{"id":929,"date":"2008-09-19T06:36:37","date_gmt":"2008-09-19T10:36:37","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=929"},"modified":"2019-09-07T09:52:33","modified_gmt":"2019-09-07T13:52:33","slug":"seeing-not-seeing","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2008\/09\/seeing-not-seeing\/","title":{"rendered":"Seeing, Not Seeing"},"content":{"rendered":"

From whiskey river<\/a> (originally published<\/a> [PDF] in Beloit Poetry Journal<\/em>, Fall\/Winter 2004\/2005):<\/p>\n

It Wasn’t Death She Saw<\/strong><\/p>\n

But life:
\nskin dancing with flesh
\nlike silk curtains that swirl in the wind
\nabove her mother’s window<\/p>\n

up up\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0now puff!\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0and in again<\/em><\/p>\n

Or breath — is the wind breathing?
\nShe’d been playing in the grass when it happened:
\nthe snake flung
\nfrom the mower’s blade, rainbows
\nof ribbons in the air<\/p>\n

rainbows rainbows everywhere, catch a ribbon for your hair<\/em><\/p>\n

She wrapped the pretty pieces in willow leaves and grass.
\nWhen she told her mother what she’d seen —
\nthe way life
\nleapt out of the snake
\njust like a ballerina —
\nher mother beat her,
\nscrubbed her tongue with salt<\/p>\n

but Mama, it was beautiful, like fireflies at night<\/em><\/p>\n

She learned to hold her body<\/p>\n

very still.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

(by Kirstin Hotelling Zona: editor, Poetry Radio<\/a> podcasts)<\/p>\n

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

The Stare’s Nest by My Window<\/strong><\/p>\n

The bees build in the crevices
\nOf loosening masonry, and there
\nThe mother birds bring grubs and flies.
\nMy wall is loosening; honey-bees,
\nCome build in the empty house of the stare.<\/p>\n

We are closed in, and the key is turned
\nOn our uncertainty; somewhere
\nA man is killed, or a house burned,
\nYet no clear fact to be discerned:
\nCome build in the empty house of the stare.<\/p>\n

A barricade of stone or of wood;
\nSome fourteen days of civil war;
\nLast night they trundled down the road
\nThat dead young soldier in his blood:
\nCome build in the empty house of the stare.<\/p>\n

We had fed the heart on fantasies,
\nThe heart’s grown brutal from the fare;
\nMore substance in our enmities
\nThan in our love; O honey-bees,
\nCome build in the empty house of the stare.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(W.B. Yeats)<\/p>\n

Finally, there’s “(Looking for) The Heart of Saturday Night,” by Tom Waits, performed by Madeleine Peyroux (lyrics below):<\/p>\n\n

Edit to add:<\/strong> And, what the heck, just for comparison here’s Shawn Colvin’s (live) very different but just as enchanting take on the same song — which I just found out about. (Thanks, Jules!)<\/em><\/p>\n\n

(Looking for) The Heart of Saturday Night<\/strong><\/p>\n

Well you gassed her up
\nBehind the wheel
\nWith your arm around your sweet one
\nIn your Oldsmobile
\nBarrelin’ down the boulevard
\nYou’re looking for the heart of Saturday night<\/p>\n

And you got paid on Friday
\nAnd your pockets are jingling
\nAnd you see the lights
\nYou get all tinglin’ cause you’re cruising with a six
\nYou’re looking for the heart of Saturday night<\/p>\n

Then you comb your hair
\nShave your face
\nTrying to wipe out every trace
\nAll the other days
\nIn the week you know that this’ll be the Saturday
\nYou’re reachin’ your peak<\/p>\n

Stopping on the red
\nYou’re going on the green
\nTonight’ll be like nothing
\nYou’ve ever seen
\nYou’re barreling down the boulevard
\nLooking for the heart of Saturday night<\/p>\n

Tell me is the crack of the poolballs, neon buzzin
\nTelephone’s ringing; it’s your second cousin
\nIs it the barmaid that’s smiling from the corner of her eye
\nMagic of the melancholy tear in your eye<\/p>\n

Makes it kind of quiver down in the core
\nYou’re dreaming of them Saturdays that came before
\nNow you’re stumbling
\nYou’re stumbling onto the heart of Saturday night
\nNow you’re stumbling
\nYou’re stumbling onto the heart of Saturday night<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

From whiskey river (originally published [PDF] in Beloit Poetry Journal, Fall\/Winter 2004\/2005): It Wasn’t Death She Saw But life: skin dancing with flesh like silk curtains that swirl in the wind above her mother’s window up up\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0now puff!\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0and in again Or breath — is the wind breathing? She’d been playing in the grass when it […]<\/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":[247,1393,74,5,251],"tags":[178,471,472,473,474,475,476],"class_list":{"0":"post-929","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-music","9":"category-06_writing","10":"category-poetry-writing_cat","11":"tag-whiskey-river","12":"tag-seeing","13":"tag-kirstin-hotelling-zona","14":"tag-wb-yeats","15":"tag-tom-waits","16":"tag-madeleine-peyroux","17":"tag-heart-of-saturday-night","18":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-eZ","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/929","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=929"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/929\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21465,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/929\/revisions\/21465"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=929"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=929"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=929"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}