tortured

with sky in its arms

the tortured gold tamarack

holds a blue lover

- arem

The Dark

po

As the dark tea of November

pours from a tarnished silver pot

life is slowly sipped

bitter dinner of winter dreaded

brief sweet of holidays anticipated

and daylight, oh God

the last shred of daylight

must be chewed from the bare bone

and savored.

- Ralph Murre

Rose

She carried a single rose
to this ceremony,
as they all did,
but she knew its value,
carried it close,
shared its beauty with few.

Of the windblown meadow
and tangled wood, this flower,
of the salt sea and earth.
And into his unsteady hand
she placed this rose,
trusted the touch of the gardener,
the trembling jaws of the wolf.

And the wind blew the grass
and sang of love to the pines,
just as though this was the way
the world had always been.

- Ralph Murre

Introspect

Eleven, Eleven

When serious November strikes deep scars
into chicken soup can Warhol souls
and limping veterans of endless wars
fire salutes to motherhood and political goals,
look within.

When the last of Summer’s fleecy clouds have past
and the gray ground freezes over graves,
when slaves are dreaming “Free at Last”,
and when the chief fails to mourn his fallen braves,
look within.

When you hear “don’t raise your sons to be cowboys”,
or “don’t take your guns to town”,
or when the crying won’t drown the noise
of another soldier stumbling down,
look within.

- Ralph Murre

New Light

there is a new light

in the tangled wood today

the wolf hesitates

- arem

In Dark Forest

In the depth of the sky,

I see you.

In sunlight on water,

you are there.

In dark forest,

your heart.

In my breathing

and my waking

and my sleep,

you.

- Ralph Murre

The Course

Staying Course

Like smoke, some of our energy
darkens the sky.
Sooty stack of America’s ship,
emblem carried above rusting hull,
casting about oceans without harbor.
Unwelcome, the fouled air.
Unneeded, the roiled waters.
Listing to starboard,
she plows on,
her crew eyeing lifeboats,
her captain holding course.

- Ralph Murre

take y'self a look

take y’self a long look
write y’self a long book
get an agent ‘n’ go on t.v.

tell ‘em how yer ma was unkind
how yer seein’-eye dog was blind
get a divorce ‘n’ go on t.v.

shoot some lefties, shoot some southpaws
shoot some Indians ‘n’ shoot yer in-laws
get a pardon on court t.v.

disappear from the public eye
wait for the popular hue and cry
run for office ‘n’ go on t.v.

- Ralph Murre

Music

There is Music in the Sailor

and there is music in the sea
and there is music in the cedars
and in the tall grasses
and in fishes and me

and sometimes we hear the music
and we dance or we weep
with the emotional willows
trot with foxes, waltz with waves

and we may swim with swans
and hear rhythms in ravens’ wings
tremble with the aspen
fear the diving of the hawk

or we may never learn the tango
or we may learn to fear the clock

- Ralph Murre

timely

Watch

Like the twitchy second hand
mopping the brow of my Timex
and always pointing at something new,
I’ve gone ‘round the dial
and looked in all directions.

Tick Tick Tick

And people ask what time it is,
just as though they want to know.

Tick Tick

They take seats and I tell them,
“It’s a little too late for you --
take note of the length of your shadow,
see the birds that roost,
and feel the wear in the arms of your chair.”

Tick Tick

And people buy new watches
and look for a second opinion there.

Tick


- Ralph Murre

creation

and then one day

as the story goes

there was light

October Dream

photo by Nancy Vaughn

I dreamed of a place without fences
and the women and the trout swam free
and sheep safely grazed
under the watchful eyes of wolves
and I dreamed red maples
bled syrup on platoons’ pancakes
and farm wives with rolling pins
and blue aprons ruled the waves.
I dreamed you were a wading bird
with an appetite just the size
of my pale crustacean body and mind
as I swam between your legs
and back without caution
and I dreamed of the hills
only the blind can see
and I tasted frost-bit apples
from the broken tree of good and evil.
In the dark, I dreamed of the dark.
I dreamed of hell
but there were no fires.
In fact, it was raining cold rain.
I dreamed of hell
and there were armies
shipping home trinkets and the slain.
And in this hell of a dream
there were papers to be filed,
there was nowhere to walk,
and no one was ever on time.
I dreamed of hell
and you were not there
and no one helped carry the pain.

- Ralph Murre

Planet Earth (Detail)

With every day's bad news, it's so easy to feel that the world is going to hell in a handbasket, and maybe it is, but I find some bit of peace by looking closer. Looking beneath the strata populated by humans. I look at the natural world, and I can not find evil. There are, of course, cataclysmic events throughout nature -- earthquakes and tsunamis, droughts and floods and hurricanes and wildfires and all the rest -- but there doesn't seem to be greed, and there is certainly no religion. As humans, some of us take pride in proclaiming that we are a species set apart, above all others. I won't argue with that belief, though I do not share it. It is true that we have powers to create good and bad on a scale that we haven't observed in other species.

But get yourself out of the man-made for just a bit; look at the square meter of earth beneath your feet, and understand that it is older and perhaps wiser, than the human race. Can I assign wisdom to dirt? Knowledge to rocks? Does the bit of dandelion fluff carried on the summer breeze know as much about a satisfying life as I do? Yes, yes.

Look up to the stars and look down to the dirt you sweep from your doorstep and know that they are the same and that you and your human brethren are the same, also. Believe whatever you do about who or what created all this, but don't build churches to convince others of your beliefs. Don't tell others they're wrong. You don't know. And if you don't know, why start a war? If you don't KNOW ( and I suspect that you've never been to heaven or hell ) why enslave yourself to an institution commanded by people who also don't know? Who are committed to destroying races of people who also don't know? I am not a nature writer, but I am an observer of the natural world, and if there is one lesson I've learned from my observations, it is that there is no religion in nature and it is religion that sets humans apart and causes the greatest sufferings. I am becoming a great believer in gods and spirits of all types, but I don't believe that they go to church.

Look to the dirt.

- Ralph Murre

Thanks

Back in our drive after 1500 miles of discovery
and recovery from the tameness that's called life.
Some bruises and some smiles, some aching and
some joy, and the road. The long road of husband,
wife. Thank the spirits that you know and thank
the ones you don't if there's just a little aching and
some joy and husband, wife. Beware of too much
tameness, and thank the spirits for the road, and
please thank the one you're with for sharing life.

winding pavement
a remembrance of lives
shared in the wind


- arem

note to mice:

play on, little mice

enjoy your cat's away games

this feline's homebound

- arem

Escape

Looks like Nancy Lee and I will escape

this corner of paradise for a while

via motorcycles and ferry boats

to visit three Great Lakes

and the two Mighty Nations

that lie along their shores.

Keep the homefires burning.

- arem

Full

A full moon

and a glass of wine

a full heart

and a wandering mind

September night

- arem

east wind

bluster of east wind

brushes her white hair backward

angry mother lake

- arem

Confluence

Too long held apart
Streams overflow earthen dams
Join in hidden woods
Their colored waters
And follow their gravity
As one river strong enough
To carry burdens
Strong enough the mingled flow
To roll on unstopped
To sea-level finality
No escape but to evaporate
And begin again raining
On the Red River and the Yellow
On Mississippi delta blues
And on the Blue Nile
And the Blue Danube
On the Laughing Whitefish
And the sadness of the Seine
On the Wisconsin
And the O-hi-o

An old idea, returning to the sea
An old idea, you and me

- Ralph Murre

Draft

the first draft

blew away the idea

of this poem

- arem

AvantRetro

I had the rare good fortune, Friday evening, to attend a performance by AvantRetro, the poetry and music duo of Charles Rossiter and Al DeGenova. These guys are the real thing, folks -- great poetry, full of what has been and what is, with hints of what will be -- all presented in a terrific, entertaining manner, with accents of well-wrought jazz and blues riffs accentuating all. I'd had the opportunity to hear Al solo before, which was very good, but the combination of these two is just that much better.

Friday's perfomance was at Milwaukee's oddly-named but terrifically good Woodland Pattern Book Center, where even the open-mike readings were mighty impressive, and the collection of poetry books on hand is -- I'm running out of superlatives here -- very, very large.

If you have the chance to hear AvantRetro live, go hear them. Or get their CD (cleverly titled "AvantRetro") Or buy their book, "Back Beat". Listen to Charles Rossiter's audio website, poetrypoetry.com and buy Al DeGenova's journal of Chicago writing and art, after hours.

Does any of this sound like I might have enjoyed myself on Friday night? Well, yes, my friends, I guess I did.

Incidentally

Someone who is very close to me thinks that self-portrait in my last posting looks nothing like me and suggests that "it is just plain scary". The fact that it looks the way I feel much of the time is, apparently, of no consequence.

Give and Take

in the bright honesty
of the forest clearing
and the dappled dark trail
give me your hand

in the questioning gaze
of the crowded cafe
and rose-windowed cathedral
your smile

to the unnamed color
of the rolling wave crest
and sunlight in canyons
take my heart

and beyond and beyond
all of me

- ralph murre

Lessons

Forgotten Lessons

The way we are pulled
across the surface of years
by hidden gods and loves
illustrated for us as children
by patient teachers in gray suits
their magnets manipulating
mindless filings of metal

The sense of balance
needed for the seesaw
of meeting and mating
misunderstood in the equations
in pale yellow chalk on blackboards
Algebraic equilibrium
of lasting elations

The ceaseless motion
of the drifting continents
rushing across oceans
to find each other’s embrace
Island nations falling away
avoiding tectonic collisions
in the peace of the sea

- Ralph Murre

Honest

I cannot find the pen with honest ink
there is something false
in the color of this paper
and even the glow of this lamp
must be questioned
are you so sure you want what's real?
I could tell a nice story
and I see there are a few
left to be told
it would have a happy ending
and we could sleep warm
on clean pillows and bedtime kisses
and dream dreams
but if I find the pen with honest ink
it may say things that keep us up
and the better light
may show too much of me
the paper that is true is easily torn
and I don't want the sound of ripping
to be the last thing we hear

this is the paper for this story
and I like this unsteady lamp
I cannot find the pen with honest ink

-Ralph Murre

Perspective

I get a little panicky on those days when no writing appears, let alone anything approaching poetry. Last night I was reading from Rainer Maria Rilke, who helped put things into perspective:

"In order to write a single verse, one must see many cities, and men and things; one must get to know animals and the flight of birds, and the gestures that the little flowers make when they open out to the morning. One must be able to return in thought to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected encounters, and to partings that had been long foreseen; to days of childhood that are still indistinct, and to parents whom one had to hurt when they sought to give one some pleasure which one did not understand (it would have been a pleasure to someone else) : to childhood's illnesses that so strangely begin with such a number of profound and grave tansformations, to days spent in rooms withdrawn and quiet, and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to oceans, to nights of travel that rushed along loftily and flew with all the stars -- and still it is not enough to be able to think of all this. There must be memories of many nights of love, each one unlike the others, of the screams of women in labour, and of women in childbed, light and blanched and sleeping, shutting themselves in. But one must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in a room with open windows and with fitful noises. And still it is not yet enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them when they are many and one must have the immense patience to wait until they come again. For it is the memories themselves that matter. Only when they have turned to blood within us, to glance and gesture, nameless and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves -- only then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them."

Mysterious Ways

That last post and my accompanying drawing got me to wondering -- why do we always depict the Big G God in robes? I mean, why would he wear clothes at all? What would he have to hide, and from whom? And if he's not comfortable with the temperature, well, why not? If you've got the funds for gold pavement, surely a thermostat wouldn't break the bank.

Mysterious ways indeed. And another thing -- even if he does wear clothes -- (and I'm not conceding that) why would he still be wearing robes? Don't you think he'd be into t-shirts with slogans? "Thou Shalt Not Blog About the Lord Thy God In Vain" . . . something along those lines?

Of course, very little clothing is still being produced in the Judeo-Christian portions of the world, so that could present a problem. Wouldn't do to be asking Allah or one of the other Big Boys for some new raiment, now would it?

Could be that the robes he has (white, mostly, with a sprinkling of purple and gold), if he has any, have simply never worn out and he's never seen the need to replace them. Floating around in clouds probably doesn't produce a great deal of wear & tear. Yeah, I suppose that's it. A frugal God, and no slave to fashion. I kinda like that.

- Ralph Murre

Good Lord, a Triolet!

This came my way recently:

Triolet on a Line Apocryphally Attributed to Martin Luther
by A.E. Stallings

Why should the Devil get all the good tunes,
The booze and the neon and Saturday night,
The swaying in darkness, the lovers like spoons?
Why should the Devil get all the good tunes?
Does he hum them to while away sad afternoons
And the long, lonesome Sundays? Or sing them for spite?
Why should the Devil get all the good tunes,
The booze and the neon and Saturday night?

to which I reply:

Why should the Good Lord get all the churches?
The mighty pipe organs and heavenly choirs,
The brimstone from pulpits, the deaconly lurches?
Why should the Good Lord get all the churches?
Does he laugh at our salvation wild goose searches?
Does he like knowing he's got the loftiest spires?
Why should the Good Lord get all the churches?
Still, they only have candles, and hell has got fires!

- Ralph Murre

sure

photo by Nancy Vaughn

mmm-hmmm

yes to the ocean
yes to the mountain
yes to its rushing stream
yes to the prairie and daylight
yes to the night and stars
yes to the coins in the fountain
yes to the one with a dream
yes to the grass
in the cracked concrete
yes to strangers in bars
yes to the blue sky
yes to the blues
yes to the woman
at the store
yes to the ones doing dishes
yes to the clean-mopped floor
yes to the one making music
yes to the one making do
yes to the thin green candle
yes to the thin green tree
and yes to the forest
yes to the bird and the bee
yes to the fish in the pond
yes to the fish in the sea
yes, yes, oh yes
to the iris
yes to its drop of dew
yes to the multitude
yes to the few
yes, yes, mmm-hmmm
yes to you
yes to you

- Ralph Murre


Though I just wrote this, it doesn't sound like me. It does sound vaguely familiar, as if I've read or heard something like it, but I can't think where. So if this sounds too much like something else, let me know.

now that you ask

she loves me, she

loves me not, you ask

well, sure

I suppose both

sometimes

I suppose neither

but she might

*

but will she love me

tomorrow

song writers ask

not bloody likely

comedians answer

from the high tight wire

with no net

*

it's not so important

that you know, you know

and if she tells

it's just a guess, you know

leave the door ajar

leave her come, leave her go

and she might

- ralph murre

Be

B+

Be
Just be
Leave us be
We’re being
human beings
Being human
Being cool
Can’t just let you be
Don’t just let me be
Not easy to be me
Easy to be
or not to be, fool
Be there for you
I’ll be there
Be square
Be minus
Be flat, Major
Just be. Boys will be
Be yourself
Be you
Honey
Be, but be on time
Be good
or be careful
but be, Baby
be

- Ralph Murre

going lightly

like stonehenge on solstice,
things line up sometimes.
dim notions, illuminated,
go lightly
to illogic conclusion,
are mirrored.
eyes divert.
pale flesh,
so long covered,
is so easily burnt.

- Ralph Murre

The Real Ralph Murre

I was in business machine repair, y'know? Mechanical typewriters -- Smith-Corona -- Remington -- Underwood. But my real calling, my love, was adding machines. No chance of them telling stories, just numbers, y'know? Any number you could think, cleanly printed in black, or if things weren't going so well, you could print in red -- no doubt, there, about what the hell is this guy talkin' about? -- black and red numbers, that's all, like roulette, y'know?

Geez, my beer's gettin' empty here.

Yeah, numbers -- good numbers, bad numbers, what else you need to know, huh? Red numbers. Black numbers. You type 'em in and pull that big lever, KERCHUNK, and the answer to your question is right there. Beautiful. Flat-assed beautiful.

Say, how 'bout you catch this one, huh?

Then some G'dam college asshole comes along 'n' invents a buncha e-lec-tronic bullshit 'n' I'm out of a job. Best damned adding machine man in six counties 'n' I'm out of a job like that -- Pfffft! I studied up 'n' worked on 8-track tape machines and Beta video players for a while. Now what the hell I'm s'posed to do, huh?

Hey, mud in your eye, appreciate the beer.

- Ralph Murre

workshop

If there's anyone out there who reads this blog regularly, I'm sure you'll be relieved to know that I'll be attending a writers' workshop all week. Yes, I've tried it before, but it didn't take. Maybe this time.

- RM

No, the picture has nothing to do with this post, but I thought it was kinda pretty-like.

Rainbow Goddess

if this be doom

who would not enter?

seductive downfall

- arem

ER!

ER!, indeed! There I was, lads, peacefully thumpin' down the high road, and doin' a bit of pipin', all jolly like, don't y' know, when me finger jammed up into the throttle o' me trusty Enfield, and I about to round the bend in the rosy, rosy mornin' out at the Widow MacDowell's. And her, of course, just shifting her little herd to the upper pasture. I'd no choice, lads, but to pipe me mightiest in the hope that the sheep and the comely widow would take warnin', but it was nae to be. Me pipin' and the bleatin' o' the sheep blended in a kind o' rapturous melody tha' would o' melted the heart o' any true Scot, and I's forced to abandon the roadway and rough it through the heather, all the while a-tryin' to slow the merry pace o' me mount, but the Enfield, as though wi' a mind o' her own, reeled onward toward the widow's cottage. Me front tyre lost an argument wi' a wee bit o' a rock, lads, and somersaulted me person ri' through the widow's open shutters and I alit, lads, in her downy bed wi' nary a scratch! Nary a scratch, that is, until the widow comes in, and her a-hungerin', it bein' so long since old Robbie MacDowell past, and I, wi' me kilt all up around me middle and still clutchin' me pipes -- well I tell you true, lads, I did me very best to resist her advances, but in the end, I took pity on the poor lass, and stayed wi' her a fortnight or two, just 'til things had calmed a bit, y'see. I'll no doubt ha' to go ba' and check on her well bein' now, after jus' one more wee taste. Ah, me finger's fine lads, disengaged as I took flight.

- arem arvinson

paintbrush

blown like a kiss

over heart of stone

a love letter

- arem

Memorial

Is it time yet? Time to head out to the graveyard with a few geraniums; our dues to deaths well died, if not lives well lived?

. . . yeah, here's a geranium, got a good price on it at wal-mart - specials all over but they still had the best price - thanks a lot, by the way, for diein' & all - diein' for the U.S.A. - at least you can feel good about that. christ, how'd you feel if you died for nam, or germany, or japan, or goddam france, or some fucked-up desert full of oil for chrissake? that'd be a bummer. oh yeah, forgot that your kid's over there now. well, gotta go - three day week-end & all - goin' back down to wal-mart to buy a new grille. everyday low prices, man. yeah, it's made in china, but that's how it goes. looks like i'll have to get more geraniums next year. holy shit. florists must be cleanin' up, man . . .

evening song

and the sea rolls away

to the west

to the west

where the day is young

and we watch it roll

as it's followed by the sun

- - -

and the dark wells up

all around

all around

this place where we stand

with all of our fears

oh let me take your hand

- - -

- Ralph Murre

Remembering Stanley

from his drifting boat

an old poet calls to us

the cry of a gull

- arem

Self-Portrait with Thick Glasses

some may have wondered

about arem arvinson

now others may, too

Ready? w/update

Ready to head out coast-to-coast, and I don't just mean across our skinny little peninsula. Well, I don't really mean Atlantic - Pacific, either. No, we'll head from home base on the shores of Lady Lake and have an overdue visit with Old Man River. Bicoastal Wisconsin style. We'll travel back roads where we can and try to rediscover ourselves and our state, with an eye for real women who serve great pies and lousy coffee. Are there any left? Will report.

While on the muddy, muddy banks, we'll help celebrate a 70th wedding anniversary (!). Yes, seven - oh.! and they're still very cool people. Don't ask me how the hell that works, life is full of mysteries. Here's to Lorna and Pete, flowing like a river. Roll on, roll on.

And the rest of you - turn off your damned computers, close your books, and go LIVE.

Later, -R.

Scorecard:

Real Women - lots
Great Pies - zero
Lousy Coffee - getting hard to find
Wolves crossing road - one, very close
Brake for low-flying blue heron - once
Clothing layers on return - four, thick
Living done - lots
Books read - zero

happy birthday

Happy 94th, Studs,
and for the sake of all of us,
may you have many more.

The News

Didn't buy a paper today and I'm not watching the TV news, which leads to a thought, unoriginal though it may be: How different would the world be if I never learned any of the news? Probably not very different at all. But how different would I be? How would I behave if I never knew about the bombs and beheadings, the feasts and famines, never saw the peacock of NBC or heard the poppycock of the BBC? I'd probably sleep better. Is ignorance bliss?

(Ignorance ought to be cheaper -- think of the money that might have been saved if several of our world leaders had skipped expensive educations in prominent universities.)

How would I be different if I didn't take my walks in the woods? never saw these blossoms?
That's a little less fun to imagine.

- Ralph Murre

deborah butterfield

On “Riot”,
sculpture by
Deborah Butterfield

Riot


In the riotous coming together of you,
no horseflesh, but old Texaco station “T”;
nor Texas tea nor oat nor hay burned
in the transport of spirit
from salvage yard of tortured steel
to bluegrass of Elysian field.
What god is this, or goddess,
that can create from tornado twisted tumult
and with torch wielded, weld
this elemental equine?
What wand is waved to bring alive
this alloy, so brave and fairly fused?
Of what steely something
can bridle be built
to control the manner of this mare ?
Of what miracle stuff, the harness
that can contain the energy
breathing
in this red riot?
Contain her not, I ask, lest
mere metal she become, and joyless junk.


- Ralph Murre

appeared in WFOP Museletter

Dream

Did you ever have the one
where you're being chased
by a short man with a hatchet
down a long balcony and you
think this has got to be
mistaken identity 'cause I'm
a good person but you keep
running 'cause you don't think
you could reason with this guy
and he may only speak another
language and just as he throws
the hatchet you come to the end
of the balcony and jump to your
certain death but it turns out
you can fly better than Michael
Jordan or Mikhail Baryshnikov
and you lightly touch down and
then spring to the very treetops
and you're a bird?

You should have that one;
it's pretty cool.
Really messes with your head.

-Ralph Murre

I Tried

moonlight and blossoms

my words drowned out

by Basho's laughter

- arem

Thank you, and ...

Grand Scheme or Random Event, God, Allah,
or Great Spirit,
Holy Myth or Happy Accident, we thank you
for your generous contributions to our planet.

Due to unforeseen crises which have developed
since the onset of our species, we must now ask
for your further assistance.

We hope you will again find it in your heart
(or whatever)
to increase your endowment to help us, as we
endeavor to sustain this magnificent facility.

Your ongoing benevolence is appreciated.


- Ralph Murre

Towhee and Murre

two birds

he rummages the wooded floor
noisy, these mornings
behaving exactly as the book
says he ought
yet, he's clearly his own bird
misbehaving
by the code of some

I rummage the crowded shelf
quiet, these nights
but cannot find the book explaining
my behavior
no field guide's colored illustration
looks like me
my code, perhaps, out of print

- Ralph Murre

spring dancer

at rest, the dancer

unchoreographable

the life to be danced

-arem

Middlewesterner

Happy to announce that one of my poems appears today on Tom Montag's good blog, The Middlewesterner. http://middlewesterner.typepad.com

On the Gaiety of Spring

Suffering in Translation

Ah, Spring . . . showers and flowers
birds and bees, motorcycles and
mercury rising and everything
flowing, flowing – sap and streams
and hormones and young men’s
fancies turning toward love and
some turning toward fancy young men
and Christ dieing on the cross
so we could be dying eggs of
fertility on the first Sunday
after the first full moon of spring
sing it with me – SPRING –
you know the tune – and rising again
to remind us to feel guilty forever
but he really was a nice
young man, fancy, I suppose
what with the halo and all but
when he said “suffer the little children”
I don’t think he meant it like that
I think it was more like allow
the little children ‘cause I got
some stories I wanna tell
- but you know how it goes when
you’re translating from Aramaic
into King James’ English – allow
the little children to hear the stories
and then stand back and allow
them their fancies and I really
don’t think he meant they should
suffer if some of their fancies
are different than yours or they’re
marching to the beat of other birds
and bees than you’re hearing ‘cause
if I’m wrong why would his
wise old Dad have created Spring?

- Ralph Murre

Impossible

Consumed


these thoughts
consumed by impossibility
as surely as flame
gnaws at dry cedar
still fueling desire
as surely as cedar
becomes hungering flame
quiet madness where
brick on brick
of a life well built
wants mortar
admitting blades of light
slicing at a dark interior
crazy as an afternoon
meeting evening
over still lake mirror
and laugh of loon
all purple and gold
these thoughts
and night coming fast
and night no cure for the sleepless
and night no cure for madness
and morning; so far off


- Ralph Murre

Sense

must it all make sense
dreaming or waking
question or answer
death or birth
this earth ?
do you see what I see
little drummer ?
is it good morrow
born of the past
or the flash at last
of dark to come
a rum pa pum pum ?
it's all in your drum

- Ralph Murre

International Design Competition

To the Individual or Group Submitting the Human Body


First, and overall, let us say: Well done!

Rather appealing design ideas evident in even utilitarian aspects, though not without a few questionable details.

- Observations:

While most entrants in our mammalian division chose to cover their models in hair, often beautifully colored and patterned, you opted for the naked look. While this may work well for earthworms, we have to wonder about the practicality in anything warm-blooded. Range of operation may be severely limited if some sort of covering is not devised. It appears that most entries in this division, with less hair, were intended for aquatic use. Yours simply don’t have the lungs for that application. And frankly, we believe that something more cuddly would be an easier sell.

Eyes appear adequate but lack good peripheral vision – take a look at what’s going on over in insects.

Ears – functionally acceptable, but least appealing aspect of your entire presentation. You’d have done well to have tried something like they’re using on Labrador retrievers. To your great credit – you have shown us a nose which may be the best looking in all of mammalia.

As to the teeth – if you have the technology to replace these once, as you’ve demonstrated in the growth process, why not keep replacing them every time there’s a problem? This appears to have been an economic decision which we cannot condone. The shark gets high marks in this area.

Very, very nice work on the female breasts, though we wonder if the decision to make them so attractive to the male may not lead to problems in the long term. And why, please tell us, do you mammal designers insist on putting the little pseudo-breasts on males? These seem a peculiar affectation, akin to portholes on Buicks.

Genitalia appear functional. (You did not choose to demonstrate the birth process, and some of our members wondered from exactly which point the spec'd 7.5 lb. baby would emerge.)

Buttocks - oddly attractive, particularly on the more slender samples submitted.

While the feet look pretty good, and one of our committee was quite taken with them, we question their suitability in rough terrain or harsh climates.

We do feel that ALL members of the primate design group should share a special award for their work on hands. While we initially questioned the group’s efforts to stand these creatures on two feet, we’ll be happy to admit that the opposable thumb feature may well have been worth it. We expect great things of thumbs. A brilliant concept - dare we say it? - an intelligent design.

- Outcome:

We are pleased to announce that you have been awarded an honorable mention for your entry. As in the past, all top awards went to species with tails.

Watch for announcements of upcoming contests, and keep trying!

- Ralph Murre, writing for the committee of the judiciary

at sea

a stranger at sea

in the light of a new dawn

so far, the warm shore

- arem

Just One More

Go, my children, fight the fight.
What right have we to live
without killing, what right
the unwilling to stand
in front of rolling tanks,
no thanks offered to gods of war
and banks? No donations
to defense contractors? We
need these arms, not farms
and food, not tractors
and schools. What’s the point
of education? Shoot first,
then interrogation, that’s the order,
that’s the way old John Wayne
taught us – brought us through
bad times on silver screens.
Movie queens await the victors.
Football games and Jordache jeans.

Go, my children, fight the fight.
What right have we to throw wrenches
in history books? Let them write
of death’s stenches, the glories
of amputations, and reparations
to those who need them least.
Go now, feed the beast
that swims on tears, what fears
are worth a hero’s worry?
And hurry, don’t miss the chance
to be heroes – standing tall
on a returning flight, or at night,
lying under flags, the way
so many heroes do their flying.
Yes kids, it’ll be a better world,
stars and stripes unfurled, everywhere.
One more war should do it.
Your kids could get us there.

- Ralph Murre

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