A Tale of Two Walls

 

Unexpectedly, spectacular in its bitter resolve
to remain there, squatting mercilessly
as the symbol of irreconcilability
it suddenly, miraculously imploded on itself
collapsing, leaving a host of dazzled
confused, triumphant prisoners
to emerge, the light of freedom realized
settling into consciousness like the
heavens themselves revealed. Free at last.

Echoes of another, earlier release
from brutal bondage barely recognized
memories of the living dead released
from death camps. How precise is this irony
that the murderously irenic-averse
population complicit with the annihilation
of the pestilential Jews among them
suffered themselves a dim shadow of the
relentlessly mortal agony of official genocide.

The cleansing of the community
the nation, the continent and ultimately
the world, of the existence of predatory
power-assertive, controlling Jews.
Shakespeare would have thrilled to
this moral dilemma, the bleak humour
the black destiny, the upheaval
and the clever disposal of so many
throwaway lives, from infants to
three-legged doddering babblers.

Yet another anniversary; that which presaged
the cruel turmoil, the incessant slaughter
signified by shards of gleaming glass, goes
yet unacknowledged. There are the usual
preliminary dark clouds gathering on the
endless horizon of man's inhumanity to its own.
Another Kristallnacht abetted by the demonic
slander that soils the atmosphere. Perish
the very thought! But all the symptoms, the
signposts point unerringly there.

The dissenters - all those whose livid hatred
of surviving world Jewry become now citizens
of their very own land, their sovereign country -
speak of their own truth; their resurgent bigotry
has found its very own theme to augment
The Protocols, with another wall of desperation.
This one separating not a single nation with
polarizing ideologies, but two separate nations
one of which designs to obliterate the other
while proclaiming itself the sad victim, the
other the evil damned-by-acclamation occupier. 

 

 

Our Selves

Suspended in the primal aqueous
security of our mothers' wombs
we take presence in the genetic soup
that forms us, absorb our mothers'
plaintive whispers of accented fear
experience beyond memory the pain
and anguish that will mark our days.

Leavened by primordial nature's
ever-evolving displays of being
and the opportunities we are enjoined
to grasp, complementing destinies
fulfilling souls' desires. In the process
finding elusive pleasures. Discovering
possibilities, clasping them close
and in a lifetime hurling ourselves
into the future, the reality of life.

Neatly side-stepping when we may
the imperial realities of all existence that
inform and forewarn us, even while
we studiously look elsewhere
preferentially remain oblivious
to that long and steady journey
an imperative we cannot deny.

But then, why linger on the distant
inevitability when we can take comfort
in the meaningful present. Impressions are
what form our memory, our being,
clasped close to the heart of who we are.
While we are here, the who and what we
are is what must consume our being. 

 

 

A Plenitude of Gifts

 

There is a gossamer fragility
to the early morning sun sending tentative
filaments of light through the forest
emptied of its canopy
on this late winter day. That old
Master Craftsman has ventured
from his faraway hills to try his
creative hand at sculpting.

Frost delicately etches this landscape.
Priceless crystals rest upon leafage
encrusting the forest floor
where sun's fingers emblazon them
with an exquisite fire.
Wherever the eye strays
on bark, a revealed trail, lichen
fungi or wind-tossed branches
all carefully limned, white-washed.

Strands of glistening white ice
intertwine robustly as though carelessly
flung over fallen twigs. A magical display
soon to dissolve as the sun gains confidence
warmth, resolve. Then, crystals disappear
and all remains washed, brightening
faded glory of early spring tinctures.

A raven, silent and wide-winged
passes above, settles quietly
crowning the mast of an ancient pine.
Nuthatches call, flitting among
chattering chickadees. Squirrels
begin their quotidian treasure hunt
foraging, scrabbling, harassing one

another, intent on winter survival.

 

 

Introspection

 

Just into her teens
she is already struggling
with the perversity of
human relations, the sad
and pernicious disabilities
that young people cling to
refusing to clarify their own
thoughts, synthesize information
to reach intelligible and
just conclusions.

Why, she wonders,
speaking to her Jewish
grandparents, would some of her
classmates confidentially whisper
that Hitler was really a Jew?

And how strange it is that a
longtime friend whom she has
regularly helped deliver papers
expects her help, yet never
acknowledges it, by a nod
of appreciation?

And how confusing it is when
she cannot speak to a friend
about things that bother
for fear of offending
yet others exhibit no
such inhibitions?

Why is it that those who
are not team players
still claim their share of
a team's efforts?

And how odd it is that a friend
who never returned a
valued book, remarked in
astonishment "you already
had that one", seeing a
replacement hugged close;
no acknowledgement of her
casual shrugged "lost it".

And after all, shouldn't friends
be devoted to one another?
Able to speak with trust
and confidence, feeling
they will be understood,
trust reciprocated?

Is this carefully choreographed
dance of artful neglect friendship?

Long possessed of a healthy
sense of natural justice
evidence of the ignorance of
rudeness, incivility and bigotry
offend and perplex her.

Her future ambition: law and justice. 

 

 

Silently

Silently, cresting the blue bowl
of the sky, the snow goose
spreads wide its wings
loftily gliding in its
mundane ecstasy of flight
this mid-November day.

Well below, sturdy masts
of gnarled old pines stir in the
prevailing, insistent wind.
In the depths of the woods
stir creatures of the wild.

An owl, unperturbed or
deliberately unmindful of
anguished, irate shrieks of hawks
the racketing of mobbing crows.
He roosts, in a tree crook
master of surveillance
to swoop when he cares to
upon un-vigilant mice, hare
voles and birds not of his
distinguished feather.

Oblivious to the riotous drama
woodpeckers clang lustily
on trunks of spruce, pine, fir.
The lunatic peal of the Pileated
rents the atmosphere.

Signalling arrival of dark
scudding clouds obliterating
the wavering, late-afternoon
sun. Soon, ice pellets strike
against the landscape.
The chattering of nuthatches,
chickadees, waver, then still.

The lion of winter testing his
imminent arras. The season resists,
damping winter's ardour. Sleet
turned to innocuous rain,
thrilling the primeval moulds
mosses, lichens and ferns.

Look, there - on the forest floor
a body, swiftly decaying.
Its red breast and sadly
dishevelled feathers a mass
of compost to enrich the
leaf-dense, richly damp earth.
Tardy migration has its price.

Silence reigns. 

 

Lost In a Literary Reverie

 

Though expectations can collapse

you can so often tell a book
by its cover, if not its widespread coverage.
The comfort and anticipation of
hefting a voluminous promise inherent
in the prospect of another reading
opportunity to open the mind
introduce the reader to new concepts
words cleverly manipulated to convey
meaning hitherto never suspected.

The awe felt at the storytelling prowess
of some minds drenched with the capacity
to invite readers into the mysteries
of life seen in ways fey and clever
beyond belief; but not quite beyond
as we suspend mundane faculties
so given to incredulity and lose ourselves
in the bends and twists of a creative
process whose Muse has triumphed.

Is there any greater pleasure than the
expectation of losing oneself in a landscape
explored by a skillful creationist,
unhesitatingly transcribed for our
delectation in fantasy and fact
drawing us ever closer into an arras
of human emotions we may have
noted but never quite remotely reached
shielded by the soft save haven
of our own protected lives?

Each book sends a shiver of expectation
over our minds, into our very souls.
Each an exquisite jewel of the imagination
transporting, elevating, entertaining, instructing
us in the ways of Nature and the nature
of humankind; occasionally absent
the kind. How utterly droll. 

 

Language Introspection

 

Examine Language; what, if you except some few primitive elements (of natural sound) what is it all but Metaphors, recognized as such, or no longer recognized? Carlyle.

All slang is metaphor, and all metaphor is poetry. G. K. Chesterton.

I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor. Byron.

Language is the archives of history. Emerson.

Language - human language - after all is but little better than the croak and cackle of fowls, and other utterances of brute nature - sometimes not so adequate. Hawthorne.

Every language is a temple, in which the soul of those who speak it is enshrined. O.W. Holmes.

Languages are the pedigrees of nations. Samuel Johnson.

It is quite simply not so, that old conceit that a picture is worth a thousand words. We convey more meaning by the language we use and the way in which we use it than a picture possibly could. If words are not intrinsically vital to who and what we are, why then do we flagellate ourselves over our failures, when we had the opportunity, to express our deep emotional attachment in words that matter, to those we cherish?

The written word is solid, not ephemeral, like an image, fleeting and of the moment. That may or may not be recalled; certainly never in the fine detail that meticulous and loving description can describe through the use of language, words.

Words convey the robustness of keen observation, the delicacy of fine thought, and every variation of each. Words are the expressive heart of our collective souls. Their meaning can present as gossamer-light, tickling sensibilities, or bracingly emphatic, moving us to alert response.

All living things have their expressions of being, their language known to themselves; from whales to crickets, robins to elephants. Unlike humankind they cannot share the exquisite pleasure of reading their history, recalling their predecessors, sharing creative imagination. We have been especially gifted. We homo sapiens sapiens, modern humankind.

Pity the persons - and they are legion - illiterate, incapable of deep expression of drawing deeply from the peerless draught of world knowledge. To them remains the irrelevancies of mutely peering at moving pictures. Can they realize the full thinking potential that is a human life?

Think of descriptives, how they limn the individual by the nomenclature human verbal ingenuity has evolved to describe individuality: repugnant, resourceful, comical, tempestuous, covert, beguiling, benign, brilliant, avuncular, mystical, iconic, solicitous, evanescent, fragile, contemptuous, grovelling, malleable, mesmerizing, compelling, bestial, autocratic, miserable, mischievous, creative, bumptious, fearful, tragic, snivelling, riotous, joyful, youthful, grim, aged, beautiful, serene, contemplative, scornful, tendentious, manipulative, scheming, loving, overbearing, intrepid, wise, lethargic, buoyant, uncompromising, tender, wistful.

Any one of these words, or in combination with one another paint an instantly recognizable personality, type, shape, appearance. In the mind of the reader, or the recipient of the verbal description, there is clear and cogent recognition of type and stereotype. Can a picture adequately portray those idiosyncrasies of temperament and behaviour?

Abrasive, sardonic, surly, repressed, calm, assertive, dominating, obsessive, obsequious, dismissive, genial, all descriptive nomenclature identifying and delineating human character, instantly conjuring opinion and observation at a remove; introducing personality. Sweeping the reader into a state of personal presence, through the charmed recognition of the nature of language.

Language challenges us in other ways, as well, as instruments to offend, to hurt, to bully. Belligerent and violent it can most certainly be, adversarial in the extreme, leading the listener or the reader to profound conclusions and encouraging them to match those words in self-defence, meeting offence. The antidote for that kind of language is expressed as compassion, patience, acceptance and understanding. Language has led to war and it has led to peace. It can confound and it can clarify. Invite or reject, bring anger or solace.

It speaks of our common interests yet often fails to ignite a necessary passion among antagonists to surmount differences. But if carefully and honestly constructed it has the capacity to close wounds and narrow great chasms of mistrust.

Language and how we use or abuse it, is a reflection of who we are, our desires and aspirations; our humanity, failed or triumphant. It is our responsibility to value its potential and to use it well; creatively, carefully, reflectively and honourably with conviction and respect.

And to value its capacity to elevate the human spirit, imbue us with hope. Transport us to a better place inside our minds, very often outside our immediate experiences.

Language is the memory of the human race. It is as a thread or nerve of life running through all the ages, connecting them into one common, prolonged and advancing existence. William Smith.

Language is the amber in which a thousand precious and subtle thoughts have been safely embedded and preserved. R. C. Trench.

Language is the expression of ideas, and if the people of one country cannot preserve an identity of ideas they cannot retain an identity of language. Noah Webster.

The style of an author should be the image of his mind, but the choice and command of language is the fruit of exercise. Edward Gibbon.

Man acts as though he were the shaper and master of language while in fact language remains the master of man. Martin Heidegger.