Meta-lect 77 (Oregon Junco)

24 May 2011. As if of old, a mid-day in May--afternoon breeze from the west, nicely cool, red-tailed plane far off in a clear clear sky...

The Oregon Junco, a small friend, long awaited under pine needles and camphor leaves. As was our visit this Sunday, up to the lake-- tall trees across dark green water. And one with many pale leaves, bending low. "My willow," says B, and so it is...

Her small figure on narrow wooden bench, fur-flapped pilot's hat, now at a slight angle, and layers of fleece. The modern kind, warmth--not Jason's quest. A family passes, speaking in Spanish. Mother, father and two boys--"ya vienen los varones..."--he smiles, repeating my phrase...

A love of words...

Two mallards appear, swimming by, also his and hers. Their solemn and welcoming grace...

Meta-lect 76 (White-crowned Sparrow)

9 May 2011. Morning sun, absent squirrels soon to appear. Small unexpected tail emerging from bird feeder, wild life...

Woman with brown hair, dark brown blouse, small russet-colored backpack over her shoulder, just crossing the street with sleekly trimmed terrier on red leather leash...tucking him into waiting car...

Renoir, My Father, his observations, remembered. Homo faber, love of the world...

Meta-lect 75

6 May 2011. Sunny morning in May, fresh. Green power truck across the way--cab light blinking...

A moment's respite, visitors from afar. The stoic house finch, red breast, perched...

Natasha's plaintive miew--not for food, not for open door--just a plaintive miew. She trundles in, jumps slipperily onto white chair cushion, then up again and onto dresser by the window, sniffing a bit as she goes--the haggadah from B's father, inscribed in his hand, two white porcelain bowls, small and almost perfectly made....

Certain blessings, whichever they may be...

Meta-lect 74

26 April 2011. Chickadee, must be the call. Late April days, morning sun. The routine--or so it might be. A large bowl with five handfulls of peanuts, unsalted, a scoop of black oil sunflower seeds, plus two kinds of seeds for the feeder on the tree--millet for the song birds, especially. Chair and small table, the weathered wood--many mornings here.

Quizzical look from one of the squirrels. (Which generation now?) Importunate jay...

Walking yesterday with Ahron, up the hill, winding along paths taken many times before...

Late in the evening--Eagle track. "My feet are lonely..."

Meta-lect 73

25 April 2011. Blustery morning, clouds, then sun...then clouds again...

Thinking of the valley...Consumnes River meeting the Mokulmne, riparian marshes, birds of so many kinds.

When will we return?

Meta-lect 72 (Tijerilla)

22 April 2011. "More song birds..."

The tijerilla, a little fellow. Boxes and boxes of white tissue, tossed onto wooden floor...

Alex last night, with Sarah--astride the maquina. Showing him the photo, from three weeks back--also in the night, against Wurster's brown walls and long flourescent lights. He points to the polished floor, smiling...

Ways of pleasing... Ways of being...

Hannah Lee's poem, her father's voice, "I hope I have given you everything you need...

Meta-lect 71 (Cormorán de cuello negro)

20 April 2011. Warm gray skies, layers of cloud, sun hidden within...

Hidden within. B's description of the malachim--angels' voices--just after the end of the seder. Counting of the omer, first night as well...

A rock cliff in the south--Patagones. Cormorán de cuello negro--the dark-necked cormorant. Its scruffy head, oily and black, lines of a diver, single small dark eye outlined in gold...

Malachim...

Meta-lect 70 (Stellars Jay)

19 April 2011. Scattering the bread yesterday, almost evening--back yard under the birch tree. Millet rolls, broken into smaller pieces, a few remaining bagels with small black seeds. Poppy, I think. Blue bells under the lilac, in late light. Graceful patch of blue flowering grasses...

A peaceful evening--respite, time coming to a stop...

As all time must. And then moving on...

Metalect 69 (Pato Overo)

April 14, 2011. Mild sun. But what is mild sun?

Two figures on bikes--father and a young boy, maybe eight. An awkward balance as they begin to head across the hump of Solano, leaning into the rise. His yellow slicker with straight black patches, gear box over back wheel. Helmets, "as required by law..."

As required by law. To dip each dish in boiling water (the glass ones only), then silver and the rest, 10 seconds fully submerged, bubbles and steam. The order of things. Boxes of Safeway matzoh--wrapped in celo, five up--Streits, Yehudah, Manishchewitz (with that spelling, it should be more expensive). But tell this to the ducks. A smallish pato overo this morning--another Argentine veteran of rivers and lakes. The name referring to touches of white imposed on a darker ground--as in the coat of a horse. Un overo...

Or a chestnut mare, not too tall, and nicely rounded...

Giallo di Napoli...

Meta-lect 68 (Pato Zumbullidor Chico)

13 April 2011. Rainy Wednesday, downpour for a few minutes, then touches of blue sky through kitchen window to the north. April now...

And the pato zumbullidor chico--what a mothful for this little fellow. A diver, by name--creature of " marismas, bañados, ríos lentos, lagos y lagunas, en especial de agua dulce, pero tambien si ellas son algo salobres..." Algo salobres...a little on the salty side...

As with us all--ocean folk--gray morning, walking down Wisconsin Street to the Strand, beach rocks, then sand, the water completely glassy, three foot swell, gray-green, with just the beginnings of a curl...

Ha-shem...

Meta-lect 67

12 April 2011.

Meta-lect 66 (Sirirí colorado)

11 April 2011. The march of time. But wait, it's April...

Such a pun, on a Monday morning--late, now, gray layer of clouds after first bright rays. But let's not read this psychologically. For all days are gray. As with the fan painting on the back shelf at Mythos, yesterday evening. Finely worked, on silk--presence of the Chinese past, rendered here in a few strokes of gray-black ink, the hills and sky, water below, mankind's bridge, smaller, and off to the left. Peaceful, but not without a certain gravitas. As always, when one recalls the Southern Sung--bitter times to the north, invaders, warring clans. Flight and refuge, a life re-built, in the image of a life before...

Valiant melancholy...

Meta-lect 65

April 8, 2011...

Meta-lect 64 (Calandria)

7 April 2011. Sun, but chill. Ducking into Joi, the nail place up the street. Middle fingernail silk repair--come back at 1:30. Connie starting in with someone in back corner--the row of high chairs for pedicure--therapy and repair...

But why all this? When the breakfast club sits quizzical? Natasha at back door, two small mews, her head tilted a little to the side.

I remain the maitre d'--four handfulls of peanuts, one of black oil sunflower seeds, some pieces of challah, near the birch tree, and a cup of songbird seed with extra millet...scattered under the lemon...

B's poem last night. Brahms, with Alyosha, sitting outside, all the others, too, gathered round. Lydia, Sterling, a circle of concern... Composing a chorale for their voices...

Meta-lect 63x.jpg (Pato Crestón, o Juarjual)‏

4 April 2011. Pouring down sun, waft of pollen in backyard air--an almost invisible puff, pine cloud...

The Juarjual, or crested duck, drawn against the odds. Ushuaia, in the south...her black bill, luminous eye...

Evening meals, prepared, then prepared again... Lentil soup, vegetable saute (halved tomatoes, green onion, garlic, yellow pepper, spinach leaves...)

The world...

Meta-lect 62 (Pato Gargantilla)

1 April 2011. Sunny and warm. Blossoms on the pear tree this morning--lower ones opening first, a graceful white...

Pato Gargantilla--the White-cheeked Pintail, here made perhaps too human, a look of apprehension, learned from the movies, or from the faces of character actors. Bert Lahr, press photo--the cowardly lion, eyes turned much to the side. The face behind the face...

B, looking up, white room, calm...

Met-lect 61 (Pato de Torrente)

31 March 2011. Drawing, sadness, drawing.

Meta-lect 60 (Pilpilén)

29 March 2011. Sun, spring...

A young couple in the copystore--preparing elaborate map of the Appalachian trail--they're planning a walk, six months or so, Georgia to Maine. A Southerner, Glen by name--"from east of Nashville," and his lady friend, who whose home would seem to be here--Gathering of the Tribes, just down the street... Their excitement about the venture, animated by subtle gestures back and forth--a standing on the toes, a movement of the hand...

Her drawings--Mr. and Mrs. Fox--their same young selves, simple lines, now imagined with foxes' heads--quite natural, I'd say--appealing as well. A kind of truth--

His wiry hair, blond, pulled back, down vest, bright eyes. A gentleman (he calls me "Sir"...) in long grey coat, on a tall horse, sixteen hands, dark brown--the year 1863...

Meta-lect 59 (Ánade Real)

25 March 2011. Gray skies over San Pablo... Beginnings of new leaves on center island elms.. Silhouetted against clouds to the west...

Mauricio at forty--today is the day. An open-faced sandwich (Maya Gold) in colored magazine paper wrapper from on top of Frank's ancient toolbox... The words "read" and something else, half hidden--all inviting. Plus a box of raspberries, red, still a few of them left... Later--hummus, cucumber and tomato on whole wheat--the day's request--and a package of vegan potato salad (the good kind) with bits of peel still attached, in tasty sauce--plus special salmon salad development--green onions, capers, mustard, balsamic vinegar, ginger, finely chopped parsley...pepper and black sesame seeds...

Afternoon--re-reading the Analects, text to the drawings we've been choosing. The one of a man with his back turned, an older gentleman, one arm lifted high. Unfinished, as it needs must be. Mr. Copes, yes, who'd come by the copy shop each month, offering to do the windows-- his bucket and squeegee...a handful of newspaper... Greg's voice, in welcome, "Yes"-or, sometimes, "Not today, Mr. Copes..."

Mallard on the River Plate--Ánade Real--an exotic species, alight...

Meta-lect 58

24 March 2011. Rain heavy and determined, all morning...

Time...too rushed, too rushed, begin again...

The constancy of a duck--quiet water reeds, transposed to the outskirts of Chascomus. Laguna Verde, Mansilla's world...another place, another time.

Reach for this...

Meta-lect 57 (Caúquen Real)

23 March 2011. Rainy morning...

Window onto the street, a tapping sound--Lee's face, wizened now, bundled up in hood...

Writing--a life, the paintings and the years... Precedents and parallels... Corot, Bonnard, Vuillard. Albert York...

Hopes as well...

Meta-lect 56 (Quetro Volador)

22 March 2011. Clouds in the west, piled high...

Woman in black Saturn SUV, just outside, frowning deeply, hand to her
forehead. Her two young daughters in back seat, one of them in tears...

Category mistake, and a white handkerchief--panuelito, as in the song.
Tokens of affection.

The Quetro Volador, ready to fly. Patagonian coast. A pair of them--
sisters, too, perhaps...

Meta-lect 55 (Pato Capuchino)

21 March 2011. Clear with billow clouds...more rain due...

The beautiful East Indian girl on sidewalk at bus stop in front of copy shop window, early--her banana for breakfast, then the blackberry, checking messages. This morning's animated conversation with some party unknown... Her right hand--adamant gestures, up and down, in time with the points she seems to be making. Forceful, more logic than anger. Wedding band on the third finger of her left hand, gem stones--diamond, zircon...

Pato capuchino--original meaning of the word--a little hood...

Meta-lect 54 (Atajacaminos Tijera)

18 March 2011. Gray and rain, steady...

Atajacaminos tijera. The scissor-tailed Nightjar. Small speckle-breasted creature seated quietly on a fence post. La tranquera. Waiting... Waiting but for what...?

Large girl with straight blond hair and emminent build, tiny white flower skirt (mauve) and black tights, seated with her legs ajumble in copystore chair--yellow Del laptop askew in her lap, intent on image from a fashion spread--two equally young models in stylish garb, red shoes, red scarf, set against tans and warm grays. World of charm encounters the world of commerce...

Reactor number four, fuel rods exposed to the air, burning...

Save us all...

Meta-lect 53 (Jacana Común)

16 March 2011. Even gray skies, moist air, muddled yellow ball of sun somewhere behind...

Late at night, in the rain, San Pablo Avenue, pulling in on a quick vector to curb in front of studio building, planning to drop off the morning's supplies. There under under the doorway soffit, a figure asleep in damp plaid bag, gear close all around. He looks up, seeing my approach, scraggly red-brown beard, brows the same, sharp eyes not without anxiety/suspicion. "Just stay put, I'll step over over...," reaching forward with key in hand to unlock the swinging glass door. Inside dark, I leave my things, take the one banana on bead-woven Puerto Rico tray, and a single golden apple--handing them to him as I leave. He reaches up. "Will that be good," I ask? Cracked voice, "Well, I can eat the banana, but I can't chew the apple." Opens his mouth to show me the four remaining teeth...

"Do you have fifty cents so I can wash my clothes...?"

Meta-lects 52 (Cauqúen Común)‏

15 March 2011. Gray skies, dark morning, warm bank of lights across the way in sheltered 7-eleven. Passing for home...

Gram's birthday, at eighty, just now remembered. Her slender form on porch of Huntington Park bungaloo, house dress, bright eyes behind small glasses, smiling. Family gathering. I'm carrying an armful of roses--just back from two years in the east--Warszawa...and she begins to sing. "Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła," a tune that ony the two of us will know.

Another land, another time...

Meta-lect 51 (Pato Cucharo)

14 March 2011. Dark night, rain in the morning. Thoughts about Japan.

Northern coastal town. Sendai. First heard the name from a woman in Yao-Ya San market, in El Cerrito, maybe a decade back. Package of dark brown miso, quite thick, salty, with pronounced texture. Distinct red characters set it apart there on the cooler shelf, to the right--easily recognized, even when not understood. I would take it to the counter. She would smile. "The best...!"

This weave of meanings...

Meta-lect 50 (Pato Criollo)

11 March 2011. Sunny morning, like there never was...

The Pato Criollo, friend of man. A Moscovy duck, first seen on the sloping terrain of a Sonoma Coast motel--set of small wooden cabins, from the 1930s, arranged around a big U, wild reeds growing in the middle, hiding a pond. And a Moscovy duck, of course. Place where Leonard and Carol used to stay, years before--they told us once. Owners a young couple from Los Angeles--they left for this northern coast...low light, land running down to the sea.

Big waddle, unexpected shape of head. Red garble. Dictinctive.

Like the town itself. Moscow. Where all roads lead. Last night: map flashes onto flat-screen display--wrapping around the earth, names of provinces and cities, spelled in Cyrillic. Nine time zones, west to east. Brest Litovsk to Kamchatka, and all points in between...

Trans-Siberian...

Meta-lect 49 (Pato Maicero)

10 March 2011. Gray or sun, can't decide.

Pato maicero--her brown head and striated back. in a sea of river grass, camalote blossoms floating on the Paraná...

El Tigre, January 1961. That would be mid-summer. The delta, meandering banks, lush gold-green, sweltering palms, fronds low to the water. An open boat with rows of seats, canvas awning, polished wood. Worn brass fitting or two. The captain--tipo del campo, a river man...

Sounds like...

Meta-lect 48

9 March 2011. Pato argentino. we'll have to look into the source of this one--pato colorado, maybe, with its velvety reddish gray crown, blending into white below, on a marsh that Hudson himself might have known. Vicinity of Chascomus, southeast of La Plata by a few miles, but "pura pampa..." Rereading his stories, that truthful edge, sometimes dark--an acknowledgment of something real...

Meta-lect 47 (Pato Picazo)

8 March 2011. Gray morning, rain on car...

Situationist Manifesto. Ken Knabb's face, reappearing, after 30 years. A book on Rexroth, the politics of poems. "Relevance..."

As with the ducks of El Tigre. Pato Picazo, deep red eye embedded in velvety black. Invisible waters, brown and gold-green, slow-moving, from the Iguazu.

The Rosy-billed Pochard...

Meta-lect 46 (Ariel)

7 March 2011. Mild sun after meandering rain, evening streets glistening, yellow lights of cars...

Songs from afar, a milonga-- Olvido Adentro, and the Argentine case for existentialism. Ariel perched on velvet chair, attentive. Words matter, my schematic tramslations even, each line. Story of Jorge Cafrune--his willingness to sing, no matter the cost. Small casket of earth from the Norman coast, resting place of General San Martin--he would carry them on horseback from Buenos Aires to the province of Corrientes. Struck down by truck, in the night, only miles from home...

Ariel's questions., stories of a bicycle trip over the Pyrenees, into Spain...

Leopoldo Lugones on the metric structure of classical Spanish verse--octosílabos and the like--and how these forms became the basis for lyric song. Water birds. remembered, pato sirirí, Denrocygna viduata...where Sirirí is the local name. Something from the river--and the peoples who lived on her banks...

Paraná...

Meta-lect 45 (Peludito)

2 March 2011. Gray rain gray...

Less chilly last night. Natasha in white wicker chair, impossibly fluffy mound of tortoise-shell fur in the surrounding dark. Small pink tongue (one remembers) protruding at her special moments. Reaching up with head to be fondled, which she likes.

And the armadillo? Large family of dry land creatures, residents of the Argentine south (and all of the Argentine is south). On the gray landscape of Chubut, wind-raked from the west, head on to the sea. A coast without a harbor--or even an interest in a harbor. And why so? Scene so vividly described by Güiraldes, in Don Segundo Sombra--a tale of gaucho life in the modern period. The riders deliver their herd of cattle to an estancia near the sea--of which his young hero has only heard, and is desperate to see. But for some reason there's an omen attached--as he soon discovers--salt marshes in which the sand teems with voracious crabs...

Better this small dry-land friend, bristly hair at every joint (and there are so many), a close up revealing the pattern of ancient scales. Forces of life, well-rounded, rising to the occasion...

Meta-lect 44 (Pichi)

1 March 2011. Skies clear, moving to gray?

La Noche del Peludero. José Larralde's song... Caminito tierra y yuyo...

This morning, sitting in chair by bookshelf, singing, the Russians to my left, China on the shelf behind, Argentina just alongside, almost within reach--Lucio Mansilla, Una Excursion, Siete Platos de Arroz con Leche, Lugones, Fray Mocho...from Buenos Aires, years ago--in the bookstore Ateneo (Santa Fe 1860)...

An old zamba-- Blanco y Azul, and a question of whose voice. (Blanco y azul, era el vestido, con que pasar te vi...) "Dame tu pañuelito, mi vida, yo te lo lavaré...con lágrimas de mis ojos..." The man's voice? At that moment, Genevieva comes in, quietly, through front door, Hoover in hand, and pauses, on my request, to help with a key word... A question of whose voice... and the meaning of "...sequito te lo daré..."

"I will wash it for you, your little handkerchief, and when it's dry, give it back to you..."

Meta-lect 43 (Espinel)

28 February 2011. Mid-day already. Up till late--Blanco y Azul, a
zamba in the old way, sung by a woman with beautiful even-toned alto
voice--untrained, a bit weavery, but very sure. Una voz del campo...
Her cadence also in the old style--unembellished, each accent
corresponding to a beat of the heart. Like walking, in the classical
way--a promenade--you hear something of bel canto here--a
procession--but also the gait of a horse. Un sordo, leading with the
left... Alazán...

The song. Something understood by a rider (and it was on horseback,
uniquely, that one could traverse the pampa)...or by someone whom the
horseman might love...

* * *

Jinete--an ancient word, from the Moors. From the Berbers, originally,
riders of another kind...

Meta-lect 42 (Quirquincho)

25 February 2011. Sun amidst rain...or...

The fate of the quirquincho. But can such an adorable creature have a fate? This small, wiggly being--mammalian, they say--held in the right hand, gently, by it's implacable back. The combination of shell plate and fur--a few bristles, that is, and a shaggy hairy row along bottom of shell. Carapace--the shield or covering, as with Ulysses. A rounded banner of bronze--bas relief--and the story of all time...

(for Leonard)

Meta-lect 41 (Peludero)

24 February 2011. Gray slanting rain, as predicted. A woman's voice...

Too many associations. But can that ever be? Loss of a neighbor, Hal--his one-time trap set, hidden away behind upstairs screen--sounds of dance bands from long ago. On the road, Evanston, Granite City, Champaign... Indian chiefs and fox trots, a warm smile... The need to speak...

* * *

Peludero, where we began. A small creature with hard shell--mammalian, a tiny nurser when young, evolving into this desert brute. Marsupial--the southern line. Tierra del Fuego and above...

The Antipodes...

Meta-lect 40 (Jaime Dávalos)

23 February 2011. Sun, misty sky, late morning...

From the sands of Salta to Albany nails, Joi, that would be, here on Solano, where a pleasant Vietnamese woman of middle years with alert eyes and a very deft touch applies silk and super-glue to the offending item--la uña de la chacarera--a guitar player's middle nail. In the old days it was the thumb--pulgar--favorite of Celedonio Romero, and then of course Diego. Down stroke of those bulerias falsetas, off-beat accents a lo gitano, life in between the seams...

Jaime Davalos again, listening to his songs late in the evening, an old recording, made in a concert in Salta. His rapport with his listeners--subtle criollo asides--bien entendidos, si no mas...

La quebrada...

Meta-lec t 39 (Pato Sirirí B)

22 February 2011. Beautiful and fresh sunny morning. Yesterday, late afternoon--snow on the hills behind Oakland, white...

Jaime Dávalos, from a live recording, early 1960s? In Salta--a child of the mountains. Writer of songs, and a poet, like his father (in his own words--"un homenaje a mi padre, quien me espera bajo de la tierra.") Yet here: Pato Sirirí. A river song. Patient, whistling call of a water bird, in the night--"que de noche pasa..." Dark head with striking white face, white blaze on dark breast.

Jaime. Image of fire, the three of them, seated around the fogón, even if it's indoors, even if it's been filmed--still the chance to feel something of his spirit--the spontaneous intelligence of his words... Su pasión...

"Poesía que nombra como ninguna las cosas de la tierra, sin gastados lugares comunes, con las palabras del alma..."



* * *

(Note: The last line quoted from an anonymous admirer of Dávalos, posted on line)

Meta-lect 38 (Pato Sirirí)

17 February 2011. Rain times rain. Hello from Mo in 7-Eleven, "200 per cent"...

Dictions and evasions. The Southern Cross. A shy girl (not unlike the young gull) in Andean cap with dangling flap, beautiful round eyes, by the waterside, singing these verses from Jaime Dávalos, half a century before...

Pato Sirirí, que de noche pasa.
¿Adónde te vas buscando amor?
Las estrellas son rumbos de tu raza,
por eso en el río persigues reflejos
de la Cruz del Sur.

Pato Sirirí, debajo la luna,
barco de papel que en elcielo va.
En el espinel, pescador de estrellas
yo busco una de ellas, que alumbra
mi Pato Sirirí

Si algún día vuelves
y como el sauce me ves llorando
es que una estrella vivo esperando
que con el canto se encienda en mí.

También el río, buscando cielo
siempre se aleja
y aquí en la orilla solo me deja
tu silbo errante
Pato Sirirí

* * *

Pato Sirirí, Jaime Dávalos

Meta-lect 37 (Santiago)

16 February 2011. Rain in slanting sheets... Then a moment's sun...

Santiago. Inevitable changes. Changes? Inevitable?

Article on Yeats in middle of the night, black anodized flashlight, arm slightly cramped under the covers. Someone's elaborate conceits on times long ago. The Irish wars, questions of force, views strongly held, fought for, abandoned. Compromise--but not in the poem. For what is a poem?

Pictures and paintings--the Charlie Rich recordings, his last. Billboard on I-80, approach to Bay Bridge, San Francisco to Reno. Mane of gray silver gray hair, leaning into the piano. Back to a sharecropper's shack, border of Texas and Arkansas, when he was a boy. Piano pushed in on one wall. Work hats on nails in an array just above. A teacher...

Meta-lect 36 (La Atamisqueña)

15 February 2011. Warm gray skies--rain here, then gone, then back again...

La Atamisqueña--una chacarera, resolana santiagueña--the mysteries of Domingo Aguirre, blind musician, la arpa, his narrow fingers recorded long. In the company of Andrés Chazarreta--el patriarco del folklore argentino, su Conjunto de Arte Nativo. But whose arte and whose nativo? Atamísqui que misquiáta...me átas el corazón. Something rather of the earth--coplas de sol--me han de upáyar los requérdos...y el verso núevo vuelvó a escuchár...

Gansos libres, buscando dulzúras...tus glorias víven en él lugár...

La mujér atamisqúeña
entre sus pénas tejé un amor...

Meta-lect 34 (Towhee)

14 February 2011. A universal day-late valentine, in the rain. Downward mist, on mansard roof. Umbrella...

As in Axel Corti's film, set in 1940, when actor Johannes Silberschneider wanders the arcades of Paris, stopping to open his black parapluis--inside which are displayed a set of ties--each one for sale--while the man alongside--a potential customer--opens his own black umbrella to same...

Sensibility of Mittleuropa...

While here, the fluffy chicks enjoy a moment of freedom. That would be freiheit--the sound "eye" not an "ee" (and in any case, frieheit looks like some Berlin wunderkammer version of Taco Bell...)

Nabakov in the spring. Traipsing the fields of Switzerland, umbrella in hand. Or butterfly net, rather. With similar results--freedom becoming the recognition of necessity...

Towhee, a beautiful friend...

Meta-lect 34 (Your Breakfast, Sir--envelope view)

Meta-lect 34 (Your Breakfast, Sir)

11 February 2011. Dentista. La limpia, con Lilly--on a sunny morning. L's note, on yellow post-it--Mubarack is gone...

Happinesses. "Your breakfast, Sir..." The Biltmore Hotel, downtown LA, with my Dad, also on a sunny morning--the dusty palm trees on Pershing Square. That would be 1958? (Why is everything 1958?) Covered plates--pewter tops over thick porcelain, white cloth napkins, and the formality of a waiter. "Your breakfast, Sir..." Jump to Warszawa, a decade later. Hotel Polonia, heavy plates, no palms. But the same waiter, cloth over his arm, back slightly bent, impassive face, a distinguished profession of sorts... One of the oldest...

Lilly's face, from Mexico, beautiful middle brown, fine forehead, her dark eyes appearing over the white mask, like something out of Satjait Ray. India, China, Kamchatka, the Bering Sea...

"Finally we are free..."

Meta-lect 33 (Instructional)

10 February 2011. And a sunny day it is...

Winged creature on white floor board, gothic symmetry in morning light... ends and beginnings. As with the Frank O'Hara poems...a playful anything, then something, then back again...

Instructional. The road crew returns. High on a road in the Sierras. Or, high in the Sierras on a road. Wait, we'll never get this right. Let's just say: small chickens. A child's architectural garden, with white paper crowns and a spot of gold.

Permissions and detachments--the security of a data base.

Love...


* * *

(for Angie)

Meta-lect 32 (Slon)

9 February 2011. Sun. We're getting perhaps too fond of this...

I smile--but for an elephant without a home? No, that can't be. More, an elephant whose home is too small. Apartment, rather. The bumpy head, unfolding trunk. But why an apartment for an elephant in any case? Such an existential creature--a creature with such an existence. Eucalyptus leaves, pulled down by the branch-full, winding paths through rambling brush, the occasional water-hole, a nice bath. Smells of the African veldt. Veldt? A Dutch word, hmmm...

An elephant song. Something pounding. But graceful, too. In 9/4 I think...

A somber delight...

Metalect 31 (For Po-Chü-I)

8 February 2011. Sunny, but still February... Large youth with smooth cheeks, stubble chin, orders pack of Marlborough (some other detail included) and a Gizmo (wrong name) lottery ticket. His beautiful, narrow-faced lady sitting outside, half-light, in seat of waiting SUV...

Mo in the aisles amidst boxes of Peeble-O's. Mary-Lou's and Granny Pokes (invented inventory--products from the American heartland). Manager and stocking clerk. "Also cashier..." "But your customers love you..." Eyebrows raised...

Maybe a gift instead. The Year of the Rabbit, for example, or Atchafalya, for Princess N (yesteday), with elaborate note about Tolstoy's description of Pierre Bezukhov, and how the word "tolstoj" has been tendentiously translated.. (After seeing the plump English ceramic alligator on N's side table.) The available paths--we don't even choose them. More a matter of saying no...or, better, yes...

This morning. Master Po. That phrase of his. "What's the use." Or was it James Wright's? Either way, it's pure Po Chü-I. Neither fatalism nor resignation. More a kind of whistful delight in the present. What better reward...?

Metalect 30 (Atchafalaya)

7 February 2011. Warm and sunny day, go figure... T-shirts and flip flops... Tiny whirling creatures in late afternoon light...

A question of the precise choice of words. Tolstoy, for instance. His description of Pierre, in the Russian--tolstoj molodoj chelovek--which Garnett takes as "a stout young man," as do the Maudes. But Pevear and Volokhonsky say "fat." S. imagines their conversation: "Now Richard (voice rising), in Russian it says fat! (However, S. has also told us that she also describes Tolstoy himself--his writing, that as--as the sound of an elephant approaching. So let's consider the attitude here. I understand her adamance--and the need for the freedom of the translator (in an absolute sense). Nonetheless, we're dealing with Tolstoy--and his Pierre-- one of the great and transcendent creations of character in the history of the writing of the world (Babel's phrase)--so the adjective matters. And who is Pierre? (Everyone, in the end, must revere him--or is it just me?) The price of the word fat (with it's connatations in English of roundedness, deracination and even an absense of sex--no doubt lost on the Russian ear (no matter how perfect one's acquired English)--where stout implies layers--coverings--in the Russian meant quite literally (layers of skin, or another material)--and a certain stiffness. Read masculinity. The price--the months wandering in the Russian winter, a prisoner of Napoleon's army in retreat, his feet exposed, body covered with lice (Tolstoy notes that their profusion keeps Pierre warm)--the presence of Platon Karataev, and a kind of impossible awakening--to himself and to the world. But of course, all this is too easy to say--for one would really have to suffer--live through--such an experience--to write these words.

To grow...

(for Princess N.)

Metalect 29 (Year of the Rabbit)