Allergy Fu

Tall summer grasses--
all that remains of
great soldiers' imperial dreams
--Matsuo Basho

Tall summer grasses--
allergy testing today
spots honor Basho
--Me

I did allergy testing this morning, with 60 substances put just under my skin. My allergies to weed pollen and grass pollen are pretty bad; I fared somewhat better with trees and mold spores. I had no allergic reaction at all to the indoor substances that were tested. I've had a number of upper respiratory infections and a whole lot of post-nasal drip in recent months. Thank goodness for breath mints.

Diving into the Subconscious?

Surface, smooth as glass
Calm, organized, rational
"He has depth," they say,
but I don't see it

Some pull on the anchor line
descending slowly
I plop in and sink down faster
seeking out the dark depth

Underneath, chaotic struggle
Shark eats fish eats fish
On the floor, a cloud of sand
ruins visibility

I move through the cloud
compass, computer to guide
Must be near the anchor line
How much air do I have?

Poetry Thursday

About a week ago, I decided to try out Poetry Thursday, something I noticed on gentle reader Sideon's blog. This week's assignment was based on the color red, something I had a few disjointed ideas on, but, alas, wasn't able to put together. Also, I was a little depressed on Thursday, so writing about an un-depressed color like red didn't seem right.

We have A. at home this weekend. He woke us up at 2:00 a.m. today, which is very unusual for him. A few years ago, however, sleepless nights were routine for him, and your humble correspondent generally was "it."

One of the gentle readers of this space is getting married on March 17. This is one of the very finest people I know, so congratulations are in order. Your humble correspondent will be on-hand for most of the festivities. One problem--anybody who has ever seen my tie collection would know that all of them are hilariously inappropriate for the requested dress for photos at this event. If Craig the Filosopher is reading, he can vouch for me here. I wear really loud ties to compensate for my introverted personality--and because I happen to like them. I came home from Target last night with a tie that I thought might do, but DW questioned that. It's a funny problem to have, actually--a lawyer who cannot dress conservatively to save his life.

Going from here to there

Gentle Reader Jer poses the question on self-definition on his blog; I've wrestled with various aspects of that question for years. Anyhow, I suppose that, to a large extent, our self-identifcation has to do with working from where we are, with all of our conditioning and circumstances taken into account:

Wrapped, surrounded by ten thousand
mountains,
cut off, no place to go . . .

Until you're here, there's no way to get here.
Once you're here, there's no way to go.

"On the Road to T'ien-t'ai," Yuan Mei (1716-1798)

Egads, he's reading poetry now

Yesterday, I picked up a book of Dylan Thomas's poetry. I only started to appreciate poetry a few years ago; kind of strange, given that I have always worked with the written word. I suppose that the search for meaning leads us naturally into some degree of appreciation for the arts. Anyhow, here's a classic that happens to be one of my favorite poems:

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

An optimistic viewpoint

poem for nobody

an apprehension for reality, the death of the flower
the collapse of hope, the crush of
wasted years, the nightmare faces,
the mad armies attacking for no reason at all
and/or
old shoes abandoned in old corners life half-forgotten
voices that once said love but did not mean
love.

see the face in the mirror? the mirror in the
wall? the wall in the house? the house in the
street?

now always the wrong voice on the telephone
and/or
the hungry mouse with beautiful eyes which now lives in
your brain.

the angry, the empty, the lonely, the
tricked.

we are all
museums of fear.

there are
as many killers as flies as
we dream of giant
sea turtles with strange words carved into
their hard backs
and no place for the knife to go in.

Cain was Able,
ask him.
give us this day our daily dread.

the only solace left to us is to hide
alone in the middle of the night in some deserted
place.

with each morning less than zero,
humanity is a hammer to the brain,
our lives a bouquet of blood, you can watch
this fool still with his harmonica
playing elegaic tunes while
slouching toward Nirvana
without
expectation or
grace.

Charles Bukowski

I'm not nearly so pessimistic or depressed as that, but I'm afraid there's some validity to the characterization that "we are all museums of fear." Lord knows I've got plenty of fears and anxieities. Perhaps I should write a poem about them.

poetry moment

regardless

the nights you fight best
are
when all the weapons are pointed
at you,
when all the voices
hurl their insults
while the dream is being
strangled.

the nights you fight best
are
when reason gets
kicked in the
gut,
when the chariots of
gloom
encircle
you.

the nights you fight best
are
when the laughter of fools
fills the
air,
when the kiss of death is
mistaken for
love.

the nights you fight best
are
when the game is
fixed,
when the crowd screams
for your
blood.

the nights you fight best
are
on a night like
this
as you chase a thousand
dark rats from
your brain,
as you rise up against the
impossible,
as you become a brother
to the tender sister
of joy and

move on

regardless

--Charles Bukowski