Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Etymology: also malarky, “lies and exaggerations,” 1924,
Amer. Eng., of unknown origin; also a surname.
You say a large, dark weasel? or was it a mink?
& you stared at each other in mutual disbelief?
I believe you more than I believe
the chronically hyperbolic—
untruths that spring from the mouths
of those with aspirations to lead.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
So now I know it’s not really going to get easier. But perhaps it can keep becoming more fluid. Perhaps I can feel my way into the ephemerality of every hard moment.
Somehow the ephemerality of the happy moments, the strong ones, the softly joyful ones, is always to the fore. But it’s not just the good bits, it’s all of it: here, blink, gone. Hard, but not fixed; never lengthy; a flickering, ever-changing string of moments.
I increasingly wonder if the enormity of confronting this is what lies behind so much of human madness, cruelty, masochism; behind our obsessive need to build boxes, lock our own cell doors as well as other people’s.
My neighbor’s mother wandered into the hall at three a.m.
Spending the weekend at a daughter’s house, had she forgotten
she wasn’t in her one-floor flat beside the river?
Was she looking for the bathroom when she fell down the stairs?
She spent the weekend with family and friends, yet often forgot;
I too have heard her repeat the same story, tell it over again.
Looking for the bathroom which wasn’t at the bottom of the stairs,
she slipped and fell; her fragile bones sailed headlong into the dark.
I too get stuck in the same stories: I tell them over and over again.
Even the birds sing just two wistful notes, in the rushes by the river.
Old leaves, new flowers— the trees are yellow-gold with sudden shimmer;
see how they change before our eyes. And my neighbor’s mother has flown away.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
We hadn’t planned our Adirondacks camping trip to coincide with the peak of fall color — in fact, my hiking buddy Lucy and I hadn’t really thought about it at all, because we see the fall foliage display every year, and we knew that if we didn’t catch it at its peak there, we’d certainly see it here. We just wanted to show Rachel one of our favorite places. (It also didn’t hurt that another blogger friend happened to live less than two hours away.) Hell, we were even foolish enough to think the campgrounds would be virtually deserted, as they had been the last time we’d visited the Adirondacks in October. No such luck.
Instead, we found ourselves hopping from campsite to campsite as spots became open in what had otherwise been a fully booked campground in the High Peaks region of the Adirondacks. (Thank you, rainy weather!) The cold rain might have made hiking and camping less than optimal, but it did nothing to diminish the autumn colors. And our British visitor seemed suitably wowed — that’s her arm in the photo above, gesturing in inarticulate appreciation at the drops of water dangling from the ends of shed white pine needles ornamenting a balsam fir bough. Though I did bring my own camera along, I had a hard time seeing things afresh. There’s just nothing like seeing something for the first time, as Rachel’s Adirondacks photo set attests. Go look, and prepare to be wowed yourself.
I wanted the taste of bitter greens,
of luck that fruited despite the unforgiving soil—
I wanted the smell of cotton in my hair
from pillows woven in the sun—
I wanted the surprising tang of salt,
bursting from tiny clusters of sea-grapes—
I wanted the cloying abundance of scent
spilled from flowers that only bloom at night—
I wanted the scab on my elbows to peel
when they darkened like the skin of plums—
But only the maples redden here, rehearsing
starkness; then drop away with all
that’s brittle, feathered, frail-boned.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
(Just back from a week in the Adirondacks. More soon.)
I’m taking a break and highlighting some classic posts from my first full year of blogging, 2004. Epigrammatic posts and humor have been mainstays of Via Negativa from the beginning. Here’s a post that bridged the two categories. (Please click through to read the whole thing.)
19. Misery loves company. Specifically, the Frito-Lay Company, makers of Fritos, Cheetos, Doritos, Tostitos, Ruffles and Lay’s brand snack chips. Frito-Lay.TM Food for the fun of it!TM
20. Before doing X, always ask yourself, “What would happen if everyone did X?” If the answer is, “Cataclysmic war and social chaos, leading to the rapid extinction of most higher life forms,” then it’s probably a pretty good way to turn a profit.
21. Some people see things as they are and ask, “Why?” Some people dream of things that never were and ask, “Why not?” If you know either of these kinds of people, please call the Department of Homeland Security’s toll-free hotline.
Break the skin and a thin
spray of oil escapes—
fullness of gone
summer nights,
full-blossomed
hunger.
In response to small stone (165).
I’m taking a break and highlighting some classic posts from my first full year of blogging, 2004. I used to post stories more often than I do now — sometimes true ones, and sometimes fictional ones that started out as if they were nonfiction, just because I liked to mess with readers’ heads. I seem to recall the original comments (via Haloscan, subsequently lost like all comments left before April 2006) included one or two confessions from readers who continued to think it was a true story even after the passage quoted here. (Please click through to read the whole story.)
“You make them yourself?” I asked, remembering that her parents had been artists.
That laugh again. “Oh, it’s not like I have a forge in my backyard or anything…”
Then, perhaps sensing my frustration, she knelt down and pointed out the outline of a dog sitting on its haunches. “They’re so popular with dog lovers… Anyone who’s ever had a companion animal knows what a deeply spiritual connection that can be… Like my Hermione here? Would you like to say hello to Dave? Dave, this is Hermione…”
There was a dog on my bed. A brown and tan mongrel – a beagle-border collie mix, by the look of it. “Hello,” it said.
History’s indifferent like that—
Whatever its chroniclers decree
is afterthought, footnote, hind-
sight, perhaps atonement for previous
shortcomings— And therefore,
on the other hand, is it so surprising
we want to feel more than mere
accident: unplanned-for, unhoped-for,
excess bit of baggage someone has to pay
for in steerage? Destiny likes to say
it isn’t going to hand out second chances;
and yet we’re told that history repeats
itself. What are the odds the child
born into poverty becomes the general,
and not the slave substituted for a corpse?
What luck ordained that I have wealth
but only the kind that “doesn’t compute?”
The djinns of the desert and the scripts
of old say the heavens reward all
that’s patient and uncomplaining in its toil;
that the multifoliate rose, in turning,
recalibrates the cosmic energies so she who weeps
or suffers, finds release… But Lord, for a change,
let someone else guard the front lines at battle;
let other hands barter and trade or sharpen
the weapons on the fiery wheel.
In response to Via Negativa: In the voice of Cortez's mistress.