OF ALIENS AND ANGELS
One day, the dog howled. The sound was more moan than howl, high and thin and short, certainly longer than a bark, maybe a few seconds. I looked out the window and saw her on the chain, where she is put when she gets caught going into the street. The chain is on a long line that stretches between the porch and a willow tree, so that she can move back and forth and so there is shade and shelter from the rain.
She sat on her haunch, facing the woods, and moaned again.
I went outside to sit with her and comfort her. It seemed to work.
On the lawn, I saw the desiccated remains of a small animal, long dead and, to me, unidentifiable that the dog had surely found and brought into the yard. Little left but skin and bones, teeth and tail, and the smell of decay that clung inside my nose after I bagged and disposed of the animal.
The remains looked alien to me, maybe 18-20 inches long with the hair on its tail almost ringed in light brown and dark grey. The skin looked leathery; nothing appeared to be inside except for bones and, I suppose, sinew. At what was left of the head, two large teeth seemed to protrude downward. Or maybe that was just the remaining part of the jaw.
Even though I managed to put the animal in a double plastic bag and bury it without ever actually touching it, I washed my hands three times. I itched all evening, and tried to keep from touching my own body.
The faint smell remained in my nostrils for a couple of hours, like an idea that is really wrong.
I knew I would dream about the remains.
If we can accept an animal, the dog, for what it is, why do some of us have such a hard time accepting people for who they are rather than for who we want them to be? I do not claim it is easy; it was/is hard for me to learn, but it's such an important step for all of us.
The faint smell of an idea that is really wrong lives somewhere between fear and hope, somewhere between the fist and the open hand, somewhere between greed and giving, somewhere between intolerance and tolerance, somewhere between being convinced and being confused, somewhere between the power and the people.
……….
For those of you keeping count, my 59th birthday is March 30. Almost a milestone. Or, perhaps, a milestone of sorts.
……….
One day, I went to Canton High School to photograph, for an article I wrote, the band director leading a rehearsal. He works his students very hard, and is proud of them for winning many statewide awards, and he so believes in the importance of music -- all of the arts -- in education.
As I listened and watched and worked, I noticed a young girl in the trumpet section. She seemed like the kind of quiet teenager who has always done what is expected of her, though appearances sometimes, of course, deceive. I began whimsically to think of her, with the trumpet in her hands, as an angel. The trumpet/angel combination went biblical/mythological on me. I ended up, a day later, after I did my research, with this poem that had very little -- almost nothing -- to do with the girl.
The poem is titled "Revel."
Jazz trumpet
through a window
during mid-day sun
notes
over and over again
each time new
never losing
the basic feel of sadness
mixed with anger
sounds of
hail and fire
mixed with blood
hiss of fire
cast into the sea
silence
of a shooting star
twilight coming
to question mankind
bottomless pit
of a heroin haze
desperate notions
of a final revenge
pale angel
in black cotton;
quiet, she trembles,
a small book
open in her hands
sits
on the low curb
of a rundown street
on the edge of a city
at the end of time
listens
to the trumpet
as thousands of stars
slowly push the sun
below the horizon
she has
a new face, untouched
by the aging trumpet's
earthly anguish;
eager to appease
at her feet,
in the winds' swirls
of the street's trash
and broken glass,
is her small purse
the purse holds
seven golden vials filled
with the wrath of her god
who considers us all
to be his own children
Grace be unto us all, and peace . . .
Jazz trumpet
through a window
during midnight's cool,
the basic feel of sadness
mixed with anger
silence
of a shooting star
Grace be unto us all, and peace . . .
pale angel
in black cotton;
quiet, she trembles,
on the low curb
at the end of time
Grace be unto us all, and peace . . .
###
One day, the dog howled. The sound was more moan than howl, high and thin and short, certainly longer than a bark, maybe a few seconds. I looked out the window and saw her on the chain, where she is put when she gets caught going into the street. The chain is on a long line that stretches between the porch and a willow tree, so that she can move back and forth and so there is shade and shelter from the rain.
She sat on her haunch, facing the woods, and moaned again.
I went outside to sit with her and comfort her. It seemed to work.
On the lawn, I saw the desiccated remains of a small animal, long dead and, to me, unidentifiable that the dog had surely found and brought into the yard. Little left but skin and bones, teeth and tail, and the smell of decay that clung inside my nose after I bagged and disposed of the animal.
The remains looked alien to me, maybe 18-20 inches long with the hair on its tail almost ringed in light brown and dark grey. The skin looked leathery; nothing appeared to be inside except for bones and, I suppose, sinew. At what was left of the head, two large teeth seemed to protrude downward. Or maybe that was just the remaining part of the jaw.
Even though I managed to put the animal in a double plastic bag and bury it without ever actually touching it, I washed my hands three times. I itched all evening, and tried to keep from touching my own body.
The faint smell remained in my nostrils for a couple of hours, like an idea that is really wrong.
I knew I would dream about the remains.
If we can accept an animal, the dog, for what it is, why do some of us have such a hard time accepting people for who they are rather than for who we want them to be? I do not claim it is easy; it was/is hard for me to learn, but it's such an important step for all of us.
The faint smell of an idea that is really wrong lives somewhere between fear and hope, somewhere between the fist and the open hand, somewhere between greed and giving, somewhere between intolerance and tolerance, somewhere between being convinced and being confused, somewhere between the power and the people.
……….
For those of you keeping count, my 59th birthday is March 30. Almost a milestone. Or, perhaps, a milestone of sorts.
……….
One day, I went to Canton High School to photograph, for an article I wrote, the band director leading a rehearsal. He works his students very hard, and is proud of them for winning many statewide awards, and he so believes in the importance of music -- all of the arts -- in education.
As I listened and watched and worked, I noticed a young girl in the trumpet section. She seemed like the kind of quiet teenager who has always done what is expected of her, though appearances sometimes, of course, deceive. I began whimsically to think of her, with the trumpet in her hands, as an angel. The trumpet/angel combination went biblical/mythological on me. I ended up, a day later, after I did my research, with this poem that had very little -- almost nothing -- to do with the girl.
The poem is titled "Revel."
Jazz trumpet
through a window
during mid-day sun
notes
over and over again
each time new
never losing
the basic feel of sadness
mixed with anger
sounds of
hail and fire
mixed with blood
hiss of fire
cast into the sea
silence
of a shooting star
twilight coming
to question mankind
bottomless pit
of a heroin haze
desperate notions
of a final revenge
pale angel
in black cotton;
quiet, she trembles,
a small book
open in her hands
sits
on the low curb
of a rundown street
on the edge of a city
at the end of time
listens
to the trumpet
as thousands of stars
slowly push the sun
below the horizon
she has
a new face, untouched
by the aging trumpet's
earthly anguish;
eager to appease
at her feet,
in the winds' swirls
of the street's trash
and broken glass,
is her small purse
the purse holds
seven golden vials filled
with the wrath of her god
who considers us all
to be his own children
Grace be unto us all, and peace . . .
Jazz trumpet
through a window
during midnight's cool,
the basic feel of sadness
mixed with anger
silence
of a shooting star
Grace be unto us all, and peace . . .
pale angel
in black cotton;
quiet, she trembles,
on the low curb
at the end of time
Grace be unto us all, and peace . . .
###
posted by Tom at
2:25 PM
