAAAAABDk/giKoEgOQl9cxTSISc9MDqIcrKnRyEbSsgCLcBGAs/s320/let%2527s%2Beat.jpg" width="218" height="320" data-original-width="1090" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
Last night I had a dream that Nanao asked me to tell people about his friend Bikki. When I published poet Nanao Sakaki's book of poems "Let's Eat Stars", the cover art was by Ainu artist Bikki Sunazawa (enhanced by Beth Leonard,it is an image I now have tattooed on my right arm). Nanao was a great admirer of Bikki's work, and "Let's Eat Stars" contains two poems specifically speaking to Bikki. I have included them below.You can learn more about Bikki in the excellent book "From The Playground of the Gods - The Life & Art of Bikky Sunazawa" by Chisato O. Dubreuil.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Bikki Salmon<br />
<br />
Bikki salmon swimming<br />
Nanao salmon swimming<br />
Allen salmon swimming<br />
Gary salmon swimming<br />
Black Elk salmon swimming<br />
Issa salmon swimming<br />
Lao Tsu salmon swimming<br />
Ezo wolf salmon swimming<br />
Ainu Koroppocl salmon swimming<br />
Yamanba witch salmon swimming<br />
Maitreya Buddha salmon swimming<br />
Northern Cross salmon swimming<br />
<br />
Fair-weather cumulus floating<br />
in October morning sky<br />
rosy fruits of mountain ash trembling.<br />
I stand on the cemented bank<br />
of the River Teshio, Hokkaido, Japan.<br />
A river straightened and strangled by man,<br />
and on the bank, scattered eggs of salmon<br />
left by a poacher.<br />
<br />
Orion high in the evening sky<br />
geese and swans head southward<br />
maple leaves burning red<br />
deer cry for love in fir forest<br />
boletus edulis and wild grape<br />
invite you into the mountains.<br />
<br />
Just before the Sea of Okhotsk<br />
begins to shine with drifting ice<br />
North Pacific salmon return to mother rivers<br />
where woods and waters nursed them years before.<br />
<br />
Salmon means<br />
blood and meat to grizzly<br />
Fish of God to Ainu<br />
Fish of festival to Japanese.<br />
<br />
In the pebbly river<br />
against quick running water<br />
holding their energy<br />
they wait and wait<br />
and suddenly, thrusting their fins<br />
they leap up the stream<br />
-Hurry to the spot of their birth and death.<br />
<br />
Bikki Sunazawa, legendary Ainu artist<br />
for him too the time has come.<br />
While cutting a woodblock print of the Fish of God<br />
he becomes a salmon.<br />
Having fish eyes, nose, scales, tattoos,<br />
spirals and soul<br />
He's now a seventy-centimeter-long fish, Bikki salmon.<br />
<br />
Pectoral fin, dorsal fin,<br />
ventral fin,<br />
adipose fin, anal fin.<br />
<br />
Under the river banks, heaps of trash<br />
...TV sets, refrigerators,<br />
...chemical flotsam in the river<br />
...acid rain and radiation in the air<br />
<br />
Against the flow of poison<br />
Against the flow of decay<br />
Mumbling Heart Sutra<br />
Bikki salmon swimming.<br />
<br />
In this crooked generation<br />
salmon moves straight forward.<br />
<br />
Now the ripples ripple in unison:<br />
"Sing, dance as the river flows!"<br />
"Sing, dance as life flows!"<br />
"Sing, dance with your friends!"<br />
<br />
Bikki salmon swimming<br />
Nanao salmon swimming<br />
Allen salmon swimming<br />
Gary salmon swimming<br />
Black Elk salmon swimming<br />
Issa salmon swimming<br />
Lao Tsu salmon swimming<br />
Ezo wolf salmon swimming<br />
Ainu Koroppocl salmon swimming<br />
Yamanba witch salmon swimming<br />
Maitreya Buddha salmon swimming<br />
Northern Cross salmon swimming<br />
Bikki, Bikki<br />
Bikki salmon swimming<br />
in River Teshio.<br />
<br />
********************************<br />
<br />
Star Bikki<br />
<br />
A myth - a new star is born!<br />
There are teeny, tiny six thousand stars<br />
in the solar system, the minor planets or asteroids<br />
which turn around the sun, day & night.<br />
<br />
Somebody discovered a new one<br />
& named it Bikki after my friend's name.<br />
<br />
Bikki Sunazawa -<br />
born in Hokkaido as Ainu<br />
all his life he was carving<br />
something in the empty sky with his chisel<br />
something in wood with his soul<br />
like his grandfathers.<br />
<br />
Oct. 1988, his health was not good -<br />
on one beautiful afternoon<br />
I took my canoe & visited his studio.<br />
<br />
Looking into my eyes, he asked<br />
"Nanao, is the twenty-first century really coming?"<br />
<br />
Tired out, Jan. 1989 he said<br />
"Bye-bye" to this world.<br />
<br />
And one day he metamorphosed into a tree,<br />
his favorite one, an Ezo spruce in his garden.<br />
The tree grows higher & higher above the clouds.<br />
Today you find him in the solar system<br />
as one of the minor planets.<br />
<br />
Hi Star Bikki. Congratulations!<br />
<br />
Do you know about your new identity card?<br />
1. Registered number: 5372<br />
2. Star Name: Bikki<br />
3. Temporary number: 1987 WS<br />
4. Discoverer: Kin Marudate, Kazuo Watanabe<br />
5. Discovery spot: Kitami, Hokkaido, Japan<br />
<br />
Hi Star Bikki! Nowadays<br />
what are you carving?<br />
What songs are you singing?<br />
What kind of sake are you drinking?<br />
<br />
Hi Star Bikki! Sometime<br />
send me a postcard<br />
decorated full of stars!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c8S98Tspodo/W9YHEWJQlaI/AAAAAAAABEM/zhAax-zSDhALP3IjumvBvloHk0EYIPQ_QCLcBGAs/s1600/bikki.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c8S98Tspodo/W9YHEWJQlaI/AAAAAAAABEM/zhAax-zSDhALP3IjumvBvloHk0EYIPQ_QCLcBGAs/s320/bikki.jpg" width="200" height="320" data-original-width="1000" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
poems by Nanao Sakaki<br />
photo of Bikki Sunazawa from "From the Playground of the Gods"<br />
<br />
Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-56666961994935441752018-09-28T17:34:00.000-07:002018-09-28T17:45:27.652-07:00In Lille<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3gBZKlQO6vU/W67H7WlcrVI/AAAAAAAABCM/lMaFqIPSyjEjH9KnpGdItIUv47GsIehxACLcBGAs/s1600/lille1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3gBZKlQO6vU/W67H7WlcrVI/AAAAAAAABCM/lMaFqIPSyjEjH9KnpGdItIUv47GsIehxACLcBGAs/s320/lille1.jpg" width="320" height="196" data-original-width="285" data-original-height="175" /></a></div><br />
Archangels raising their horns<br />
facing the dawn<br />
facing the river, St. John<br />
singing the light<br />
one hundred years of sunrise<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d_Y2oUZVD-o/W67IaaB8flI/AAAAAAAABCU/ymwG49s-QS8bfaDC5a4_n6S00nRlk8GUwCLcBGAs/s1600/lille2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d_Y2oUZVD-o/W67IaaB8flI/AAAAAAAABCU/ymwG49s-QS8bfaDC5a4_n6S00nRlk8GUwCLcBGAs/s320/lille2.jpg" width="320" height="310" data-original-width="600" data-original-height="581" /></a></div><br />
<br />
On Saturday, September 8, 2018, I read poems at the Musee Culturel du Mont-Carmel, in Lille, Maine. For more information on this incredible building and project, please go <a href="https://www.museeculturel.org">here</a>!<br />
Gary LawlessGary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-10868129561874719692018-07-24T12:34:00.001-07:002018-07-27T04:44:10.118-07:00Birds fly through the sacred<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MjNErroDDQk/W1d_KfzrnlI/AAAAAAAABB0/6C-S8KOToXI-xQQo3XTU3RsYC3reVr2ugCLcBGAs/s1600/Greeece_Hawkey_Green_Attica_20180607_1199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MjNErroDDQk/W1d_KfzrnlI/AAAAAAAABB0/6C-S8KOToXI-xQQo3XTU3RsYC3reVr2ugCLcBGAs/s320/Greeece_Hawkey_Green_Attica_20180607_1199.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="800" /></a></div>photo by Sean Hawkey/WCC<br />
<br />
His All-Holiness, Patriarch Bartholomew, releases a kestrel into the wild sky on the Greek island of Spetses. The two kestrels released that day had been rescued and rehabilitated by the Greek organization Animas <a href="https://www.wild-anima.gr">link here</a> . One flew north, the other flew south.<br />
<br />
Zeus released two eagles at opposite ends of the Earth. They met at Delphi, the omphalos, the navel of the earth.<br />
<br />
"When will we learn that to commit a crime against the natural world is also a sin...for human beings to destroy the biological diversity in God's creation; for human beings to degrade the integrity of the earth by contributing to climate change, by stripping the earth of its natural forests or destroying its wetlands; for human beings to contaminate the earth's waters, land and air - all of these are sins."<br />
His All-Holiness Patriarch Bartholomew<br />
<br />
Herodotus:<br />
two dark birds flew from Thebes.<br />
One established the Siwa Oasis oracle in Libya.<br />
One established the oracle at Dodona, Greece.<br />
At Dodona, the bird flew to an oak.<br />
The wind would stir the leaves, the sound<br />
recognized by the birds as the voices of the gods.<br />
<br />
"We have lost the spirit of worship. We are no longer respectful pilgrims on this earth; we have been reduced to careless consumers or passing travelers."<br />
His All-Holiness Patriarch Bartholomew<br />
<br />
after the rain stopped, Noah released a raven. The raven did not return.<br />
Next he released a dove, which returned, finding no other place to land.<br />
He waited seven days, and released the dove again.<br />
The dove returned, with a freshly plucked olive branch in its mouth.<br />
Seven days later, he again released the dove.<br />
This time the dove did not return, having set foot on land.<br />
<br />
<br />
"A merciful heart...It is a heart on fire for the whole of Creation, for humanity, for the birds, for the animals, for demons and for all that exists."<br />
St. Isaac the Syrian<br />
<br />
and the birds,<br />
flying through the Sacred<br />
every day.<br />
<br />
<br />
In June of 2018 Gary Lawless and Beth Leonard traveled to Greece to attend the "Toward a Greener Attica - Preserving the Planet and Protecting its People" conference, called by His Al-Holiness Patriarch Bartholomew, and held in Athens and the islands of Spetses and Hydra.<br />
<br />
<br />
Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-6259149837358118052018-01-02T15:53:00.000-08:002018-01-02T15:53:55.945-08:00Venice WoodPosts. Hundreds of posts. Thousands of posts. Millions of posts.A whole city built on posts. Posts driven into the mud, below the surface. More than ten million trees. Posts for buildings. Wood for houses, storage, churches, bridges. Wood for shipbuilding. Wood for docks and levee systems. Wood for heating and cooking. Wood for the glass furnaces on Murano. Wood harvested and brought to Venice: wood from the Lagoon's littoral forests - larch, pine, alder ; wood brought downriver -oak and beech forests; wood from the mountains,from Slovenia,from Istria. Brought to the Zattere, named for the barges carrying the logs, now that long, flat walkway along the Giudecca, next to the water, Fondamente, where Pound loved to walk.<br />
All of those ghosts.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-F9jbKAoDoCg/WkwbggSmJsI/AAAAAAAABAI/_S2UOPxhtZE3rcDZQiM5vIrdgFqi2s9wwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_3021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-F9jbKAoDoCg/WkwbggSmJsI/AAAAAAAABAI/_S2UOPxhtZE3rcDZQiM5vIrdgFqi2s9wwCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_3021.JPG" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-86923202106331130442017-12-12T13:27:00.001-08:002017-12-12T14:33:37.391-08:00venice waters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O2iRKnCQWlU/WjBJLR2t5lI/AAAAAAAAA_s/VwwriBxzPt06Lhe122kb-f8OevHTW0_YACLcBGAs/s1600/italia2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O2iRKnCQWlU/WjBJLR2t5lI/AAAAAAAAA_s/VwwriBxzPt06Lhe122kb-f8OevHTW0_YACLcBGAs/s320/italia2017.jpg" width="320" height="266" data-original-width="1393" data-original-height="1158" /></a></div><br />
Everything is Holy.<br />
Bless the Lagoon, sweet Saint Lucy.<br />
Bless the birds, the fish,<br />
Bless the trees on the outer islands,<br />
Bless the waves and the wind.<br />
Send the cruise ships to Hell.<br />
There is room there,<br />
for one more boat.Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-20495391516406971682017-08-15T12:54:00.002-07:002017-08-15T12:54:40.790-07:00Prospect, Maine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fTsYLUK28No/WZNPrHMSHcI/AAAAAAAAA-o/iC28FsOtDEAX4ey_N8r4MMHIIqphQ5r-ACLcBGAs/s1600/lester%2527s%2Bstore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fTsYLUK28No/WZNPrHMSHcI/AAAAAAAAA-o/iC28FsOtDEAX4ey_N8r4MMHIIqphQ5r-ACLcBGAs/s320/lester%2527s%2Bstore.jpg" width="320" height="215" data-original-width="1108" data-original-height="744" /></a></div><br />
My Grandfather Lester Dow's store, Prospect, Maine<br />
photo undated, early 1900s<br />
<br />
<br />
Prospect<br />
<br />
My grandfather Lester<br />
walked down, down<br />
to his store<br />
at the crossroads of town,<br />
now buried with Hannah,<br />
across the road low<br />
on the hillside, there<br />
my mother's first school.<br />
My uncle walked down,<br />
down to the marsh and<br />
Bucksport beyond,<br />
to the mill, making paper,<br />
the mill now<br />
closed down,<br />
soon to be gone -<br />
From Prospect the land<br />
falls down to the river,<br />
Verona, to Bucksport, beyond<br />
and the whole world,<br />
somewhere, below us now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(For Lester, Hannah, Earl, and Ruth Dow)<br />
<br />
Gary Lawless<br />
<br />
originally published in "Still Mill - poems, stories and songs of Making Paper in Bucksport, Maine, 1930-2014"Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-41096760330879239362016-05-24T13:35:00.001-07:002016-05-29T16:19:37.759-07:00In Ireland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c21GH1Oh0bE/V0S0y3t0UBI/AAAAAAAAAxU/nei3iW136U8hVKDp-DhfDJIdRAdyKbcvACLcB/s1600/DSC_0155.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c21GH1Oh0bE/V0S0y3t0UBI/AAAAAAAAAxU/nei3iW136U8hVKDp-DhfDJIdRAdyKbcvACLcB/s320/DSC_0155.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Gary and Beth, with the Blasket Islands behind us -<br />
<br />
<br />
Where every cove has a name<br />
where every field has a name<br />
we walk the "god-trodden"mountains<br />
who are the dark birds<br />
what is the yellow shrub<br />
where every river has a spirit and<br />
all wells are holy<br />
from Tralee into the clouds<br />
older than rock our<br />
first day on earth<br />
<br />
<br />
some other wet-weather<br />
sung-over place<br />
near a river<br />
"It was long ago<br />
if time means anything<br />
long long ago" (Padraic Fallon)<br />
limestone karst leads us<br />
into clouds, into wind the<br />
church of the ruined light<br />
we are older than stone<br />
<br />
fields rising into cloud, sheep<br />
coming down the hill<br />
coming down to<br />
land where we<br />
meet the rain of the day<br />
<br />
circle fort in the field<br />
leave flowers, leave flowers<br />
Beltaine fires and a clear sky<br />
leave flowers, touch stone<br />
<br />
sink now into the peat<br />
sink now, and sleep,<br />
let the stones sing<br />
over me<br />
<br />
Gary Lawless<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LAiZbbQHYu0/V0S4JPsHDvI/AAAAAAAAAxs/C8j4qu_Az5Ud4Dx87XtBxmu2pPCeyVslwCLcB/s1600/DSC_0561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LAiZbbQHYu0/V0S4JPsHDvI/AAAAAAAAAxs/C8j4qu_Az5Ud4Dx87XtBxmu2pPCeyVslwCLcB/s320/DSC_0561.JPG" /></a></div>Beth Leonard photo - on the Burren<br />
<br />
<br />
"low lie the fields of Athenry<br />
where once we watched<br />
the small free birds fly<br />
our love was on the wing<br />
we had dreams and songs to sing<br />
it's so lonely round<br />
the fields of Athenry"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g6Txx2T0EzA/V0S5HLHX5-I/AAAAAAAAAx4/aDR0PtMS7CkixqGYXEkBn2lbXnASRrJ7QCLcB/s1600/DSC_0659.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g6Txx2T0EzA/V0S5HLHX5-I/AAAAAAAAAx4/aDR0PtMS7CkixqGYXEkBn2lbXnASRrJ7QCLcB/s320/DSC_0659.JPG" /></a></div>Beth Leonard photo with Siobhan Lawless at the Lawless Family's Foods of Athenry"<br />
<br />
"He was Lawless by name, Lawless by nature.<br />
He was trouble right from the start"<br />
Christy Moore<br />
<br />
While in Ireland I gave a poetry reading in Dingle, at Dick Mack's Pub, as a part of the Feile na Bealtaine, on April 30, 2016. To view the short reading, in two parts, go <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UWQkOwU76kw">here</a> and <a href="https://youtube.com/watch?v=ZbdXg_7pdls">here</a><br />
<br />
Following in the footsteps of friends:<br />
<br />
Here is Nanao Sakaki in Ireland:<br />
Magic Pouch<br />
<br />
On pilgrimage <br />
to holy mountain Croagh Patrick<br />
on Ireland's west coast<br />
I found my magic pouch missing.<br />
<br />
from Guatemala, some years ago<br />
a black, white and purple cotton pouch<br />
arrived and attached itself to my waist.<br />
<br />
inside the pouch -<br />
an Irish five pound note<br />
an army knife<br />
a fountain pen<br />
a magnifying glass<br />
a pair of sunglasses<br />
<br />
to buy fish & chips for two persons<br />
Irish money came yesterday.<br />
<br />
poet Allen Ginsberg gave me the army knife<br />
in New York City 1988.<br />
It stayed with me as a good friend like Allen.<br />
<br />
agile and sharp as an old star<br />
the fountain pen, my soul, wrote many poems.<br />
<br />
boundless chain of life -<br />
with magnifying glass I inspected insect eggs,<br />
flower seeds and the future of our galaxy.<br />
<br />
the sunglasses were great for looking<br />
into a rainbow, a sundog<br />
& above the sundog... another rainbow.<br />
<br />
Now the time is ripe.<br />
I dedicate you all to Mt. Croagh Patrick.<br />
you are gone...good luck!<br />
<br />
Nanao Sakaki, Autumnal Equinox, 1993<br />
<br />
<br />
and here is Gary Snyder, in Ireland:<br />
<br />
Icy Mountains Constantly Walking<br />
(for Seamus Heaney)<br />
<br />
Work took me to Ireland<br />
a twelve-hour flight.<br />
The river Liffy<br />
ale in a bar,<br />
so many stories<br />
of passions and wars -<br />
a hilltop stone tomb<br />
with the wind across the door.<br />
Peat swamps go by:<br />
people of the ice age.<br />
Endless fields and farms<br />
the last two thousand years.<br />
<br />
I read my poems in Galway<br />
just the chirp of a bug<br />
and flew home thinking<br />
of literature and time.<br />
<br />
The serried rows of books<br />
in the Long Hall at Trinity<br />
the ranks of stony ranges<br />
above the ice of Greenland.<br />
<br />
Gary Snyder 1999<br />
Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-11734475144912158822015-10-06T13:06:00.000-07:002015-10-13T20:47:41.041-07:00Poetry WalksFor several years I taught a course called "Poetry and Walking", both at Bates College and at MidCoast Senior College. We walked with Gilgamesh, walked around Japan with Basho, sauntered with Thoreau, walked the Lake District with Wordsworth, walked the Inferno with Dante and Virgil, followed Aboriginal songlines with Bruce Chatwin,read the poems of Miklos Radnoti as he walked to his death, listened to Ophelia Zepeda as she walked to water. Our text for the course, besides the work of these poets, was Rebecca Solnit's "Wanderlust - A History of Walking". As we traveled with the poets, I asked the students to take walks of their own, and then to write about them in the styles of the poets they were reading.<br />
This summer, 2015, I spent six weeks as "artist-in-residence" at the Beech Hill Preserve in Rockport (Maine) and began to invite people to come and take "poetry walks". First I took a blank notebook to the top of Beech Hill and began a poem in it, then left it with a note encouraging people to add lines, verses, poems, drawings - to collaborate in creating a poem of place. I knew what I was seeing and feeling, but I wanted to know what other people were experiencing in the same place, and how they would choose to express it in language or visual art. In six weeks the journal gathered over 100 pages of writing, most of which can be read <a href="http://beechhillpilgrimage.blogspot.com">here</a>.<br />
I then began to schedule "poetry walks" - walking with other people, trying to think of the place in terms of a poem, or a poem in terms of a place - wondering how the place speaks to you, or through you, wondering which words or images each person would choose to express their relationship with the place. I also was interested in making a word/image map of the preserve - what is happening here, in this particular place - - what did you see/hear/smell/feel - and how you would choose to express that.<br />
As we walk, there are poems all around us - plant poems, bird poems, rock poems, cloud poems light poems - I suggested that the walkers be open to the opportunities around us, to listen with both your head and heart. On one walk we had someone who birded by ear and what to me was a cacophony of sound began to be heard as differing voices - that is the vireo, that is the towhee, so i began to hear more of the conversation and its individual parts. Another walk found a plant person with us - and what was a wall of green became a community of individual lives, all worth exploring. Each person's experience of the place taught me something, gave me new ways of experiencing, enjoying, and learning from this particular place.And the poems began to happen. We could leave them behind in the notebook, or put them on line, and other people could learn from, and share, the experiences of this place.<br />
I am interested in the words, phrases, images each person chooses to talk about a particular place, and of their experiences of it. We don't necessarily choose the same words or images, and we don't necessarily pick up on the same cues, happenings or conversations within the community of that place. Sometimes our language does not have the words to express it directly.<br />
Robin Wall Kimmerer, a Phd moss biologist, member of the Potawatomi tribe, and author of two wonderful books (Gathering Moss and Braiding Sweetgrass) begins her essay "Learning the grammar of animacy" saying "To be native to a place we must learn to speak its language" "Listening in wild places, we are audience to conversations in a language not our own." Learning to hear and understand, and to speak, these languages "could well be a restraint on our mindless exploitation of land." as we "walk through a richly inhabited world of Birch people, Bear people, Rock people, beings we think of and therefore speak of as persons worthy of our respect, of inclusion in a peopled world."<br />
There are languages, languages of the aboriginal peoples who have lived in specific places, and have created words rising up out of their direct experiences of particular places. She gives the example of the verb wiikwegamaa, which means "to be a bay", and talks about her first encounter with that word:"In that moment i could smell the water of the bay, watch it rock against the shore and hear it sift onto the sand. A bay is a noun only if water is dead. When bay is a noun, it is defined by humans, trapped between its shores and contained by the word. But the verb wiikwegamaa - to be a bay - releases the water from its bondage and lets it live. "To be a bay" holds the wonder that, for this moment, the living water has decided to shelter itself between these shores, conversing with cedar roots and a flock of baby mergansers."<br />
These words, these languages, these ways of being in the world are being lost, as languages and cultures and species and habitats disappear from the planet. Here is the poet W S Merwin:<br />
<br />
<br />
Losing A Language<br />
<br />
A breath leaves the sentences and does not come back<br />
yet the old still remember something that they could say<br />
<br />
but they know now that such things are no longer believed<br />
and the young have fewer words<br />
<br />
the noun for standing in mist by a haunted tree<br />
the verb for I<br />
<br />
the children will not repeat<br />
the phrases their parents speak<br />
<br />
somebody has persuaded them<br />
that it is better to say everything differently<br />
<br />
so that they can be admired somewhere<br />
farther and farther away<br />
<br />
where nothing that is here is known<br />
we have little to say to each other<br />
<br />
we are wrong and dark<br />
in the eyes of the new owners<br />
<br />
the radio is incomprehensible<br />
the day is glass<br />
<br />
when there is a voice at the door it is foreign<br />
everywhere instead of a name there is a lie<br />
<br />
nobody has seen it happening<br />
nobody remembers<br />
<br />
this is what the words were made<br />
to prophesy<br />
<br />
here are the extinct feathers<br />
here is the rain we saw<br />
<br />
(W S Merwin)<br />
<br />
and here is a poem from the native people of Greenland, collected by Knud Rasmussen and turned into a poem by Edward Field:<br />
<br />
Magic Words<br />
<br />
In the very earliest time<br />
when both people and animals lived on earth<br />
a person could become an animal if you wanted to<br />
and an animal could become a human being.<br />
Sometimes we were people<br />
and sometimes animals<br />
and there was no difference.<br />
We all spoke the same language.<br />
That was the time when words were like magic.<br />
The human mind had mysterious powers.<br />
A word spoken by chance might have<br />
strange consequences.<br />
It would suddenly come alive<br />
and what people wanted to happen could happen.<br />
All you had to do was say it.<br />
Nobody could explain this,<br />
that's the way it was.<br />
<br />
As poets, as writers, as creative beings engaged with the world, we can walk in the world and speak these magic words, and we can listen as these magic words are spoken around us. All we have to do is to "step out onto the planet" and say it. The magic words poem ends in the past tense. Our work on these "poetry walks" is to try and find language to bring it back into the present, and on into the future.<br />
For the next year, photographer/writer Jim McCarthy and I will be wandering around the trails of the Cathance River Nature Preserve, sponsored by the Cathance River Education Alliance. We will lead monthly "creative walks", we will leave out a journal to create an ongoing poetry and image conversation at the Preserve, and have created a blog site where we will be posting writing and images (see that <a href="http://takingwalkscrea.blogspot.com">here</a> )<br />
So we invite you to come take a walk, share your words, speak them aloud, make it happen -<br />
Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-6476202403488777492015-06-28T07:26:00.000-07:002015-06-28T07:35:15.854-07:00Call To Prayer<br />
<br />
Call To Prayer<br />
<br />
I<br />
where<br />
every stone in the wilderness<br />
contains a prayer we<br />
hold our prayers in our hands -<br />
they tell their stories<br />
slowly, slowly<br />
<br />
(for Terry and Alisha<br />
Halki Island/Istanbul)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
ii<br />
the river is full to<br />
overflowing, we are<br />
worshipping, inside the rock, our<br />
prayers, to the heart<br />
of the earth -<br />
the desert has<br />
emptied us out,<br />
this stone, our hearts,<br />
waiting<br />
to be filled.<br />
<br />
Goreme/Anatolia<br />
<br />
<br />
Gary LawlessGary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-24658337746641709392015-02-09T20:32:00.000-08:002015-02-10T06:26:50.727-08:00Saint Lucy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c3LJ5yQMoio/VNmJP7SvlNI/AAAAAAAAAms/NoNEnAnUzbg/s1600/saint%2Blucy%2B001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c3LJ5yQMoio/VNmJP7SvlNI/AAAAAAAAAms/NoNEnAnUzbg/s320/saint%2Blucy%2B001.jpg" /></a></div><br />
gondola sunset<br />
pink to the Dolomites<br />
limestone sky<br />
where the walk<br />
ends in water<br />
we wet our feet<br />
pray to Saint Lucy<br />
to go, to see<br />
<br />
In October, after spending 10 days in Croatia, Beth and I stopped in Venice for a few days. We stayed in the Cannaregio, a short walk from the Church of Saint Geremia, just off the Strada Nuova, where the body of Saint Lucy lies in a glass case. I wanted to visit Saint Lucy as I am about to teach an eight week course on Dante's Inferno and the invention of Hell. Dante avows himself a "fedele", a devotee of Lucy. In Canto two of the Inferno, the Virgin Mary speaks to Lucy, seeking some help for Dante. Lucy urges Beatrice to come to Dante's aid. Later, in Purgatory, Lucy carries the sleeping Dante up the lower slopes of Mount Purgatory. Later, in Paradise, Dante will seat her on a throne with John the Baptist on her right, and, on John's right, Saint Anne, mother of Mary.<br />
Saint Lucy is "the enemy of all who are cruel" She is the patron saint of illumination and sight, both outer and inner. Dante may have credited her for relief from an illness of the eyes. She is often portrayed as "Divine Wisdom", carrying a lighted lamp in her hands. Santa Lucia - the saint of light - was originally from Syracusa, Sicily. One version of her story has her consecrating herself to Christ after a visit from Saint Agatha in a dream, renouncing matrimony, and giving all of her belongings to the poor. This did not go over well with her husband-to be. She was imprisoned and tortured. Her eyes were dug out but she put them back in place. (another version has Lucy removing her own eyes to discourage a suitor) She is often depicted carrying a silver tray, on which rest her eyes. In the end, she was decapitated. Her relics traveled to Constantinople, and when the Fourth Crusade sacked Constantinople the Venetian Doge Enrico Dandalo brought Lucy's bones to Venice. In 1981 thieves stole all of her bones, except her head. They were recovered five weeks later, on her feast day. Miraculously, other relics of her body are claimed in Rome, Naples, Verona, Milan, Lisbon, Germany, France and Spain. Her feast day originally corresponded with the winter solstice, a celebration of the return of light.<br />
We have come to pay our respects to Lucy, to Dante, to illumination; to go, to see, to seek the light of Divine Wisdom.Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-5569336669657401902014-12-30T06:47:00.002-08:002014-12-30T07:46:06.265-08:00in croatia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3zlznp86TVg/VKK5EH60MHI/AAAAAAAAAlQ/WYMIP_-WC68/s1600/croatia%2B205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3zlznp86TVg/VKK5EH60MHI/AAAAAAAAAlQ/WYMIP_-WC68/s320/croatia%2B205.JPG" /></a></div><br />
on the trail of<br />
saints and poets,<br />
a song, lingering<br />
along this old coast,<br />
pulling together threads,<br />
ruins, saints, relics, something<br />
in the wind<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T8cP_Iv6mqw/VKK_jDY6-kI/AAAAAAAAAls/ad0hC3eND8w/s1600/P1030506.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T8cP_Iv6mqw/VKK_jDY6-kI/AAAAAAAAAls/ad0hC3eND8w/s320/P1030506.JPG" /></a></div><br />
walking through this<br />
world of water with<br />
a prayer for all beings<br />
waterfall mist<br />
waterfall breeze<br />
ducks in sunlight<br />
worshipping -<br />
who is the goddess<br />
of this place?<br />
<br />
(Plitvicka National Park)<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qePPcA_2Lt0/VKLFVv5zaRI/AAAAAAAAAl8/CSIo1xMmOk4/s1600/croatia%2B153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qePPcA_2Lt0/VKLFVv5zaRI/AAAAAAAAAl8/CSIo1xMmOk4/s320/croatia%2B153.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
fog and rain<br />
on the Croatian coast<br />
lightning over the water<br />
somewhere birds are on the move -<br />
we pray to Saint Euphemia,<br />
her relics, lion and a wheel,<br />
somewhere, a brighter day -<br />
<br />
<br />
Photos by Beth LeonardGary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-134075224295941272014-02-02T09:29:00.001-08:002014-02-05T12:44:49.332-08:00lawless Relic Talk - Winter Wisdom 1/29/2014The idea of Holy Relics - bones, blood, thorns and pieces of the True Cross, may seem like an idea from another time, a relic belief from the Middle Ages, something old and forgotten and gathering dust, but last weekend in Italy there was a major relic theft - gauze soaked in the blood of Pope John Paul 2 after he was wounded during an assassination attempt was stolen from a small church in the Abruzzi. There are only 3 blood relics of John Paul 2, who will soon be beatified, and on his way to becoming a saint. In Italy, this is major news, and once John Paul 2 becomes a saint, this will be a priceless relic. Relics are with us, alive and powerful, today.<br />
As I begin this talk today, I want to assure you that my purpose is not to demean or poke fun at relic belief. These are powerful beliefs, and I am very interested in the power of faith, the possibility of healing, the possibility of the miraculous, the living power of the relic, as well as the importance of holy sites and pilgrimage. This is not a scholarly text, but a story, a story of my own journey, my own sense of relic and pilgrimage, but a story with relics at the heart.<br />
<br />
Approximately 15 years ago I was invited to travel to Italy to give a series of poetry readings, and to meet the Italian poets, farmers and environmentalists who had been translating and publishing my poems. I had never been to Europe before, and my first stop was Naples, Italy. In Naples the dead are everywhere, - skulls, bones, catacombs ...the feast day of their local saint San Gennaro, was a day on which his blood was hoped to miraculously liquefy. If the blood turned liquid, the city would have good fortune for the next year. If not, things could go badly.<br />
From Naples we traveled to Rome, the center of relic worship in Europe - the tomb of St. Peter, the tomb of St. Paul, the catacombs, the church of St Peter in chains, with chains from his arrests in Jerusalem and Rome, mixed with links of chain used on St. Paul as well (relic chain filings were big for some time) and of course the vast Relic collection at the Vatican. I was beginning to get interested.<br />
We traveled on to Assisi, to say hello to Saint Francis. Francis' body was buried to make sure that there were no body relics, but in his cathedral, near the tomb, there is a display of gauze soaked in the blood from his stigmata, as well as his clothing and documents in his handwriting. Across town, you can visit Saint Clare, who is seen in her own chapel, with fresh flowers at her place at the meal table, and flowers in the sleeping area, where she slept. Beth and I have been now to Assisi several times, and on our last visit we walked the last two days of the 200 mile pilgrimage route to Assisi, the section from Gubbio (where Francis had his encounter with the wild wolf of Gubbio, who is now buried in the churchyard) to Assisi. Everything in Assisi feels very powerful, very holy, and very peaceful. I was starting to look at relics with interest, and wondering what they were, how they came to have the power that they have, and what were their stories.<br />
<br />
Relics are believed to be traces of the Divine. In the world each relic is a fingerprint of the Creator, and a chance for contact with God through the saints. Each Relic is the Word made flesh. Each relic is alive, is a living saint. "In these relics there is perfect grace, and perfect power." Relics were the main channel through which supernatural power was available for the needs of ordinary life. Ordinary people could see and handle them. They were (and are) both visible and full of beneficent intelligence. I started thinking that if each relic was the word made flesh, was alive, then maybe everything contained the possibility of healing, and the miraculous. Maybe everything was holy...<br />
Unlike a manuscript or an ikon, a relic has no value until it is a part of a community of agreement, of belief. It needs an outside source to give it value. If relics performed as relics, if they worked miracles, made healing possible, inspired the faithful and increased the prestige of the community, then they must be genuine.<br />
<br />
There are various classes of relics. First there are the actual bodies or body parts of the saints and martyrs. Then there are the tombs, shrines and holy places associated with them, and then there are contact relics - things that have touched the saints, or been used by them, or are important because of their location: shrouds, clothing, chains, earth where they stood, dust from tombs, the True Cross, the crown of thorns... Divine power works through things which have been consecrated through use and contact with the saints. Many religions have their relics, holy sites and pilgrimages - there are teeth and footsteps of Buddha, hair from the Prophet's beard, but in this talk I will concentrate on Christian relics in Europe.<br />
The most powerful relics are those associated with Jesus and his life. Because it is believed that he was taken bodily into heaven, there are few body relics, but there are many relics of his blood, as well as relics of his hair, his breath, and, because he was Jewish, there is the relic foreskin. David Farley has written a wonderful book looking into the claimed existence of this relic (An Irreverent Curiosity). I gave a poetry reading in the little town of Calcata, the center of the foreskin controversy. There is a wonderful painting from the Renaissance of Jesus ascending bodily into heaven, and in a lower corner of the painting there is a foreskin with wings, flying up as well. (one early pope was quoted as saying that this miracle was necessary because they couldn't have Jesus in Heaven with a Jewish penis)<br />
Associated with Jesus are the two most ubiquitous contact relics: pieces of the True Cross and thorns from the crown of thorns. These were brought back from the Holy Land primarily by Crusaders, but also by pilgrims and those traveling to search for relics there.<br />
One of the earliest poems in the Anglo Saxon poetic tradition, dating to possibly the 7th century, is a poem in which the poet dreams of the True Cross, and the True Cross speaks to him:<br />
"I was reared a cross. I raised up the powerful King,<br />
the Lord of Heaven; I did not dare to bend.<br />
They pierced me with dark nails; on me are the wounds visible,<br />
the open wounds of malice; I did not dare to injure any of them.<br />
They mocked us both together. I was all drenched with blood<br />
poured out from that man's side after he had sent forth his spirit.<br />
I have experienced on that hillside many cruelties of fate."<br />
from Dream of the Rood<br />
Here the cross is pierced, as well as Jesus, and is also mocked and tortured. Later in the poem the cross is buried, but then resurrected, covered with jewels, and honored above all trees. The relic of the True Cross held Jesus in his final hour, suffered with him, and now has the power of his spirit.<br />
After the relics of Jesus, the most powerful relics are those of the Virgin Mary. Her breast milk can be found all over Europe, as well as pieces from clothing and other items associated with her. Ephesus claims to be her final home and resting place. Ephesus also claims to be the resting place of Mary Magdalene, but southern France lays a claim to her as well, with sites at Vezeley, Baume, the Church of the Three Marys in the Camargue, and of course Rennes le Chateau. Her presence in southern France has been made much more visible now by the author Dan Brown and his novel The Da Vinci Code, which involves a quest for the Holy Grail, and the belief that Magdalene was pregnant with a child by Jesus when she came to France, and that their bloodline is the actual Holy Grail.<br />
<br />
Early in the Christian Era pilgrims began to travel to the graves and tombs of the saints and martyrs. Again, holy sites and pilgrimages were not new ideas. There were many holy sites in the pre-Christian past, many of them springs, wells, mountains, homes of certain animals or plants, the sacred sites of the natural world. Skeletons and single bones became important objects of devotion and pilgrimage in the Christian Era. This begins with the Holy Innocents - the children killed by Herod's forces in an attempt to stop the birth of a prophesied "King of the Jews".<br />
Historically, the Fifth Council of Carthage, in 401, passed a law requiring all sanctified Catholic altars to contain a relic. The Catholic Code of Canon Law defines an altar as " a tomb containing the relics of a saint". This definition was in place until 1969. This set off a great search for bones, for relics for every Catholic church in Europe. The catacombs of Rome proved to be a great source for the original surge of relic needs. Germanic churches especially favored Roman relics. French churches liked their local saints with ties to the past. The Christian saints and holy places replaced the local divinities of woods and water. Jerusalem was another great source of relics, as the Holy Land, and many of these relics came home with Crusaders. There was a great move to save relics from the hands of Muslims (and later from Vikings and other "barbarian" invaders)<br />
By the 8th century there were less saints, and less martyrs, so new trends in relic discovery came to take place. The rediscovery or relocation of relics - relics might appear in a dream or a vision and reveal their locations. Lost and forgotten burial sites were miraculously discovered. For example, Saint James was miraculously discovered on the coast of Spain, although he died in Herod's kingdom, far to the east. A cathedral was created to house his miraculous relics, and pilgrims began to walk there from all over Europe, creating one of the greatest pilgrimage routes of all time. Some believe that the Camino to Santiago runs parallel to the Milky Way. The cathedral at Santiago de Compostela did well, as did the surrounding city, and all of the small towns along the various feeder routes. (This is not a saint to whom I am encouraged to make a pilgrimage. He is frequently portrayed in Spain as Saint James the Moor slayer, riding a horse, carrying a large sword, beheading Muslims, leading the forces to chase them out of Spain, and leading crusades to chase the out of Jerusalem. The Moor slayer - more a saint for Dick Cheney or Donald Rumsfeld)<br />
Relics were relocated from neighboring towns when priests would have dreams of the saints telling the dreamer that they were not being treated with enough respect at their present locations. Priests would go to move the relics to a new location, called "translation". Saints would be prayed to, asking for permission for the move. The relics were seen as being alive, moving about as they wished, helping those whom they chose to help, and could not be moved against their will There are a number of stories of failed relic translation, where the relic prevents its own relocation.<br />
A trade in stolen relics soon grew. Sacred theft was seen as something other than theft, where the good intentions of the relic thief gave them absolution from guilt. As an example: the Venetians believed that St. Mark had been sent to the lagoon by St. Peter to begin his Christian mission. In 827 or 828 the Venetians went to Alexandria to bring St. Mark's body back to Venice. To sneak him by the Muslim port authorities they placed his body in a barrel of pork and smuggled him onto a ship.<br />
The greatest large scale relic theft would be the Crusades, but another great example would be the looting of Constantinople by the Crusaders and the Venetians. Constantine had wanted to create a second Rome, Constantinople, and his mother, St. Helen, was a great collector of relics from the Holy Land. In 1204 the Crusaders sacked Constantinople and made off with a rich and diverse collection of relics, including blood of Jesus, pieces of the True Cross, thorns from the crown of thorns, milk of the Virgin Mary,, hair and cloth from Mary, parts of the skull, teeth and fingers of John the Baptist, and Old Testament relics of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.<br />
Another famous relic theft was committed by Frederic Barbarossa, a German leader who overran Italy in 1168, and brought the bodies of the Three Kings (Wise Men) to the cathedral in Cologne, from Turin. St. Helen had brought them from the Holy Land to Constantinople, and they had come from there to Turin , and thus on the Cologne, where they are today.<br />
By the Middle Ages relics were everywhere, and were changing hands through gifting, theft, sale, and dream recognition. People were traveling to sites of specific events, or sites linked to specific saints, for specific kinds of healing or saintly intervention. Saints were connected individually with specific kinds of healing or miraculous powers. (For instance, if you had speech problems you could go to Padua, Italy, to the relic of St. Anthony's jaw and tongue). This relic veneration caused the rise of pilgrimage routes, relic tourism (and relic theft) and healthy economies for the churches and town having the right relics. Churches would also take the relics on tours around the countryside as fundraisers for the church, as well as having special days of celebration, saints days, for their particular saints. The four busiest pilgrimage sites during the middle ages were Jerusalem, Rome, Santiago de Compostela, and Vezeley.<br />
During this time there was a gradual move away from the local saints to a wider celebration of the more "important" saints - Jesus, Mary, the Apostles, John the Baptist, and Mary Magdalene.<br />
The Eucharist came more and more to the forefront. You didn't need as many relics, or the intervention of relics, when you had the miracle of the Eucharist available to you. The Eucharist contains "the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, together with His soul and divinity, indeed the whole Christ", the body and the blood - the spiritual food of the Church.<br />
Several young female saints tried to live on the Eucharist alone, starving themselves and having visions, many of them involving becoming the bride of Christ. One of them claimed that Jesus gave her his foreskin, which she wore as a wedding ring. Catherine of Siena claimed a mystical marriage with Jesus. (her head is now on view in a cathedral in Siena, while the rest of her body is in Rome)<br />
Here is a poem that I wrote for one of these women:<br />
If, in Montefalco, I<br />
cannot say<br />
that I have you in my heart,<br />
do not be alarmed.<br />
Here Santa Chiara announced that<br />
she had manifested the <br />
True Cross in her heart.<br />
The Church, not taken with<br />
metaphor, cut open her<br />
body, searching her heart<br />
for evidence of the Cross.<br />
They now display,<br />
600 years later, her dark<br />
and fragile body.<br />
Above it, cut open and<br />
dried, her heart, and<br />
the three gallstones,<br />
announced as representing<br />
The Holy Trinity -<br />
Father, Son and Holy Spirit.<br />
In this town<br />
I dare not speak<br />
what is in my heart."<br />
<br />
There was of course pushback to relic worship from other branches of Christianity. Here is John Calvin, from his "Treatise On Relics":<br />
"The desire for relics is never without superstition, and what is worse, is usually the parent of idolatry.<br />
If we were to collect all of these pieces of the True Cross exhibited in various parts, they would form a whole ship's cargo.<br />
With regard to the milk (of Mary) there is not perhaps a town, a convent, or a nunnery where it is not shown in large or small quantities. Indeed, had the Virgin been a wet nurse her whole life, or a dairy, she could not have produced more than is shown as hers in various parts. How they obtained all this milk they do not say."<br />
And here is Mark Twain, from "Innocents Abroad"<br />
"But isn't this relic matter a little overdone? We find a piece of the True Cross in every old church we go into, and some of the nails that held it together. I would not like to be positive - but I think we have seen as much as a keg of these nails."<br />
<br />
But the relics hold power today, and the pilgrimages continue, to Rome, Jerusalem, Santiago de Compostela, Assisi, Vezeley, Lourdes, Chimayo, Sainte Anne de Beaupre in Quebec. There is a Catholic Relic Rescue organization watching for relics as they come onto the market, purchasing them and returning them to the safety of their own communities of belief.<br />
<br />
We continue to have our own relics, our holy spots and pilgrimages. Many of us see our lives as a journey, a pilgrimage, with our own holy places along the way.<br />
<br />
As a poet in Italy I have yes been to see Saint Francis, Saint Clare, Saint Catherine and Saint Anthony, but I have also been to the tomb of Dante and the birthplace of Virgil. I have gone to John Keats' apartment facing the Spanish Steps in Rome, where they keep locks of hair from Keats, Shelley and Milton, as well as a piece of Shelley's jaw.<br />
<br />
Working with the environmentalists, farmers, poets and musicians in Italy who are a part of my travels there, we have together come up with a new approach to environmental activism. We want to reinterpret the ideas of relic, sacred site, and pilgrimage from a Catholic Christian view to one which considers the sacredness of the whole planet. We talk about relic species of plant and animal, places of healing, pilgrimage to the places where the last wolves or bears or certain types of forest remain <br />
so I will close with this poem, from that experience of Italy<br />
<br />
Relics<br />
<br />
Once it was Saint Anthony's<br />
tongue in Padua, Clare's body in<br />
Assisi, bone fragments and<br />
pieces of the True Cross.<br />
Now there are remnant<br />
lowland forest relic<br />
coastal wetlands, turtles<br />
in sunlight, egrets, coots,<br />
pines. beech, mushrooms<br />
and the last few bears -<br />
the blood turned liquid,<br />
rich green moving water,<br />
saints and holy places,<br />
listening to the voice of the owl<br />
in the dark night<br />
<br />
(ascoltando la voce del gufo<br />
nella notta buia.)<br />
<br />
Gary Lawless<br />
<br />
<br />
Reading list for this talk:<br />
<br />
Bartlett, Robert - Why Can the Dead Do Such Great Things - saints and worshippers from the Martyrs to the Reformation<br />
<br />
Farley, David - An Irreverent Curiosity - in search of the Church's strangest relic in Italy's oddest town<br />
<br />
Freeman, Charles - Holy Bones, Holy Dust - how relics shaped the history of medieval Europe<br />
<br />
Geary, Patrick - Furta Sacra - theft of relics in the central Middle Ages<br />
<br />
Manseau, Peter - Rag and Bone - a journey among the world's holy dead<br />
<br />
Nickell, Joe - Looking for a Miracle - weeping icons, relics, stigmata, visions and healing cures<br />
Nickell, Joe - Relics of the Christ<br />
<br />
Rufus, Anneli - Magnificent Corpses - searching through Europe for St. Peter's head, St. Chiara's heart, St. Stephen's hand, and other saints' relics<br />
<br />
Vardey, Lucinda - Traveling With the Saints in Italy - Contemporary pilgrimages on ancient paths<br />
<br />
Weigel, George - Roman Pilgrimage - The station churches<br />
<br />
Wharton, Annabel Jane - Selling Jerusalem - relics, replicas, theme parks<br />
<br />
Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-72553598924673732862013-03-24T13:59:00.001-07:002013-03-24T14:05:35.258-07:00yarmouth library ekphrasis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://yarmouthlibrary.org/files/2013/01/Mountfort-Ridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="http://yarmouthlibrary.org/files/2013/01/Mountfort-Ridge.jpg" ssa="true" width="320" /></a></div>
Mountfort Ridge, painting by Susan Carter<br />
<br />
<br />
We quarry Light from Stone<br />
<br />
Trees becoming ghosts<br />
becoming mist<br />
becoming spirit<br />
(where do their spirits go<br />
when forests die)<br />
trees becoming light, here, shadows<br />
becoming rock<br />
blue across snow<br />
stone below<br />
becoming light<br />
<br />
What is happening to these trees<br />
What is happening to these trees<br />
<br />
granite, dreaming.<br />
<br />
poem by Gary Lawless<br />
<br />
appearing together at the Yarmouth Public Library Ekphrasis Show<br />
Poems Speaking to Silent Works of Art<br />
Yarmouth Public Library<br />
Yarmouth, Maine<br />
April 8- May 25<br />
Opening and Poetry Reading Friday, April 12, 530-800 PMGary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8933638410371269746.post-19157715894274589082012-10-20T11:32:00.002-07:002012-10-20T11:32:37.280-07:00italian chapbook<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1qe7m-VmDkU/UILtxlWUNkI/AAAAAAAAAZs/ZKU0sMBweAk/s1600/moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="253" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1qe7m-VmDkU/UILtxlWUNkI/AAAAAAAAAZs/ZKU0sMBweAk/s400/moon.jpg" /></a></div><br />
My new chapbook of poems, Buddhidharmacaribu, published in Italian and English by Lato Selvatico Libraria, Portiolo, Italia, Luglio 2012Gary Lawless and Beth Leonardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18070973798758171723noreply@blogger.com0