earthly voyages

August, 2023

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Beach Plum Jam

The beach plums

Enjoy the dunes

High winds

Blowing sands

Salt

The company of poison ivy

And everyone who uses them

Native American

Pilgrim

Cape Codder

Tourist.

The plums flourish on lands

First purchased from sachems

Who never owned them –

Not a tree or a dune –

For four coats

Three axes

A day’s plowing with a team of oxen.

Land that has seen grazing

And whaling

Fishing and fencing

Bogs and berries.

Land that remembers the Wampanoag

Here for but three thousand years

As do we who fill our pails

Boil the plums

Separate seed from fruit

Squeeze the beach plum flesh

Extract its essence

As we squeeze each other

The sweet juices we cook

In anaerobic jars

To make the jam

To smell the sweetness

The sweat

The sour

The desirable

To lick our fingers

And in memory

To preserve it all.

Throwing Away

In further preparation for my grand exit
I dispose of material things
That once had value to me
And still do
A seventy-year-old
4 x 7 weathered fake-leather
Zippered autograph book
From public school 95
In the Bronx
An archeological time capsule
From the first half
Of the last century
Having survived wars, moves, and fires
Filled with empty limerick poems
from prepubescent classmates
comprised of red rose and blue violet couplets
And the hearty toast from my eighth grade English teacher,
Who like my mother thought
I had the potential to better conjugate verbs if only I paid attention.

I dispose now of high school trivia:
A senior pin.
The 1958 yearbook.
It is inconceivable anyone might care about this detritus
Rather it is in the mind
Where anything of substance remains
and there is no need to throw any of that away
As if one could.
I wrote my first poem
On assignment in freshman English
And I know the words to that poem verbatim
Sixty-eight years later
Worth exactly nothing o’er these decades
Except to me.
That I now throw into the fire. 

Uncle Sol

I cast away a trove of my uncle’s World War II bounty

Military orders handwritten on parchment

Photographs of shamed collaborator women

  being paraded naked down the screaming streets

Next to letters of commendation

Nazi medals

Sewing kits. Bootie.

Jingoism and heroism on display.

With old correspondence

And letters from abroad.

He was in the psychological warfare unit,

Aide and driver to the Unit Commander.

I so admired the smell of his shaving cream

And cigarette smoke

mixed with the aroma of his morning

ablutions and eliminations

There

Next to the jeep

With the beautiful French women

Never married

Nor producer of offspring.

Who care that he served with valor

This unknown soldier

Absolutely anonymous

To all but me and a few cousins

One who turned a starter postage stamp collection

Into books upon books filled with cancelled postage stamps

Worth exactly nothing these decades later

Except to me

That I now throw into the fire.

Whispering Among The Gods

Making Hay

Harvesting hay is one of the oldest known activities required of any farmer who hopes his herd will survive the cold weather months in climates where winter grass grazing supplies for stock are inadequate to sustain them.  And if a modern farm cannot grow, harvest, and store its own hay the cost of purchasing hay can be devastatingly beyond the farmer’s economic reach.  We understood this reality, of course, but still were complete rookies in tall grass, not even knowing how to tell when the ideal time would be to harvest the hay growing on our farm in glorious meadows that were green and beautiful without our even having seeded them.

“Look here,” said the grizzled Saint George, “these seed heads are not quite ripe, which is exactly what you want to see to get your cutting time just right, with the grass leaves being about at their maximum growth, which these are.  You see it?”

Well sure we saw it.  Distinguishing it from earlier or later states of hay growth and maturity was another matter.  But George has been checking every day he’s visited the farm and a few of us had been walking out into the fields with him for daily five minute hay tutorials.  And as far as George can tell, he announces, if the rains hold off for three or four days this is the ideal day for the grass to be mowed in the field.  Now comes the hard part.

Before the advent of horse drawn or mechanical equipment all hay was cut by hand sickle or scythe.  We, of course, were centuries beyond such gleaning techniques and had already purchased for almost no money an old horse-drawn sickle mower with a seven foot long bar holding a few dozen very sharp triangular blades which moved back and forth as the mower wheels turned, sort of like a hair clipper works. Even farmers who rely on mechanized tractor drawn machinery use mowers not very different in design than the horse drawn ones.  This was an amazing and also a truly dangerous piece of equipment, the kind of mower that has been around since before the Civil War.  Ours may even have been that old, but with some sharpening and lots of oiling we were ready.
 Well, maybe ready, except for the slight matter of hitching our team of horses to the mower.  You may think that an easy task, but it is an immense commitment of time, first grooming the horses to remind them you are their friend and they are in your debt, then putting on their pulling yokes, fitting the harnesses and the reins, walking and then backing the horses into the space in front of the mower wheels, one on either side of the draw bar, hooking the draw and the pulling bars up to the harness, steadying the team, climbing onto the mower seat, walking the mower and the horses to the hay meadow, dropping the cutting bar so that it rides just inches of the ground, engaging the wheel driven gears, and then softly clucking to the horses to start moving forward without freaking out over the noise of the gears, the cutting blades, and the falling hay.  Easy. 
Except that first time I thought it was my turn – perhaps in ideological competition with tradition that holds only one person work a horse or a team no matter how steady and good the horse or the team is for consistency sake and perhaps in pursuit of my ideological credo that everyone had to share in the skilled and unskilled work … horse care and childcare, cutting hay and canning vegetables. Anyhow, horses in captivity appreciate consistency – and I was in waaay over my head – another Peter-Crow wisdom conflict in which Peter yielded, the team freaked out, literally bolted, flipped me out of the seat, and ran with a dangerously waiving seven foot long cutting bar with three inch long scissoring blades capable of cutting off a child’s foot at the ankle through the field, out the gate, and back to the barn, where they stood.  Embarrassed.  Pleased.  Panting.
So how many people should we trust to drive the team?  And why?  This was an ongoing debate.  Everyone had to do his or her share of childcare, at least ideally.  Everyone had to cook and wash dishes.  Everyone had to know how to wield a hammer, to drive a tractor, to muck out a stall, to milk a cow.  But in reality not everyone knew how to change brake pads when that was a need, and not everyone needed to learn.  And in fact Peter was the best handler of the horses.  And he liked doing it.  And it was better for the horses.  And ideology was confronted by practicality.  And on the day the team ran away from me with a seven foot long scissor slicing crazily in thin air I surrendered my hay mowing aspirations, much to the relief of the collective.

Once hay is cut it must be allowed to dry, ideally for a few days in hot sun.  Then it has to be turned and raked into long narrow linear piles known as windrows, originally done by hand with a pitchfork, but now again using a piece of horse drawn equipment.  And then, only when the hay has properly dried, is it ready for gathering in some form to be placed into the barn to protect it from moisture and rot.  Most modern farmers use a tractor driven hay baler for gathering, and when ours was working we did too.  At other times we used pitchforks to pile it loose onto a horse-drawn wagon and then off loaded into the haymow or loft.

Loose hay stored in a barn will compress down and cure. Hay stored before it is fully dry can literally produce enough heat to start a fire, due to bacterial fermentation.  Farmers have to be careful about moisture levels to avoid spontaneous combustion.  Who knew? The most familiarity any of us had with hay was seeing Monet’s haystacks.

In the Maws of Israeli Justice – A First Hand Report

The court is in the police station,

That’s the first clue,

A building constructed by the British

To help contain the Arab population

Before the modern Israeli Era.

That purpose has not changed.

The judge is wearing an army uniform,

That is your second clue,

Something that suggests the outcome is foreordained.

You do not need any other clues.

But if this message is unclear

Or too nuanced

Please note that the translator is wearing an army uniform

The court reporter is wearing an army uniform

And the half dozen armed soldiers in the courtroom are wearing army uniforms.

Only the prosecuting attorney is out of uniform,

But he is still sneeringly self-assured,

For he too knows the outcome of this case,

As do the soldiers,

The court reporter,

And the prisoner,

Who has been denied access to his lawyer

for over three months.

Everyone knows the outcome,

Guaranteed and assured by hand and ankle cuffs,

By automatic weapons,

By nuclear weapons,

By the overwhelming power of the state.

The prosecutor speaks first.

He says the prisoner is suspected

Of being a member, or associate, or backer,

     follower, fan, devotee, adherent, sympathizer,

     organizer, sycophant, protégé, or operative,

Maybe.

Or perhaps being in the known presence

Of someone, or some organization,

Perhaps the political party that won the popular election,

Perhaps he is seditious

Perhaps a supporter of terrorism by the starving oppressed

Perhaps he holds positions antithetical to the government’s.

Besides, free speech and free association are not assured

Nor is the free exchange of ideas assured

And although no formal charges have yet been brought

And none are known to exist

Not to the defense

Not to the prisoner

Not to his lawyer

Not even to the judge

We are conducting an investigation,

Says the prosecutor,

And the investigation is not complete

And we need more time

Because during the time we had the prisoner

Chained and interrogated twenty one hours a day

For six straight days –

We rested on the seventh –

And he was most cooperative

Our prisoner

But we learned no thing

So the investigation must continue

And we need him in prison to do so

And an extension of his detention is needed

Away from his family and young children

Away from his students and his neighbors

Just like the hundreds of others we arrested and detained this week

Or was it last week, or the week before that,

On suspicion of being Palestinian.

The prisoner is allowed to speak

May it please the Court, the prosecutor,

The members of the army here today

And others in the courtroom, he says.

I am professor of law Hassan A. Gassan.

There are six Hassan Gassan’s at my university.

How does the prosecution even know

It was I, this Hassan Gassan, who was meant to be arrested?

That it was me intended to be dragged from his home

At two A.M.

My wife and children made to wait in the cold

My home searched without a warrant.

I have told the investigators everything I know,

Answered every question they have asked.

I know nothing more than the investigators now know,

Do not even know what the charges against me are

Or what separates me from my two month old daughter,

My son, my anxious wife

Other than the arbitrary power of the state.

Thank you.

Yes, yes, says the judge, tired of this tedium,

And who are these other people in the court with you,

It is unusual for anyone to attend these proceedings

Because the families of Palestinians

Are not permitted into Israel

And why would anyone else care?

Perhaps they will identify themselves.

We are Israeli friends of the prisoner and his family, we say,

We are international peace activists,

Educators, lawyers,

We are observers, 

We are here to see how justice will be rendered in this case.

Very impressive, says the judge,

And most unusual.

That said, the ruling of this court

Is that the government’s request for an extension of detention

Is completely reasonable in this case and hereby granted.

It is really that brusque, that arbitrary

And that fina,l

Again and again

For Palestinian prisoners in the Israeli courts of justice

In the democratic Israeli state.

© B.R.Taub, Feb, 2008