Friday, February 14, 2014
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Ambient light from night skiing at Snow Bowl lets us walk Hosmer Pond and Ragged Mountain in driving snow, our snowshoes topping fresh several inches with measured gate.
Storms let us wander aimless through troughs and tendrils of northeast blow, free of memory, no worn trail but the steps we make surrounded by laden branches and open edges off-ice where houselights shoulder through wet flakes swirling.erodes the line between being and place becomes the place of being time and sothe house turns in the snow is why a ghost always has the architecture of a stormThe architect tore down room after room until the sound stopped. A ghost is oneamong the ages at the edge of a cliff empty sails on the bay even when a shipor the house moves off in fog asks you out loud to let the stranger in(Poem by Cole Swensen, b.1955, from Gravesend, c.2012)
If you think, ‘I love this,’ it is ok, it being the eve it is.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Monday, February 10, 2014
I read the background this morning:
In July 2012, Shabani and the four others arrested with him were sentenced to death on charges of Moharebeh (“waging war on God”), sowing corruption on earth, acting against national security, and spreading propaganda against the Islamic Republic. (--Wikipedia)
Then the news:
An Arab-Iranian poet and human rights activist, Hashem Shaabani, has been executed for being an "enemy of God" and threatening national security, according to local human rights groups.Shaabani and a man named Hadi Rashedi were hanged in unidentified prison on January 27, rights groups have said. (--Aljazeera)
... ... ...
An email arrives this morning: “It is with great sadness that I share the news that Cynthia Seefahrt died yesterday.” She was, (when) well, known, to us at meetingbrook.
I hear these two pieces of news.
As dull thuds.
Falling: The Code
(--by Li-Young Lee)
Through the night
outside my window
one by one let go
their branches and
drop to the lawn.
I can’t see, but hear
the stem-snap, the plummet
through leaves, then
the final thump against the ground.
at once, or one
right after another.
During long moments of silence
I waitand wonder about the bruised bodies,
the terror of diving through air, and
think I’ll go tomorrow
to find the newly fallen, but they
all look alike lying there
dewsoaked, disappearing before me.
I lie beneath my window listening
to the sound of apples dropping in
the yard, a syncopated code I long to know,
which continues even as I sleep, and dream I know
the meaning of what I hear, each dull
thud of unseen apple-
body, the earth
falling to earth
once and forever, over
(Poem by Li-Young Lee, “Falling: The Code” from Rose.)
Sunday, February 09, 2014
Thus says the Lord:
Share your bread with the hungry
and shelter the homeless poor,
clothe the man you see to be naked
and do not turn from your own kin.
Then will your light shine like the dawn
and your wound be quickly healed over.
Your integrity will go before you
and the glory of the Lord behind you.
Cry, and the Lord will answer;
call, and he will say, ‘I am here.’
If you do away with the yoke,
the clenched fist, the wicked word,
if you give your bread to the hungry,
and relief to the oppressed,
your light will rise in the darkness,
and your shadows become like noon.