{"id":17999,"date":"2016-05-13T14:30:10","date_gmt":"2016-05-13T18:30:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=17999"},"modified":"2016-05-14T09:13:27","modified_gmt":"2016-05-14T13:13:27","slug":"a-day-like-no-other-a-day-like-all-the-rest","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2016\/05\/a-day-like-no-other-a-day-like-all-the-rest\/","title":{"rendered":"A Day Like No Other, a Day Like All the Rest"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “This is an old fishing device,” by Aurelio Asiaian on Flickr<\/a>. (Used under a Creative Commons license.) The photographer says: “The name is <\/em>ajirogi, a kind of wicker netting for fishing. I found the word in this old poem: <\/em>Asaborake\/ uji no kawa giri\/ tae dae ni \/araware wataru\/ seze no ajirogi; in a bad translation: <\/em>When a day is breaking,\/Mist hanging over the Uji River\/Is clearing off.\/Begin to appear one by one\/From close ones to the ones in the distance.\/Stakes to support fences to catch fish.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

May<\/strong><\/p>\n

The backyard apple tree gets sad so soon,
\ntakes on a used-up, feather-duster look
\nwithin a week.<\/p>\n

The ivy’s spring reconnaissance campaign
\nsends red feelers out and up and down
\nto find the sun.<\/p>\n

Ivy from last summer clogs the pool,
\nbrewing a loamy, wormy, tea-leaf mulch
\nsoft to the touch<\/p>\n

and rank with interface of rut and rot.
\nThe month after the month they say is cruel
\nis and is not.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jonathan Galassi [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Today<\/strong><\/p>\n

Today I’m flying low and I’m
\nnot saying a word.
\nI’m letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.<\/p>\n

The world goes on as it must,
\nthe bees in the garden rumbling a little,
\nthe fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.
\nAnd so forth.<\/p>\n

But I’m taking the day off.
\nQuiet as a feather.
\nI hardly move though really I’m traveling
\na terrific distance.<\/p>\n

Stillness. One of the doors
\ninto the temple.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Oliver [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Today<\/strong><\/p>\n

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
\nso uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze<\/p>\n

that it made you want to throw
\nopen all the windows in the house<\/p>\n

and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
\nindeed, rip the little door from its jamb,<\/p>\n

a day when the cool brick paths
\nand the garden bursting with peonies<\/p>\n

seemed so etched in sunlight
\nthat you felt like taking<\/p>\n

a hammer to the glass paperweight
\non the living room end table,<\/p>\n

releasing the inhabitants
\nfrom their snow-covered cottage<\/p>\n

so they could walk out,
\nholding hands and squinting<\/p>\n

into this larger dome of blue and white,
\nwell, today is just that kind of day.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Billy Collins [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

All of the questions that had been open when my head had hit the pillow were still pending. But in the intervening hours, my brain had been changing to fit the new shape of my world. I guess that’s why we can\u2019t do anything else when we’re sleeping: it’s when we work hardest.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Neal Stephenson [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Horses<\/strong><\/p>\n

In truth I am puzzled most in life
\nby nine horses.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been watching them for eleven weeks
\nin a pasture near Melrose.<\/p>\n

Two are on one side of the fence and seven
\non the other side.<\/p>\n

They stare at one another from the same places
\nhours and hours each day.<\/p>\n

This is another unanswerable question
\nto haunt us with the ordinary.<\/p>\n

They have to be talking to one another
\nin a language without a voice.<\/p>\n

Maybe they are speaking the wordless talk of lovers,
\nsullen, melancholy, jubilant.<\/p>\n

Linguists say that language comes after music
\nand we sang nonsense syllables<\/p>\n

before we invented a rational speech
\nto order our days.<\/p>\n

We live far out in the country where I hear
\ncreature voices night and day.<\/p>\n

Like us they are talking about their lives
\non this brief visit to earth.<\/p>\n

In truth each day is a universe in which
\nwe are tangled in the light of stars.<\/p>\n

Stop a moment. Think about these horses
\nin their sweet-smelling silence.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jim Harrison [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Terry Pratchett [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Golden Retrievals<\/strong><\/p>\n

Fetch? Balls and sticks capture my attention
\nseconds at a time. Catch? I don\u2019t think so.
\nBunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who’s—oh
\njoy—actually scared. Sniff the wind, then<\/p>\n

I’m off again: muck, pond, ditch, residue
\nof any thrillingly dead thing. And you?
\nEither you’re sunk in the past, half our walk,
\nthinking of what you never can bring back,<\/p>\n

or else you’re off in some fog concerning
\n—tomorrow, is that what you call it? My work:
\nto unsnare time’s warp (and woof!), retrieving,
\nmy haze-headed friend, you. This shining bark,<\/p>\n

a Zen master’s bronzy gong, calls you here,
\nentirely, now: bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mark Doty [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

I Wore This Dress Today for You, Mom,<\/strong><\/p>\n

breezy, floral, dancing with color
\nsoft, silky, flows as I walk
\nEaster Sunday and you always liked<\/p>\n

to get dressed, go for brunch, “maybe
\nthere’s a good movie playing somewhere?”
\nWrong religion, we were not church-goers,<\/p>\n

but New Yorkers who understood the value
\nof a parade down 5th Avenue, bonnets
\nin lavender, powder blues, pinks, hues<\/p>\n

of spring, the hope it would bring.
\nWe had no religion but we did have
\nnoodle kugel, grandparents, dads<\/p>\n

who could fix fans, reach the china
\non the top shelf, carve the turkey.
\nThat time has passed. You were the last<\/p>\n

to go, mom, and I still feel bad I never
\ngot dressed up for you like you wanted me to.
\nI had things, things to do. But today in L.A.—<\/p>\n

hot the way you liked it—those little birds
\nyou loved to see flitting from tree to tree—
\njust saw one, a twig in its mouth, preparing<\/p>\n

a bed for its baby—might still be an egg,
\nI wish you were here. I’ve got a closet filled
\nwith dresses I need to show you.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Kim Dower [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

________________<\/p>\n

Note (2016-05-14):<\/strong> Time and circumstances being what they have been for a few weeks now, it took me an extra day to add links from this Friday post to whiskey river<\/em> and to something like canonical sources for the various quotations. Apologies to anyone who may have been thereby inconvenienced!<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “This is an old fishing device,” by Aurelio Asiaian on Flickr. (Used under a Creative Commons license.) The photographer says: “The name is ajirogi, a kind of wicker netting for fishing. I found the word in this old poem: Asaborake\/ uji no kawa giri\/ tae dae ni \/araware wataru\/ seze no ajirogi; in a […]<\/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":"You look at the calendar. It's just a bunch of identical rectangles stacked in rows and columns, right? Umm, well... Mark Doty, Terry Pratchett, Kim Doty, et al., on 'A Day Like No Other, a Day Like All the Rest'","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":[247,1393,250,5,251,3477,4159],"tags":[142,595,1141,3545,3866,4275,4305,4306],"class_list":{"0":"post-17999","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-poetry-writing_cat","11":"category-fantasy-06_writing","12":"category-essays","13":"tag-terry-pratchett","14":"tag-mary-oliver","15":"tag-billy-collins","16":"tag-mark-doty","17":"tag-kim-dower","18":"tag-neal-stephenson","19":"tag-jonathan-galassi","20":"tag-jim-harrison","21":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4Gj","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17999","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=17999"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17999\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18010,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17999\/revisions\/18010"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17999"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17999"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17999"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}