Flame

Easy

How much easier
to write about the tamarack’s
golden flame
the last flicker of warmth
against purple winter’s
majesty
than to speak
of our own fading hopes
of immortality

to let the pen express visions
of V’s of geese
receding into falling night
than to talk with a lover
about
the approaching darkness
in which the warm V
of our desire
our desirability
heads south

easier to project
into metaphor of autumn
and winter
than to accept the coming
of no spring no summer

the trout lily’s bloom
the red robin’s return
not for us

easier to tell the world
of fortitude

than to tell family
of fear.

Tomorrow begins November
we shall wear brave masks
tonight.

- Ralph Murre 2004

this piece was written for Halloween,

and appears in my book, "Crude Red Boat"

And speaking of cameras,

(and I'm pretty sure I was, a couple of days ago,) I've got to tell you of a wonderful experience I had recently. The Canon SD230 digital, which had served so well, was overcome by some supernatural sort of glitch which rendered it more or less a pain in the ass. Since it was three or four years out of warranty, I decided to call Canon, just to find out which current model might accept the same periferal gear I had purchased for the old camera. I clenched my jaw and prepared for the endless horror of talking to machines and waiting for hours which I was sure would follow. WRONG! Within moments, I was talking to Johanna, a real, live human who was totally competent, caring, and courteous. We talked about new cameras that might fill the bill and then Johanna asked about the nature of the problem I was having. I explained, and also explained that my warranty was long gone. Well, she said, I'm going to send you shipping labels and all you'll have to do is pack the camera, and shipping will be paid to our service center, where they'll either fix your camera or make you a very good deal on a replacement. That sounded good, but not as good as the result - within ten days, I received a refurbished SD630 (!), a much newer and much improved camera, at absolutely no cost to me!

To receive terrific service from an electronics company in an electronic age is not something I can take for granted, and I must certainly recommend to my friends, that if they are in the market for any sort of device that Canon makes, they should look no farther. Incidentally, mine is not a unique experience, as I told this story to a friend who, almost word for word, had the same story to tell about Canon.

- Ralph Murre

Chuckles

chuckles of a pram-boat
on wavelets
haunting laugh of loon
quiet evening shower
tears of the crescent moon

-Ralph Murre

Lighting

Changing Light


Sunlight, thick as syrup
and golden flowing
on sweet afternoon
of saxophone serenade
but bass, the note
of discord beneath
and chill, the shadow
where he stands
as she leaves, again.
Wind where music was
and shrill, now
the thinning light
as metal on slate.
Tin whistle shrill.

- Ralph Murre 2006

Just in Case

Note To My Publicist

The camera should be held
Quite low, I think,
To make me appear taller
and to hide baldness.
The lens should be of the type
Which makes one look slim and muscular.
Also, I believe,
A rather soft focus would be good.
I’ll need the kind of lighting
Which adds a great deal of dignity
and youthful vitality.
If I am to speak,
The microphone must be attached
To some sort of apparatus
That renders the voice lower and more mellow.

I will,
With proper planning and rehearsal,
Be very candid and spontaneous.

- Ralph Murre 2003

Color Blue

not everything

will be explained completely

sky depth, color blue

- arem

Fair Trade Items

Barter With Bob

He brought fall mushrooms

- all kinds -

in exchange for construction advice

I'd offered in spring.

A fair trade, I think,

in equally dangerous commodities.

I ate the mushrooms

- hoping -

we were both experts,

or both lucky.

- Ralph Murre

Jugheads?

We Are What?

Are we what we read, I wonder? Probably not - no more than we are what we eat, or what we drive, or what we wear. I suppose those of us who try to write may be a little more of what we read than your average bear or Bears fan, but I think we need to be careful to live it, rather than just read about it, if we're going to tell stories that anybody wants to hear.

I came across the term "vastly unread" lately, in an article by someone I respect immensely, who suggested that the term would apply to you if you have not read a particular author. I take his point, but also that of the Clean Old Man who tells Ringo to put down his "boook" and get out and live life. Parts of life are not found in the pages of books, no matter how well written, and the best of writers, I think, don't JUST read.

Don't misunderstand me - read all you can - but do it when the sky is dark, the stars aren't out, and the bars are closed.

Are our heads just lovely jugs to hold the words we've read until it comes time to pour them back out? Did Conrad just READ about going to sea?

Tell me a story - but don't tell me somebody else's.

- Ralph Murre

Black Holes

Vincent In The Mines

Black holes in space pull everything in,

like heaven with nobody guarding the gates.

It's hard to know if the streets are gold,

'cause nobody sends postcards.

It may be too dark for pictures,

but you can see stars, I guess.

Black holes in earth pull at miners,

like hell with no amusements.

Even the missionary Van Gogh

didn't send pictures from the mines,

but he got out and saw the starry night.

He got out and saw sunflowers

before the black holes in his spirit

pulled everything in.

- Ralph Murre

bared

another leaf

and the naked tree

faces winter

- arem

good stuff

Worth Seeing

There are a few new connections over in the "links" area of the screen that I'd like to bring to your attention:

Norb Blei's Poetry Dispatch, which has long been available by email, is now being archived and brought to you by the mysterious Monsieur K., to whom we owe a debt of gratitude. Merci ! This site will be one of the best poetry resources available.

John Brzezinski - Photographer, is just that - and a damned good one. John also runs the blog "OKO".

Julie Eger, is just starting her web site, and it's looking very good. Julie is a friend, excellent writer and poet, great spirit - I congratulate her on this new effort.

And, not a new link, but if you care at all about what is happening in the world and/or good writing, please have a look at the September 6th entry at Baghdad Burning.

From Water

If you've slid

over frost-glazed strand

and rowed that shade of blue

past mapled crimson

in the cove she was moored,

if she rose and fell with a sigh

because the season

had grown thin as promises,

then you know, don't you,

something of life

and a little about death.

If she's cast rainbows

in the spray

and moaned with the lust

of wind and sea,

then you know something of dreams.

If you've taken her from water

and hid her away for the long winter,

you know something of sorrow.

- Ralph Murre

The Old Man

photographer unknown, probably Laura Murre

He'd have been 100 years old today, 29 September 2007, this prize-fighter/pacifist cowboy/carpenter. He was a good father. He was a good man. He's in a good place.

Perhaps fittingly, his death in 1999 gave birth to the writing portion of my life, when, the night before his funeral, I wrote this eulogy and spoke it at the service the next day:

A Short Eulogy For Arvin Murre

There's an old Shaker hymn that says " 'tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free, 'tis a gift to come down where you ought to be..." I don't know if Dad ever heard that song, but it could have been written about him, because he was richly blessed with those three gifts.

To be simple: We've turned that idea around so it almost sounds like an insult. But Dad was wonderfully simple. He never wanted for more than he had; more stuff, more clutter. He showed us that it was a gift to have simple desires.

To be free: Anyone who ever heard Dad walking across the farmyard at five in the morning, whistling a tune of his own, knew that he was as free as the birds, who whistle their own tunes.

To come down where you ought to be... What do you think that means? I think, for Dad, it meant coming down next to Mom; next to Laura, the love of his life. He's with her now...free again and at home with the one he loves.

Dad never put much stock in words... "Words are but a breeze"...he told us. So what can we learn from a man who never said much? Let's think of what we never heard him say... We never heard him say " I hate so and so, or that group of people, or that race of people...or that religion." So maybe we can learn something about tolerance; maybe even love.

We never heard him brag. Although he was a great craftsman, and we know he was proud of his work, he never bragged about anything; just let his work speak for itself. So maybe we can learn something about humility.

We never heard him say "Oh, I couldn't do that” or “You can't do that."... He always found a way to do what needed to be done. So maybe we can learn something about self-confidence.

But, his greatest lesson can only be learned by following his example... and I'm speaking now to the men...he taught us what it means to be a father...and what it means to be a man. So, Thank You, Dad... for the things you said...and for the things you never had to say. Thank You for your Life.

-Ralph Murre

Dry

after summer's end

the waterless lilies wait

ah, today's gray sky

- arem

Phenomenon

with neck craned

and wide-open eye

watch

- arem

hearing voices

voices on my walk

gold leaf veneer of this day

the bright-bloused women

- arem

Post 200

home again from the fabled up north

appointed rounds

in all kindsa weather

like masochistic mailmen

selling more books than we bought

which has never happened

and may never again

and two motorcycles faithful

and she who rode

one, too

these five days

still speaking to me

and bringing me tea, just now

- ralph murre

Burt the Dog

Burt The Dog, born 25 December, 1994 at Mindoro, Wisconsin, died today, 11 September, 2007 at Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin.

He loved the water and rolling in dead fish.

Burt leaves his long-time companions, Nancy Vaughn and Ralph Murre, along with numerous friends.

Memorial contributions on behalf of Burt the Dog may be made to:

All Creatures

PO Box 155

Baileys Harbor, WI 54202

Harvest

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When the golden kernels are in

and the purple fruit, too,

and the words are gathered;

save for me a heel of bread

and the dregs of wine,

save for me a throwaway line.

And the orchestra gets weary

and the barmen tire, too,

and the lovers leave;

save for me a melody

and a barefoot dance,

save for me a whispering chance.

And if it grow cold and it be a mile,

and if I grow old; stay with me a while.

- Ralph Murre

Arrive Derci, Luciano

There is a little less sunshine in Italy today.

the summer's gone

and all the roses falling

and all the crumbs of lunch

and all the papers crumpled

and the Rosalita's sweeping

and all the plumbing clogged

and all the overflowing

and all the windows fogged

and all the Carlos's plunging

and all the paint is peeling

and all the roofs are leaking

and the gardens all need weeding

and all the Ivan's scraping

and all the Juan's are raking

and the Marina's are all mopping

and all the dishes -

someone's doing all the dishes

someone's washing the hotel sheets

you made love on

someone's patching holes

in the roads

someone's patching holes

in someone's jeans

and the Jeremy's are assistant managers

and the Brittney's have syndromes

and all the Rose's falling

in the under-insured night

- Ralph Murre

of pigs

Picking Straw

All of these years blown away
like calendar pages in a black and white
movie I saw once when I was little,
kind of hokey, I mean –
the years and blowing around like that –
and me in the wind all the time
and my fragile shelter leaning to leeward
and me leaning with it like a strawhouse pig
with The Tabernacle Choir of Wolves huffing
at the door, an empty fridge,
and thinking, sticks, I could have built with sticks,
been a nine to five pig with a long commute,
gone to a straw house for a 2 wk. smmr. rntl.,
been a regular boar, dreaming of brick.

- Ralph Murre

for a spin

"little wheel spin and spin"

Buffy Sainte Marie told us,

"and the big wheel turns around . . ."

and the wheels still turn

and the world goes 'round

and a little gets lost

for everything found

and the clouds still spin

through the sky, through the sky

and I thought I saw you

floating by

and the dark horse goes up

as the white one comes down

and the music plays on

as the children go 'round

and the song seems to be

you and I, you and I

smile at me as you go

spinning by

- Ralph Murre

like willow

blue willow weeping

in the wind of a low bank

the beckoning limbs

- arem

sky blue

the unbearable blue of cloudless skies
reflected in your dark glasses
but, today, the clouds

the spacewalk with no tether
free, at last, of safe gravity
but, today, the earth

the dream of flight, so close at hand
a pair of cranes leaves home
but, today, they return

- ralph murre

Passage from India!

Many of you younger readers won't remember this, but there was a time, shortly after the Beatles* left the side of Baba Ram Dass**, when he was visited by Bebe Rebozo***, who was in something of a quandary.

"Baba", said Bebe, "I have lost my way. I am clearly not a Beatle, but if I were, what advice would you have for me?"

"Bebe", said Baba, " I will tell you what I would tell you if you were not just you, but a Beatle, too: Bebe, you must simply BE Bebe!"

"But Baba," babbled Bebe, "I have forgotten how to just BE Bebe, and what's more, I don't know if I even want to be Bebe, Baba."

"To be Bebe, or not to be Bebe;" rebutted Baba,"that is the . . . (to be continued)

* Popular English Rock and Roll Quartet

** Garden Grown Guru

*** Friend and confidant of Richard Nixon

Decisions, August 9th

just past the fork

a moment's indecision

too late to go back?

- arem

Brothers

Suppose for a minute we are brothers, you and I. Suppose our mother has been attacked by a terrible disease. In the course of fighting the illness, our mother has become addicted to the drug which was prescribed to cure her. Now imagine that one of us feels that the medicine is doing her more harm than the disease and is struggling to get her off of the drug, while the other is convinced that she will surely die if she stops taking her medication, and fights to keep her taking it. Can we say that one of us loves his mother more?

- RM

Tobacco

On July 17th, I read some of my poetry to a small but wonderful group in Appleton, Wisconsin, and then began wending my way Northward on my faithful Harley-Davidson, Rozinante, a good little horse.

It has taken me a while to begin to understand my journey, and since it was not planned, I cannot say it did or did not meet my expectations. My route took me near the home of a friend I had not seen for over 40 years, and with some trepidation, I stopped to visit her. I don't know what I was worried about, since we had a good visit - talked very little of old times - but more about who we are now. Very interesting. I knew that her brothers, with whom I had been close, were buried somewhere nearby, in a Native American cemetery, and she gave me directions to it, so I could pay my respects on my way through. I bought some tobacco to sprinkle on their graves, which I did in my own not-so-knowledgeable but heartfelt ceremony.

Onward to True North, as best we in the Lower 48 can understand it, the Keweenaw peninsula of Michigan. The U.P. of the U.P. A good visit with friends Jikiwe, (potter extraordinaire, co-editor of the magnificent Cliffs "Soundings", and leader of the Vertin Gallery, one of the best I've seen anywhere, and to find it this far off the beat is simply amazing), and Splake, (Graybeard Cliffs Dancer, Chairman of the Bards, Editor-in-Chief, Angler-in-Chief, and poet's poet), lots of talk of spirits, good and evil, copper country history, then and now, mountain lions, tiger trout.

A visit to the fabled Cliffs - rocky spine of rock-ribbed peninsula, and site of the beginning of the Great Copper Boom of the Keweenaw, site of abandoned mining operations, site of spirits' homes, spirits pulled from Mother Earth and still at the surface. Spirits palpable to any but the inert. And, site of Splake's Poet-Tree, to which he guides kindred souls, and to which he attaches poems and other prayers for the winds and weathers to distribute as necessary.

I took the above picture of Splake at The Cliffs and had thought to take pictures of the poet-tree and other strange and wonderful stuff, but my camera ceased its workings, probably because of some electronic glitch, but possibly because of phenomena which would rather not be photographed. Without any pre-communication on the subject, Splake sprinkled tobacco around the tree before we left. Hmmm. Interesting, but not surprising.

Back at the gallery, I told Jikiwe of my intended, and arcane, plan to travel to Marquette via a little-known route of backroads and pack-trails. Well, he said, if you're going that way, I believe you should stop at a very old and traditional native cemetery that's almost right on the way. I did. Now, the purpose of my journey was coming a little more clear. A sandy knoll. A grove of ancient pines. Spirit houses on most of the graves. If you can go to this place and not be aware of spirits, you are deader than the inhabitants. Camera again refusing to try to record any of this, I leaned one hand on a towering pine, from the top of which, I SWEAR, a rattling noise and vibration emanated. I removed my hand, and the noise stopped. Put my hand back on the tree and the noise and vibration began again. I didn't lean on any more trees, but sprinkled tobacco on most of the graves, prayed to every deity I'm on speaking terms with, and pointed Rozinante up the trail.

My camera worked fine when I got to Marquette.

- Ralph Murre

Masonry

The mason of rainbow's arc and clouds' clash

must keep an eye on the sky, his brash

likeness painted in tons, before

the ones modeling there crash again

with lightning's hiss and float by

as if to wet another dry land, waken

another artist's hand, bands of color

inked in another clay, and leaden thunderheads

are mortared in another gray-scale day.

- Ralph Murre

another door

another closed door

and who'll ever know

if I peeked in

- arem

aweigh

Reading tonight at Appleton, then a-wandering via motorcycle, probably Northward. Will be off-line a few days.
Later,
- R.

Street Scene

how do such happiness

and such sadness

live on the same street?

- arem

So Long

So long, Lady Bird - thanks for the flowers.

A Song for Our Times

I really don't care - BABY IT'S HOT OUTSIDE
we'll turn up the air - BABY IT'S HOT OUTSIDE
the climate has been - BEEN HOPING THE TEMPS WOULD DROP
so very nice - I'LL HOLD YOUR HANDS, I'LL PUT THEM ON ICE
Al Gore has started to worry - I'M PRAYING FOR A SNOW FLURRY
Ralph Nader is pacing the floor - LISTEN TO HILLARY ROAR
I'm gonna learn to like curry - THANK GOODNESS THAT YOU'RE NOT FURRY
well maybe just one gas tank more - CRAWL IN THE FRIDGE AND I'LL POUR

we won't go out there - BABY IT'S HOT OUTSIDE
we won't need underwear - BABY IT'S HOT OUTSIDE
I wish I knew how - THE SIDEWALK IS MELTING NOW
to break this spell - I'LL DRAW A BATH, YOU'RE STARTING TO SMELL
I oughta say no, no, no sir - WE WON'T EVEN NEED TO KEEP THE TOASTER
at least I won't drive fifty-five - WHAT'S THE POINT IN STAYING ALIVE
I really don't care - BABY DON'T BURN UP
OOOH, BUT IT'S HOT OUTSIDE

BABY IT'S HOT OUTSIDE!

-Ralph Murre

Reminder

All writing, art, and photography on this site are the work and property of Ralph Murre, unless otherwise noted. And yes, Arem Arvinson is just a figment of my imagination, so I think I can speak for him. Anyone using any of this work without our permission is gonna piss us off. We'll be flattered, sure, but mostly just pissed off.

- RM & arem

# 181

in this life

we dare not

but we do

in this dream

where anything goes

I can't find you

- arem

Blue Moon in June

sometimes, it's just a moon

sometimes, it's just beautiful

- arem

belief

as I question faith

a woman in the darkness

gives me her flashlight

- arem

eyeing it

because of my friend, john brzezinski,

i got to looking

at the word "eye" in english

and "oko" in polish

and "ojo" in spanish

and the winking word for "eye"

in several scandinavian languages

and found a little face in each.

john's eyes seem to work that way, too;

seeing what others miss.

- rm

last haiku of spring

quiet morning pond

even opening spring leaves

dare not make ripples

- arem

apologia (not a mountainous region)

My apologies to those who made the trip to Wautoma last Thursday to hear my reading. Due to the predictions (which proved to be correct) for tornadoes, hailstorms, and other beastly bits of meteorological mayhem, the gig was cancelled and we have decided to try again on August 2nd. Be there.

- RM

Other Voices

More than a little excited to have half a dozen of my poems chosen for a new anthology of the work of 22 emerging, if not young, artists, authors and poets. This not-so-little beauty, "Other Voices", promises to be a very engrossing series of reads, as packaged by no less than Editor Norbert Blei hisself. To many of you, that should be 'nuff said.

What we'll have here is 304 pages of essays and excerpts, poetry and photography, humor and pathos generated on both sides of the Atlantic by as interesting and interested a bunch of folks as I can think of. It's been my pleasure to meet about half of this tribe, and believe me when I say that I think we're in for a very good time.

But where can we get these wonderful books? - well, I thought you might ask, so I'll tell ya - to get "Other Voices", order direct from the publisher: Cross+Roads Press, P.O. Box 33, Ellison Bay, WI, (USA) 54210. The cost is $17.00 plus $3 shipping and handling, each.

cool

I have a new web page, courtesy of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, to whom I am most grateful. You can find it (I hope) at http://www.wfop.org/poets/murreral.html . It will function, I guess, as a sort of Intro to the Fascinating World of Ralph, but I'll still be here, hiding behind the broad shoulders of Capt. Arvinson.

- RM

for C.L.

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Ashore
for C.L.

That lanky boat you sailed
forever and every day
came ashore without you
and we wondered what storm
you’d found that wouldn’t let go,
what pulled you to that deep place
where waking and sleeping and
the beyond and you, even you,
are the same color?
And we wondered what freedom
is that color, too, and what
voice she calls in
to bring landsmen to sea?

What voice allows letting go?
What song?

- Ralph Murre

Shall We Remember?

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In Memoriam

Shall we remember the believers
and forget their beliefs –
the isms and schisms and pledges
and pride, the presidents,
ayatollahs, and chiefs –
which can’t be denied?

Shall we honor only the fallen
and forget those who kneel,
praying to find some way to heal,
forget those who thought
“thou shalt not kill” was for real,
those who, unarmed, have also fought?

Shall we gather at tombs
of the heroic enlisted
as we stand on the graves
of the unsung, who resisted?
Shall we weep for the masters?
Shall we weep for the slaves?

Shall we weep for the meek
as we weep for the braves?

- Ralph Murre

tell me why

if you've never written

of soft things among the the rocks

oh please, tell me why

-arem

going

going sky sliding

airplane riding

may be back to look for you

may be hiding

where a stream runs through

- RM

ink and blood

Black River

This black river flow of nightmare night
like wartime ink and blood –
dark headlines and blind alleys
and allies blinded too –
in their >Yes, George< wet t-shirts
warm as death and prayers
like Now I lay me down
and if I should wake
oh please, if I should wake
let this have been my dream
and make the morning bright
a laughing mountain stream
and end this blackened char of night
where sacrificial lambs
lose sacrificial limbs
and they’re bleeding in the aisles
singing patriotic hymns
and they all are in the headlines
oh please, bring up the light
and stop
this black river flow of nightmare night.

- Ralph Murre

Call of Water

moonless river night

in its darkest murmured flow

one boat still at work

- arem

Laura

Was There a Poem

in her dark hands that milked cows and made lace,
hands that fixed tractors and wiped tears?
A poem in the dark hands
that built houses and kept them, that worked the earth
and folded to a heaven she was sure of ?
Hands that hammered out justice and
handed out calloused caresses;
those hands that labored at the piano,
but changed flat tires with ease?

Was there a song in her dark eyes
that laughed easy, but cried hard;
eyes that saw good wherever it hid?
Eyes that struggled in darkness
to read the verses and read them again
until she saw light in the words?
A song in the dark eyes that bid me welcome,
the colorless eyes that I bid good-bye?

Was there a portrait in her dark face?

- Ralph Murre

Crude Red Boat

Mighty pleased to say that my book of poetry, Crude Red Boat, just out from Cross + Roads Press, is now available. The 2 or 3 of you who regularly read this blog may be interested to know that only a couple of the poems in the book have appeared on the blog, so most will be new to you. I think you'll like the book.

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For ordering information, email me at littleeaglrpress@gmail.com

- Ralph Murre

So

So this white Anglo-Saxon protestant walks into a bar - and nothing funny happens.

RM

oh, please . . .

Won’t You

send us an image of peace, they say
send us some words of peace

- but I’m only 63 and haven’t seen much

tell us how the fighting will stop
tell us how a father can sleep
how the hawk and dove will fly in love
and how manna, not bombs, will drop

- but I really haven’t seen much

send us an image of peace today
send us some words of peace
surely you know to which gods to pray
to make all the craziness cease

- but I’m only 63 and haven’t seen much

except for the look in a child’s eye
and lovers on river banks in spring
and I think you could melt tanks for ploughshares
and you could teach someone to sing

- but I really haven’t seen much

I guess maybe you find it within
maybe you let the peace out and
maybe it spreads around that way
and you forget what fighting’s about

- but I’m a dreamer and haven’t seen much

- Ralph Murre

drive

There's a hole in the dark

big enough

to drive a dream through.

- arem