{"id":14707,"date":"2013-10-11T11:01:55","date_gmt":"2013-10-11T15:01:55","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=14707"},"modified":"2013-10-11T11:01:55","modified_gmt":"2013-10-11T15:01:55","slug":"seen-in-the-proper-light","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2013\/10\/seen-in-the-proper-light\/","title":{"rendered":"Seen in the Proper Light"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"'Night<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “Night Visions,” by user lacomj on Flickr<\/a>. Interestingly, this is <\/em>not a black-and-white photo; says the caption on that page: “There is a lot to see up in the sky at night in infrared!”]<\/em><\/p>\n

From\u00a0whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

Scattered Reflections
\n(excerpt)<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

I had no idea what my real life was,
\nbut I knew I had to look for it.
\nSo one day I packed my car and took off.
\nI drove the whole country, examining
\nhouses, stores, businesses, streets,
\npeople \u2026 when all I was looking for was me.
\nI concluded that there was no me,
\njust flutterings, shudderings and shadows.
\nI think most people feel the same way,
\nand it isn’t bad, floating under the stars
\nat night like fireflies sending signals.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(James Tate [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The genius of a composer is found in the notes of his music; but analyzing the notes will not reveal his genius. The poet’s greatness is contained in his words; yet the study of his words will not disclose his inspiration. God reveals himself in creation; but scrutinize creation as minutely as you wish, you will not find God, any more than you will find the soul through careful examination of your body.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Anthony de Mello [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The Buzzard and Reversal
\n(excerpt)<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

II.<\/p>\n

In the dream, there are rabbits. Quiet as ever,
\nbut crowded and jostling round the fallen buzzard.<\/p>\n

They ignore the clover where the bird fell, dipping instead
\ninto the dark thatch of feathers with their busy nibblings,
\nwith their tiny snipping teeth. The impossible
\nsoftness of their fur is caked with blood. The bird is<\/p>\n

broken: a collapsed umbrella. Its naked head emerges
\nand turns to watch itself drawn shining into the light.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Michael Bazzett [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

My Brother at 3 A.M.<\/strong><\/p>\n

He sat cross-legged, weeping on the steps
\nwhen Mom unlocked and opened the front door.
\nO God<\/em>, he said. O God.<\/span>
\nHe wants to kill me, Mom<\/em>.<\/span><\/p>\n

When Mom unlocked and opened the front door
\nat 3 a.m., she was in her nightgown, Dad was asleep.
\nHe wants to kill me<\/em>, he told her,<\/span>
\nlooking over his shoulder.<\/span><\/p>\n

3 a.m. and in her nightgown, Dad asleep,
\nWhat’s going on?<\/em> she asked. Who wants to kill you?<\/em>
\nHe looked over his shoulder.<\/span>
\nThe devil does. Look at him, over there.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

She asked, What are you on? Who wants to kill you?<\/em>
\nThe sky wasn’t black or blue but the green of a dying night.
\nThe devil, look at him, over there.<\/span><\/em>
\nHe pointed to the corner house.<\/span><\/p>\n

The sky wasn’t black or blue but the dying green of night.
\nStars had closed their eyes or sheathed their knives.
\nMy brother pointed to the corner house.<\/span>
\nHis lips flickered with sores.<\/span><\/p>\n

Stars had closed their eyes or sheathed their knives.
\nO God, I can see the tail<\/em>, he said. O God, look<\/em>.
\nMom winced at the sores on his lips.
\nIt’s sticking out from behind the house<\/em>.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

O God, see the tail<\/em>, he said. Look at the goddamned tail.<\/em>
\nHe sat cross-legged, weeping on the front steps.
\nMom finally saw it, a hellish vision, my brother.<\/span>
\nO God, O God<\/em>, she said.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Natalie Diaz [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Passion for Solitude
\n(excerpt)<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

…Outside, after supper, the stars will come out to touch
\nthe wide plain of the earth. The stars are alive,
\nbut not worth these cherries, which I’m eating alone.
\nI look at the sky, know that lights already are shining
\namong rust-red roofs, noises of people beneath them.
\nA gulp of my drink, and my body can taste the life
\nof plants and of rivers. It feels detached from things.
\nA small dose of silence suffices, and everything\u2019s still,
\nin its true place, just like my body is still.<\/p>\n

All things become islands before my senses,
\nwhich accept them as a matter of course: a murmur of silence.
\nAll things in this darkness—I can know all of them,
\njust as I know that blood flows in my veins.
\nThe plain is a great flowing of water through plants,
\na supper of all things. Each plant, and each stone,
\nlives motionlessly. I hear my food feeding my veins
\nwith each living thing that this plain provides.<\/p>\n

The night doesn’t matter. The square patch of sky
\nwhispers all the loud noises to me, and a small star
\nstruggles in emptiness, far from all foods,
\nfrom all houses, alien. It isn’t enough for itself,
\nit needs too many companions. Here in the dark, alone,
\nmy body is calm, it feels it’s in charge.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Cesare Pavese [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

[Clumly] dreamed that night that he was back at sea, standing on the bridge plotting his ship’s course by the stars. It was a wooden ship that rode low in the water, perhaps because its planks were heavy as boards that have lain in the earth for years. But the sea was calm as oil in a barrel, and all was in control. The crew was restless, below and behind him, darting here and there like shadows on the deck and below the deck, or staring up at him anxiously out of their lifeboats. He knew well enough what their trouble was. Unbelievers, usurers, perverts, suicides. But he had them in control, everything in control. All was well. However, there was a storm coming, he knew by the fact that, one by one, the stars were going out. Far in the distance he could hear a mighty wind rising, a sound of sighs and wails and shrieks reverberating in the blackness, a babble of languages. “Steady on course,” he said soberly, “Full speed ahead.” Now the struggling winds were like groans of pain and there were thudding noises as the winds buffeted the sea, sounds like clubs banging on backs, sometimes cracking bones, an ungodly racket. It was closer now — he kept his ship steady on — exhilaration filling his chest — and the howls like agony and rage rained down on him and up from his sailors like pebbles and sand before a whirlwind. “Steady on!” he roared. And now he could see the other ship, not approaching, as he’d thought, but fleeing like a pirate toward the calmer water he saw glowing, deep red-gold, on the horizon. The captain in black was bent forward like an ape, whipping his sailors, urging them to still greater effort, and the speed of his flight made his beard whip over his shoulder. His red eyes rolled. Clumly cupped his mouth between his hands and howled. “Beware, beware, you guilty souls!” He raised his pistol, steady on, and fired. The bearded man sank like a shadow through the ship and down into the sea. It was suddenly daylight, and both ships’ crews were singing. He felt serene. The round-backed old sailor at his side, bearded and scarred from many wars and many wives, was smiling. “What sea is this?” asked Clumly, with a comfortable sense of authority. The sailor looked down, inspecting its texture. He smiled again, a man perhaps not to be trusted. He said thoughtfully, “Metaphysics.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(John Gardner [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Night Visions,” by user lacomj on Flickr. Interestingly, this is not a black-and-white photo; says the caption on that page: “There is a lot to see up in the sky at night in infrared!”] From\u00a0whiskey river: Scattered Reflections (excerpt) I had no idea what my real life was, but I knew I had to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,250,5,36,251],"tags":[992,1994,2233,3631,3632,3633,3634,3635,3636,3637],"class_list":{"0":"post-14707","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-art","9":"category-06_writing","10":"category-reading","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"tag-dreams","13":"tag-light","14":"tag-anthony-de-mello","15":"tag-infrared-photography","16":"tag-james-tate","17":"tag-michael-bazzett","18":"tag-natalie-diaz","19":"tag-cesare-pavese","20":"tag-john-gardner","21":"tag-stars","22":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-3Pd","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14707","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=14707"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14707\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":14717,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14707\/revisions\/14717"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=14707"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=14707"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=14707"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}