Heaven

I don't know about the streets of Heaven, nor am I likely to find out -- but parts of County Trunk Q were paved with gold this morning as a sheath of shed tamarack needles clung to the wetted roadway.  That's good enough for me.     ~ RM

Ink-Dark Waters

A friend, who understands these things, suggested that the best artwork I've done in the last couple of years may be in the ink-splattered mess I've made of my little drawing board.  I stared into it for a while and began to see something of myself. This may not be what he saw.   ~ RM

Born Toulouse?

art of  henri de toulouse-lautrec

the thing about sad songs --

-- they make me so happy

~ Emmylou Harris

What is it, I wonder, that makes us love the blues, the sad country ballad,  the somebody done somebody wrong song, the dark forces of pulling apart?  Sure, I'm talking about song-writers, poets, and artists -- we're the worst, I suppose, but is anybody rushing out to buy totally happy music?  To buy novels or see movies without any conflict or struggle?

A lot of people, though, seem to be able to see the flick, get their safe dose of tragicomedy, and go home.  Is it only those of us striving to be creative who turn our lives, and those of people around us, into little operas?  I know people who appear to be continually happy, and it seems to me they must be running on some alternative fuel to the stuff I burn.  I fear, sometimes, that the urge to tell a good story gets all mixed up with living a life that makes a good story.  The problems really seem to arise when the tales of our existence are winding down and we try to get to a "happily ever after" line.  I keep writing, but some days I feel I'm getting farther from that ending .

   ~ Ralph Murre  

The Times

Thinking of ordering a 2013 calendar, and I'm just wondering -- how did people know they were in the Middle Ages?  And how do we know we're not?  Of course, if the world ends on December 21st, or whenever it's supposed to end this time, that will clear that up, and these will certainly NOT have been the Middle Ages. I'm putting off most of my Christmas shopping, just in case.

It was easy enough, I suppose, to realize if you were in an Ice Age, and the Dark Ages? well, duh . . . nobody ever paid utility bills!  But precisely where you stood BC had to be a tricky calculation. And these people of the Middle Ages must have been far more advanced in their knowledge of the Big Picture than we give them credit for.  I have to double-check that this is a Monday.

None of this, of course, addresses post-modern architecture. The melting time-pieces of Dali.

~ RM

ZERO

Imagine my surprise, when in a shameless act of self-googlization, I learned that I do not exist. Not in these United States. 0 people named Ralph Murre. Which I take to mean "zero". But it might be O, I suppose. As in "Oh, people named Ralph Murre, why are you here, googlizing, when you could be sitting on the terrace of some pleasant taverna overlooking the sea, writing the poems that would save the world?" Alas, no, all I can see is zero. A circle of nothing. It gives me pause . . .

on this hillside

where blossoms have drifted

we wait for fruit

~ Ralph Murre (?)

Confronting the Big Guys

A book I'm reading says the Buddha talks about four qualities of horses: the excellent horse, who moves upon merely seeing the shadow of the whip; the good horse that runs upon feeling the lightest touch of the whip; the poor horse, which doesn't go until it feels pain; and the very worst horse doesn't budge until the pain penetrates to the very marrow of its bones. What the hell kind of buddha would say such a thing? These may be qualities of horses as seen by the cart-driver, as though the only reason to be a horse is to serve man. What does the Buddha know about being a horse? Old Arem feels that among horses, the most revered is doubtless the mustang, the wild cayuse running free, while the hardest-working Dobbin is probably thought to be the biggest fool. An even bigger fool, though, might be a person who without question follows any man-god-myth, whether the Big G., the Big A., the Big B., or whomever.   ~ RM

Arem's Thought for the Day

Of course, the "coexist" bumper sticker is the property of someone else, some genius, somewhere. One of my very favorite things.  I hope my satirical addition to the icon is slightly offensive, but not outright illegal. If it's yours, your lawyers can contact me at the address listed elsewhere on this site. Perhaps we'll coexist in copyright court.   ~ RM

Going Taupeless

Spring is officially here. Isn't it time you painted something? And by "paint", I don't mean beige, taupe, or ecru. A bolder shade of gray. Paint comes in colors, too. Real colors. Isn't your neighbor vacationing this week? Wouldn't this be the time to start? His house or yours.

~ arem

Going Down With the Ship

What unreliable vehicles are poems. Even the great ones rarely take you where you want to go. Poet and reader alike can only sit idly by, hoping for the best. I suppose the reader can jump ship though, at the first sign of trouble, while the writer, like the good captain, must ride her down. ~ RM

March Fourth

Remind me -- what classic text was it, that in part read,

". . . and we'll march forth, trailing arbutus behind us . . ." ?

~ RM

To Your Health

Love strong and fierce and long as you can;

the heart is a muscle, and needs exercise.

~ arem

The Beast

Like a lion tamer
poking his foolish head
into the jaws
of the beast in the spotlight,
I have pushed myself
into the unwise corners
of life, never certain
if the great cat may be
hungry, may be angry,
or simply curious
about my flavor,
the furious cracking
of my whip.

~ Ralph Murre

Image is from a photo found online, photographer not known, my heavy-handed digital manipulation. ~ RM

Another Sad Truth

File this under the heading, "What Am I Doing With My Life?", a favorite topic of some who have known me well. I just squished together my three volumes of poetry and found that they will consume almost exactly 1/2 inch of your shelf space in their entirety, and that includes their glossy paper covers, their handsome fly leaves, and their various end papers. This is the sum total of most of what I've given a damn about in the last 10 years?!?!?! Yes, I know; one good poem makes it all worthwhile, etc. . . Well, let me say right here that the jury is still out debating the truth of that one, and they're sure as hell having a lively argument trying to decide if I've written that one good poem!

~ R.M.

Want to see for yourself? Ordering info available at littleeaglepress@gmail.com

Sad Truth

pigeons and poets

annoying but still happy

with just a few crumbs

~ arem

Soul Train

What is this thing about the soul -- and I don't mean anything to do with chicken or any kind of soup -- I mean what is it? What is this supernatural bit of us that we have or not and believe in or not like fairies or Canada? I used to think it was an internal organ around the size of a chestnut with wings, but Mr. LaMarche, the biology teacher, said no, and I have to take his word and I know people who think we have no souls at all, and they may not, but speak for yourself, because I'm pretty sure there is a supernatural part of me, or at least I don't understand it and I really don't believe it will go to heaven or anything like that, but maybe a Greek island would be nice, or it could even just hang out around here and freak people out, that would be OK.

~ Ralph Murre

Bringin' Up Bud

" . . . an' da two a' dem so young an' whadda dey know about da world an' now already dey gotta toddler an' what kinda Ad-Van-Tage kin dey ever give dat kid? No kind dat's what. But I tell ya, what's it matter, aina, Marge? What's it matter? I mean lookit what we did for our kids, huh? I mean lookit how dey turnt out ennaway. Ya do what watcha kin, Marge, but it's a crapshoot I'm tellin' ya, it's a crapshoot . . ."

~ RM

Boating in the Stream of Consciousness

I was photographing off Sherwood Point today, which of course got me to thinking about Sherwood Forest which of course got me to thinking about Robin Hood et al. Was there ever a boy who didn't identify with Old Rob, I wonder? Ever one who did identify with the Sheriff of Nottingham? Of course, both Mr. Hood and the Evil Fuzz lusted after Maid Marian, and though most of us were not fully aware of the nature of lust at the time we were reading these tales, we were pretty sure we wanted some . . . . But back to my premise about wanting to follow the lead of the merry bandit rather than the bad cop; if I'm right about the almost universal instinct of impressionable lads to side with the outlaw, (and American lore has its share of scofflaw heroes, too, including most of our founders and present-day leaders), then how do kids turn into cops? Or tax collectors? Even we tax & spend liberal pinkos hate tax collectors, although the collection of taxes made it possible to build the lighthouse that is so important to my photograph, which I made from across the bay, from a park and marina which was acquired and built with tax money. Even though I was able to be there because I'm receiving my social security, I still hate tax collectors. And the constabulary.

It's great to be able to say that my piece, "U.P. North", from a few posts back, now appears in the August issue of the excellent web mag, "Quill and Parchment", which is put together by Sharmagne Leland-St. John. You'll have to subscribe to get full access, but the magazine is well worth it. Take a (free) peek at the archives at http://quillandparchment.com/

Like a Bridge

The thing about a bridge - The Golden Gate, The Mackinac, Brooklyn, London, Pont Neuf, or Monet's Garden - the thing about a bridge is that its utility is lost on no one; its symbolism is lost on no one. It is as pure and straightforward a thing as mankind has created. Is it in spite of, or because of that, I wonder, that there are so many designs, so many ways of solving what is, essentially, the same problem? Oh, I know any engineer would tell me, rightly, that each is a unique problem, but my point is that 100 engineers would design a hundred different bridges to get the same path across the same same stream. Vive la difference!
A bridge, a home, a lighthouse, a fireplace, an airplane - all utilitarian things that also have tremendous symbolism, and all have been designed in almost as many ways as have snowflakes or pebbles on a beach - alike, but not alike.
I suppose I'm writing not about bridges at all, but about the beauty of the human mind; about whatever is that instinct that makes us want to create, to BE, something different.
Perhaps we should celebrate our difference with each bridge we cross.
~ Ralph Murre

Spotty

detail of image from Como Park, St. Paul ~ don't know who the artist is

"See Spot run," they said, and I did, but noted that he couldn't change his spots. Could he spot six differences between the drawings, I wondered, could he find the G-spot, could he spot me a C-note, or at least a 10-spot? Was his high-C spot-on? Should he have been in the spotlight? Could he spot a stoplight? If he were bathed really well would he be Spotless, or would he still be seeing spots? My memory is a bit spotty on this point.

Independence

So you're telling Jolly Old England the affair is off. Good for you. Good for you. She's got kind of a lot invested in your little Wild West show, though. She's gonna fight y'for it and it could get kinda nasty. And she is family. In the end, you're still gonna love her, y'know. You're still gonna love her people, wierd as they are. You'll still want to help her out if she's in a scrape. But go ahead n'tell her, if that's what you've got to do. Go ahead n'tell her.

~ Ralph Murre