GRADUATE STUDENT

I left my idealism somewhere

Back in early manhood, apprenticeship

For getting by only. 

My knees hurt

Not like they did before, to pay the bills

Dragged in rows by a Commercial Walk Behind Mower

All day

Isn’t it ironic that Wordsworth will sing of

Quarry workers singing as he

Wanders in his daffodils

Whitman will praise the common laborer As he loiters in the grass

The privations, the deprivations

The catalogue of things to do without

Logged into my bitterness–

Formerly an occupation–I try not to be bitter.

I read Hemingway to buoy my spirits–

His Catholic poverty in Paris,

His un-Christian feeling of superiority

Over the vague wealthy.  I guess I feel superior

Or try to feel superior to buoy my spirits.

The indignities,

The fear as I lie to a bill-collector,

Slough subordination,

Try to feel above it all.

To dignify the working class

Your sore knees

Must speak more than their pain—

The bills that demand this dignity

The landed idle

Still demand my money

As they loiter

In the end

I will have to forget

The laborious pain

Of achieving a place of less pain.

            Pain where?

Will I be able to forget adulthood?

When eternity speaks its demands.

ALL THE LAWS WE CALL LINGUISTIC

The words of the Rig Veda are chanted

The revelation that the Rishis heard

Rhythmic hymns that Sarasvati granted

Written down as sacred text and word

The Rishis have been called visionaries

In more than one textbook that I have found

Writing from Eurocentric theories

Which teach that vision is more spiritual than sound

Sarasvati, Goddess of music,

Revealed Her wisdom through the sense of hearing

When all the laws that we call linguistic

Were melody and music and singing

WITH US TOGETHER

I am better with us together

Better than I was when I was alone

We’re both better with each other

Than when each of us was only one

We two together made me make a start

Toward a new approach to the life I’m living

Which never would have happened when apart

Apart from you and all the life you’re giving

With us together, your life flows into my own

Your influence wore down my harsh self-assertion

As water’s current smooths adamantine stone

Or discordant edges in a person

Like a river’s constant, faithful current

You give me consistent affirmation,

My heart secure with your encouragement,

I work my dreams into manifestation

All with you and all because of you

I incarnate learning with confidence

Ever seeking teachings to help me grow

And guide my heart in spiritual ascendance

Our love is a crucible, burning

With refining fire that purifies

All our aspirations, all our learning

Rising to a finer us, to higher highs

NOVEMBER 2, 2020

The love poem I want to write tonight is superseded

Everything is superseded by a microdot on a piece of paper

A microdot in a timeline of chaos, flashpoint in history

In one single day, the anxiety will culminate in a vote

Four years of conflicted administration, conflicted nation

That broke out in outright civil war, bloody war

Wounds that haven’t healed in one hundred sixty years,

An outbreak breaking out in protests, riots, civil speech exhausted

Wealth disparity, despair, disinformation, lies

Pandemic denied in a pantomime economy

Destined for collapse through dying workers, denied workers

Dying jobs markets, dying for relief from a dead congress

All summed up in a microdot on a piece of paper

Destined for the ballot box—summation but not salvation

For the sins of our forefathers, writ into racial blood,

Radical divide, denied equal opportunity

EQUALITY

Fragmenting a national illusion persisting in a culture of cruelty

For outsiders, inside the inner-city blight in a nation

Of freedom for insiders, a segregation of insiders, by insiders, for insiders

White trashed lives whose sway they aim to own, even my own life

Had I not left town they would have kept me down, destined to be an outsider

Like my music partner from New Orleans who never did break in

I can’t leave all this undone, unsung—this division, this decision

In a pantomime economy, in a pandemic, in a microdot on a piece of paper

Just a microdot in a timeline of chaos

DURGA PUJA

My laptop broke and tech support where I bought it wasn’t being helpful

So I called Hewlett-Packard on their direct tech support line

Of course, they routed my call to India, to a pleasant tech named Deepak

He apologized for the background noise on his end; the festival Durga Puja

Was being celebrated today this, the final of 10 days

I vaguely recalled Durga from a religion class 34 years ago

And I asked Deepak of he knew of the Goddess Sarasvati

She, the Goddess of music, learning, and language

I, a musician, scholar, and writer

Sarasvati gave India the Vedas, when religion was verse and verse, song

Deepak said he knew Sarasvati and She is the exact Goddess for a musician

I told Deepak I have a statuette of Sarasvati in my apartment

Across the miles and ocean, his soul touched mine, and tears welled up

In his eyes, Sarasvati is alive, and as he spoke, my statuette

Seemed to shine with an unearthly color and a strange light came over just my statuette

Only my eyes could see

Mother India, home of our western languages

Cradle of civilization unearthed at Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa

Durga, the Mother who birthed all of creation

Mother to Sarasvati, not just a footnote in a religion class

Alive and real to him as is Jesus to me, his Durga Puja like my Christmas

He completed my service order and I wished him well

During the remainder of the Durga Puja Festival

Deepak said that he is sadly homebound due to COVID-19

And couldn’t celebrate with his family, and I

Don’t know if I can go without a computer for a week or so

I looked at my statuette of Sarasvati and the unearthly colors were gone

STRUGGLING AGAINST MY SWADDLING BANDS

My infant sorrow persists in these, my senior years

And I am not a fiend hid in a cloud

Though persistent, insistent, sinister powers that be

Tell me to be, that I am that fiend

And only my acceptance will disburse the cloud

But I am not helpless, naked; no longer piping loud

Though when I was, I was unable to sulk upon my mother’s breast

I didn’t know how to struggle against my swaddling bands

Nor that I had to, as I have to now, still, yet, in these my senior years

The tragedy written for me to play was not play

For me but was for the supporting cast

And their comedy found me the butt of every asinine joke

No.  Mirth was not mine, is not mine still

My bands swaddle not, did not swaddle, do but stifle, did stifle

Yet the author, the omnipotent author, with every reason to know better, composes

A hackneyed part so derivative that scholars reprise the same,

The tired character in their discipline and the same scholars now think

The schizophrenogenic mother a fiction but I rethink the same

The fictive character of that postulate, that a mother would

Manifest upon this helpless, naked infant—

This child of bipolar, or schizoaffective disorder

Writ deep in Virginia Satir’s suppressed family secret

Satiric family, satire of a family, familiar statistics

A production in a late-night rehearsal

Of a malevolent plot the leading lady’s desperate

Protagonist on strike; the stage lights dim

Darkness disburses out in the theater’s illuminated exit rows

The show is over, makeup sanitized off the face of reason

Outside, in the light of day, naked realization

Identifying a self-defining moment of truth, defying, momentous truth:

I am not that I am,

Not that I am I was made to be

That problem child I am not

I will be what I will to be

What I am, I am me

I am my identity, my me

What I am is what I am

I say loud:

I am I

I say loud:

I am me

My me

Identity

I am

I

COOL

At first glance, I didn’t think he was cool

I scanned the committee, and none of them looked cool

I wondered what I was getting myself into

“They all look like nerds!” he exclaimed, surveying the hotel lobby

At the conference we were attending (before The Big Bang Theory made nerds cool)

“Careful,” I replied, “You’re going to spend your whole career with the likes of them.”

“Don’t tell me that.  I can’t hear that now.”

I did an online search of an old professor for whom I was a T.A. and was on familiar terms.

He was the coolest guy I ever knew and at a party in his house,

I noticed a book of French fabliaux in the bathroom

Now a well-published professor of Indology and a yoga teacher in Santa Barbara

Which I think is about as cool as you can get

But Carol looked at his picture, with his wild hair, and said she didn’t think so.

“You think Dave’s cool?!” my roommate to my other roommate—I the accusative case.

Carol grew up on a farm, which makes her as natural as a person could be

And nature is not involved with that which is cool

We may view a lion or a wild boar as regal

But we wouldn’t see them as possessed of what is cool

Nature has no airs, no trendy styles, no current fashions, is no poseur: the ground

Carol is genuine, real, authentic, natural, like the beanfields she hoed

Like the Tao’s breath of the valley spirit, the uncarved wood

And being together with Carol, what is cool evaporates like mist in the mountain valley

Time wears down that which is cool,

As age steals beauty of a certain kind

Jobs can have the effect of cool

“I was learning to drive a rig; I went for status.”

A big pick-up truck will suffice for cool if you can’t drive a rig

And workers of jobs that are cool look down on others

“It’s your fault that 20-somethings don’t want to work and live in their parents’ basement.”

“You academics are to blame for all that political correctness and the ‘woke’ movement,”

He, to me, and then vanished into his conspiracy theories

Wearing his ball cap; me, the accusative case, wearing my beret, he resented

“I’ll bet he doesn’t even work on his own car,” I heard someone declaim

My friend from Harvard laughed and laughed when he heard it

Resentment piles upon resentment as the professions pay

Little respect to pipe-fitters—which all comes down to a form of cool—

Hip-Hop booming from the speakers in their BMWs as they pass you on the road

I’ve never noticed a pig looking down on a horse

A rabbit insult a mouse; a mouse, a groundhog

An oak, a poplar; a flower, a thistle

Nor an ocean wave ostentatious, a thunder cloud pretentious

And when I walk in the woods, I’m not a Harvard graduate

And Carol opened the chicken-wire gate and walked around with the hens and roosters

MY BLITHE SPIRIT (redux)

O, to be blithe

Hail to me, my blithe spirit

Blitherie is not whither my spirit listeth

To be blithe, I need to release much

To fly away some glad morning

Release more than just a few weary days

–More than the consequences that drove my ambition–

—-The momentous, heavy pressure, guilt, blame,

—-Blame my early family conspired to see was my guilt,

—-Echoing through a severe religious system:

—-“Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect”

—-Did anxiously strive to live such impossible words, yet the same, kind Master’s words

—-“My yoke is easy and my burden light,”

—-I never heard.  I can never be the perfect god I try to be, nor ever the perfect child

—-I try to be who will be approved by my father

—-No.  Not while I carry the guilt of my family’s sins, born upon the person

—-I am

—-Denied.  Denied confession, satisfaction, and absolution

—-Echoes through this self, denied, self-denial.

—-Enflaming ambition, the hunger, nay, to crave

—-Blessing.  In a degree, from a book publisher, record producer, an arena’s applause

–And now this dalliance with being blithe; hail to me, my blithe spirit–    

With spirits I’ve attracted in my Kirlian aura, karma

It would be a sort of religious conversion

To be a new version of the self I’ve been and become

Plato once told me that an unexamined life will never be blithe

I came up in conversation out at the pub, I heard later

I, back in the solitude of my hotel room

“Dave’s probably working on his book while we’re out here”

In fact, I was carried away deep in Beethoven’s Mass in C

Kyrie eleison.  Donna nobis pacem: have mercy; give peace—and I, a pastor

Which is what I mean about blithe

There are no trines in my astrological chart

All my planets are in the first house and everything

I do or that happens to me comes with a momentous upheaval

And I must be momentous, I guess, and not blithe

I think I could be blithe if I wanted

If I only wanted to be blithe, to let go, could let go of it all, wanted to let go of it all

Or ought to let go of it all and be blithe

MY BLITHE SPIRIT

O, to be blithe

Hail to me, my blithe spirit

Blitherie is not whither my spirit listeth

To be blithe, I need to release much

To fly away some glad morning

Release more than just a few weary days

More than the consequences that drove my ambition

The spirits I’ve attracted to my Kirlian aura

It would be a sort or religious conversion

To be a new version of the self I’ve been and become

Some of my team told me I came up in conversation out at the pub

I was back in the solitude of my hotel room

“Dave’s probably working on his book while we’re out here”

In fact, I was deep in Beethoven’s Mass in C

Which is what I mean about blithe

There are no trines in my astrological chart

All my planets are in the first house and everything

I do or that happens to me comes with a momentous upheaval

Like a religious conversion and not like the zephyr of a blithe spirit

I think I could be blithe if I wanted

If I only wanted to be blithe, to let go

And even this poem itself isn’t blithe

EXPECTATIONS

A whole community of us; a whole culture

A drop-in center, network, support groups, community clinic

Psychiatric symptoms so severe; we understand one another

We all knew each other when I was there

Yet, since we aren’t raving, regular people who see us expect

We function as if our symptoms are not severe

Who don’t understand us as we do one another

Grudge against government hand-outs

Which I barely function well enough

To be denied

Barely function

Function well enough

Just well enough

To be shamed by my co-workers’ expectations

That I function better

As if I didn’t have an illness

Not understand

That it is my best and I do have an illness

And so the whole community of us who understand

One another, our culture, our community, our symptoms

“You have an illness;” she said, “You shouldn’t be working.”

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