Thanks for this jewels: your poem, the photo and the story how you found the hidden room. Makes me think of Haruki Murakami’s recent novel with a secret magic room in the basement of the library… “The city and its uncertain walls”👏😉
I can't imagine what it would be like not to have a sibling... I read Jesse's post yesterday - comes in good time, it's my sister's birthday at the end of the month :-) It's a lovely post. I often wonder what it would have been like to also have a brother. My mum has five siblings and she's the oldest! Her mother only had one sister who died in childhood (we don't know quite what from as they were living quite rural, and were not having the opportunity or money to get a doctor - so from then on my grandma grew up like an only child and apparently se always said she wanted six kids of her own later on, three boys and three girls - which she did get!) I think it must be so hard to lose a sibling in younger life also as and adult as it happened to you. It's such an important bond.
So moved by your note to us. I lost my brother to covid in 2020 and it really connected me during that time. Unfortunately my Father had to see one of kids die that was even more poignant. I wrote a few poems about that and I will share it on my next post here.
Beautiful heartfelt abstract poem thanks for sharing
I will check out Jessie's post many thanks
Btw I live in Hamburg and haven't come across that bar with the cherubs carved in stone. But there is a rustic brewery near the Elbe river that has a cave bar as you have described. I'll let you know and send a picture if I find it
A beautiful poem and one which appropriately embraces a certain kind of mystery that persists in the human experience regardless of how much we ever think we know. There's something of the bubbling up from the primordial nothingness in it--a bubble that arose in your consciousness alone and which you gave words to. Mystery upon mystery, we read/hear it ourselves and in our own minds differently-similar bubbles arise giving rise to their own mystery. Where does it come from? Where does it go? What new mysteries are borne in the wake of the preceding mystery? And yet ...
And yet it does speak (to each in its own way) to seemingly concrete things--the tangible mysteries inherent in the material world--such as our sibling relationships. And to speak of war and destruction, the historical fact and the potential for further acts of bloodshed upon other human beings who, seen through the murky and mysterious mists of time, are no less our kin than those we grew up with. What fortune could be had were we but to pierce that veil! And yet ... the veil of mystery flutters constantly amongst and between us; so it is that it may be all we can do but to wish each other "God and good luck!"
The mind having been moved to write (or type!) and thus having moved the hands to write (or type...) writes (or ty--Oh never mind. You get the idea. Moving on!
Heyo Patti - it has been a while since I read Just kids but I was reading Borges and was reminded of the part where you talk about being on the train reading a Crazy Horse biography. Do you know what the book's name was ?
Wise words Patti. Keeping vigilant is why I’m late to this post but today is a happier day. Thousands of people came out on the streets of Britain last night against racism after terrible riots on the streets recently. It was a joy to behold!
Jesse’s post was lovely and reminded me of what a lovely family you are. Happy belated Birthday Jackson 🎉
Thank you for the poem it was lovely and good to hear your voice. Much love from London 🙏
Happy belated birthday to Jackson. Jesse’s tribute was just beautiful.
I had to hold this little poem for a whole day in my mind before summoning some thoughts. It was like entering a moment of stillness.
The poem misses being by a sonnet by two lines, an apt choice, because this curtailment amplifies the sense of loss, of a future curtailed, a light switched off. And yet, the boy is—-of course!—-the girl’s dream, her divination, fluid and gentle as water.
I have a mental picture of a natural spring flowing through this scene, and the persistent image for me is that of a girl at the edge of a stone fountain, the boy a statue whose sweetness draws the water that sustains life. The ball he holds is as translucent and ephemeral as the girl’s vision of him. The strength of the stone grounds them; And yet, water erodes stone; water, and time. Always time.
These dualities—-presence/absence, liquid/solid, past/present, reality/memory, living child/lost child, transparent water/ black raven’s scrawl—-serve to anchor us in the poem’s moment, make us question its reality even as we know (we KNOW) that love is real. Memories are real. Like a ball made of water, the years dissolve into seas, rivers, tears. But our memories cannot be taken from us.
The rare use of “transitive” in the final stanza (in the sense of transitioning/transitional) solidifies our knowledge that the sweetness of the boy is a dream, a wish, a memory. But if dreams are a kind of reality, and remembering just another method of divination, then the stone illusion (like Pinocchio, like Peter Pan, like every lost boy a sister might have mourned)becomes a breathing, living boy again.
Happy birthday, Jackson! You were blessed to have such wonderful, creative, loving parents coming into this crazy world! Keep making music that touches people's souls!
Growing up in the Cold War, getting under our desks for those nuclear drills at school, then protesting for weapons reductions in college, I never understood why we didn’t take full advantage of that period in the 1990s to downsize the missiles. I optimistically hope we someday learn peace.
Just listened to this whilst looking at Lake Michigan in Arcadia, Michigan. This inland sea is quiet today with gentle, lapping waves.
A perfect place for meditating on sibling bonds, on family members here and gone. The blue on blue horizon line between lake and sky echoes my thoughts of the living and the departed.
Jesse's tribute to Jackson and to siblings was wonderful.
And The Oracle is quite compelling.
I love the last stanza -
Darts of fortune scattered unnoticed, flew like the raven in a twisting scrawl.
I think of all the siblings being lost in Gaza with often just one child surviving and all that horror of today getting forgotten so readily and easily…
Thanks for this jewels: your poem, the photo and the story how you found the hidden room. Makes me think of Haruki Murakami’s recent novel with a secret magic room in the basement of the library… “The city and its uncertain walls”👏😉
I can't imagine what it would be like not to have a sibling... I read Jesse's post yesterday - comes in good time, it's my sister's birthday at the end of the month :-) It's a lovely post. I often wonder what it would have been like to also have a brother. My mum has five siblings and she's the oldest! Her mother only had one sister who died in childhood (we don't know quite what from as they were living quite rural, and were not having the opportunity or money to get a doctor - so from then on my grandma grew up like an only child and apparently se always said she wanted six kids of her own later on, three boys and three girls - which she did get!) I think it must be so hard to lose a sibling in younger life also as and adult as it happened to you. It's such an important bond.
I love the poem!!
as if thoudsnds of words were said nd written to honor his being
So moved by your note to us. I lost my brother to covid in 2020 and it really connected me during that time. Unfortunately my Father had to see one of kids die that was even more poignant. I wrote a few poems about that and I will share it on my next post here.
Beautiful heartfelt abstract poem thanks for sharing
I will check out Jessie's post many thanks
Btw I live in Hamburg and haven't come across that bar with the cherubs carved in stone. But there is a rustic brewery near the Elbe river that has a cave bar as you have described. I'll let you know and send a picture if I find it
Take care sending much love from Hamburg
Thanks for your comment. I live near Hamburg and was wondering about the place Patti described. All the best, Birgit
Hi Birgit there is a Brewery in a cave near the Elbe that fits Patti's description. I'll check it and tske a picture for her if I find it.
I love Hamburg. I'm originally from Miami. Nice to meet you. Are you a Poetry fan?
Such lovely words. Many good memories of Todd-- thanks.
A beautiful poem and one which appropriately embraces a certain kind of mystery that persists in the human experience regardless of how much we ever think we know. There's something of the bubbling up from the primordial nothingness in it--a bubble that arose in your consciousness alone and which you gave words to. Mystery upon mystery, we read/hear it ourselves and in our own minds differently-similar bubbles arise giving rise to their own mystery. Where does it come from? Where does it go? What new mysteries are borne in the wake of the preceding mystery? And yet ...
And yet it does speak (to each in its own way) to seemingly concrete things--the tangible mysteries inherent in the material world--such as our sibling relationships. And to speak of war and destruction, the historical fact and the potential for further acts of bloodshed upon other human beings who, seen through the murky and mysterious mists of time, are no less our kin than those we grew up with. What fortune could be had were we but to pierce that veil! And yet ... the veil of mystery flutters constantly amongst and between us; so it is that it may be all we can do but to wish each other "God and good luck!"
The mind having been moved to write (or type!) and thus having moved the hands to write (or type...) writes (or ty--Oh never mind. You get the idea. Moving on!
Many thanks!
Heyo Patti - it has been a while since I read Just kids but I was reading Borges and was reminded of the part where you talk about being on the train reading a Crazy Horse biography. Do you know what the book's name was ?
Thank You for this wonderful wordsmithing, the last line, the weight of the words.
Wise words Patti. Keeping vigilant is why I’m late to this post but today is a happier day. Thousands of people came out on the streets of Britain last night against racism after terrible riots on the streets recently. It was a joy to behold!
Jesse’s post was lovely and reminded me of what a lovely family you are. Happy belated Birthday Jackson 🎉
Thank you for the poem it was lovely and good to hear your voice. Much love from London 🙏
Happy belated birthday to Jackson. Jesse’s tribute was just beautiful.
I had to hold this little poem for a whole day in my mind before summoning some thoughts. It was like entering a moment of stillness.
The poem misses being by a sonnet by two lines, an apt choice, because this curtailment amplifies the sense of loss, of a future curtailed, a light switched off. And yet, the boy is—-of course!—-the girl’s dream, her divination, fluid and gentle as water.
I have a mental picture of a natural spring flowing through this scene, and the persistent image for me is that of a girl at the edge of a stone fountain, the boy a statue whose sweetness draws the water that sustains life. The ball he holds is as translucent and ephemeral as the girl’s vision of him. The strength of the stone grounds them; And yet, water erodes stone; water, and time. Always time.
These dualities—-presence/absence, liquid/solid, past/present, reality/memory, living child/lost child, transparent water/ black raven’s scrawl—-serve to anchor us in the poem’s moment, make us question its reality even as we know (we KNOW) that love is real. Memories are real. Like a ball made of water, the years dissolve into seas, rivers, tears. But our memories cannot be taken from us.
The rare use of “transitive” in the final stanza (in the sense of transitioning/transitional) solidifies our knowledge that the sweetness of the boy is a dream, a wish, a memory. But if dreams are a kind of reality, and remembering just another method of divination, then the stone illusion (like Pinocchio, like Peter Pan, like every lost boy a sister might have mourned)becomes a breathing, living boy again.
That was a beautiful deep dive, Janet. Thank you.
What a lovely commentary. Thank you Janet. I almost feel I should add two lines....
No, it’s perfect as it is. A little gem.
Happy birthday, Jackson! You were blessed to have such wonderful, creative, loving parents coming into this crazy world! Keep making music that touches people's souls!
Growing up in the Cold War, getting under our desks for those nuclear drills at school, then protesting for weapons reductions in college, I never understood why we didn’t take full advantage of that period in the 1990s to downsize the missiles. I optimistically hope we someday learn peace.
Just listened to this whilst looking at Lake Michigan in Arcadia, Michigan. This inland sea is quiet today with gentle, lapping waves.
A perfect place for meditating on sibling bonds, on family members here and gone. The blue on blue horizon line between lake and sky echoes my thoughts of the living and the departed.
Jesse's tribute to Jackson and to siblings was wonderful.
And The Oracle is quite compelling.
I love the last stanza -
Darts of fortune scattered unnoticed, flew like the raven in a twisting scrawl.
His transitive senses he left to his sister.
Her tears were the color of stone boy's ball.
Thank you for this gift of poem.
Sending gratitude for the blue of Lake Michigan.
💙
Lawrence French has NO authority to open a Facebook page in my name.
I think of all the siblings being lost in Gaza with often just one child surviving and all that horror of today getting forgotten so readily and easily…
not writing it that oldly 😬