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st64 Mar 2014
When the night wind makes the pine trees creak
And the pale clouds glide across the dark sky,
Go out my child, go out and seek
Your soul: The Eternal I.


For all the grasses rustling at your feet
And every flaming star that glitters high
Above you, close up and meet
In you: The Eternal I.



Yes, my child, go out into the world; walk slow
And silent, comprehending all, and by and by
Your soul, the Universe, will know
Itself: the Eternal I.
Dame Jane Morris Goodall, DBE (born Valerie Jane Morris-Goodall on 3 April 1934) is a British primatologist, ethologist, anthropologist, and UN Messenger of Peace.
Considered to be the world's foremost expert on chimpanzees, Goodall is best known for her 45-year study of social and family interactions of wild chimpanzees in Gombe Stream National Park, Tanzania.
She is the founder of the Jane Goodall Institute and the Roots & Shoots program, and she has worked extensively on conservation and animal welfare issues. She has served on the board of the Nonhuman Rights Project since its founding in 1996.

Goodall is the former president of Advocates for Animals, an organization based in Edinburgh, Scotland, that campaigns against the use of animals in medical research, zoos, farming and sport.

Goodall is a devoted vegetarian and advocates the diet for ethical, environmental, and health reasons. In The Inner World of Farm Animals, Goodall writes that farm animals are "far more aware and intelligent than we ever imagined and, despite having been bred as domestic slaves, they are individual beings in their own right. As such, they deserve our respect. And our help. Who will plead for them if we are silent?”
Goodall has also said, “Thousands of people who say they 'love' animals sit down once or twice a day to enjoy the flesh of creatures who have been treated so with little respect and kindness just to make more meat."

In April 2008, Goodall gave a lecture entitled "Reason for Hope" at the University of San Diego's Joan B. Kroc Institute for Peace & Justice Distinguished Lecture Series.
st64 Mar 2014
“The *** or ethereal soul is associated with the Liver System, and is the aspect of consciousness that continues to exist—in more subtle realms—even after the death of the body.”*

When *** walks, I walk. When he wanders, untethered, I go with him. With her. My eyes close, and ***’s will be wide. He leads the way.
She leads me, away from my bed to stand at window, which I open.

*** will lift the sash so I can lean out over the street where someone is screaming.
Always screaming.
Known to walk after the body dies, *** is roused by this call.
But the chill, the smell of the distant river, wakes me. And *** retreats.

I’ve been told to put bells on my window so I will wake when it’s opened. When I open it.
The bells of the Cathedral ring in the dark hours of all this animation: wandering spirit of my organs, custodial ghost of my art.
He wants me grounded. She wants me flown.

I am here, I tell him—her: not lost. Aloft.
A-sleep or awake, I am led, leashed, walking in the wake of our odd arrangement.

                                               -- by Nathaniel Bellows





st.. 25 march 2014
American author of "On this Day" a well-received first novel, published in February 2003.

The son of a physician, he chose instead the artistic path. He began his career as a visual artist and had his poems published in prestigious literary magazines before his work of fiction was published.
st64 Mar 2014
Upon this beautiful web of lies
I sleep and rest my head
Unbeknownst to all the others
That the me they knew is dead
He died nearly five years ago
In the exact spot that I lay
And the last words he uttered were
I shall find peace upon this day

Vasto Grom
st64 Mar 2014
journey slow
and so we go

donkey carriage over cobblestone
cool morning air, crisp in purpose

head-cap on driver, huddling on whip
daisies on open field, bright faces up

sky still closed ere the eye of dawn
hot perils on heels towards that spot

baker shakes apron.. tiny particles
chemistry bursts into a rolling sun

I swear it feels familiar
have you been here before?
only wish I could recall
what comes next..*

(hark.. nematoblast-pain!)

but how can one remember that
which....?


st - 22 march 2014
never mind.. need to go away.
just.. thank heavens for nature.
face of daisy, petals fall...... head of daisy, full of seeds :)






sub-entrée: paisley-town

I dream of a town
I must've been before
once, so long ago

my feet carry me places
they don't feel strange
I must've been here

this town with faceless owl-calls
sends contours, hoots my name
in a tongue my cells ken poorly

I forget of centuries we shared
they melted into many an hour
you're so beautiful to me.. always

a sweeping maze floors me and then, it
opens up a begging-corridor downward
I follow crumbs left by your residual-fire

onto another level
another level of you
to discover well-hid..

sweet.. I can't wait to feel wordless
keep all the paisley-riddles high
slide your repertoire in my pocket

you twist my synapse into knots
and turn me outside of galaxies
and I reel away.. floating until..

your next coming
on a wave so wild
ruddy implosion

my hands grip your ankles, um tight
releasing milk into your svelte way
torn effortless open, redirected sun
st64 Mar 2014
When she was seven, my grandmother suffered from fever and swollen glands. The doctors believed her tonsils were inflamed, that she needed surgery. Instead, she went to a curandera. The curandera divined that a jealous relative had cast a curse on her and, now, her language of kindness was bound to her throat, the unspoken swelling her glands.

As a child my grandmother spoke to santitos with a voice like a chestnut: ruddy and warm, seeds dropping from her mouth. The santitos would take her words into themselves, her voice growing within them like grapevines.

During the tonsillitis, when the words no longer fell like seeds from her lips, the santito's vineyards of accent and voice grew vapid, dry as a parched mouth. They went to her tongue and asked why silence imprisoned the words of the child, why lumps were present under her chin, why tears drew channels down her cheeks.

I asked my grandmother how her tongue replied. After touching my cheek, she told me she had a dream that night: She was within her lungs and she rose like breath through the moist of her throat. She remembered her tonsils swinging before her like fleshy apples, then a hand taking them into a fist, harvesting their sound. She told me her throat opened in two spots like insect eyes and the names of her children came flying through her wounds like peacocks.

Patting my thigh, she said, "That is why the name of your mother is Maria, because she is a prayer, a song of praise to the Holy Mother."
She told me this, then showed me two scars on her throat—tiny scars, like two eyelids stitched closed.


st - 20 mar 14
what a day for grapes in the sun.. to aspire to be raisin' a merry storm (later)..
pecans but not almonds.. will do.



sub-bent-tree: full two trie


how liberating.. wen a hart passes in the woulds
here, can the ****** of attempts be crack'd?

a wholly marvellous case of the best
full to trie.. drink it slow.
st64 Mar 2014
Pack, clouds away! and welcome day!
    With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft, mount larks aloft
    To give my love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
    Notes from the lark I’ll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
    To give my love good-morrow;
    To give my love good-morrow;
    Notes from them both I’ll borrow.


Wake from thy nest, Robin Redbreast,
    Sing birds in every furrow;
And from each hill, let music shrill
    Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
    Stare, linnet, and ****-sparrow!
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
    Sing my fair love good-morrow;
    To give my love good-morrow,
    Sing birds in every furrow.
Thomas Heywood (early 1570s – 16 August 1641) was a prominent English playwright, actor, and author whose peak period of activity falls between late Elizabethan and early Jacobean theatre.

He wrote for the stage, and (perhaps disingenuously) protested against the printing of his works, saying he had no time to revise them.
Johann Ludwig Tieck called him the "model of a light and rare talent", and Charles Lamb wrote that he was a "prose Shakespeare"; Professor Ward, one of Heywood's most sympathetic editors, pointed out that Heywood had a keen eye for dramatic situations and great constructive skill, but his powers of characterization were not on a par with his stagecraft.
He delighted in what he called "merry accidents", that is, in coarse, broad farce; his fancy and invention were inexhaustible.

Heywood's best known plays are his domestic tragedies and comedies (plays set among the English middle classes); his masterpiece is generally considered to be A Woman Killed with Kindness (acted 1603; printed 1607), a domestic tragedy about an adulterous wife.
Also, a widely admired Plautine farce The English Traveller (acted approximately 1627; printed 15 July 1633), which is also known for its informative "Preface", giving Heywood an opportunity to inform the reader about his prolific creative output.
His citizen comedies are noteworthy because of their physicality and energy. They provide a ******-geography of the sights, smells, and sounds of London's wharfs, markets, shops, and streets which contrasts with the more conventional generalisations about the sites of commerce, which are satirised in city comedies.


sub-entry: bird in the hand

(open the furrow --------------)

and let loose
bird in the hand

(close to flying)

to measure what's worth of sharing
desire in a play on a midnight-watch

(all familiar with the adage)

good love on the wing of morrow
unpunctuated, leaves option wide open

(let bird sing you sweet-song.. love)
st64 Mar 2014
Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time.

    Think how many, by now, have escape the world's memory.

    Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to
live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through
areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils.

    His hope: intermittent.

    To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though
he feels, true enough, death's wither-clench. Thinking always of
something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on
changing.

    He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant.

    He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and
lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food.

    He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the
interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven.
Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world.

    He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one
who can talk, the only one to have doubts.

    Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a
dozen men.

    Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject—
eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed
to system.)

    "Fillette"—in confusion he addresses himself—"n'allez pas au bois
seulette."

    He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows
how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative
past.

    Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry.

    He has a special attitude towards terror.
Keith Waldrop
b. 1932

Keith Waldrop, who was awarded the 2009 National Book Award for poetry for Transcendental Studies: A Trilogy, has been a prominent voice in American poetry for over forty years.  He is the author of over a dozen books of poetry, prose, and translations.

Waldrop was born in Emporia, Kansas in 1932. He enrolled in the pre-med program at Kansas State Teacher’s College, but his studies were interrupted in 1953 when he was drafted into the US Army.
While stationed in Germany during the 1950s, Waldrop met his wife, the poet and translator Rosmarie Waldrop. He earned a PhD in comparative literature in 1964 from the University of Michigan and has taught at Brown University since 1968.  

In addition to being an internationally celebrated poet, Waldrop is a respected translator of French literature.
Waldrop’s poetry navigates concerns that are at once personal and philosophical by representing a world that is endlessly strange and fascinating.
There is, in Waldrop's work, a steady thought directed to the way that we make our way in the world by thinking and speaking. Where Wallace Stevens gave us the portrait of a man bothered by the march of ants through his shadow, Waldrop gives us the disturbances of the world in its representations.

Upon receiving the National Book Award, the judges said of Waldrop’s poetry: “If transcendental immanence were possible, it would be because Keith Waldrop had invented it; he’s the only one who could—and in Transcendental Studies he has.
These three linked series achieve a fusion arcing from the Romantic to the Postmodern that demonstrates language’s capacity to go to extremes—and to haul daily lived experience right along with it: life imitates language, and when language becomes these poems, life itself gets more various, more volatile, more vital.”
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