{"id":17433,"date":"2015-11-13T12:50:55","date_gmt":"2015-11-13T17:50:55","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=17433"},"modified":"2015-11-13T12:50:55","modified_gmt":"2015-11-13T17:50:55","slug":"one-small-heart","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2015\/11\/one-small-heart\/","title":{"rendered":"One Small Heart"},"content":{"rendered":"<div class=\"intrinsic-container intrinsic-container-16x9\"><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/NA6N9RV3Kfs?rel=0\" width=\"1024\" height=\"768\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"allowfullscreen\"><\/iframe><\/div>\n<p class=\"smalltext\"><em>[Video: &#8220;One Small Heart,&#8221; by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Lyrics <a  class=\"lyrics\" title=\"Lyrics: 'One Small Heart'\" onclick=\"javascript:wopenScroll('https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/lyrics\/onesmallheart_marychapincarpenter.html', 'new', 450, 500); return false;\">here<\/a>.]<\/em><\/p>\n<p>From <em><a title=\"whiskey river: 'Heart' (excerpt), by Maurice Scully\" href=\"http:\/\/whiskeyriver.blogspot.com\/2015\/11\/you-watch-dream-pause-over-pool-in.html\" target=\"_blank\">whiskey river<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p><strong>Heart<\/strong><br \/>\n<span class=\"epigraph\">(excerpt)<\/span><\/p>\n<p>You watch a dream pause<br \/>\nover a pool in a forest<br \/>\nunder a breeze rippling its<br \/>\nsurface reflections of inverted<br \/>\nbranches &amp; a patch of sky where<br \/>\none bird flies by, upside-down.<br \/>\nLet it slow down.<br \/>\nDown.<\/p>\n[&#8230;]\n<p>Gone. Wing-flap. Birdsong, tree-song, floated, tilted,<br \/>\nmoving away on its own scrap of independent energy<br \/>\nwhere everything lives, however briefly,<br \/>\nbeating its one small heart&#8230;<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Maurice Scully [<a title=\"Golden Handcuffs Review #14 (excerpt): '3 Poems from 'Several Dances,'' by Maurice Scully\" href=\"http:\/\/www.goldenhandcuffsreview.com\/gh14content\/Scully.pdf\" target=\"_blank\"><em>source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n<p>&#8230;<a title=\"whiskey river: Micah Ling, on the ongoing infancy of 'adulthood'\" href=\"http:\/\/whiskeyriver.blogspot.com\/2015\/11\/theres-actually-no-such-thing-as-adult.html\" target=\"_blank\">and<\/a>:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p>There&#8217;s actually no such thing as an adult. That word is a placeholder. We never grow up. We&#8217;re not supposed to. We&#8217;re born and that&#8217;s it. We get bigger. We live through great storms. We get soaked to the bone. We realize we&#8217;re waterproof. We strive for calm. We discover what makes us feel good. We do those things over and over. We learn what doesn&#8217;t feel good. We avoid those things at all cost. Sometimes we come together: huge groups in agreement. Sometimes we clap and dance. Sometimes we look like a migration of birds. We need to remind ourselves &#8212; each other &#8211; that we&#8217;re mere breaths. But, and this is important, sometimes we can be magnificent, to one person, even for a short time, like the perfect touch &#8212; the first time you see the ocean from the middle. Like every time you see the low, full moon. We keep on eating: chewing, pretending we know what&#8217;s going on. The secret is that we don&#8217;t. We don&#8217;t, and don&#8217;t, and don&#8217;t. Each day we&#8217;re infants: plucking flower petals, full of wonder.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Micah Ling, hobart pulp)<\/p>\n<p>&#8230;<a title=\"whiskey river: 'The Heart Remembers Everything It Loved,' by Joyce Sutphen\" href=\"http:\/\/whiskeyriver.blogspot.com\/2015\/11\/the-heart-remembers-everything-it-loved.html\" target=\"_blank\">and<\/a>:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p><strong>The Heart Remembers Everything It Loved<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>Everything remembers something. The rock, its fiery bed,<br \/>\ncooling and fissuring into cracked pieces, the rub<br \/>\nof watery fingers along its edge.<\/p>\n<p>The cloud remembers being elephant, camel, giraffe,<br \/>\nremembers being a veil over the face of the sun,<br \/>\ngathering itself together for the fall.<\/p>\n<p>The turtle remembers the sea, sliding over and under<br \/>\nits belly, remembers legs like wings, escaping down<br \/>\nthe sand under the beaks of savage birds.<\/p>\n<p>The tree remembers the story of each ring, the years<br \/>\nof drought, the floods, the way things came<br \/>\nwalking slowly towards it long ago.<\/p>\n<p>And the skin remembers its scars, and the bone aches<br \/>\nwhere it was broken. The feet remember the dance,<br \/>\nand the arms remember lifting up the child.<\/p>\n<p>The heart remembers everything it loved and gave away,<br \/>\neverything it lost and found again, and everyone<br \/>\nit loved, the heart cannot forget.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Joyce Sutphen)<\/p>\n<p><!--more--><\/p>\n<p>Not from <em>whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p><strong>Clean<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>Her small body shines<br \/>\nwith water and light.<br \/>\nGiggling, she squeals <em>daddy<\/em>,<br \/>\nsplashes until his pants darken.<br \/>\nFive more minutes, he thinks,<br \/>\nstepping out quickly,<br \/>\npouring himself a drink,<br \/>\nnot expecting to return<br \/>\nto find her slipped under,<br \/>\nher tiny face staring up<br \/>\nthrough the undulating surface.<br \/>\nBefore he can move,<br \/>\nor drop his scotch,<br \/>\nshe raises her dripping head,<br \/>\nher mouth a perfect O.<br \/>\nThe sound of her gulped breath<br \/>\ntakes the wind out of him.<br \/>\nHer face,<br \/>\npale and awed,<br \/>\nunderstands the other side<br \/>\nof water and air.<br \/>\nHis wife didn&#8217;t see,<br \/>\ndoesn&#8217;t know.<br \/>\nHer feet pulse and fade<br \/>\nin the upstairs joists.<br \/>\nHis daughter cries,<br \/>\nslips from him, not giggling.<br \/>\nShe wants out.<br \/>\nHe tries to keep her<br \/>\nin the tub, in the light.<br \/>\nHe&#8217;s on his knees.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Jeff Vande Zande [<a title=\"Rattle Magazine (Winter, 2005): 'Clean,' by Jeff Van Zande\" href=\"http:\/\/www.rattle.com\/poetry\/clean-by-jeff-vande-zande\/\" target=\"_blank\"><em>source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n<p>&#8230;and:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p>Much of today\u2019s public anxiety about science is the apprehension that we may forever be overlooking the whole by an endless, obsessive preoccupation with the parts. I had a brief, personal experience of this misgiving one afternoon in Tucson, where I had time on my hands and visited the zoo, just outside the city. The designers there have cut a deep pathway between two small artificial ponds, walled by clear glass, so when you stand in the center of the path you can look into the depths of each pool, and at the same time you can regard the surface. In one pool, on the right side of the path, is a family of otters; on the other side, a family of beavers. Within just a few feet from your face, on either side, beavers and otters are at play, underwater and on the surface, swimming toward your face and then away, more filled with life than any creatures I have ever seen before, in all my days. Except for the glass, you could reach across and touch them.<\/p>\n<p>I was transfixed. As I now recall it, there was only one sensation in my head: pure elation mixed with amazement at such perfection. Swept off my feet, I floated from one side to the other, swiveling my brain, staring astounded at the beavers, then at the otters. I could hear shouts across my corpus callosum, from one hemisphere to the other. I remember thinking, with what was left in charge of my consciousness, that I wanted no part of the science of beavers and otters; I wanted never to know how they performed their marvels; I wished for no news about the physiology of their breathing, the coordination of their muscles, their vision, their endocrine systems, their digestive tracts. I hoped never to have to think of them as collections of cells. All I asked for was the full hairy complexity, then in front of my eyes, of whole, intact beavers and otters in motion.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Lewis Thomas [<a title=\"Amazon.com: 'The Medusa and the Snail: More Notes of a Biology Watcher,' by Lewis Thomas\" href=\"http:\/\/www.amazon.com\/The-Medusa-Snail-Biology-Watcher\/dp\/0140243194#reader_0140243194\" target=\"_blank\"><em>source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n<p>&#8230;and:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p><strong>Flying Lesson<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>Focus on the shapes. <em>Cirrus<\/em>, a curl,<br \/>\n<em>stratus<\/em>, a layer, <em>cumulus<\/em>, a heap.<\/p>\n<p><em>Humilis<\/em>, a small cloud,<br \/>\n<em>cumulus humilis<\/em>, a fine day to fly.<\/p>\n<p><em>Incus<\/em>, the anvil, stay grounded.<br \/>\n<em>Nimbus<\/em>, rain, be careful,<\/p>\n<p>don\u2019t take off near <em>nimbostratus<\/em>,<br \/>\na shapeless layer<\/p>\n<p>of rain, hail, ice, or snow.<br \/>\nIce weighs on the blades of your propeller,<\/p>\n<p>weighs on the entering edge of your wings.<br \/>\nRead a cloud,<\/p>\n<p>decode it,<br \/>\na dense, chilly mass<\/p>\n<p>can shift, flood with light.<br \/>\nWatch for clouds closing under you,<\/p>\n<p>the sky opens in a breath,<br \/>\nshuts in a heartbeat.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Dolores Hayden [<a title=\"Poetry Foundation: 'Flying Lesson,' by Dolores Hayden\" href=\"http:\/\/www.poetryfoundation.org\/poetrymagazine\/poem\/247432\" target=\"_blank\"><em>source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n<p>&#8230;and:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p><strong>The Birds<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>are heading south, pulled<br \/>\nby a compass in the genes.<br \/>\nThey are not fooled<br \/>\nby this odd November summer,<br \/>\nthough we stand in our doorways<br \/>\nwearing cotton dresses.<br \/>\nWe are watching them<\/p>\n<p>as they swoop and gather&#8212;<br \/>\nthe shadow of wings<br \/>\nfalls over the heart.<br \/>\nWhen they rustle among<br \/>\nthe empty branches, the trees<br \/>\nmust think their lost leaves<br \/>\nhave come back.<\/p>\n<p>The birds are heading south,<br \/>\ninstinct is the oldest story.<br \/>\nThey fly over their doubles,<br \/>\nthe mute weathervanes,<br \/>\nteaching all of us<br \/>\nwith their tailfeathers<br \/>\nthe true north.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Linda Pastan [<a title=\"American Life in Poetry: 'Clean,' by Linda Pastan\" href=\"http:\/\/www.americanlifeinpoetry.org\/columns\/086.html\" target=\"_blank\"><em>source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>[Video: &#8220;One Small Heart,&#8221; by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Lyrics here.] From whiskey river: Heart (excerpt) You watch a dream pause over a pool in a forest under a breeze rippling its surface reflections of inverted branches &amp; a patch of sky where one bird flies by, upside-down. Let it slow down. Down. [&#8230;] Gone. Wing-flap. [&hellip;]<\/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":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,405,74,5,36,251,4159],"tags":[1812,2023,2631,4211,4212,4213,4214,4215],"class_list":{"0":"post-17433","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-nature","9":"category-music","10":"category-06_writing","11":"category-reading","12":"category-poetry-writing_cat","13":"category-essays","14":"tag-linda-pastan","15":"tag-lewis-thomas","16":"tag-joyce-sutphen","17":"tag-micah-ling","18":"tag-maurice-scully","19":"tag-jeff-van-zande","20":"tag-dolores-hayden","21":"tag-mary-chapin-carpenter","22":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4xb","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17433","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=17433"}],"version-history":[{"count":13,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17433\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17446,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17433\/revisions\/17446"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17433"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17433"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17433"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}