Zoo Zooming
I’m off to see the monkeys now,
The ibex, the Tibetan cow,
The tortoise, hippo, kangaroo—
But if you think it’s to the zoo
I’m heading out, you’re incorrect—
I’m off to feed my intellect
Not in the jungle nearby found,
But where the animals are bound
In paper quarters, for you see,
I’m headed for the library.
Some artworks defy the passing of long ages not only as physical objects but also as ideas and images that transcend trends and tastes. One that captured my imagination long ago and has never grown dull or fallen from my affections is a carved stone portrait of a child, created in the fifteenth century by a sculptor mellifluously named Desiderio da Settignano (de Bartolomeo di Francesco detto Ferro). My computer wishes that I would change the unknown word “Desiderio” to “Desire,” and indeed, it is as though the artist had infused the marble of his sculpture with such mystical attraction, a heightened, time-proof version of the natural affection for a child’s inner beauty that can surpass the strength of his individual name or origins or place in time.
In recognition of both that species-perpetuating endearment and the accomplishment of the artist in capturing it, I wrote a pair of dedicated meditations.
Perpetual Haunts
Children always know where danger lies—the goblin in the corner who’ll surprise
And bite you on the ankles as you pass—grownups forget to fear it, though, alas!
For in the passage of the years they’ve grown to fear only the earthly, and bemoan
Mere politics and taxes, while a child retains the wisdom that the brute and wild
Still hides among the passages of day, waiting to snag unwary young at play.
On Halloween, adults recall but faint and humorous details of ancient taint
And treachery, the light dust, if you will, of ghostly tracks upon the windowsill
Or campfire tales meant less to warn than joke at quaking children by the fires’ smoke,
Forgetting that what was, remains still here: the monster that can swallow all is Fear.
Thank goodness parents and neighbors have the blessed invention of earplugs to get them through our first attempts at singing and playing instruments. I can honestly say that after at least five years of piano lessons, fifteen of singing in choirs and ensembles, and over eighteen of being married to a professional musician, I am still unable to read music properly, barely being able to follow a score when more able musicians are doing all of the singing, playing, and conducting. After enough years of dealing with Spasmodic Dysphonia, I’m not even very dependable for singing a note very tunefully on cue. But, as it’s said, I’ve still got decent ears. So I, too, own earplugs. Just in case. And I apologize, retroactively, to everyone who didn’t have them handy when my noisemaking might have required such intervention.
I know it’s generally preferred that scientists take a detached and dispassionate approach to their subjects so as not to skew their studies or experimental data, but I rather think that even entomologists should show a little respect for their subjects. But kids will be kids. Also, I happen to know from my own youth that if you let on that you find something creepy or gross, it’s pretty much guaranteed that some other child will eventually figure out how to use it to torture you. Kids are charming that way.
It takes strength to maintain the goodwill and generosity that creates true bonds between people—individually and corporately. But through that steadfastness is the best path to peace and wholeness, a consummation devoutly to be wished.
River of Stars
A river made of silver stars with sapphire deeps below,
The sweet compassion of the heart is ceaseless in its flow—
A font of healing, kindness, care; a waterfall of grace;
A draught to slake the deepest thirst; and with it, keeping pace,
Persistent hope, watered withal, along its banks to grow,
To bloom as peace, compassion’s flow’r, where starry rivers flow.
When the mind is particularly recalcitrant and thought refuses to bubble to the surface, what am I to do? Why, curse the dis-ease just a little, and then put my brainlessness to work at doing the Nothing it is so fond of doing anyway. I can hope that some sense will accidentally fall into place, but at the least, I’ll have enjoyed myself with a little ridiculous exercise of the inner sort.
My subject in today’s poem is identified as a woman, but mainly because the pronoun ‘her’ fit the text that was already emerging in the sonnet. In my heart, the subject is meant to honor all of my friends and acquaintances [regardless of persuasion] who have battled, or are still battling, their way up from the abysses of fear, anxiety, depression, abuse, or any form of personal darkness, whether inwardly generated or externally imposed. What you have done, and are doing, is powerful. What you can do may be more than you, or I, or anyone can possibly yet imagine. Continue your journeys upward, my friends. Sing from the branches of the Tree of Life for a change. Newness can be a beautiful thing!
From Her Grave
Arising from the heart of silent night,
the poignant voice of one whose singular
accomp’niment was always, only, her
own shadow, takes the unaccustomed flight—
Ascending, she now meets the morning sun
and hears at last a sound she’d never heard;
the brilliant singing of a splendid bird,
a song that chases shadows, ev’ry one—
And hers, along with all the shadows, flies;
now wakened, she is free to wholly shed
her residence in shade among the dead
and fly up, singing gladly, to the skies—
So freed, she dares to trust her new-fledged wing
to raise up others from their dark to sing.
A happy, healthy and hopeful New Year to everyone!
Art-Colored Glasses 