earthly voyages

January, 2022

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Django Unchained

Django Unchained – Written and Directed by Q. Tarantino – starring Jamie Foxx –

Django Unchained was to my mind sure to become a “standard,” a “classic” of American/Hollywood movie making. And although I appear to have been wrong, and even if Spike Lee has problems with it of a political/moral nature, that’s fine and changes nothing in my opinion about what Tarantino has accomplished in this movie about the brutality of slavery and Tarantino’s “revenge”/rescue fantasy the plot is built upon. As Tarantino himself said, his intention in making the movie – at least in part – was to do a movie that dealt “with America’s horrible past with slavery and stuff but do them like spaghetti westerns, not like big issue movies. I want to do them like they’re genre films, but they deal with everything that America has never dealt with because it’s ashamed of it, and other countries don’t really deal with because they don’t feel they have the right to.”
And slavery is absolutely the “central character” of the movie, the subject of the movie, and the movie’s primary focus, even more so than the Django character, as mythologized and glorified as he is. And the brutality of the slavery depicted is immensely raw, painful, embarrassing, sickening, although neither over stated or over dramatized, IMO. The characters and the plot are very “stylized,” which permits a certain depiction of brutality that might not be bearable in another, more “realistic” style. And any objection to use of the word ‘nigger’ is really a red herring in a period piece set two years before the civil war. The acting is amazing … as is the writing, the directing, and the music. Plus it is a good western … and think how hard a good western would be to make these days. (Witness “The Lone Ranger.”).
Maybe the excessive bloodshed in Django is gratuitous, but the entire presentation is a self-mocking charade that goes on to rip your guts out, notwithstanding extremely violent classic gun fights showing more blood and bullets exploding flesh than anyone needs or can openly bear. And some of the scenes of the torture and degradation of the slaves were so – i want to say “inhumane,” but it is regrettably all too human – beyond any currently “civilized” human’s ability to take in on a soul level. And the cruelty in ways was even worse than the violence, the rapes, the whipping, the branding, the torture … horrible … but precisely part of the greatness of Tarantino’s courage. And to my knowledge no one has ever shown this range of slave characters in one Hollywood epic, including slave bad guys, also awesomely courageous to depict. and, especially, of course, because white people are currently generally enjoined from depicting Black Americans in a negative way … other than as gangsters … or druggies … or poor … or uppity … but so much has and is changing, notwithstanding how very much more still must – and will – change, particularly perceptually, corporately, and environmentally.
The historical depiction of slave reality reminded me that the healing work is not over, even with a Black president, a fact we can genuinely be proud of as a nation – especially given where we were 50 and 150 years ago … but the healing work is not over. There were decades when i could not take a shower, not once, without my thinking of the Nazi holocaust of WWII, and that was “just” six million people over the course of a decade … the African holocaust lasted over 300 years and caused over 100 million African deaths before the slave ships reached the “new world” and has impacted African American mental, political, spiritual, and economic well being in stressful ways we cannot begin to fathom, but must bear witness to the consequences of, ever since.
Even Mother Africa herself is still traumatized, brutalized, and exploited, as she has been for more than 500 years. Indeed, for me, it is always the health and good humor of the survivors that amazes me … how can they be as healthy as they are – look at many of our surviving indigenous native brothers and sisters, or the Palestinians, who in my experience manifest a mind blowing dignity, good will, and willingness to forgive – as seems true among our brothers and sisters in the African diaspora.
So, while I don’t think anyone who is upset by graphic visual depictions of violence should view Django, you will miss phenomenal acting, great scenery and visual presentations, and music, all quite wonderfully over the top in a “camp” sort of way. And besides which, there is Samuel L. Jackson, and Django, who says famously, “The D is silent.”.

The Love Life of Clams

the love life of clams
is poorly understood
and being the shy creatures we are
i can tell you only certain things
without blushing.
for starters i’ll say
we enjoy very long periods of foreplay.
indeed, many think,
foreplay is all there is in the life of a clam
and they’re not all that wrong
it’s something we clams do for hours
dare i say entire seasons without cessation
excreting eggs and sperm by the millions
sometimes the very same clam
ushering both into the world
rocking back and forth
with the flow of the tides
with the pull of the moon
laughing while switching sexes
one day female
the very next male
our essence blended
into one multi-sexual organism
open to every other clam
without shame or grief
bodies buried in the mud,
faces buried in the sex organs
of each other and of ourselves
switching sexes repeatedly …
and not only don’t we care,
but i can tell you
from personal experience
we are awash with joy
with libido and saline
free from certain sad mammalian quandaries
the chasing about looking for yet another puzzle piece
thought to be missing
the rarity of finding a mate

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One Drop of Rain

One drop of rain
Contains millions of separate
And also merged
Molecules of hydrogen and oxygen
Gases we cannot see or feel
Combined to make a substance
No life on earth can live without
And like those elements
We are here joined together
As molecules and drops of hydrogen and oxygen
Wet and liquid inside our sweat, tears, and blood
Hard and frozen, brittle as ice,
Rising as steam and fog
Lifted to the heavens
Fallen back to earth
Never created
Never destroyed
Only changed and transformed
Always water
Inside our eggs, water
Inside our sperm, water
Inside the promise of the future
Water
Drunk by the roots of plants
To rise in the veins of trees
Where it is sweetened.
Water falling into the lake
Water rushing over the dam
Over rocks and pebbles for one hundred miles
Entering the great ocean
Floating across the sea to China
Drunk by giant seaweed
Nibbled at by small fish
Eaten by a larger fish
Caught by a fisherman
Served to his children
Taken into their bloodstreams
Urinated into a sewer in Shanghai
Risen up into the heavens
Falling again onto the earth
We breathe in one another
Like drops of water
Absorbed by the human soil
Drawn up through our human roots
Up through our veins
Sweetened
Released into the air
Lifted high into the heavens
Soon to fall again to earth
Somewhere still unknown
Still water
Loving being a part of us
Immensely happy to be here
Washing bowls and plates
Made into thin soup
Aide to the silent kitchen crew
Aide to the walking meditators
Held here, home here
Illuminated here
Part of the sangha assembly here
Part of you
As you are part of me
Walking together
Doing good deeds
In war and peace
Manifest in our shared breaths and blood
Our shared Buddhahood
One drop of water

My First Yoga Teacher

My first yoga teacher
Beat me
Abused me
And did his asanas every morning
With discipline and joy.
Guru does not preach the benefits of exercise
He enacts them
And lets the results of stretching
And tennis
And healthful eating
Speak as his manifestation
Of what reaching for a higher self means.
His limitations are profound
His teachers few
He reads books written by swamis
And people who believe in faith, love, and seaweed
(although only impressed with the seaweed)
A man who thinks the body is the temple of the soul
That white sugar and white flour steal more nutrients
Than they provide
And that it is healthier to eat the cardboard box.
This is what he gave me
How it felt and hurt
And although naught still lives in his temple
We practice yoga daily
And I offer him my deepest thanks.

Mandalay Hills

Mandalay Hills
I return to the big pagoda
At the top of the Mandalay Hills
Having forgotten everything about it
Until the jeep going up the steep incline
Leans sharply into the first hairpin turn
And I am tilting over
Onto my right side
Where I come to rest
Against the soft and welcome shoulder
of memory.
We were here before.
I can see the footprints we left.
I remember our negotiations
At the vendors’ stalls,
The wonder we shared
As we viewed the distant river,
The town we visited
Where we rode in the ox-cart
And borrowed a guitar
And you sang
So beautifully and bravely
Outside the ruins
Near the hospice
Next to the temple
Where a family is leading their blind grandfather
Around the circumference of by hand
And a group of young men and women eating together
On the temple floor
Invite me to join them
People silently seated in front of statues of the Buddha
Praying, or at least reverential,
While a soldier in uniform
Regards the foreigner engaged with his laptop
With suspicion
As incense is lit
And bells ring
And the spell is broken
By the man pushing the dry mop
Smelling of ammonia
And I shake my head in wonder
Brought back to self-awareness and green,
To monks and the mystery of consciousness
To languages I do not understand
And refracting mirrors embedded in jade
The wonder of memory
The gifts delivered by wise men
Of awe, of gratitude, and love
Here, in the Mandalay Hills.

It: In Honor of Dr. Seuss

There was an old laddie who went for a swim
With a winsome young lass who had beckoned him in
“Beckoned?”, you say, why now whose fault is that
The man, the young woman, or the sickly old cat.

Well not “old,” no not really, in old old cat years
But not youthful, or dancing, you bring me to tears.
Now look what you’ve done, gone and lured me again
from the lad, and the beckon, and the where, what, and when.

Oh yes, I remember, we’re talking ’bout “It”
Not the moon, nor the planets, nor the earth where “it” sits.

It’s the “It” that we’re seeking
that funny old noun
not a he or a she
or a pinch or a pound.
Not a boy or a girl
or a smooch or a twirl.

It’s a thing that we’re calling
It’s the itness of “It”
It’s surprising and scary
and givin’ us fits.

It’s delightful, refreshing
It’s charming and gay
Its blessed and soulful
Not gay in that way!
It’s revealing, concealing
It’s funny, it’s sad
It’s the king of all Itness
It’s good and it’s bad.

It’s so good I can tell you
it won’t go away
It’s so bad I can tell you
We’d better not say.

It gambols and gambles
It rambles and roams
It calls us
And mauls us
And shivers
and moans.

Now you’ve got me all dopey
Which doesn’t take much
It’s a song, it’s a prayer
Its a bowl full of mush,
It’s plain and it’s simple
It’s groovy. It’s kind
It’s warm
and it’s nourishing
a thing of the mind.

And the heart and the soul
and the sinew and such
it’s the wish and the promise
the balls and the touch.

Oh, you’ve got it, I take it
this essence of It
the long and the short
and the weak and the fit.
The glory
the gory
the thrill of the ride
the soulful
the doleful
the queen and her pride.

The cats
and the Rats
The considered and ill
the loyal
the foible
the charge and the kill.

Now we’re talkin ’bout It
yes the queen and the king
it’s the aria, the doo wop, the jazz that they sing
it’s the celtic, the redwood,
the worm and the crow,
the whale and tiger
all sing as they go.

They’re searching and lurching
earth spins without stop
and the It keeps on dancing
on the bottom and the top.

Now it’s true you can’t “get” “It”
But it’s easy to “know”
It’s the found, and the promise,
the go and the grow.

It’s the coming and going
The sail on the ship
It’s the me and the you
the old re lation ship

There, I said It
I named it
I called the shot true
In the giving and receiving
In the me and the you
In the pardon
the blessing
the do and the don’t
In the hope and the fear
in the will and the wont.

It’s the “It”
great lord willing
the tall and the small
the snail
and the wail
it is nothing
It’s all.

Burnt Wood – for Bubi

1 – Charcoal.
The twigs I gather as a girl are consumed, as intended, by fire.
With one partially burned stick I draw lines in the back of the only book we own.
I use the pads of my fingers to spread the charcoal on the page,
Thinning it, stretching it, creating shade and shadow,
Revealing another dimension, like my father’s rage.
At finding the holy book, not meant to be drawn in,
But there was no other paper in the cold cottage outside Warsaw.
Then I drew on the walls, sweeping my arm like tree branches,
Brushing the charcoal in wide arcs to reveal animals running and people in battle.
Mother tried to clean it before he came home, but could not
So she took me into her lap and whispered
I will tell him you will never ever draw again and you mustn’t.
It is the will of God. So I did not. And here I am, one hundred and thirty four years later.

2 – Ink.
He was my husband
Before I knew what the word meant
He broke the glass and my hymen
And he loved me, or so he said,
Before I knew what love meant
Before there were children
I went to the mikvah where women bathed and talked
Of blood
And rules
Of inequity and injustice and fate
There were those who accepted everything as the word of God
And those who questioned everything
I told no one that I imagined my blood was ink.

I had no sisters, no teachers, no schools
No mother I knew after age eight
No photographs, and a father more absent than present,
But my mother-in-law took me as her Ruth
Loved me as her own, talked with me about my husband, her son
Of her wishes for him
And for me
Aided me in my time
Prepared warm cloths to soothe me
Sat behind and held me as I cried in terror and pain
“Mother,” I screamed
“Push child,” she told me
“This is what we do for them. For God.”

4 – Somewhere a Czar
I had his name, his seed, his children
But the Czar wanted his body
Which he yielded reluctantly, leaving for parts unknown.
I was destitute, did not hear from him
Or know of his fortunes for eight months
And then he returned, said he had walked for weeks
Deserted them to find the children and me
We laughed and cried and lay in bed with the boy and girl
Until the soldiers came.
We hid him under the table with the Sabbath cloth pulled down to the floor like a tent
But they shot him anyway, under the table, in front of the children, his mother, his wife
Left him there, his blood seeping into the floorboards
A stain forever

5 – And then America
America is an English word that means,
“And then thy children shall depart from you.”
Leaving the village to take a boat to heaven knows where
To a place called “I shall never see them again”
Even when I get a letter I cannot read
In an alphabet I cannot write in ink or blood.
I am plucking dead chickens to live
I am cold in winter, and immensely alone
But there is bread to eat
And warm water flavored with an onion and chicken feet
To soak it in
And my menses have ceased, and my tears have dried
And across vast salt oceans float my children

6 – I Arrive in the New World.
There is no word for the misery of the crossing
The anxiety, the quarters crowded with sick strangers
An adventure beyond my wildest imaginings on the vastest sea
To leave all that I had, which was nothing
And all that I knew, which was nothing
For something I could not imagine
Because the rabbi’s wife, who never talked to me outside the mikvah
Gave me a piece of paper she said was a ticket paid for by children
Who would meet me on the other side of the World
And although this was impossible I knew
With my three dresses and one pair of shoes
With my 2 undergarments, my shawl, my brass candle sticks
With all that I owned, I stepped across the water.

7 – My Daughter’s Husband
We cried together, we mourned our losses
And then we laughed.
It is all a miracle
She is a mother, with a son, and another on the way
In an apartment, with a husband who is never home
Except to complain how hard his work is, and then to sleep
A good man she tells me
Who never goes to shul
And neither does she
There is no mikvah, and neither can she read
But this thing called a radio speaks in Yiddish
And although nothing makes sense
We are all together

8 – Seven Grandchildren
My seven grandchildren produce five marriages
Ten great grandchildren
The husband is hospitalized
In the East River forever
Three kids go to War
Two become firemen
Another a pilot and policeman
Every child leaves home but one
Who I fear for
Though I have my daughter, and she has me
And we make sweetbread each New Year
And are visited by a great spirit
Wrapped in honey

9 – Great Grandchildren
We visit their grandfather, my son in law
On Welfare Island
Going down a huge freight elevator
From the bridge at 59th Street
My grandson, the fireman, who should have been a rabbi
Takes me and his mother, my daughter, and his sisters
He and the two girls, the loyal ones
I lived with him when his wife was ill
Passed my hands through the Sabbath candle flames
Brought warmth into my eyes and heart
Saved the young boy who knew only criticism and terror
With my shawl and black clunky shoes
With unconditional love and a roll of life savers

10 – The Old Age Home
They speak some other language the people here
And I cannot see them
When they move my form
To sit me up and lay me down
To make my bed with clean sheets
Cool and firm
And the visitors who fall in upon me
Dropped from heaven.
I do not know if I am living or dead
When the fireman places the wet washcloth edges in my mouth so I may suck them
And folds the cloth with love to place it upon my forehead
And gives me my great grandson’s hand
Which by its feel I know him

11 – Reflection
Many years ago I drew the animals in the holy book
I remember everything about them
Except how I knew of them
Or knew of anything outside our hut
What is “know” anyhow
And how do we know it
The great teachings in the Book –
Love the lord
Be kind
Know the rules and never break them.
There was an ark I was told
And inside the ark devoted couples
I knew a man, I was a child

12 – Death
I am ninety two years old they tell me
When they bring me to the party
I have never had a party before
I see only shadows, but hear everything
The rabbi says my name
People are singing
Each one gives me their hand
Which I feel and know
They bend down to kiss me
As I lie perfectly still, cold to their touch
She was a saint the rabbi says
As he places pieces of thick blue glass from a broken bottle
Over the lids of my closed still eyes

13 – After Life
Once more I pass my hands through the flames
Bring the light and the warmth into my eyes with my fingers
Sand passing thru the egg timer
Turned upside down to count again
A grain who understands her purposes
To flow, to rest, to be the tide
Here I am 75 years old in the apartment in the Bronx
Now 50
Now with charcoal staining my fingers
Shading the she wolf and dog
Now inside my mother
As she receives the semen
Now again swimming

between spiders

the beautiful jumping spider awakens
on the inner side of the south facing window pane
on a warm day in winter
resting on her mullion

on the other side of the glass
between the exterior of the window pane
and the storm window
a much smaller spider
awakens to spin her web

wherever the smaller spider moves
the bigger spider follows
as if magnetized
up and down across the pane
tracking with instant accuracy
but never to meet
the larger inner spider
seems not to understand
the reality of glass and transparency
the smaller outer spider
seems oblivious

the inner spider wants more meaningful contact
whether love or consumption
we do not know
sometimes they are merged
oblivion and hunger
separated by a pane of glass
though unlike these spiders
i am sure of my intentions
and can actually smell you

American Wedding, 2011

Alan Is Dead

The last I spoke with Alan
He was asleep in a wooden box
With the lid closed
A blanket covering his casket
Embroidered in some foreign language
That read, “Dead person inside,”
which he was.

He needed that blanket.
The chapel was cold
and he was so thin
Having eaten nothing for days
And chilly like the dead.
I stood guard over Alan’s body
The last person in the chapel
A candle burning
And the air conditioning on.
I stood there a long time
Not wanting him to be alone
Waiting for someone to remove his body
Only to learn the staff was waiting for me to leave
So they could.

I called my partner
Sitting alone in her office
Near the sea
And proposed
We chant together
Which we did
My cell phone resting on Alan’s wooden coffin
The speaker on
Joy chanting softly into the phone
Me chanting out loud
Alone in the chapel
wondering what if anything
the body in the box
felt of the vibration
of our hearts
our breaths
and our voices
our prayers
and our intentions.

We live in a small town
Joy and I,
In a small cottage
With a dog
And one mouse
Who – while I was away at the funeral –
Must have been practicing
His high wire act
And had fallen somehow
Straight into the dog’s water bowl
and drowned.

Like the mouse
Alan had known years of high wire balancing
And had fallen off his wire
Only to land miraculously on his feet
Dazed but still breathing
A dozen times
He just kept running
Every time but once.

Two weeks after his death
I sent Alan an email
With Picasso’s line drawing
Of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg –
It was the anniversary of their deaths –
And about the struggle in Palestine –
Which I knew he’d want to hear about
And would have had something to say
That would have helped put my pain
In perspective,
But the email returned,
With a note that read,
“Out of Office,”
Whereupon I noticed my own high wire perch
And losing balance
Fell down praying
As I had
Over Alan’s coffin.