{"id":20895,"date":"2019-01-18T06:48:52","date_gmt":"2019-01-18T11:48:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=20895"},"modified":"2019-01-18T06:48:52","modified_gmt":"2019-01-18T11:48:52","slug":"beyond-the-yardstick-beyond-supper-and-dollars","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2019\/01\/beyond-the-yardstick-beyond-supper-and-dollars\/","title":{"rendered":"Beyond the Yardstick, Beyond Supper and Dollars"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “Beyond the Yardstick, Beyond Supper and Dollars,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page<\/a> at <\/em>RAMH.)]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Where words come from, into consciousness, baffles me. Speaking or writing, the words bounce instantaneously into their context, and I am victimized by them, rather than controlling them. They do not wait for my selection; they volunteer. True, I can reject them, but my whole way of writing induces easy acceptance—at first—of any eager volunteer. I want to talk about these volunteers, but first want to consider another reason for trying carefully to set the record straight, about attitudes toward language. The point concerns how a writer feels about language, in general. Many opine that a writer, and particularly a poet, for some reason, must love language; often there is even a worshipful attitude assumed. I have noticed this assumption with particular attention because it happens that insofar as I can assess my own attitudes in relation to others I have an unusually intense distrust of language. What people say or write comes to me attenuated or thinned by my realization that talk merely puts into the air an audio counterpart of mysterious, untrustworthy, confused events in the creature making the sounds. Truth, or wonder, or any kind of imaginative counterpart of absolute realities—these I certainly do not expect in human communication.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(William Stafford [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

I have just stood before the open window of my bedroom and I have breathed in deeply all the honeysuckle-perfumed air, the sunshine, the snowdrops of winter, the crocuses of spring, the primroses, the crooning pigeons, the trills of the birds, the entire procession of soft winds and cool smells, of frail colors and petal-textured skies, the knotted snake greys of old vine roots, the vertical shoots of young branches, the dank smell of old leaves, of wet earth, of torn roots, and fresh-cut grass, winter, summer, and fall, sunrises and sunsets, storms and lulls, wheat and chestnuts, wild strawberries and wild roses, violets and damp logs, burnt fields and new poppies.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Ana\u00efs Nin [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

There is something else which has the power to awaken us to the truth. It is the works of writers of genius, or at least those with genius of the very first order and when it has reached its full maturity. They give us, in the guise of fiction, something equivalent to the actual density of the real, that density which life offers us every day but which we are unable to grasp because we are amusing ourselves with lies.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Simone Weil [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

On Meditating, Sort Of<\/strong><\/p>\n

Meditation, so I\u2019ve heard, is best accomplished
\nif you entertain a certain strict posture.
\nFrankly, I prefer just to lounge under a tree.
\nSo why should I think I could ever be successful?<\/p>\n

Some days I fall asleep, or land in that
\neven better place—half asleep—where the world,
\nspring, summer, autumn, winter—
\nflies through my mind in its
\nhardy ascent and its uncompromising descent.<\/p>\n

So I just lie like that, while distance and time
\nreveal their true attitudes: they never
\nheard of me, and never will, or ever need to.<\/p>\n

Of course I wake up finally
\nthinking, how wonderful to be who I am,
\nmade out of earth and water,
\nmy own thoughts, my own fingerprints—
\nall that glorious, temporary stuff.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and:<\/p>\n

The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac<\/strong>
\n(excerpt)<\/em><\/p>\n

3.
\nI know, you never intended to be in this world.
\nBut you\u2019re in it all the same.<\/p>\n

so why not get started immediately.<\/p>\n

I mean, belonging to it.
\nThere is so much to admire, to weep over.<\/p>\n

And to write music or poems about.<\/p>\n

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
\nBless the eyes and the listening ears.
\nBless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
\nBless touching.<\/p>\n

You could live a hundred years, it\u2019s happened.
\nOr not.
\nI am speaking from the fortunate platform
\nof many years,
\nnone of which, I think, I ever wasted.
\nDo you need a prod?
\nDo you need a little darkness to get you going?
\nLet me be urgent as a knife, then,
\nand remind you of Keats,
\nso single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
\nhe had a lifetime.<\/p>\n

4.
\nLate yesterday afternoon, in the heat,
\nall the fragile blue flowers in bloom
\nin the shrubs in the yard next door had
\ntumbled from the shrubs and lay
\nwrinkled and fading in the grass. But
\nthis morning the shrubs were full of
\nthe blue flowers again. There wasn\u2019t
\na single one on the grass. How, I
\nwondered, did they roll back up to
\nthe branches, that fiercely wanting,
\nas we all do, just a little more of
\nlife?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and:<\/p>\n

About Angels And About Trees<\/strong><\/p>\n

Where do angels<\/span>
\nfly in the firmament,<\/span>
\nand how many can dance
\non the head of a pin?<\/span><\/p>\n

Well, I don’t care<\/span>
\nabout that pin dance,<\/span>
\nwhat I know is that
\nthey rest, sometimes,<\/span>
\nin the tops of the trees<\/p>\n

and you can see them,<\/span>
\nor almost see them,<\/span>
\nor, anyway, think: what a
\nwonderful idea.<\/span><\/p>\n

I have lost as you and<\/span>
\nothers have possibly lost a<\/span>
\nbeloved one,
\nand wonder, where are they now?<\/span><\/p>\n

The trees, anyway, are<\/span>
\nmiraculous, full of<\/span>
\nangels (ideas); even
\nempty they are a<\/span>
\ngood place to look, to put
\nthe heart at rest—all those<\/span>
\nleaves breathing the air, so<\/p>\n

peaceful and diligent, and certainly<\/span>
\nready to be<\/span>
\nthe resting place of
\nstrange, winged creatures<\/span>
\nthat we, in this world, have loved.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and:<\/p>\n

Imagine<\/strong>
\n(excerpt)<\/em><\/p>\n

Will death allow such transportation of the eye?<\/span>
\nWill we see then into the breaking open<\/span>
\nof the kernel of corn,<\/span>
\nthe sprout plunging upward through damp clod
\nand into the sun?<\/span><\/p>\n

Well, we will all find out, each of us.<\/span>
\nAnd what would we be, beyond the yardstick,<\/span>
\nbeyond supper and dollars,
\nif we were not filled with such wondering?<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Oliver [ibid.<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Beyond the Yardstick, Beyond Supper and Dollars,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)] From whiskey river: Where words come from, into consciousness, baffles me. Speaking or writing, the words bounce instantaneously into their context, and I am victimized by them, rather […]<\/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 Oliver, et al.: 'Beyond the Yardstick, Beyond Supper and Dollars'","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":[247,1393,4701,250,251,4159],"tags":[595,1345,2880,3966],"class_list":{"0":"post-20895","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-my-photography","9":"category-art","10":"category-poetry-writing_cat","11":"category-essays","12":"tag-mary-oliver","13":"tag-william-stafford","14":"tag-simone-weil","15":"tag-anais-nin","16":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-5r1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20895","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=20895"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20895\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20903,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20895\/revisions\/20903"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20895"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20895"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20895"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}