In The City

She was wide-eyed she said, from the country,

when in her first Chicago week

a neighbor lept from his tower

to find that he could not yet fly,

and her eyes narrowed a little, I suppose.

Not sure yet, if this is a poem, or the start of a poem, or no poem at all. It may be years before it comes back as a real poem, if it ever does. Such is the process with me. The story, by the way, is from Bronmin Shumway, one of the fine poets who I share space with in the latest issue of AFTER HOURS, a journal of Chicago writing and art.

Or maybe, it'll come back as a song -

Wide eyed she said, wide-eyed she came

to the city that scratched at the sky.

And a stranger jumped, as a stranger might,

some time in the night from his tower

to find that he could not fly.

Wide-eyed she said, wide-eyed she came

from somewhere in the sea of tall grass,

and I wonder now, as I see her smile,

if once in a while there are tears mixed in

as she looks through rain on the glass.

Wide-eyed she said, wide-eyed she came,

and a stranger jumped without leaving a name

in the city that scratched at the skies.

Be better to her, lofty city,

be better to the country lass.

Be better to her, mighty city,

do no more to narrow her eyes.

- Ralph Murre

Time Saver

Time Saver

A stitch in time – and then another
and pretty soon time is all sewn up;
holes patched with moments of distraction
and remnant ends of daydreams –
a catnap basted on over that rip
the vodka put in Saturday night –
a bit of needlework and dark thread
and the damned hole is darned
where some fool tried to save daylight.

Maybe there’s a way to reweave that tatter
you got crawling under the barbed wire
of religion’s prison-camp.
An immigrant sweat-shop sewing
fourteen hours a day might fashion
a garment to hide the amputation
of your high school years and,
if your timing’s right, you could mend
that time you tore from someone’s dream
when you wouldn’t believe.

Just you,
sitting on the calendar’s broad deck,
patching the sails of day after day
as the heave and the swell of
an ocean of years hisses by.

Just you,
putting another stitch in time.
Sewing a new watch-pocket
onto the long-legged
setting of the sun.

- Ralph Murre 2005

From Crude Red Boat, Cross + Roads Press

Don'tcha Ever Wonder About Dragons?

Ice Sculpture by Adrian Murre

Don'cha ever wonder about dragons up to their scaly knees in deep snow on Viking stavkirks, or dodging, in their serpentine way, the fireworks of a Shanghai parade, or gone all mossy somewhere in County Clare and the whole while trying to remain mythical as gods in science labs?

You have to wonder, don'tcha, about fire-breathing? About methane production and the chance of a spark before belching became boorish? About the odds of singeing a few ancients? I mean, you have to wonder, don'tcha?

And just because somebody finds their bones and calls them dinosaurs, doesn't mean you can't wonder.

- Ralph Murre

click on photo for detail

No Direction

no direction to the light

in this snowstorm in these woods

no strength for the shadow

no black for the crow

no color, but for this cardinal

balanced on a thin branch

- RM

something to crow about

I must say I like the flock I'm flying in over at

http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/2007/12/04/something-to-crow-about/

oh, yeah

Movie Time

Scenario for a Short Film

Storm clouds part
As skiffs and scows
Ply their trade
Dotting this northern port

Messengers, sailing
Shore to shore
Through veils of mist
Sometimes appear

A piano is moved
To a house on the hill
And played by four hands
Who know it well

Chords of harmony float
To weathered docks below
Where old men tend the ships
That carry their hearts

Sweet berries ripen
In the brambled thickets
Of the hidden
And sheltered coves

While some wait there
And understand
The things that drift in
From open waters beyond

Nightfall reveals
Sistine constellation
Of outstretched fingers
Almost touching and

Those who watch the sky
Shake their heads, for
This is not the season
For these stars

- Ralph Murre 2005

Entangled In The Web

Today, as one of my friends celebrates the second anniversary of her blog, another celebrates the second day of hers. I'm very proud to know both of these good women, and to include them in the links from this page.

Sharon Auberle, with whom I've shared several publications, (most notable on-line: "Poetry Dispatch") has just wrapped up two years worth of one of the most beautiful things I've found in the width of the w w w, Mimi's Golightly Cafe. Sharon is the author of four books of poetry, and is working on the next. She's also an amazing artist and photographer.

Julie Eger has just begun her blog, Jukota's Place, but has not, by any means, just begun to write. Her poetry and prose have appeared in a number of high quality journals and she is the deserving winner of several sought-after awards for her work. I am honored to share space with Julie in the anthology Other Voices (Cross + Roads Press, 2007). I foresee great things in her blog.

Stop by and visit both - links appear on the right.

- RM

Aw, Maisy

Aw, Maisy

How do I know you
when you change so fast,
when you grow right past
the little girl you were
when last I looked?
What sort of chef cooked
this bubbling kettle,
what metal can be worked this way,
what clay can smile and joke?
What flesh and blood from mine
brings a bloom to bud,
a flower opening over mud?
Is this the part where I
compare you to a bird about to fly?
Am I too late? Can a grandfather
ever state how happy and sad
are stirred inside when
a bouncing kid begins to glide?
Grow, my dear one.
Take a hug, friend; a kiss.
You can write the end of this,
I think. You can write the end.

- Grandpa Ralph

HOLD EVERYTHING!

Sad to say, we are cancelling tonight's Fond du Lac reading due to predicted foul weather, the loss of Mary D.'s voice, and the loss of an acquaintance in an accident on last night's slippery roads. We will try to reschedule for April 1st.

Stay home, do a little reading, do a little writing, hold someone you love.

- Ralph

Landscape

again

across those far hills

when too close closes in

again

- RM

Out There

It's all out there,
you just never know.

arem

Super Fat Tuesday

photo property of Mary Durlin

Since you've probably nothing better to do next Tuesday, February 5th at 7:00 PM (Mardi Gras, Super Tuesday and other trivial events can wait), why not milk the cows a little early, get your wierd old uncle to button his fly, and head over to the Windhover Center for the Arts at 51 Sheboygan Street in Fond du Lac, where I will have the distinct pleasure of joining the exceptional Mary Durlin as we read a bit of poetry? We'll start promptly at 7:00, read for 15 or 20 minutes, take a little break, rinse, lather, and repeat; after which there will be an open mike session. I think it'll be a good ride, Mary and I will be looking at some of the same topics from vantage points separated by most of two generations. Fun stuff, sad stuff, no master's degree required.

If you always swore you'd never go to a poetry reading - and I know who you are and where you live - you might want to reconsider.

- Ralph Murre

Translation, Traduccion, Ubersetzung

Because I have failed to learn even the most rudimentary bits of another language, and because I have friends and visitors from many nations, I have now installed Alta Vista's "Babel Fish" on this site. I'm sure many subtleties will be lost in translation, but it may come close. To try it, (and I don't know how the hell you've gotten this far if your English isn't at least as good as mine) scroll down the right column 'til you see their logo, and click on the flag of your choice. And wait. And eventually, Voila!, all this gibberish appears in another language. Ain't life great?

- Ralph Murre

They Told Us Never

In that long drift beside the county highway

and that cresting wave the length of the lake

and that look you have when I don't know

where you are, but I want to be there, too,

and in those trees at the top of the dune

they told us never to climb,

I know there's something hidden and waiting,

I know there's something I can't see yet,

the arc of it curving just beyond

the reach of my fingers,

like the stars on one of those nights

when the sky comes very close.

- Ralph Murre

Again with the Haiku?

this low flying flock

the color of dried beech leaves

hear their flapping wings

- arem

MLK, MKG, HDT

Today, let's take a little break from the colossal popularity contest of our primary elections to honor and reflect upon the lives and continuing influence of world leaders who were not elected to public office, but led by example. Martin Luther King, of course, who stirred the souls of so many, freely cited the example of Gandhi, who cited the influence of the writings of Thoreau.

While it is clear that the impact of these three men will continue to be felt for a very long time, and probably longer than that of many who have been elected to office, it is also becoming increasingly clear that the struggles they faced are not over. Increasingly clear that the only fitting way to show respect is not to set aside a "day" of honor, but to continue those struggles in every moment, in every thought, in every act of our lives. Too much to ask? Maybe, maybe.

Maybe they put themselves on the line imagining that injustice would end, but I doubt that any of the three were so naive. More likely, I think, that they knew they were asking us to be more than we think we are, to do more than we think we can.

- Ralph Murre

Dancing With The Tsars

Did you ever wonder about polka dancers? I mean, they're always happy and laughing, yet they tried to conquer the world - while tango dancers, who never crack a smile, failed to recapture even the Islas Malvinas. Look out for happy people - that is today's lesson, kids. That both of those dancing factions lost to the British, who appear not to dance at all, is a subject which will be taken up at another time.

- RM

When the Music is Right

Some day, she'll tango in red shoes,

she'll drink Malbec in low light,

swoon to heat stirred by a single fan.

And though tango dancers rarely smile,

perhaps she'll smile at me

in that way that lovers can,

dancing in red shoes

when the music is right.

- Ralph Murre

Weather Report

new snow on branches

for the dawn of this moment

a silence of crows

- arem

Luck

I guess no one-armed bandit

will hand it to me,

no red and black roulette

or last minute track-side bet

or ticket in the lottery

is likely to pay off, no play-off pool

is coming through, so far as I can see.

But I hear the owls at night,

there's sun and rain and starlight,

there's fruit and grain.

I think somewhere

they're playing our song.

And down at the harbor,

they're saying it won't be long

'til my ship comes in.

They're saying it won't be long.

- Ralph Murre

Out There

photo by Nancy Vaughn

Look! Out there -

just at the horizon -

the ship that carries everything

I hope for

and everything I dread.

That slow ship

that was just a dot

in the mist

seems to head this way

with the wind at her back.

- Ralph Murre

Sail

Sail on, O Ship of Time!

I'll make another passage

if you'll have me.

- Ralph Murre

In The Freeze

even in the freeze

of this wintering woodlot

a dark stream flowing

- arem

Somewhere

December in Colonia del Sacramento, Uraguay

somewhere a flower blooms

while somewhere a bulb holds life frozen

somewhere there is dancing

while somewhere a bomb ends the music

somewhere there is laughter

and our little planet spins night into day

and wobbles so slightly

from the weight of tears

and the lightness of joy

- Ralph Murre

joyeux noel

The best to all of you - peace, love, a silent night.

Don't loose sight of it climbing to the cuckoo's nest.

- Ralph Murre

Dusting Off Jesus

"If there is no God,

Not everything is permitted to man,

He is still his brother's keeper

And he is not permitted to sadden his brother,

By saying that there is no God."

- Czeslaw Milosz

Readers of this blog include members of several of the world's major faiths and many others of no faith at all. I am not a member of any religious group, though I was brought up in the Christian tradition. I now consider most religion to be myth, but I say that in no way to belittle the faith of anyone - I consider most mythology to be full of very real lessons and values which have had great import to people down through the ages, and continue to be important today.

At a time of year when many of us are observing holidays, Holy Days, and perhaps idly wishing peace to our fellow humans, let me reflect for a minute on the so-called followers of Christ. First off, how can they possibly advocate going to war, no matter what the justification? What purported teaching of Christ allows revenge? And when, exactly, did God become the property of the right-wing?

"Blessed are the peacemakers", Jesus is supposed to have said. "Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also."... "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good for them that hate you."... "forgive men their trespasses"..."Be wise as serpents," he is supposed to have said,"and harmless as doves." Is anybody picking up on a theme here?

I, frankly, don't know if the Christian religion has any more merit than the Santa Claus myth, but Virginia, if you choose to believe in Christ, hadn't you better listen to his words?

Peace be with you, all of you - believers, unbelievers, seekers and suckers - if you think there's a God, I think there are a bunch of 'em.

- Ralph Murre

aa

Patience

so darkly perched

to await the tide's offering

unloved cormorant

- arem

Three Things

New friends in Buenos Aires taught me a proverb which I hadn't heard before -

En la vida, debes hocer tres cosas:

- Tener un hijo

- Plantar un arbol

- Escribir un libro

In your life, you must do three things:

- Raise a child

- Plant a tree

- Write a book

I like it, probably because it's the only "To Do" list which I've ever completed. Well, I suppose it's true that I only helped a bit in raising children and the book is a very slim volume of poetry, but there were lots of trees.

-RM

Back from Buenos Aires

The Artist Claudio Barragan,

photo by Nancy Vaughn

Morning In A Strange City

A mouth full of how-do-you-say?
and ears full of birdsong and builders,
eyes full of children and treetops,
red tile and red wines and green vines,
whitewash and washed clothes
and everywhere sun.

And shadow.

Evita’s air and fresh breeze and café doble
and diesel and dogshit and life
and death and jasmine and jazz.

And cats.

And the disappeared who do not disappear.
Oh, do not disappear. Oh, never disappear.

And hope. There is fresh breeze and hope.
And there are smiles.
Even the old woman smiles
as she walks by Cementario de la Recoleta.
Even the mask-maker smiles
as he makes his unsmiling masks.

- Ralph Murre

gotta fly, man

gotta see some other place,

continent, hemisphere.

spin things backward.

coupla weeks maybe.

or 'til new year's. or ground hog's.

back by mayday for sure.

- r.

From Down Here

Thanks to the mothers and the motherless. Thanks to the Ho Chunk and the Crow. Thanks to the poultry, thanks to the yam, thanks to the farmer and the fisher. Thanks to the one who does. Thanks to the well-wisher.

Thanks to the fathers and the prodigal sons. Thanks to the bird and the bee. Thanks to mechanics, thanks to cows. Thanks to the comic and the rain-cloud and the sun and the humble and the proud.

Thanks to the painters and the crimson paint; thanks to the poets and the words. Thanks for the paper. Thanks for the pen. Thanks for erasers and time. Thanks for rivers flowing. Thanks for strength to climb.

- Ralph Murre

All About Two

We've reached the second anniversary of the Arem Arvinson Log, and by coincidence (sheer or shear?) this is post #222. Forgive my moment of self-congratulation, but I guess I'm fairly happy with the blog as a body of work. If you're a newcomer, a serious blog addict, or otherwise totally without a life of your own, have a look through the archives.

Thank you all for dropping by, and thanks especially to those who've given me a link from their own blog. Stop in whenever you're in the neighborhood.

Peace,

- Ralph Murre, on behalf of Arem Arvinson

misread

I read a poem

by Louise Gluck -

she said birds were darting

in low shrubs.

I thought she said

they were dating

in low shrubs,

but I guess I was just thinking

of you and me.

- Ralph Murre

Windsongs

Have faith

breathes the wind

that pulls men to sea

Not too much

moans the wind

that eats sails

Not too much

agrees the wave

- Ralph Murre

Immersion

It's not so bad when I think in terms of a poem or a drawing, but when I allow myself to begin to think of a book - a book of poems and drawings - any pretense of good housekeeping just goes to hell. Tables and desks piled too high for anything more, the floor a few layers thick, I wade through piles of paper, roll in words and images and daydreams, surface occasionally for food and drink (oh, yes, more drink please) and then slide back beneath the surface, where I can hold my breath for a very long time.

Making Perfect

They Practice

The pianist and the violinist practice,

and I get out a pen and practice, too,

because

I'm just having coffee and why not

get in a few words of practice;

the warm sun on my back,

the music on my ear,

the world still

this moment.

- Ralph Murre

Packers, Thirty-Four / Vikings, Zero

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