Dancing with Myself

He took the words right out of my mouth.

"We have before us in the White House a thief who steals the country's good name and reputation for his private interest and personal use; a liar who seeks to instill in the American people a state of fear; a televangelist who engages the United States in a never-ending crusade against all the world's evil, a wastrel who squanders a vast sum of the nation's wealth on what turns out to be a recruiting drive certain to multiply the host of our enemies. In a word, a criminal—known to be armed and shown to be dangerous." - Lewis H. Lapham, The Case for Impeachment, Harpers Magazine, March 2006

Holy Sonnet XIV by John Donne

Holy Sonnet XIV: Batter My Heart, Three-Personed God

John Donne

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labor to admit you, but O, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
but is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy.
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again;
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor even chaste, except you ravish me.

Poetry on Fridays

Last evening, roommate and I saw the San Francisco Symphony, conducted by Michael Tilson Thomas, perform Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.  It received a standing ovation, in part because it was performed so well; in part because it's everyone's favorite.  It also contains what is probably the only German poem with which most of us are familiar, Friedrich von Schiller's Ode to Joy.   I present it to you this morning as my selection for Poetry on Fridays because, well frankly, I can't get it out of my head.  This is actually the libretto from the  Ninth Symphony.  The words in italics indicate changes from the original poem.  Schilller wrote that "beggers become the brothers of princes" and Beethoven changed it to "all men become brothers" [Alle Menschen werden Brüder].  I'm sure he would have said "all humans become one family" if he were writing it today. 

O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!

Sondern laßt uns angenehmere

anstimmen und freudenvollere.

Freude!

Freude, schöner Götterfunken

Tochter aus Elysium,

Wir betreten feuertrunken,

Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!

Deine Zauber binden wieder

Was die Mode streng geteilt;

Alle Menschen werden Brüder,

[Schillers Originalfassung:

Was der Mode Schwert geteilt;

Bettler werden Fürstenbrüder,]

Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

Wem der große Wurf gelungen,

Eines Freundes Freund zu sein;

Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,

Mische seinen Jubel ein!

Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele

Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!

Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle

Weinend sich aus diesem Bund!

Freude trinken alle Wesen

An den Brüsten der Natur;

Alle Guten, alle Bösen

Folgen ihrer Rosenspur.

Küsse gab sie uns und Reben,

Einen Freund, geprüft im Tod;

Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,

Und der Cherub steht vor Gott.

Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen

Durch des Himmels prächt'gen Plan,

Laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn,

Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen.

Seid umschlungen, Millionen!

Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt!

Brüder, über'm Sternenzelt

Muß ein lieber Vater wohnen.

Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?

Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?

Such' ihn über'm Sternenzelt!

Über Sternen muß er wohnen.

In English

O friends, no more of such sounds!

Let us rather intone more pleasant and joyful ones

 

Joy!

Joy, beautiful spark of God,

Daughter of Elysium,

We enter, fire-drunk,

Heavenly, your shrine.

Your magic reunites

That which custom has strongly split;

All humans will become brothers

[Schiller's original:

What custom's sword has parted;

Beggars become princes' brothers]

Where your soft wing whiles.

Whoever has succeeded in the great attempt

To be a friend of a friend;

Whoever has achieved a lovely wife

Mix in your joy!

Yes, also whoever only one soul

Calls his own around the world!

And whoever has never known of this,

Steal away crying out of this group!

All beings drink joy

At the breasts of nature;

All the good, all the bad

Follow her trail of roses.

She gave us kisses and vines,

A friend, proven in death;

Great pleasure was given to the worm,

And the cherub stands before God.

Glad, like his sun flies

Through heaven's splendid plan,

Run, brothers, your race,

Joyful, like a hero to the victory.

Be embraced, millions!

This kiss to all the world!

Brothers, over the starry firmament

Must live a loving father.

Do you bow down, millions?

Do you sense the Creator, world?

Seek him beyond the starry firmament!

He must dwell beyond the stars.

Poetry on Fridays

This poem has special meaning to me.  It was twenty years ago and I was madly in love.  I spent the summer in Vienna with my beloved.  He recited this and many other poems to me.  I had not thought of German as a romantic language before that summer.

                  Under den Linden

          by Walter von der Vogelweide

Under der linden an der heide,

dâ unser zweier bette was,

dâ mugt ir vinden

schône beide gebrochen bluomen unde gras.

vor dem walde in einem tal -

tandaradei!

schöne sanc die nachtigal.

Ich kam gegangen zuo der ouwe,

dô was mîn friedel komen ê.

da wart ich enpfangen hêre frouwe,

daz ich bin sælic iemer mê.

kuster mich? wol tûsenstunt!

tandaradei!

seht, wie rôt mir ist der munt.

Dô het er gemachet also riche

von bluomen eine bettestat.

des wird noch gelachet innecliche,

kumt iemen an daz selbe pfat.

bî den rôsen er wol mac -

tandaradei!

merken, wâ mirz houbet lac.

Daz er bî mir læge, wessez iemen,

- nu enwelle got - sô schamt ich mich.

wes er mit mir pflæge, niemer niemen

bevinde daz wan er unt ich

und ein kleinez vogellîn!

tandaradei!

daz mag wol getriuwe sîn.

In English

Under the linden
in the heather
that's where our double bed was.
There you'd find
lovingly broken
both the flowers and the grass.
Down in the valley, down by the wood,
heigh de ho!
you should have heard the nightingale!

I came down,
down to the meadow:
my love was already there.
And he received me,
lady, lady,
now I'm happy all the time.
Did we kiss? A thousandfold,
heigh de ho!
look how red my mouth is!

And there he made,
really pretty,
he made a bed out of flowers.
Now anybody'd laugh,
laugh to themself,
if they were to come along that path.
In the roses you can see,
heigh de ho,
see where he made love to me.

That he lay by me
if anybody found out,
oh, God, I'd be ashamed!
But what we did
nobody'll ever
know but him and me,
and the nightingale, heigh de ho,
but birds don't tell!

Translated from Mittelhochdeutsch by Robert S. Richmond

Better late than never, Poetry on Fridays

Ladies and gentlemen,  my newest blog buddy, Fragile Industries, is doing double duty, in that her poem for this Friday, by our mutually favorite poet, Lisa Lorea, is also my selected poem for Poetry on Friday.  Lisa was considered by the Bay Guardian to be the best poet in San Francisco one of those years in the middle 90s.  To my mind, she is one of the best poets whom I know. 

What makes the gibberish of one suffering soul rise to the level of poetry rather than just be considered to be someone's mad rantings without meter or rhyme?  I'm not sure, you tell me.  While you're making up your mind, go read the poem selected for Poetry on Friday by Fragile Industries, Junkshop by Lisa Lorea.  Like someone said once, I'm not sure what art is, but I know what I like.
 

Poetry on Fridays

No poet has touched my life as profoundly as Dietrich Bonhoeffer. 

A Poem from Prison: "Who Am I?" 
[I have re-spaced and lined this poem.  I think Dietrich would approve.]       

Who am I?

They often tell me I would step from my cell's confinement calmly,
cheerfully,
firmly,
like a squire from his country-house.

Who am I?

They often tell me I would talk to my warden freely and friendly and clearly,
as though it were mine to command.

Who am I?

They also tell me I would bear the days of misfortune equably,
smilingly, proudly, like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which other men tell of,
or am I only what  I know of myself,
restless and longing and sick,
like a bird in a cage,
struggling for breath,
as though hands were compressing my throat,
yearning for colors,
for flowers,
for the voices of birds,
thirsting for words of kindness,
for neighborliness,
trembling with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation,
tossing in expectation of great events,
powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
weary and empty at praying,
at thinking,
at making,
faint and ready to say farewell to it all.

Who am I?

This or the other?
Am I one person today,
and tomorrow another?          
Am I both at once?
A hypocrite before others,
and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,          
fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I?

They mock me,
these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am,          
Thou knowest, O God,
I am thine.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer was murdered by the Nazis on April 9, 1945, ostensibly  for his participation in the smuggling of a few Jews to Switzerland.  A mon avis, in my humble opinion, he was one of the most powerful spiritual forces in the late twentieth century.

      

Accepting Diversity

Time to 'fess up. Lately, I've been more tolerant of Moonies and Scientologists than I have been of my own cousins in Texas who are Republican identified and who think George W. Bush is an apostle sent by God himself to lead us from our present condition to salvation. I have a real hard time with that because I don't even think the fucker's a Christian. How do you deal with ignorance and remain loving? My extended family in Texas like me, they really do. I have indulged them over the past thirty years or so by giving them enough of me to like and love, yet keeping the part (my homosexuality) that made them uncomfortable out of sight, so to speak. I am no longer interested in indulging them. I want them to know just how intolerant I have become of their ignorance, their narrow-minded, homophobic, Baptist-laden shit. Why am I so angry at them?

Besides my family, I have friends in Texas to whom I have not spoken in over a year. I tell everyone who asks that I cannot talk to my friend without yelling at her, so I'd rather she think me rude for not speaking than to know me to be rude for screaming at her about how stupid I think she is. Obviously, I am taking this all much too seriously.

I'm more than willing to respect them for having a different opinion than I do, but I'm very disappointed at their low standards for leadership of their side. I don't give a rat's ass if you're liberal or conservative, but lying to people is a violation of the public trust. If they're not lying they're delusional. That does not make me feel any better.

Anyone got any advice on how to get along with idiots and bigots whom you love but whom you can't stand?

Poetry on Fridays

Sonnet 29
by William Shakespeare

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

I do think Will knew a thing or two about love.

Poetry on Friday

This is a photograph of a painting by Mary Henrikson, a good friend of mine in Ketchikan, Alaska. The painting is titled, Whaler. It was part of a show which she called Only One Ship is Seeking Us, which is based on a line from the poem I've chosen for today. This is for Mary.

Next Please
by Philip Larkin

... We think each ship will heave to and unload all
the good into our lives,

All we are owed for waiting so devotedly and so
long
But we are wrong.

Only one ship is seeking us, a black-sailed
unfamiliar,
Towing at her back a huge and birdless silence. In
her wake,
No waters break.

Poetry on Fridays (Better late than never)

By Carl Sandburg

"Get off this estate.
What for?
Because it is mine.
Where did you get it?
From my father.
Where did he get it?
From his father.
And where did he get it?
He fought for it.
Well, I’ll fight you for it."

Does anyone know if this really is by Carl Sandburg? I remember it from way, way back in my life. I searched for it today and didn't find anything conclusive. It resonates in my mind as one of the more important ideas I have ever incorporated into my being. But that's another story.