Monday Poem, Szymborska, in English and Polish

The Joy of Writing

poem by Wislawa Szymborska

Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence – this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word “woods.”

Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they’ll never let her get away.

Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.

They forget that what’s here isn’t life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof’s full stop.

Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?

The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand

The original poem

“Wislawa Szymborska – Poetry: Radosc pisania”. Nobelprize.org. Nobel Media AB 2013. Web. 5 Aug 2013. <http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1996/szymborska-poems-5-p.html&gt;

A Complete Unknown

http://www.rollingstone.com/culture/news/jahars-world-20130717

“Go to him now, he calls you, you can’t refuse
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You’re invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home”

This week the Texas Legislature took away from women access to affordable health care. This act took tells physicians how they can or cannot practice. This act will make someone richer, someone more smug and others scared.

This week 6 jurists found a white man not-guilty of any crime in the shooting of a young, unarmed black youth.

This week both the “Rolling Stone” and the “New York Times” used a photo of Dzhokar Tsarnev on the front covers of their journals. And while there was no uproar on social media (from where I sit) about the NYT, above the fold, color, photo, there is for the Rolling Stone.

This is a week when is it so easy to become polarized and divisive by skin, gender, religions and even geographical regions of the country.

I lived and/or worked in Boston from 1996 to 2003, my family roots are Southeastern MA. It’s where I raised my son. It is the city that I feel in my bones. So when I saw the bombing on a TV in Colorado, while at the counter in a UPS store, a ‘oh dear God’ rushed from my mouth and I babbled: I was just there. I’m from Boston. I have friends there. In order to do the task at hand I had to pull my eyes from the screen out to the snow falling outside.

We have our stories. We have our anger. We have our fears. While others are outraged by the ‘Rolling Stone” cover and article, I am not. I see a face that looks like so many young men. I see a face similar to my own boy’s at that age. I see an every-body, an anybody.

And perhaps this is one of the points of this cover. As Walt Kelly wrote decades ago in his satirical comic strip, Pogo, “We have met the enemy and he is us”

Confessions of a Transplant: Wings, West and Women

I’ve been indulging in re-watching “The West Wing”. This was a family show in our house, my husband, son and I were still a new family at the time. The show made us talk about issues and real politics. I had the pleasure of amazing actors develop roles and the lightning-flash dialog. Not to mention Martin Sheen, an actor I’ve admired since childhood.

As a girl, my parents were sure to mention that Martin Sheen was a Catholic, and how he created his acting name from Rev. Fulton Sheen.  And the character Jeb Bartlett, played by Sheen, is a devout Catholic.  I’ve always wondered why the creator of this show had this strong thread within the show. Could be simply that it adds a bit of gravitas to the show, so it’s for drama’s sake, but I’m inclined to think that it came from character development with Mr. Sheen. And the audience, getting to look behind the fictitious doors at the White House, wants to see a spiritually centered president.

It’s fun to see how technology has grown since this show. The characters have cell phones with antennas and separate pagers. The computers are large CRT screens, only CJ seems to have a laptop and you don’t see her carrying it around. This TV president nominates a Latino for the Supreme Court, albeit a male, but it is a step.

But what made me pause right now between episodes on a Friday night is my ‘aha!’ moment.  I’ve been keenly aware this past year or so, that women access to health care is shriveling. Use the term “legitimate rape” uttered by elected officials who are lawyers, who know, should know, that rape of any kind is a felony.  I had hoped that this disturbing course of thought in our day to day culture would evaporate after the Presidential election but it did not.

Watching this television show, created in a time when traditional networks crafted beautiful programs and gave them time to take hold, I see our future. I see where we are and why women of all kinds and colors are being attacked again only for our gender, and that is the Republican Party is afraid the next president will be a woman.  It may be they fear, distrust Hilary Clinton.  I don’t know.  But it’s really fun to think about stealing their thunder.

Confessions of a Transplant: Rape, My Story.

I am a feminist. I am not a victim of anyone’s politics. I am a mother, daughter, sister, grandmother and friend. I will stand up and not be shut up. I am a human being, a citizen of the United States, and a damn fine cook. I take great pleasure in voting. I believe in a higher power and the Constitution. I think these entities are separate: one governs my spiritual life, the other my corporeal rights.

Rape is an act of violence and against all laws proscribed by human beings. I was ‘date-raped’ at 23 and for years I thought I did something wrong. I ran in my head a litany of shoulds and coulds. I blamed myself and internally I thought I was ugly and ‘used’.

It happened at a huge house party in a small city in Massachusetts. I did not report it because I took me years to call it rape. When I left the party I told a girlfriend, she said to me: “Isn’t that what you wanted?” For years I had no women friends. I let no one in. I told no one. I spent the next five years in a relationship with a man where everything looked fine on the outside.

When he slapped me around. I ended it. My mother didn’t understand why I could leave someone with a good job and nice care. I got therapy and started going to 12 step meetings. This redeemed my life. Gave me a guide back to myself. Taught me what it is to be loved and how to love. It taught me how to trust.

Every time I hear the word RAPE used on television like it’s nothing I get sick to my stomach. Every time I see the word on FB or social networking as a meme. I get angry. I fear the ignorance spewed on progressive and conservative news outlets. I applaud the doctors willing to take of all of women’s medical needs.

Carrying a fetus to term from an act of violence is not a choice. . . it is morally reprehensible. I know what choice is. I chose to be a mother, single, at 20. And I thank God everyday that I am a Mom.

I am your sister. I am your mother. I am your cousin. I am your wife. I am your friend. I am any one. I am everyone. And I scare people with my resilience.

 

Note to those who know me. . .you probably don’t know this about me.  I am sorry that you hear this story from this post. But I have grown more weary and more angry these past few weeks. I hope you understand. . .  enough is enough. I can no longer be so silent.

Organized thoughts of my Unorthodox Faith (1)

My sister was here for a good long visit this summer. Part of the visit was to give her space to sort through some serious life-stuff and part of the visit was to be with me. And it could be said that our relationship is life-stuff but we’re on the up-side of stuff.

My sister identifies herself as born-again Christian, socially conservative, hippy-Mom and former physical therapist. While she was here she showed me a book that she was re-reading, Christy by Catharine Marshall. I remembered the book around the house when we were much younger but I didn’t know that it was a book that gave shape and words to her own faith.

The following poem is the price of writing that helped shape my own faith. It is not one of the world’s great poems but to an eleven year old who was in love with the obvious music of older poems, it had a great impact for it was an echo from the little Catholic church we were raised in: “do unto others”. . .”faith without works”. . .”love thy neighbor”.

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
“What writest thou?” —The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still, and said “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

I know now this Abou is probably Arabic, and/or Muslim.  I rather like that in fact. Years after that poem was just a part of my mind, I worked for a couple of years in a Jewish deli where I came to know the holidays and customs of that faith. (I also picked up a bit of Yiddish.)  Time in anonymous meetings lifted me out of dogma and into a self-defined faith.

What we have together as sisters is a faith in each other and a deep understanding of who we once were, and where we are going. Perhaps this is a by-product of being in our 50’s but I know it’s more for we have had very hard times. We’ve gone long time without speaking and when we did it was difficult.  Today, we laugh and dance and sip wine watching food shows. ;lkio

Confessions of a Transplant: A True Digression, Hobo Code

From my friends and fellow fans of Flash Pulp (http://flashpulp.com) comes this fascinating list of ethics for a time that seems long ago.  And tho I am supposed to be working on my children’s book, this just seemed like a great time to post a digression because this is what writers do. . . or is it poets

Hobo (ethical) code

An ethical code was created by Tourist Union #63 during its 1889 National Hobo Convention in St. Louis Missouri.[11] This code was voted upon as a concrete set of laws to govern the Nation-wide Hobo Body; it reads this way:

1.    Decide your own life, don’t let another person run or rule you.
2.    When in town, always respect the local law and officials, and try to be a gentleman at all times.
3.    Don’t take advantage of someone who is in a vulnerable situation, locals or other hobos.
4.    Always try to find work, even if temporary, and always seek out jobs nobody wants. By doing so you not only help a business along, but ensure employment should you return to that town again.
5.    When no employment is available, make your own work by using your added talents at crafts.
6.  Do not allow yourself to become a stupid drunk and set a bad example for locals’ treatment of other hobos.
7.   When jungling in town, respect handouts, do not wear them out, another hobo will be coming along who will need them as bad, if not worse than you.
8.   Always respect nature, do not leave garbage where you are jungling.
9.    If in a community jungle, always pitch in and help.
10.   Try to stay clean, and boil up wherever possible.
11.   When traveling, ride your train respectfully, take no personal chances, cause no problems with the operating crew or host railroad, act like an extra crew member.
12.   Do not cause problems in a train yard, another hobo will be coming along who will need passage through that yard.
13.   Do not allow other hobos to molest children, expose all molesters to authorities, they are the worst garbage to infest any society.
14.   Help all runaway children, and try to induce them to return home.
15.   Help your fellow hobos whenever and wherever needed, you may need their help someday.
16    If present at a hobo court and you have testimony, give it. Whether for or against the accused, your voice counts!