Campbell Mcgrath’s style is very intriguing for me as a writer in that he produces near epics, whole stories laid down in rhythmic verse, that hearken Alighieri and Milton in the vivid detail and mastery of language. I could be wrong, but during the reading each poem seemed so timeless and flowed so smoothly that the length lost relevance, and each piece became an epic, tho the commentary shed light on his ability to pen tireless page-turners. Possibly what I enjoy most about Mcgrath is the fact that no subject, whether simi-historic stories of old, musings on the future, or hilarious tales of the red tape dragon is beyond his capabilities. He’s a regular Jack-of-all-trades (which in the literary arts may not be all that regular) demonstrating prowess with both verse and prose. He delightfully blends the two until his verse captures the reader (or listener) as prose novels might with Mark Twain-y conversational diction, and his prose flows with the rhythmic melodies hidden in the language’s potential. Tho there are plenty of examples that deviate, Mcgrath’s primary form seems to be that of the narrative. Even songs of love, such as ‘Ode to a can of Schaefer Beer,’ that are otherwise rather formless, pull the narrative in while describing the beer’s state of affairs; going back and back to ‘It was…’ ‘It is…’ ‘It knows…’ etc. I like the diction in this piece. It illustrates that when he uses more common words it is by choice, for in ‘Ode to a can…’ he mixes it up nicely, with simple descriptions, abstract images, and just a bit of high-falutin wordage in ‘avuncular unction’ which not only stimulates the intellect, but stimulates the pleasant sensations of extended alliteration.

A Lotus in Twenty Verses

 

A Nelumbo seed,

after tumbling through the depths,

washed clean, then dirty-                   -rests within the mire;

                                                               transforming, bridging ages,

                                                               and then the seed dies;                               

split straight in twain, by

the root-shoot one-two punch, or:

the flower’s first step-                         -the root meristem

                                                                divides, dives silently through

                                                                Nature’s fertile Ground

which feeds then more growth:

up and up, green volcanoes;

water-top islands-                               -that ripple and bask

                                                                in the Sun’s photon shower;

                                                                quantum absorptions.

cascading pathways

morphing light into matter

chem-electrically-                                -air comes together

                                                                and doughnut shaped sugars flow

                                                                through phloem, root bound;

a new meristem

starts to differentiate;

and the cycle spins-                            -which feeds then more growth;

                                                                a young bud rises, and then:

                                                                water-top islands,

petaled palaces,

that float like Jetson houses

above the surface-                              -what once were but leaves

                                                                evolved into Pure Beauty

                                                                of sight, scent and touch;

connate lobes dehisce,

smiling at the bright, clear sky;

divided as one-                                    -and the lotus puts

                                                                fourth, into the wide blue, a

                                                                cup of ambrosia,

which feeds then more growth;

Anthophilae rest upon

water-top islands-                               -and as the bees fly,

                                                                fueled by heaven’s nectar,

                                                                about the pond field,

their waves competing

become dusted with the key

to unlock new life-                               -two forms uniting,

                                                                who’s halves share to form a whole,

                                                                defy entropy.

within a cocoon,

molecular movements turn

flesh to fragile stone-                          -and the year’s growth ends.

                                                                A seed tumbles through the depths;

                                                                washed clean, then dirty

Lost in the Forest

Musings on Love and Work via Random.org

(5)- If the world is this
(9)- circuit board, then Love is the solder
(7)- that unites the various
(3)- components;
(8)- rendering dialectical
(9)- potentials a flowing river of
(7)- spinning, buzzing electrons.

(9)- Two poles, bridged by a coil; now solid,
(9)- now molten drips, then cooling until
(6)- once again ‘tis firm.

(4)- And the world wakes,
(11)- where lights in parallel glow, awaiting their
(6)- time to shine, sprouting fruits
(6)- on a raspberry bush;
(5)- delectable treats,
(9)- enticements to while away the days
(9)- in this garden of experiments.

(6)- But it takes a keen eye
(8)- to dine well without shedding blood.
(9)- Thus, I embrace my compatriots,
(5)- my co-workers here
(9)- in this new fangled monastery.
(7)- May our minds melt like solder,
(3)- congealing
(8)- into a firm foundation for
(9)- future generations to build on.

The One For Me
by: Amy Gerstler

From

The undertaker's son imitates certain birds perfectly.
He resembles a well-made scarecrow.
I feel like I've swollowed rocks when I first catch sight of him.
He has a good head for figures.
He is distant by preference.
He says "Everybody's in their own world anyway."
He stoops because his height embarrasses him.
We sit on his front lawn, the white pillars rising behinf us.
We sometimes lie down on the dry grass.
He muses, "Why am I like this?"
He's very attached to his spaniel.
I have seen him smile only while reading.
He cares for me but objects to the way I dress.
Her suffers from vertigo and ringing in the ears.
He says his father goes off on boring diatribes.
We discuss some unusual murders in the news.
I met his mother.
She's the kitchen's prisoner.
He was locked up spmewhere, too.
I was the one who discovered him, oh yes...
I recognised him long before anyone else did.

          

Journeying through the Nerve Storm, I arrived at THE ONE FOR ME and could go no further in search of a verse to ponder. This is very interesting; Gerstler maintains her love of list poems even as she works to pen a poem of love. It hints at the ‘cliché’ concept of poetic lovers, what with its Oh how I love thee, let me count the ways feeling. And somewhat hearkens the Dusty Springfield song ‘Son of a Preacher Man,’ turning it on its head with “The undertaker’s son.” Tho when we look a bit deeper, there isn’t much distance between undertaker and preacher; for the case is often that the two are one in the same.

            The line ‘I feel like I’ve swallowed rocks when I first catch sight of him’ is very interesting, and is an elegant way of side stepping the concept of falling in love while at the same time bringing in many other images. Are the rocks pointing to the speed with which she sinks into the sea of emotion, as if all her ballast tanks were wide open allowing the waters to fill and rise until within the depths she rests? Is she saying that she feels like a chicken gobbling up stones to aid her in the digestion of the situation that fills her with a sense of gravity? Are the rocks like heavy butterflies, fluttering about in, or at least causing some distention of the stomach leading to a floaty feeling? Regardless of any specific meaning, that line is possibly my favorite of the entire work, and captures as well as any writ through time the somehow familiar, yet elusive experience of ‘love.’

The poem seems to go along in couplets, loosening up some as it concludes, but in the analysis a new possibility arises: maybe the rocks do point more to gravity, for “He has a good head for figures” and, being an “undertakers son,” acutely aware of at least height, for his “embarrasses him,” he may be quite adept at deducing height and body weight on sight. It doesn’t seem to matter tho, for they can both sit in the shade of taller and heavier “white pillars.”

 

On a Trip to Parke County

Silver Cascade Falls
slides down the smooth rock face,
in a sun lit Shades State Park;
rushing, tho not so madly that
white capped waves are crashing,
but flowing at such a speed
as to be imbued with
the regular, yet chaotic patterns
of the sandstone slate the stream
calls bed each night and day,
mimicking the lignified giants overhead
displaying autumn’s variegated pallet;
branches splitting, then joined,
turn the ground to reticulate lace;
a molecular army marching
along a well trod path to the sea

 

Introspection
By: James Tate
From

 

I look inward and I see a desert with some
tall cacti and a few snakes lying around waiting
for a careless mouse, and in back of that there
is a range of snow-crested mountains, and a lynx
and a brown bear are drinking from a clear pool
of water, and down below on the other side is a
village going about its business. Mrs. Harvey
has just made her deposit in the Farmers’ Bank,
and Elijah Williams has purchased several packets
of seeds at the hardware store. That’s all I can
see at the moment. Wait, Jemima Williams is just now
stepping out of her bathtub!

 

 

 

Flying along with Tate’s Memoir, refuge is found amongst the leaves in ‘Introspection.’ A small set of words that penetrate to the wide worlds within. The movement from start to finish is great, and reflected in extrospection. The key word starting us off is “see” as if Tate is painting a postcard sized landscape. And as the artist finishes off the final details, One might feel as if a long journey has taken place; but does the painter need pack up easel and every brush to add the shadow or light that makes the masterpiece? Could not have we but turned the lensed tube for searching the skies on those distant mountains, moving mere inches while taking in miles of majestic eco-diversity? Where Tate takes us is quaint, what with the small town “Farmers’ Bank” and downtown “hardware store,” but could almost be taking place in Manhattan with apartment dwellers stacked like ants peering out at their neighbors with the cool assurance of anonymity in the vast concrete jungle.

 Turning now to Tate’s images of the still life, I’m struck by the metaphors chosen to represent the mind’s tapestry like qualities. The desert holds many secrets, where cacti hopes rise like green cracks in the brown and blue; and reptile fears wait to pounce on any unsuspecting insecurity that passes by. We’re reassured tho that if we make it across the dry pan, parched and scorched, we can join the forest’s children seeking refreshment in collected cloud stuff. Then, donning sprucen snowshoes, tasting the pool’s source, wizened by Nature’s firm but gentle hand, we reach civilization; where Mrs. Harvey and Elijah and Jemima Williams seem a might bit more ‘civilized’ than the world of the motion-picture box; simply “going about [their] business” seemingly unaware that a stargazer is watching through the looking glass.

 

The mid term for w203 is to revise two previously workshoped poems, so here goes:


The EyE of the Storm

In a kayak drifting, I dissolve
into an infinite ocean, where
nanometer waves crash against
atomic beaches, and i float like
a water spider, a surface tension
surfer, on a shimmering magnetic
flux. Releasing control, a sinking
feeling starts, ‘till on the bottom
resting, a wide open heart. And as
the turtle’s exhalations rise to
meet the sky, where is this ‘I’? It
can’t be found with the vortex around.


&


Emerald Disco Ball
(A Donnian Sonnet)

Shimmering Emerald Kingdom, oh my!
Your green ceilings vaulted so with brown beams
Upholding, and wide plains open to the sky,
By each square mile, show the ascending tilt
Guiding the square set for each grand house built.
Your forms! From silken grassy pile to trees
Who’s ticklish tips shy from a gentle breeze;
Oh! Such complex simplicity leaves 
The mind’s dividing nature helpless, ‘till
Within your ranks residing this plant grows.
‘Breath in heaven’s rain; slowly sip your fill;
Dance with the wind, and hear the silence blow
The pages of time, a rustling resonance.’
A Tumbleweed rolls on towards its residence.

Ticklish Trees

In a glasshouse sanctuary
residents don't throw
stones,
for everyone's taking
a dirt nap. In one room,
amongst insect snap traps and death
pitchers, one can find the
'Sensitive Plant' or:
Gentle Mimosa pudica.
It's positively paradoxical.
The sensual potential
of its pink puffball bloom
is quite contrary
to the speedy withdrawing
of its leaved petiole,
shying
away from a lover's
gentlest caressing touch. Soon
to open, dancing in the wind. That tease

The End Of Zen
by: James Tate
from

There was a very timy frog sitting on a fallen
leaf staring into space and hoping for an aphid to
fly by. A boy spotted it and picked it up and took
it into his house to show his mother and sister.
They loved it and made a little home for it in an
insect box. Nobody thought about the little frog's
family. Two days later they returned the frog to
the very same leaf upon wihich they found it.
It was a day of solemn, good news. An hour or so
passed, and then a golden mayfly flew by. The frog
jumped and swollowed it.





Amongst the flights and forays of the Hawk, a small spot by the water to ponder is found in ‘The End of Zen.’ Even tho the diction of the piece is simple on the surface, I’m inclined, likely due to the title, to read it as a koan; searching the metaphoric nature of the images conjured for the story behind the story. As I see it, Tate and his son were out walking when they came to a “very tiny frog,” a za-zen xenopus maybe, sitting in Samadhi, contemplating the Universe, watching for an opportunity of the insect kind to offer a bit of sustenance. The frog gets not an insectine sandwich, but the snapping snare of a small boy’s hand, which, while probably not matching the frog’s snare, was likely stickier than the father’s, and possessed the somewhat trump card kind of technology known as opposed articulation. The boy is so pleased with his new friend that he figures it’s high time to introduce the at-peace amphibian to the family; who are so keen on the little leaf lounger they decide to prepare a room and earnestly request the honorable one stay awhile. The amphibizen doesn’t appear to mind much figuring, I suppose, that a stay in an “insect box” is as likely as any to present a snack or two. The thing tho about an insect box is that, once closed, if not initially present, a flying feast is not the likeliest of occurrences. So as the frog sits fasting, imparting what wisdom it can, the frogs fellows slowly realize that: tho they include the frog amongst theirs, they had rather forgot about the family back at the pond possibly mounting as search effort for their missing member. Or, if it hailed from a community of similarly still sitting siblings, maybe they weren’t even perturbed by the appearance of distance, or worried for their web-footed friend; for what ill can befall one who joyously embraces the Now without forceful will, flowing along with the focused attention of the Zen tradition? Any-which-way, before you know it, the frog is right back from whence in the story it came, to a leaf, where the chances are a bit better that the frog will finally find its feast without searching. And after an hour wait, which for the practicer of patience must have flown by, the opportunity arrives, and as the frog takes flight after a “golden mayfly” we witness “The End of Zen”

 

Here and now, I'll discuss the apparent conflict in the conception of Buddha simultaneously as transcendently beyond the world of words, and as an eminent teacher that uses regularly words to turn the wheel of the Dharma. Most prominently, for me, are the questions: Does transcendence negate that which is transcended? If one ascends a stairway from the first floor to the second (or third or fourth for that matter) does this then mean the possibility of returning to the first is no longer present? Can there be a third floor if there isn't a first? According (roughly) to the Diamond Sutra, upon the realization of anuttarar-samyak-sambodhi Buddha attained no-thing, suggesting that Buddhahood and a life in the cycles of samsara aren't, strictly speaking, distinct. Even if words do no justice to the ultimate realization of Buddha (which i feel can be understood somewhat like a fusion of Tantra and Zen) can they offer nothing to those seeking peace? I'm reminded of physics, specifically of the concept known as wave interference. Given that the discussion is dealing with words the most obvious metaphoric tenor is that of sound. When a sound is produced (say, by rhythmic pulses of a cone shaped object connected to a wire coil through which current flows creating an electromagnetic field in opposition to a stationary magnet that surrounds it) it travels through space and time as a wave. If another sound is produced (or the same sound out of phase) such that the peaks of one wave meet the troughs of the other, both are canceled and any listener would perceive silence. Technology that is based on this principle would include ‘Noise cancelling headphones' and such. So, if Buddha wishes (or not wishes, or...) to act as a physician, working to cure the ails of illusion, delusion and the requisite sufferings, could producing (or at least emanating) some illusion precisely antithetical to the dis-eased one not possibly offer, even momentarily, a cessation of the illness; offering a glimpse into the hidden corners of life and death? This obviously brings up the ‘problem' of a conception forming Buddha who constantly acts spontaneously. An image that may or may not be sufficient and/or applicable, but resolved personal cognitive dissonance, is of Buddha, in samadhi, maybe forming, maybe farming, conceptions that enter into a kind of rotating bingo ball dispenser. And in the course of conventional interactions these concepts roll out in a synchronistic manner for the benefit of all.