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NEWSLETTER 6:
December 30th, 2007
BIRTHDAYS! Rudyard Kipling is 142 and Simon Guggenheim
(who perished aboard the Titanic) is 140; Sri Ramana Maharsi
is 128; Paul Bowles is 97, and Jeanette Nolan is 96; Bo Diddley
is 80 ; Sandy Koufax, the greatest pitcher I ever saw, is
72; Lysa McDowell is 49, and Tiger Woods is 32.
As the year closes, I lean towards reflection that can sometimes
border on melancholia. When I feel myself inching ever closer
to depression, I meditate, quieting my mind, and then think
about what winter offers. I think of bears in caves, sleeping
deeply. I consider the snowy hills and recall how my partner
told me the other day how much she delighted in gazing out
at the snow falling as she worked all afternoon in her office.
I think of the trees and flowers storing up energy for their
explosive leaps back to life as spring arrives, and I think
of something my son said to me in the car yesterday. “I
can’t wait for winter to be over!”
That’s truly melancholy, isn’t it? We all do it!
Why do we accept the thought that some time other than Now
will be better? How can we possibly know that? Of course,
we can’t. Ever. All we know is here, right now. All we’re
ever promised is a moment perpetually in the act of passing
by, like images seen fleetingly from a train window.
If I could wish for myself, and everyone, one thing for 2008,
it would be contentment and wide awake awareness in every
moment. All blessings and joys would spring up from that fertile
ground, and wouldn’t that be pretty indeed!
*
Here is a brief review and recommendation of a book of poems,
which I’ve recently read:
Alane Rollings is one of the most erudite, nimble,
and splendid contemporary poets I’ve ever read. If you
doubt this, you might begin a great adventure of discovery
by reading her latest book, to
be in this number.
Consisting of twenty-four poems equally divided into three
sections, the book takes readers on a dimension-bending roller
coaster ride through history and Rollings’s recollections
of childhood. Many of the poems reveal in luxurious narrative
the challenges and subtleties of family life and a Southern
childhood; others meditate on the landscape of intellect,
while all of them pinch and probe the nature of reality, and
who we are in it at any moment.
Maureen N. McLane in Chicago Review suggested that Rollings’s
poems reminded her of no one so much as Rilke. It’s an
appropriate comparison. Here are excerpts from Poem #19, in
no time, to illustrate the point.
“Though paralyzed, at 25, by my unmet demands,/I nearly
swooned on meeting Prince André in War and Peace./…It’s
over 7,000 days since then. I’ve met with less-than-love:/at
times, as overwillingness; at times, a an exacting will/whose
clutch has crushed me deaf—dumb—numb./…That
daydream was my doing!/…My hard-won solidity’s dispelled
my family’s worries. Now, although/I’m undone in
one fellow’s princely gaze, my history of illumination/by
a few extraordinary men can rebegin./A different form of Beauty--/with
the usual romance—has made its old breath-taking sense./In
no time, Love is news again.”
I hope that you might love that last line as much as I do!
We’re led to it so delicately, yet so deftly! That beauty
and love command capital letters is also telling and appropriate,
for nothing is more important in Rollings’s world view.
It’s a view whose expression is utterly unique to Rollings.
Other poets worship beauty and love, but few have ever done
so while majestically balancing so precariously between an
effervescent fragility and oak-like perseverance. In this
sense, another poet comes to mind when I think of Rollings’s
timeless peers—John Keats.
Take a look at Rollings and see if you agree that she is
utterly original. It’s a blessing and a privilege to
be able to enter her world, if only for the all-too-brief
span of the pages in a marvelous book.
*
May blessings, good health, sustaining labor, peace, and
wisdom be yours!
Robert
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