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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.

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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