Lancelot Schaubert's Blog, page 85

Destruction poem

Anthony Salandy over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

In the inner city winding streets
Intersect from way to way
Through the complex metropolises
That are our most human of creations-

For even in the most destitute of places
One can find cities that eclipse
All that surrounds them
As if cities are an emergent property-

Of our most innate humanity
Like the need for food and shelter
Cities provide not only dwelling
But also places for us to question-

And frustrate the traditional moorings
Of the common humanity which binds
The cultures and differences of our
Now deeply stratified modernity,

For as we grow concentrated
In our concrete dwellings-
All that can grow within us
Is a separation from each other-

A separation from all the emotion
That once came with being alive-
But now as we continue to cultivate
The roads and shops to fill us-

With any form of material emotion
Over the sentiment of inner truth-
We can no longer look to the nature
That we severed from within us-

For even the nature which existed
And was surely not of our own
Did we destroy to mold to our desires
And constrain to become just decor-

In the urban dwellings of our creation,
But in those complex metropolises-
Can one see that our destruction
Will be one by our all too human hands.

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Backstreet Violations

Jennifer Schneider over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

There’s nothing sweeter than the quiet moments, early in the morning, before Lettie awakens. Peaceful and serene. I have my routine – hot coffee, peanut butter on toast, and the paper. I’ve been circling help wanted ads. Daily, for months. One of these days something’s gotta come through for me. For us. Lettie’s counting on me.

Today, as I readied myself to sit down at the kitchen table, I saw Officer X’s face on the front page. Smiling, for the photo. Smirking, rather. He was promoted to Sergeant. His eyes still dark. His head still bald. I was immediately transported back to when we first met. I think of him as Damn Officer X. I’ll never forget the day be booked me. I’ll never forget the day I found the crumpled poem* in Lettie’s dresser drawer. Folded four times over, tightly, into a compact square. Bouncy to the touch, just like Lettie.

—

Lettie and I had gone on a drive. A short one, touring around town and some empty lots. Mainly just enjoying the fresh air. And each other. Teddy, Lettie’s favorite stuffed bear, came too. Best friends, they went everywhere together.

Sweet Lettie. I can still hear my daughter’s laughter. She was overcome by the rush of sweet, warm, wind-speckled air, the kind that kisses your face with pure happiness and grace, streaming through the side car window.  As we drove, Lettie held her beloved Teddy out the window, stretching as far as her pale, soft 5 year-arm could reach.  The pink thread the decorated the fabric of her new spring jacket danced in the wind.

“Teddy loves to fly”, Lettie sang. Her eyes lit brightly with glee. But then a speed bump jostled our old car and its rusty underbelly. Lettie’s cherished stuffed bear fell to the ground, as the car and the music carried on. My raging vocals and the rock n roll streaming at full volume from our radio, led to an unfortunate delay in my response.

“we was born“, “ livin on these backstreets“, “running – for our lives”, “always feeling defeat”, “livin”, “on fire”…. **

I never got the words quite right, or in the right order.  Like my choices, try as I might. Didn’t matter. Nothing, and no one, could stop me from trying. Or singing along with Bruce. Other than Lettie.

Oh, Lettie. As soon as the sound track faded, I heard her sweet cries for help. “Mama, Mama, we need to help Teddy…” Ever since Lettie was born, I promised to make her happy. We were determined to find Teddy.

We hadn’t gotten far, no more than a mile. We returned to the lot. Lettie hopped out of the car, then back in. Tiny little legs powered by love. Blue denim bottoms, frayed at the edges, masked the subtle shaking. Dark brown eyes betraying her positive stance. We were on a mission to find our missing Teddy.

I slowed to a mere crawl as we retraced our path in the lot, looking for the lost bear. Soon, the sheer adventure of the quest calmed little Lettie’s tears. A cop car approached. I thought the officer was coming to help, so I welcomed him with my usual grace and broad smile. Southern hospitality runs deep.

“Officer, Officer. Thank you, Sir. I hope you can help us. We lost a…,” I started, as I reached out my right hand to shake his.

But no. He cared only about his numbers and our lack of seat belt buckles.

 “Ma’m. I need to see your license. Now,” he cut me off. And ignored my outstretched arm.

“My license, why? Sir, we’re looking…,” I replied.

“Now,” he answered.

I complied. I always do. But didn’t yet fully understand what was happening. Despite our painfully slow and methodical crawl through an empty parking lot, Officer X saw no reason to be kind. Nor to explain.

He told me I’d be arrested, for failing to ensure my child was in a seat belt restraint.

“But, officer,” I pleaded, to no avail. 

“Open the door, and step outside. Slowly,” he commanded.

My face frozen in place in a state of disbelief, my legs shook like Lettie’s old baby rattles as I complied with his demands to exit the car. My insides withered. My faith shot. Now Lettie had real reasons to cry.

“Two hands on the car. Now,” he ordered. His hands traveled up and down my sides.

“Officer, please. My baby’s comfort bear. Her favorite… please. There’s no one around”

“M’am. It’s your lucky day. I’m right here. Charging you with a violation of Statute section 12-603.1…..”

“A charge, like for real?” I replied.

“Turn, now. Arms behind your back. You have the right….”

“Mama!!!”, Lettie wailed.

We would have slid backwards had I driven any slower. Damn. These backstreets are ours. No one else around. No one else cares. Other than the rigid officer. My begging made him cringe. Lettie hiccupped, then started to sob. Full throttle. Louder and louder. I thought my head might implode. Officer X started writing. Stopped. Looked through some spiral bound notebook. Then scribbled something I’d never get to see with my own two eyes on his notepad.

He never said a single word to Lettie. Nothing. He just let her cry, hysterically, while he tended to the details associated with my arrest. All done nonchalantly. Stoically, in fact. Just a normal day for Office X. His pen scratching judgment and ignorance across his official notebook.

When his heavy work boots and metal armor felt too close, too much, I looked down. I saw my tears drop, then hit, a discarded cigarette butt next to my big right toe. My toe was poking through my sandal. The bright red nail polish (Lettie applied it earlier that morning) clashed with my darkening mood. My tear left a slight blemish that darkened the hot concrete. For a moment. Then my impact faded. Not everything was out of sorts that day.

Angered that I let his presence shake me, I crushed the butt. But not my tears. Nor my fears. Man, this whole thing hit me like a rock. Hard. Deep in my gut. He booked me. Later, I kid you not, I was forced to plead guilty and had to pay a fee. We never found Teddy. Ask Lettie. “Desperation” – always hiding in my backyard. “Livin – barely – on the backstreets”, these backstreets. And now, the only music that follows me is the depressing tune of my off-key record.

–  – –

My coffee had gone cold. My mouth felt dry. My dog grabbed the toast. A confluence of dark memories clouding my thoughts. Lettie’s bedroom chatter brought me back. I can’t find myself a job – nothing – while he gets a promotion. Smirking all the while. And I’ll never be able to erase my booking, nor Lettie’s memory.

—

Love, Lettie*

My Mama was arrested

by an officer.

We call him Officer X.

I see him in my dreams,

even now. Five years later.

He’s tall. With dark eyes.

My Mama was arrested

while we searched

for my missing Teddy

in our backstreets.

I remember my trembles.

My fault. Not Mama’s.

I unbuckled my own restraint.

To find Teddy.

To stretch my neck 

out the window.

Mama talked fast.

Pleading to be heard.

Officer X heard nothing.

Not Mama. Not me.

I know the words now.

Terror. Desperation.

Defeat. Invisibility, too.

Like playing Hide n Seek,

a game I used to love.

Now hate.

Forever. Always. Daily.

Never seen.

Never found.

Always present.

Always invisible.

Even in our own backstreets.

Love, Lettie

* Found in Lettie’s dresser drawer 5 years after meeting Officer X

** Bruce Springsteen, ‘Backstreets’

Reborn (and Battle Scars)

I started journaling while stationed overseas. I penned haikus. Short, tiny bits of text. Daily snapshots in a world with no electricity. Perfect to fill our short, tiny bits of free time. I hid my work. Later, after Ron found my notebook, I shared.  At night. When we should have been sleeping.

I thought Ron, a fellow soldier, would laugh. All 6 feet, 5 inches of him stood still. Staring at the words on the yellowing lined pages. Instead, he cried. I watched. Frozen, first in fear, then disbelief. Ron’s eyes welled as he faced me. Silence. Turns out we all feel. Even those who act like nothing scares them.

My writing was hopeful back them. Now, it’s an outlet for darkness. “Let it out. Don’t hold back”, Sally (my therapist) urges. I comply. Once a soldier, always a soldier. Sometimes I wish it were harder.

11:12 AM: I use the same journal. Deep brown, worn leather. Frayed at the corners. I flip through, reading some recent poems.

Born and raised stateside.

Buddies. Fought hard. Overseas.

Strangers with no home.

—

Proud war veterans

Lost limbs.  Haunted dreams. Ignored.

No degrees. No jobs.

11:24 AM: Being out of work is rough. That’s why I’m back in school. VA benefits pay for my courses. Online. From my kitchen. Nobody sees my battle wounds.

When I was overseas, I’d write home. Over time, my letters got shorter. Then stopped. Words hurt. Waiting for responses even worse. Now, trying to erase all I’ve seen, I’ve lost my ability to write. Gone, like my former self.

“Write what you feel”, Sally advises. “Others understand.”

I try.

11:47 AM: My first assignment wants a bio. I start drafting.

11:48 AM: “Hi, I’m Dom”. Awful. “Hey, my name is Dominique Joseph and no, I don’t like DJ.” Worse. “Hello class, I’m Dominique, a Vet from Missouri.”

I keep trying.

The clock’s minute hand completes two full circles. When did everything become so hard?

1:52 PM: I try everything. Coffee doesn’t help. Springsteen on and the dial turned to the maximum only takes me back to a foreign land.  

“Born in the U.S.A.”*… most days I feel like a stranger in my “hometown jam”*. In my own body.

2:48 PM: A smoke outside gets me thinking. Just as dangerous as not. Maybe the doubters are right. My dog is more consistently productive than I am. Ah, Daisy. Needs a walk and food.

4:22 PM: Back at my kitchen table. Cold coffee and two more clock rotations. For my efforts? Nothing.

4:28 PM: Same story. Different place. “Nowhere to run. Nowhere to go” roars*. Spontaneous laughter. Drunk on caffeine, something clicks in my broken mind. Starting with nothing, I have nothing to lose. Cliché? Yep. Freeing? Oh, yeah.

4:30 PM: I start typing:

“Hi everyone. I’m Dominique (but call me Dom). Life hasn’t been easy. I figured I might as well share, as I really don’t know how not to. My past is as much a part of me as my present. I’ve made mistakes, but learned from them. I’ve served. Our country. Other ways, too. I’ve lost everything. I frazzle easily. My patience is gone. I struggle with trust. Despite everything, I’m still here. It’s a message, I’m sure. Going for my B.A in Human Services. I’m gonna give back and share what I’ve learned. For lost friends, like Ron. The bills, too. I need work. My life – no more cover-ups. Thanks for reading.”

4:42 PM: I pause. Glance at the clock. Woah. Ten minutes and over one-hundred words. My story. I clicked submit and my words reappeared in the classroom portal. I feel giddy and hopeful.

4:49 PM: A quick dance with my tiny pug. She’s my hero and I’m hers. Then, back to the books. Ready to tackle my next assignment.

4:59 PM: Elation is short-lived. Always.

No book. No readings. Another obstacle. Damn flashbacks don’t help, either.

Four steps. Stop. Smell air.

Burnt rubber. Bacon. Bodies.

Jumbled thoughts. Need help.

—

5:00 PM: At my last session, Sally reminded me to reach out. Ask instructors my questions. I try. Via email. This instructor’s name is Ashley.

5:02 PM: Email sent. “Ashley – Hey, it’s Dom. I need some help.”

5:16 PM: Nothing yet. Maybe it didn’t go through. “I’m one of your students. I’d really like a reply.”

5:54 PM: Losing my cool. “Ashley, what the heck is going on here, and why am I always assigned women instructors?”

6:58 PM: One more. “FedEx screwed up. The app scheduled delivery for 5:00. They left a note on my door at 3:00. I was walking Daisy. I have no book.”

10:15 PM: “Nvm my last email, the truck just left.”

11:00 PM: “Ma’m. I’m flippin mad. I ordered a new copy of our text. They sent a used copy. I’m afraid of germs. Can’t touch it. It’s going back.”

11:16 PM: “My head’s tired from the stress. I’m calling it a day.”

12:22 AM: “I can’t sleep. Darn PTSD. I’m sorry about what I said. I know it was wrong. I’m working to manage my emotions. Now, they manage me. Please bear with me. And please accept my apology.”

12:40 AM: “I know you don’t need another email, but the bookstore is sending me a new copy. Maybe there’s hope for me, after all. I’m going to take this as a positive sign. Good night.”

—

9:00 AM: Ashley hadn’t logged on since 5:00 PM the day before. Coffee brewed. The computer powered up. Log-in accepted. Emails loaded.

Easy, quick replies. Ashley confirmed receipt of a late submission. A yes to a student seeking a summer internship. Several questions about a project topic. One needed an extension.

Then, a whole bunch from one address, a new student. Teaching courses on criminal justice, Ashley was no stranger to emotionally charged discussions. Ashley scanned the emails, debating how to respond. Ultimately, Ashley saw an apology and, with that, inadvertently let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Another human facing demons no one should have to battle.

Ashley started typing.

9:14 AM: “Dom – Thanks for reaching out. Good news on the book delivery. There’s things in life both of us can’t change, it seems. I’m here to help. Best, Ashley”

Ashley paused, then typed once more

9:16 AM EST: “Dom – one more thing. Have you seen Gone With The Wind? As Scarlett O’Hara said, probably referencing Ashley Wilkes, “After all, tomorrow is another day.” Let’s make it the best we can. Ashley”

9:20 AM: Hey, Teach. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I do what I do sometimes.  I’m trying. I really am. Sometimes, my memories get the best of me. This class, this program – it’s my second chance. Going for another proud battle scar. My “another day”. Reborn. Right here. In the U.S.A. Online version. I don’t want to mess it up. Thanks again. And Ashley, you’ve got a cool name. Dom

*Bruce Springsteen, Born in the U.S.A.

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In the City of Slaughter

Jeffrey Burghauser over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

In the City of Slaughter Adapted from the Hebrew of Ḥayyim Naḥman Bialik. In memory of Pesi Burghauser (b. 1880, Czernowitz, Austria-Hungary – d. circa 1941-2, place unknown)[1]

Go into the City. See the square.

Place your gaze & touch upon the trees.

Place your gaze & touch upon the stones.

Place your gaze & touch upon the savage frieze

Made of plaster walls by force the Forcer’s force disowns.

Place your gaze & touch upon the plaster where

Calcimine is maculated with the lees

Flicked from shattered, voided human symmetries.

Go toward the ruins. Walls are split.

Lapses grow. Profundities extend.

Hearths are lacerated. Gashes are

Mouths, and mouths are gashes nothing tries to mend.

Traveler, arise. Although it’s far, it’s not as far

As you’d like. Although it’s near, you’ll find that it

Isn’t near enough, my friend. Arise, and spend

Steps, for feet (if not the mind) may comprehend.

Sink your feet into the plumes & quills.

Sink your feet into the sphagnous face

Of a damp, unstable precipice—

Into parts of parts, and traces of a trace—

Vellum traces honored by the Scribe’s serrated kiss.

Mortuary hills & chills & bloody rills

Constitute some deeper terror’s carapace.

More awaits you. Do not pause upon the place.

Some constituents cannot agree:

Springtime’s acrobats of sunlight scale

This black-blistered carnascape. The spun

Basil’s smells with those of Slaughter inter-flail.

Myriad fauchards of gold impale & slit the sun.

April’s musk & Timelessness’s butchery

Coalesce in Fortune’s thorax. Things don’t fail

In their function. Sun suns. Blooms bloom. Wailings wail.

Come into the courtyard. See the mound.

On it splays a Talmudist and his

Dog, beheaded with the selfsame axe.

Their polluted blood combines upon the ooze

Into which the swine relax their noses as they tax

All the filth for such delights as may be found

Underneath that mellowing, putrescent glaze—

Underneath that effervescent charnel gauze.

It will rain tomorrow. In a spare,

Single stream the blood will wash away.

Blood is powerless to cry from seas

As it cries from Slavic loam that can’t mislay

Massacres excruciating Jews with memories,

Each Jew having his distinctive Over There.

Everything will be, within the day,

As if it never was. This is why I say:

Climb upon the roof, and take your stand

In the darkness, where the shadow of

Death suspends itself among his wrecked

Fellow shadows. From within a naked grove,

An indignant hive, a cryptic sleeve, these eyes affect

To address you. They appear to reprimand

With the terror of their vacancy. They rave

Through the only question they’re allowed to have:

Why so harrowing a life? Oh, why

So deranged a death? The addled shades

Do not answer. Who can tell me where

Wisdom may be found? Relaxed within the braids

Of concordant shadow is a spider. From her chair

Synthesized of silk, surveying radii

Coalesced of Incident, the spider raids,

Hoarding what she takes from where her gaze invades.

Spider, spider, please disburse your gold!

Tell me tales of passionately rent,

Shredded bellies filled with feather vanes!

Tell me tales of pullies & defilement!

Tell me tales of babies Ignorance alone maintains,

Scandalously nuzzling against the cold,

Heavy, vandalized, and nuptially bent

Shape Maternal Love (till now) was lent!

And the mother’s not without her tale.

No one is without ordeals that lance.

I know stories that can end the world.

Fold & pack your tailor-fresh alarm. Advance.

Move yourself to somewhere Evil’s finger, gently curled,

Hasn’t tickled: places still behind the Veil,

That have never hosted her offhanded glance,

Much less the elation of her loathsome dance.

Take the staircase to the cellar where

Overwhelmed inside a heptagon

Of the panting & uncircumcised

(Past redemption, waiting to be set upon)

Is the daughter in the presence of the paralyzed

Mother, mother in the presence of the fair

Daughter when the gasping Slaughter is anon,

During it, and as the Slaughter’s antiphon.

Who can disengage the raving clasp?

This terrain of violation is

Spied by brother, husband, father, son.

From behind the cellar casks & boxes, his

Gaze is fastened to the Christ-extolling, clammy ton

Of defilement that wincing maidens gasp

Underneath, while Vital Force & Body dis-

Order into many a sad synthesis.

Those unswallowed by the carnage (stained

Outside, inside, body, soul) appear

Just as soon as they awake, and race

To the Rabbi, asking: “At this time of year,

Is my wife permitted my legitimate embrace?”—

Heeding whatsoever he will have maintained.

Custom is a steady gear. For Custom’s sheer,

Grey diversion, shall we bless the Engineer?

I will bring you to their improvised

Places of asylum: septic dents,

Pigpens where the heirs of Maccabees

Cower, Holy Heaven’s carnal documents,

My original aristocrats upon their knees,

Lutes that amplify My Name, the unsurmised

Garden, Rock of Zion, the specific sense

Oriented, and the Force that orients.

How the lions skitter off like mice!—

Skitter off like insects! They are sealed,

Sealed in death. At daybreak, he espies

In the sooty gutter some cadaver, peeled.

It’s his father’s. As if something in the earth defies

Savagery, however, there extends a spice-

And acanthus-studded, linden-laden field.

Now descend into the incense it would wield.

In the garden there’s a simple shed.

Wait to enter till the sun descends.

Wait till bleeding clouds are dressed with flame.

Then, undo the lock whose coldness recommends

That you turn around toward the Place From Which You Came.

Do you feel the Dread inside? It’s thick as bread.

It distinguishes, and blends. It rends, and mends.

Do you feel the Dread? It is, and just pretends.

Underneath a heap of wheels are crushed

Bodies. Concentrated spokes extend

Murderward. A death-throe agitates

Vernal pools of blood. And soon the moans depend,

Hanging in the clouded grief. Observe the Bird. It waits,

Wings unfurled, until the abattoir is hushed,

And she hides her face inside the umbral bend,

Thus to hide her barren sob from foe & friend.

Rabbis have debated it from all

Possible perspectives, and they can’t

Manage to deduce the least repose.

Close the gate behind you so that you can grant

Darkness your attention’s amethyst & jasper rose.

Praying for the idiom to voice a squall,

You would settle for a monophonic chant.

What can you produce? A meager canine pant.

Thus the sob remains in you, as in

Ambush, hankering to carry you

Over the terrain of barren dreams.

But continue on your way. Arise. Adieu.

Taking cover underneath the City’s fog & screams,

Scrutinize the graves, each fastened by a shin

Of clandestinely collected, lunar-blue

Soil by a trembling, depleted Jew.

Though your heart be deep in bitterness,

Though you yearn to bellow like an ox

Staggering beneath malnourishment,

I shall ratchet shut the rack-&-pinioned locks

Of your throat’s canals. The Spirit passes through the vent

Slashed into the calf’s extent. But nonetheless,

If there’s compensation for the Force that knocks

Life from Flesh, what would it be? My weakness shocks.

Please forgive Me! Lowly of the Earth,

You are burdened with a Pauper God!

When you visit My abode for alms,

And you separate the doors to see Me plod

Through such degradation, and you wonder how the Psalms’

Author deigned to name Me “Holy of the Earth,”

And you fail to find Me a pathetic fraud,

I behold the World I made. And I am awed.

And I grieve for you! I grieve for you,

Children! The importance that would be

Found in dying (and the very place

It would pulsate) is for you a cavity.

Oh, a Pointless Death is like bolt of burning lace!

I maintain the Silence nothing can subdue.

Nothing is quite real, and everything you see

Stresses only Pain’s substantiality.

What does the Shekhinah[2] say? She’s safe

I Myself will visit graves tonight.

I Myself will condescend to see the clay.

I Myself will rivet cold, spline-shaft-&-bushing-tight,

Bright attention on the Mutilated Waif—

On the corpses of the man who sold the hay,

Of the haughty Rabbi, of his Protégé.

Turn, and leave the mortuary green.

April saves her choicest self for dark.

Lowering your tightened body, pluck

Tattered stubble, lift it to the open ark

Of the Firmament, and say: “My Nation, torn from muck!—

Havoc’d, execrated, muddy & obscene!

Can these dregs receive again Creation’s spark?

Take it all, Unfathomable Patriarch!”

Turn, and leave the mortuary green.

Mercy saves the strangest Jews for light.

See them in the Synagogue. And hear them cry.

Hear them cry & caterwaul about their plight.

See them beat their chests with sweaty fists, demanding: Why?

For your heart’s become a desolate ravine.

No, it isn’t just that Vengeance (be it slight)

Doesn’t grow, but nothing grows where Vengeance might.

Why do they accuse themselves? Explain.

Look at them deploying Gall & Art

To atone for…what? Explain to Me.

How did this bizarre self-laceration start?

Can the penniless commit the sin of usury?

Can the destitute “improperly obtain”?

Can the man whose chest was hatcheted apart

Sin the sin of having a “disloyal heart”?

See them beat their chests, demanding: Why?

Can he be benumbed who’s made of smoke?

Who dares tell the impotent he “ought”?

Can a man be “haughty” while they let him choke?

Can the battered, spattered brain maintain “improper thought”?

Can the eyeless sin by a “begrudging eye”?

Can the severed larynx sin by what it spoke?

Can the yoked transgress by “casting off the yoke”?

Let them raise their fists into the air!

Let them raise their fists against My reign

That has yielded twenty centuries

Of deranging, endless, stupefying pain!

Temple columns shudder! Mourners fall upon their knees,

Yearning for the Sacrament of Tearful Prayer.

I shall guarantee that they (despite the strain)

Cannot mourn the mournful. Let it thus remain.

Build a wall around your heart: a wall

Made of iron, copper, stiffened rage.

Thus your heart shall be a serpent pent

In its nest, until (exhausted by the wage

Of starvation & captivity, all patience spent)

One offence inclines the bright, exalted squall

Narrowed to a silver, maxillary gauge

For the actualization of an urge.

Creatures that awoke to Dread prepare

For their sleep amid Confusion, Dole,

Devastation, Fretfulness, Disgust,

And (not quite accountably) Regret. The whole

Mouth is like a backstage area where words adjust

Their coiffure, and wait to step upon the bare

Stage before an empty theater. The soul

Is a convict on Contingency’s parole.

There is no effulgence in the eye.

There is no effulgence in the breast.

There is nothing to anticipate

Clarity of light. The fingers are addressed

To the Darkness, searching for a buttress. Wicks relate

Fallow smoke. The geriatric horse, awry

With exhaustion, sadly learns that he is pressed

Under Destiny’s preposterous behest.

This is not a legend meant to show

Anyone Condolence’s reprieve.

See the Preacher climbing to the cracked

Podium to diagram, construct, and heave

Vehement cliché which smolders like a broken pact.

Elders nod. Their juniors yawn. The rivers flow.

Everyone is caught within Extinction’s sieve:

Everyone, no matter what they may believe.

Listen, all you Citizens of Clout,

Nobles, Keepers of the Civic Flame,

Payers of a celebrated due,

Proud to be the Proud Protectors of the Lame,

Eager for (if nothing else) the semblance of the True:

Do not let your pity touch this vile rout.

They are wholly undeserving of the name

“Victim”: they have made a peace accord with Shame.

Calling in the manner of some sore

Peddler billing products to be sold,

They vociferate with posture bent:

“Oh, behold my dad’s cadaver!” “Oh, behold

My demolished skull!” The rich extend magnificent

Arms, dispensing bandages as if they were

Needle-laced of gold. The wilted beggars, told

“Go away,” comply, and find themselves consoled.

To the cemetery, beggar! Bore

For the substance of your greatness. Load

All the bones into your satchel. Bind

Everything upon your back. Pursue the road.

At the country fairs, along the lanes whose ruts unwind

To the gates of busy towns, display your store.

Tune yourself to the laméntatóry mode,

And perform your grey, dilapidated ode.

Sing your service. Hope for an Amen.

Counter their revulsion with a roar.

For such privileges you’re pedigreed.

Plead for the Compassion of the Carnivore.

Throat reduced to squalid fibers, lips abraded, plead

For the Nations’ Mercies. As you stretched them then,

Stretch your arms for all the Nations to ignore.

Everything will be just as it was before.

What are you still doing here, Trustee,

Guardian of Images whose warm,

Lunar, moldering daguerreotones

Soften into nickel katydids aswarm?

Rend your soul to feathers. Shed your tear upon the stones.

Your immaculate complaint is eerily

Like a child’s whimsically-proportioned form.

Send it out to deliquesce into the storm.

#

Composed in response to the first Kishinev Pogrom (April 19 – 20, 1903), in which “…47 Jews were killed, and 92 severely, and 500 slightly, injured. Great material losses were inflicted on the Jewish community: 700 houses were destroyed; 600 stores were pillaged; 2,000 families were utterly ruined” (Jewish Encyclopedia, 1906). ↑
God’s locally-specific, feminine aspect ↑

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Politics

Anthony Salandy over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

Along the worn coastline
One can see the melting mountains
In the distance of urbanity-

For in these times
All one can see is the squabbles
Of men and women to govern-

Beyond their supposed consciousness
Which ultimately leaves the world
Just that bit more worse than when-

Their careers started,
For in chambers of democracy
Sit men and women who despite effort-

Are all too consumed by the biases
That uphold primordial structures
Of social stratification and inequality,

But who can blame any leader
For the choices that they were
So clearly conditioned to make,

Decisions which were not imposed
Nor coerced on to them by some
Fictional organization or myth-

But which they were socialized into-
From the very beginning of their lives
And taught to be the norms of a society-

Supposedly just like any other,
But in this global world-
Sit similarities which grow daunting

To each and every society,
For far and wide the mountains melt
And the worn coastline disappears-

Into the lore of a once had  political stability.

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Tolkien’s Art Finds a Hobbit Hole

Samantha Steiner over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

I stand in the rounded doorway of the entrance chamber. The wall to my right bears a calligraphed monogram in the form of a cross laid over a curl of ribbon. The gatekeeper, a man with a black suit and a walkie-talkie, cautions me against phone use.

‘We were trying to make it feel like you were entering into a very different space,’ explains John McQuillen, an associate curator at the Morgan Library and Museum in Manhattan, which is hosting Tolkien: Maker of Middle-earth, an exhibition of J.R.R. Tolkein’s artwork and writing. The effect, McQuillen says, is for the visitor to feel, ‘Here we go, into the world of Middle-earth!’

I cross into the exhibition chamber. The walls are crowded with drawings and paintings, most no bigger than a sheet of computer paper: a row of hand-drawn book jackets bearing intricate lettering, a painting of a tall figure in a wizard’s hat and cloak standing at the threshold of a forest, another of a stream moving between grassy cliffs over the caption ‘RIVENDELL’. In most of the paintings, the colours bleed into each other and accumulate in strange corners.

‘It’s a watercolour called gouache, which is much heavier than a children’s set of watercolours,’ McQuillen tells me.

Beside each work, there is a museum label so long that, if you’re like me, getting to the end of it is a little like trying to finish reading through The Lord of the Rings itself. But you don’t need to read the labels or the books to grasp that the exhibition places Tolkien in the company of William Blake and Maurice Sendak as an artist of texts and images.

On one wall is a drawing a tree bearing a variety of different flowers. According to the label beside it, Tolkien drew many versions of this tree, which he named the tree of Amalion. For him, the tree represented his own creative visions, which extended in as many directions as the tree’s branches and, like its flowers, took on a variety of forms.

The exhibition began over a year ago at the Bodleian Libraries at Oxford, where archivist Catherine McIlwaine sorted through over five hundred boxes containing everything from Tolkien’s completed drawings and manuscripts to his jottings on scrap paper. From those materials, McIlwaine created the catalogue for an exhibition at the Bodleian that opened in June of 2018.

While the Bodleian exhibition was in preparation, McQuillen culled through McIlwaine’s catalogue to create a condensed version of it that could be accommodated by the Morgan’s tiny gallery space. He settled on 115 objects that spoke to the creation of The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion.

‘It’s a big world,’ McQuillen sighs. ‘Middle-earth is a very big world.’

*

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was born in 1892 in Bloemfontein, in what is today the Free State Province in South Africa. When Tolkien was three years old, his mother took him and his younger brother to visit her parents in England. Tolkien’s father, a bank manager, had planned to join the rest of the family in England, but contracted rheumatic fever and died. Tolkien’s newly widowed mother decided to remain in England and raise Tolkien and his brother there.

After serving in combat in the First World War, Tolkien became a professor of Anglo-Saxon, also known as Old English, at Oxford’s Pembroke College. During this time he wrote The Hobbit and the first two volumes of The Lord of the Rings. (See Tolkien’s Gateway to understand the influence of Tolkien’s academic work over his fiction).

Tolkien’s works were well-received in the fifties, although it would be another decade before they reached their peak popularity. In 1956, Tolkien was contacted by London rare book dealer Bertram Rota on behalf of William Ready, director of the library at Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Marquette is a Catholic Jesuit university, Tolkien was a devout Catholic, and Ready was collecting the papers of Catholic authors.

‘I think it is sort of interesting that this librarian had such foresight in the 1950s and even at that point realised the importance of Tolkien’s work that he wanted to build this collection,’ McQuillen muses. ‘They were interested in the fact that Tolkien was a very devout Catholic. While The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings weren’t overtly Christian, there are deep Christian themes in them.’

Tolkien ended up selling his works to Marquette for 1500 pounds. After Tolkien’s death in 1973, his son Christopher continued sending his father’s manuscripts to Marquette’s library, although The Silmarillion and Leaf by Niggle manuscripts were given to the Bodleian.

*

In 2012, William Fliss became the new archivist at Marquette’s library. ‘It was just around the time the Hobbit movies were coming out,’ Fliss tells me over the phone from the library. ‘I started doing showings of the original manuscripts and they were so popular, I kept doing them every couple of months.’

Last summer, Fliss sent twelve items from the collection to McIlwaine for the Bodleian exhibition. ‘It’s the first time those manuscripts were back on British soil since 1958 or since the late 80s, depending on the leaves we’re talking about,’ Fliss says.

After McQuillen perused McIlwaine’s catalogue, he settled on 115 objects that would tell Middle-earth’s creation story. Among them were all twelve of the items borrowed from Marquette’s Library.

‘When the exhibition at the Bodleian ended in October, we arranged for those items to remain in storage in Oxford,’ Fliss said. ‘Less travel for manuscripts is a better thing, you know, fewer opportunities for bad things to happen.’

The collection arrived in New York in time for the Morgan exhibition’s January opening, and will remain there until May 12th. Then most of the items will be returned to the Bodleian, and the remaining twelve will go back to Marquette.

 *

Meanwhile, Fliss has embarked on a quest of his own. ‘I’ve started a collection, quietly in the past couple of years, where I gather three-minute interviews with Tolkien fans,’ he says. ‘My goal is to collect 6,000 fans, which is the number of Riders of Rohan that Théoden mustered to lead the siege of the city of Minas Tirith. Eventually I’ll make them available online so people can listen to interviews or read transcripts of them.’

I asked Fliss what kinds of stories he had heard so far.

‘There was an American living in Saudi Arabia, [who] said that since he was an orphan, he had troubled relationships early in life. Tolkien was a father figure for him in terms of teaching good conduct and virtuous behaviour.’

And so, Tolkien’s life story, as told by his art, found its way from Bloemfontein to Oxford and Milwaukee, and from there to Saudi Arabia and New York City. And Tolkien, who lost his own father early in life, fulfilled a fatherly role for a man living in another era and another part of the world.

 But Fliss is quick to assure me that fans of all levels can participate in his project. ‘I’m not just seeking out crazy loyal fans,’ Fliss says. ‘If you self-identify as a fan, you’re welcome to contribute.’

*

 In the Morgan’s gallery, the label beside the tree of Amalion holds a confession: Tolkien lamented that, as a professor and a husband and father, he didn’t have the resources to grow his own tree as much as he wanted. I stare at the tree, the way the golden branches curl around each other, the spiky leaves and lush pink petals. I step back and take in the gouache landscapes and the sentences scrawled out in invented languages. I look at my fellow gallery-goers who step back and squint and lean in so their noses hover inches from the artwork. They seem baffled and fascinated and utterly lost in what so many scholars have made of Tolkien’s work: in a tiny corner of New York City, a forest of Amalion.

First published online by Antithesis Journal.

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Girl in the sun

Dace Jangblude over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

Girl in the sun
Rejoycing over a day without clouds
She is blooming
In petals of gold
And never seems overly sad.

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Aubade

Melissa C. Johnson over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

Last night she was sleeping, Forsaking all others, when he came home. You may kiss. He kissed her cheek. This morning, For better or for worse, He is sleeping In sickness and in health, She kisses his cheek.

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Youth

Anthony Salandy over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

In those nights of darknessAll that can be felt is the rhythmic pulseOf the music that permeatesThe darkened hall and all those in it- For in this packed hallDo people lose themselves to the soundsOf the computerized nightWhere the scent of alcohol wafts up- Into the homogenous scentOf cigarettes and sensual muskWhich overcome all those […]

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Boy in the moon

Dace Jangblude over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

Boy in the moon.Rejoicing for a day with stars.So far in the clouds he satLaughing a day ahead.

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Bay-Sick Scene

Mariam Ahmed over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

Street performers stroll down the sidewalks of San Francisco, Catching stares and slipping dollars from tin cups into their pockets. These are no ordinary drummers and drawers. No, these sly schemers are homeless by profession. Jugglers and gigolos alike challenge onlookers to suspend their disbelief As one skilled artist delicately throws and snatches balls of […]

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