{"id":20760,"date":"2018-11-30T06:39:21","date_gmt":"2018-11-30T11:39:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=20760"},"modified":"2018-11-30T06:39:21","modified_gmt":"2018-11-30T11:39:21","slug":"finally-time-to-go-in","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2018\/11\/finally-time-to-go-in\/","title":{"rendered":"Finally Time to Go In"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Image:<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “Holt Cemetery,” by Kevin O’Mara. (Found it on Flickr<\/a>; used here under a Creative Commons license — thank you!) Cemeteries in New Orleans, famously, feature (often elaborate) above-ground tombs. As the photographer says of Holt Cemetery, “the only in-ground cemetery in New Orleans. It serves as a good reminder of why we usually lay our dead to rest above ground.” He adds, “the maintenance of the individual graves is up to those who purchased the plots. Because of the water table situation here most graves aren’t even dug six feet deep, and families are permitted to re-use them a year and a day after the last interment.”]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Our job is to record, each in his own way, this world of light and shadow and time that will never come again exactly as it is today.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Edward Abbey [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Half Life<\/strong><\/p>\n

We walk through half our life
\nas if it were a fever dream<\/p>\n

barely touching the ground<\/p>\n

our eyes half open
\nour heart half closed.<\/p>\n

Not half knowing who we are
\nwe watch the ghost of us drift
\nfrom room to room
\nthrough friends and lovers
\nnever quite as real as advertised.<\/p>\n

Not saying half we mean
\nor meaning half we say
\nwe dream ourselves
\nfrom birth to birth
\nseeking some true self.<\/p>\n

Until the fever breaks
\nand the heart can not abide
\na moment longer
\nas the rest of us awakens,
\nsummoned from the dream,
\nnot half caring for anything but love.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Stephen Levine [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and (from whiskey river’s commonplace book<\/em><\/a>):<\/p>\n

I have flipped through books, reading hundreds of opening and closing lines, across ages, across cultures, across aesthetic schools, and I have discovered that first lines are remarkably similar, even repeated, and that last lines are remarkably similar, even repeated. Of course in all cases they remain remarkably distinct, because the words belong to completely different poems. And I began to realize, reading these first and last lines, that they are not only the first and last lines of the lifelong sentence we each speak but also the first and last lines of the long piece of language delivered to us by others, by those we listen to. And in the best of all possible lives, that beginning and that end are the same: in poem after poem I encountered words that mark the first something made out of language that we hear as children repeated night after night, like a refrain: \u00a0I love you. I am here with you. Don’t be afraid. Go to sleep now.<\/em> And I encountered words that mark the last something made out of language that we hope to hear on earth: \u00a0I love you. You are not alone. Don’t be afraid. Go to sleep now.<\/em><\/p>\n

But it is growing damp and I must go in. Memory’s fog is rising.<\/em> Among Emily Dickinson’s last words (in a letter). A woman whom everyone thought of as shut-in, homebound, cloistered, spoke as if she had been out<\/em>, exploring the earth, her whole life, and it was finally time to go in. And it was.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

<\/p>\n

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

Shoveling Snow With Buddha<\/strong><\/p>\n

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
\nyou would never see him doing such a thing,
\ntossing the dry snow over a mountain
\nof his bare, round shoulder,
\nhis hair tied in a knot,
\na model of concentration.<\/p>\n

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
\nfor what he does, or does not do.<\/p>\n

Even the season is wrong for him.
\nIn all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
\nIs this not implied by his serene expression,
\nthat smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?<\/p>\n

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
\none shovelful at a time.
\nWe toss the light powder into the clear air.
\nWe feel the cold mist on our faces.
\nAnd with every heave we disappear
\nand become lost to each other
\nin these sudden clouds of our own making,
\nthese fountain-bursts of snow.<\/p>\n

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
\nI say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
\nThis is the true religion, the religion of snow,
\nand sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
\nI say, but he is too busy to hear me.<\/p>\n

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
\nas if it were the purpose of existence,
\nas if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
\nyou could back the car down easily
\nand drive off into the vanities of the world
\nwith a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.<\/p>\n

All morning long we work side by side,
\nme with my commentary
\nand he inside his generous pocket of silence,
\nuntil the hour is nearly noon
\nand the snow is piled high all around us;
\nthen, I hear him speak.<\/p>\n

After this, he asks,
\ncan we go inside and play cards?<\/p>\n

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
\nand bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
\nwhile you shuffle the deck.
\nand our boots stand dripping by the door.<\/p>\n

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
\nand leaning for a moment on his shovel
\nbefore he drives the thin blade again
\ndeep into the glittering white snow.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and:<\/p>\n

Flying Lesson<\/strong><\/p>\n

Over a tray of spent plates, I confessed
\nto the college president my plans to go East,
\nto New York, which I’d not really seen,
\nthough it seemed the right place
\nfor a sophomore as sullen and restless
\nas I had become on that merciless
\nMidwestern plain. He slowly stroked
\na thick cup and described the nights
\nwhen, a theology teacher in Boston, he’d fly
\na tiny plane alone out over the ocean,
\neach time pressing farther into the dark
\nuntil the last moment, when he’d turn
\ntoward the coast’s bright spine, how he loved
\nthe way the city glittered beneath him
\nas he glided gracefully toward it,
\nengine gasping, fuel needle dead on empty,
\nthe way sweat dampened the back of his neck
\nwhen he climbed from the cockpit, giddy.
\nButtoned up in my cardigan, young, willing
\nto lose everything, how could I see generosity
\nor warning? But now that I’m out here,
\nhis advice comes so clear: fling yourself
\nfarther, and a bit farther each time,
\nbut darling, don’t drop.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

[Image: “Holt Cemetery,” by Kevin O’Mara. (Found it on Flickr; used here under a Creative Commons license — thank you!) Cemeteries in New Orleans, famously, feature (often elaborate) above-ground tombs. As the photographer says of Holt Cemetery, “the only in-ground cemetery in New Orleans. It serves as a good reminder of why we usually lay […]<\/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":"Mary Ruefle, Billy Collins, et al.: 'Finally Time to Go In'","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":[247,1393,250,5,251,4159],"tags":[1141,2512,3075,4833,4834],"class_list":{"0":"post-20760","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-essays","12":"tag-billy-collins","13":"tag-edward-abbey","14":"tag-mary-ruefle","15":"tag-stephen-levine","16":"tag-julila-kasdorf","17":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-5oQ","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20760","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=20760"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20760\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20765,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20760\/revisions\/20765"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20760"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20760"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20760"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}