Old Lady Blog

 

The language I speak is a language of grief


When we heard the guns we grabbed what we could. The bullets shattered the windows and splintered the doors. The floors shook. There was no place to run or hide. I grabbed two dish towels because I happened to be standing in the kitchen. We use them as turbans on our heads. Three men dead tossed overboard. The three men left saved shoes and pants and belts. I gave the last bit of bread to my child and for her sake try to smile. I whisper tales of almonds and honey cakes. She is too tired to weep; her head lies listless and she sleeps. Her pants and blouse are rags. I tried to drink salt water but I gagged. Yesterday, the boy cast a string into the sea and fashioned a hook by bending a rusty nail.


Strangers will never believe this tale.

There will be rows of lovely olive trees in Greece where the roofs of the houses are white and sparkle like diamonds in the sun. There are blue doors and a cross on every house so we will surely be welcome there instead of beheaded, crucified and shot.


No one listens. No one cares.  

We do not know if we go North or South or East or West.  We follow the seagulls. We do not understand the reason we had to flee and leave our lives behind.  Women herded into cages by rebels and driven to the village square.  Chemical weapons. Perhaps this is some kind of test.


Syllables drop like heavy stones.

I used to think I could not get through the day without a cup of espresso, one lump of sugar and a slice of fresh lemon.  Our skin is blistered by the sun. There is not enough water for the six of us to share. There is no adequate prayer.  I heard that on a mountain after a plane crash the survivors were forced to eat flesh. Thank God, we have not gotten that desperate yet.  I tell myself we are lucky to be alive on this leaky boat. The smugglers swore we would reach the rocky shores. They lied.  We thought our coins bought freedom. We ride the tide bereft. Nothing we knew is left.


Sometimes I think we are all refugees floating in a wine dark sea.


[Image: Jean Jacques Henner. Jesus, The seven sorrows of Mary]






Gone/ All Gone


The chunks of ice are melting. In the distance the steel spires of the city glitter above the still water where bloated bodies float. The marble steps the paintings the libraries the museums the ancient statues and books. All gone. We knew the glaciers were melting. We knew the water would rise. We knew it was just a matter of time even when the President swore there was no such thing as climate change since God controls the weather. We were not blind. We saw how the currents swept in and ripped out the dunes and flooded the streets of cities. We knew the dams did not hold. We saw the moon turn red.


This time God spoke to no one and there was no ark. He must have thought Once was enough. They never learn. I think have been here a long time, but I have no watch. My hair has grown long. I wind the thin gray strands into braids. I wish I had studied something useful like celestial navigation. At least I would know which wild plants are safe to eat.


I no longer smell the stench of burning flesh or oil and gas or hear the screams of women. The roar of the winds died down. The men who wore black masks and chopped off peoples’ head are long since drowned. It is quiet here. The water is retreating into shining pools and thin gnarled branches rise like dancers in the morning mist. I hear the chirp of a bird. I am afraid to ask for anything, but if there is one bird maybe more will come. I am alone except for the scattered bones of sheep and cows that whiten the fields with sharp edges. So much buried in the mud I will not touch / windows, roofs, televisions, I Pads, X boxes, medals, blankets, shirts and shoes.  I am the skeleton of who I was.


I see green buds. They come first on the thorn bushes, and I remember His crown was made of thorns. I remember the funny face of a clown with red rouged cheeks and how the elephants marched slowly around the big ring in the circus with the babies using their trunks to hold onto the tails of the mothers. We caged animals in zoos. I wonder if any animals escaped and where they are or if they drowned. I remember the painted turtles and the blue velvet ribbons mother twined in my braids and the buttered popcorn at the movies.

I must not think. I must not remember. I amuse myself by singing songs. I sing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, When you wish upon a star, Auld Lang Syne, Stormy Weather, I am looking over a four leaf clover. I  hum what I remember of Night in Tunisia by Dizzy  Gillespie and Round about Midnight by Thelonious Monk, then comes  London Bridge is Falling Down and Little Lambs Like Ivy.


He was our Shepherd and we were His lambs. If they never listened to Him before they nailed Him to the cross, who am I to speak? I sit in a rowboat beached in a field of daisies. I saw the lakes turn into deserts and the red and yellow boats curled like snails in the sand. I saw the wind rip the roofs off houses. A tornado tore a baby girl right out of her mother’s hands. I saw the shards and splintered wood the torn white sails. The schools of cod are gone along with the coral reefs and squid and whales. The dolphins left us first casting their bodies on the beach like signals. We never listened.




Lesbos, Greece


The boats are coming over the rim of the world and they just keep coming hour after hour until I stop counting. The horizon is rimmed with boats & rafts bobbing up and down waiting to drift in. Men paddle with oars and boards and hands. Women clutch babies in shawls.   It is so unreal I feel I am watching a movie. People are fleeing cities whose walls are ridden with bullets where women are lined up with burlap bags thrown over their heads and price tags pinned to chests. A young boy is shot running across a street to get a loaf of bread. A six year old is forced to watch a man being nailed to a cross because he dared to smoke a cigarette. If she does not watch she will be shot. A ten year old girl watches her father and two brothers shot then is raped by six men and dies four hours later. The mother says the men tied her down with ropes and if she said a word she was whipped. Towns and cities and villages are broken stones dust and rust. Three soldiers march down a deserted streets. They carry machine guns but even the dogs and cats have fled. Bodies are strewn on the ground like rags, bodies tossed into pits. The stench of rotting garbage. Grains of sugar spilled onto counters covered with flies. Moldy bread. Dresses, blouses, shirts and pants swing like ghosts in closets.


The rafts are more flimsy than I thought.  The red sun rises like a glaring eye in the searing heat. There is a deafening noise of shouts cries and screams. The rafts rock wildly in the turbulent currents.  The boats bob up and down. Men shout; white spray rises like prayers in the morning mist.


She stopped speaking. The audience sat in hard back chairs heads bent forwards to catch each word, but her words were stones that choked her throat and her tongue was dry and numb She held tight to the microphone like it was a rope, but all they heard was the hoarse rasp of her breath.


I saw a man stumble through the surf and kneel down on the beach and weep. The women who were pregnant gave birth as soon as they reached the beach with the oldest women kneeling down to help the women push the babies out, all that blood the placentas lying in the sand like trembling white jellyfish. A baby’s shoe filled with blood, a plastic doll without a head, a boy’s jacket ridden with bullet holes stuck to a rock like a flag and a white fur rabbit with its leg torn off.


Would you go back? A man in the front row asked.


When I went, there were thousands of volunteers from different countries. I have never seen anything like it. We worked in harmony even though we could not understand each other’s language The Greek government had not yet cordoned off the beaches. Now you have to show ID’s and passes to reach the beaches although foreigners can still sneak into the detention camps.


What are the detentions camps like?


The speaker shook her head; tears streamed down her cheeks.



Alone we burn


Alone we burn through dark catastrophes of grief

the death of bone and flesh

each moment a new green leaf

where hope holds sway

over deceit.


As Earth Rides


Earth rides waves of light and air.

Pink clouds float behind the dark bark of trees.

We cannot deceiver the whisper of leaves.

Dogs hear sounds we cannot hear.

Fields of ice turn to bright white flocks.

Steps under seas lead nowhere.

Crows question.


We see

poisoned oceans

dolphins burnt to death

whales washed upon the beach

dead birds falling from the sky

refugees who flee 

children tossed like rags on rocks.

Crows question.





What’s left when you are dead?


I used to hold your hand but your flesh is dust and your bones are buried in mud.  My brother and I tossed you into the Bay like you wanted and added a huge rose bouquet. We made sure it was red. 

My fingers gnarled like the roots of trees hold fast to the cliff.  


The antiques you left are and broken and stained. There are a handful of gold coins in the drawer but they won’t buy a loaf of bread. There is no milk left. I am bereft.



If death is a long dark sleep and we do not awaken until the Resurrection, I will be stunned to be in the New Jerusalem. I mean just think of it. Being asleep and suddenly standing in hot dry air with a warm wind and palm trees swaying and bougainvillea all over the hedges and vines with plump purple grapes and clear streams and all that harp like music and all these strangers around you some dancing and singing and others blowing the Shafer or playing a game of gin rummy right where they left off.  What kind of stuff would we eat? For sure there would never be red meat because the lion would lay down with the lamb and we all would understand that animals are friends and meat is dead flesh. Imagine one second you are less than a speck of dust and the next flesh that stands in the New Jerusalem. Who would you see? If your mother your father your sister your son your brother your daughter were not Believers, where would they be?

 

Would you have the slightest inkling of the horror that occurred before you arrived I mean the sun going dark at noon and all the stars falling down and the cities drowned and the mountains leveled into plains and those four horsemen riding in from the clouds on white steeds bearing swords of fire and blood. Would you have heard any of the screams or would whatever happened while you slept be hidden like a dream.


What does the End Times mean? If one Time ends and another begins, someone must have a watch. I try not to bother myself with these questions.







Lights out or the weather of the apocalypse


When water rolls in sudden over land, the pink marble steps that led to the museum will be thrust apart & scattered over sand as if by a giant’s hand.  Cans will burst and tin will turn to rust. Beans and corn will rust. Sodden wood wills never burn. No fruits no grain no flour no nuts no meat no trees no seeds. All gone. No birds to sing. No spring. 


Put it this way. You saw and did not see. You heard but did not listen. He never wanted you to kill in His name, drink wine as if it were His blood or eat bread as if it were his flesh. He was never into sacrifice or ritual. His name was Love. He did not come to rule or judge. He told you not to gather all the crops but leave the remnants for strangers. He was not into gold. He never heard of Goldman Sacks. He said it would be harder for a rich man to enter heaven as a camel to go through the eye of a needle. DID YOU LISTEN?


Did you feed the homeless in the soup kitchens?  Remember the photo on the cover of Time Magazine of the black boy in Biafra with the swollen belly, the one dying of starvation while you chilled a bottle of Chardonnay to go with fish for dinner? Did you listen to His message or were you chatting on Face Book or counting the hits on your blog? Who did you think were your Followers? Would any grab your hand when you floated out the window?


The hundreds of Fema camps placed strategically near the cities to trap the poor like rats/ the waiting guillotines will be buried in silt and mud. The winds will fling crystal fragments that spear the flesh. There will be a steady hum. Tongues of reeds will sway gently in and out of shattered windows. Doors will become floors that lead nowhere. All of glass will not last. Whatever is whole will be broken. Whatever is smooth will crack.

Whales will bump against the walls of high rise buildings and schools of golden fish swish in and out of windows amazed at beds. The spires of cities will rise from the water like broken sticks.


We swim in dark; we cannot see until the veil is lifted.



Call from Scientologist Friend


Hi Terry, It’s me. Marcia.  I had to tell you that Scientology has saved my life.

I haven’t heard from you since you left Brattleboro. What’s going on?

Well, for one thing I have no more financial stress.

How come?

I live on community property out in Oregon, and in exchange for training I get room and board. I put all my savings into the commune account. And the icing on this cake is I am being cleared.

Cleared of what?

Cleared of all the rubbish in the mind that prevents a person from being self actualized and peaceful, cleared of all the chemicals and poisons the body has absorbed. The trouble with you is that you lost your base.

Life isn’t a baseball game.

Stop clowning around. Your base is your center People laugh at scientology because they don’t understand it. Look at me. I am fifty five years old and could not get a teaching job anywhere. I lost my lover. My father died of lung cancer. Does this bother me? No. Because I have been audited.

By the IRA?

Stop joking around. For once be serious. Auditing is a special process that can’t be described in a few minutes of the phone. Besides, they only give us six minutes on this phone and someone is standing in line behind me. Look, your past drag you down. When you stop reacting to things from your past, you are free. Your senses open like a flower in the sun.  I have been audited for six months and I am a different woman. I have more energy. I have given up relationships with people from the outside that drag me down.

You dumped all your friends?

Take it from me. Auditing is the thing and I tried everything. I went through Freudian analysis, Gestalt, Rolfing and Rebirth. My therapist, this bag fat bozo, rolled me on the floor of his office and sat on me and pounded me till I begged for him to stop. Then I went into New York for two weeks of EST. They stuffed us into this huge auditorium, four hundred of us packed in like sardines. This guy got up on the stage and told us we were nothing. We were shits. We were zeros. He got us so we learned to stand up and shout back. We weren’t allowed out of that auditorium to eat or piss or shit. I tried everything in sight because I was looking for something and I’ve found it Scientology is your answer. Let me give you an example. When Jim walked out on me, I cried day and night. I was so nauseous I could not eat a single bite.

Of course. You wanted to marry him.

Not the point, honey. Not the point at all. During auditing I recalled things you would not believe. You remember every detail of your life, things you’re other said when you were in the womb.

No kidding.

If you swear never to tell anyone I will tell you what I learned and this is just the beginning. It’s changing my life. In another four months when I finish Step I. Auditing, I can become a trainer and audit other people. I take courses all day on Saturdays. The last one was How to Listen.

All I do is listen.

I found out that when Jim walked out on me the reason I was torn apart was there is a deep unconscious connection between him and my father.

I told you that years ago. Jim was brilliant even though he was schizo, and your father was a genius, a world famous writer.

I know. But you see when my mother was pregnant with me, my father used to tell her he was walking out because he couldn’t handle the responsibility, so, you see, Jim held me tight like a dog on a leash threatening to leave just like my father did.

So what is happening in these audits?

You keep on talking hour after hour about every childhood memory and feeling until the feelings get erased.

Why would you want them erased?

It’s like hypnosis. I heard the exact words of my father. I swear to God. I heard his voice. The fetus hears, thinks, records and remembers every detail of the parents conscious and unconscious lives. Look, I am sending you a little book called The World of Scientology. They check out mail so I hope you get it. They don’t want us to get contaminated from the outside world. Enroll in a mini weekend course. Get a sense of perspective about not finding jobs. I put you on the mailing list. After auditing I am going through Purification.

You mean a Dionysian rite with severed head of goats and blood?


Terry, for God’s sake. Be serious. They found out through intensive lab testing that I am still affected in every pore in my body by the work IO did as a radiologist in Chicano and by those cortisone shots I got for poison ivy.

But that was thirty years ago.

Listen, do me a big favor.  Don’t let anyone we know mutually know what I am up to. People think that Scientology is a cult. They have closed minds. I speak to you freely because I know you are open to new things and this works. I have to get off the phone.  When you go into the sauna, you stay put for twelve hours. It removes every single impurity from your body. You see the world fresh through new eyes.

Wait a minute. What did you do with your father’s unfinished manuscript? You were his literary executor.

Bye.




Omyra Sanchez


The camera is my eye. I open and shut the lens. I sweep the horizon clean. It is hard to focus with so much dust. My eyes burn. Focus I must. That is my job. That is what I am paid for and that is why I am here. I turn and all that I see stretching towards the horizon is this endless sea of mud. Another landslide.  Another mountain gone in torrents of rain.  Another village buried. A strange sight but no stranger than all the other sights I have seen.  I turn slowly in a circle as I walk and peer intently through the telephoto lens.  The walls of the huts were mud. There are splintered boards, husks of corn, a rusty pipe that was a chimney. AS IF THIS WERE THE GARBAGE OF THE WORLD.


I stand in rain and gulp water from my canteen. It must have sounded like a freight train.  Families ran into the street but it made no difference. The wall of mud cascaded down and buried their lives in an instant.  No one heard the shouts or screams. I swivel this telephoto lens. Damn it to hell. All I see is mud and ruins. I must fix something in the frame. Wait. There is a pinprick in the distance. I walk towards it AS IF IT WERE MECCA. This is it. The shot always wanted. No other photographer is here.  It is a face with splotches of mud. It is a little girl. She can’t be more than five. I move closer. She is buried in mud right up to her chin. She balances on something. I ask what happened. She says her mother and father her sister and brother are underneath. Her hands are caught like fish in a net. She does not ask for help. There is nothing I can do but snap these pictures. Shot after shot after shot. Time stops. The wet mud moves slow like a claw that rakes her skin. She knows she is going to die; it is just a matter of minutes. I stand on firm ground fifty feet from her; there is nothing I can do or I will be dragged under too. Her eyes are wide. She absorbs the world.  She wonders who I am and why I hold this thing in my hands that she has never seen with the long snout that glides in and out. I ask her name. She is calm as lake water without a single ripple. “Omyra Sanchez” she says. Her voice echoes like gunshot in the stillness.

 

They all stare at me as if I am a freak.


Any journalist knows that what bleeds leads. This photograph will make me famous. I snap and snap and snap until she is gone. This is my job. I travel around the world. I work for Time Magazine. I have done this for ten years; I have no more tears. I pretend what I see is a dream. I close the lens. I hear the click. I pick up my canteen.




From DH


There it is, the Douglas DC-6 SE-BDY / the instrument of my destruction. The mechanics are doing the last checks of the engines, but men have no knowledge of Divine Intention much less His last minute interventions. This is an ordinary day of September l8 in the Year of Our Lord _1961 and I sit at the airport surrounded by security guards and secret service agents whose eyes swivel like gun turrets in every direction. I will be flying in order to, hopefully, negotiate a peace fire between non combatant United Nations forces and the Katangese troops of Moise Tshombe. I hope for a resolution of the parties involved in this conflict; however, hope is not enough to win the day and seldom does when so many conflicting and powerful forces hold sway. I serve because I am called to serve and (as I have said before) I would rather live my life as if there is a God.  A man like me who is an agent of social service may be physically protected but such protection is not absolute; in any case, he can never be protected from himself. When you read this letter, (which I intend to post) remember there are no accidents. There are only intentions.


I have no fear. Perhaps it will be like opening the door to another room, a room I cannot see where the walls open into light. Words, however eloquent, fail to describe a reality of which the human mind cannot conceive. I have no grief. I have done the best I can depending on my knowledge at the time. Everything changes each moment, and one looks back and wishes one could use one’s current wisdom to alter the past, but that is science fiction. That I have failed to do enough is my regret.

I am staring at the glistening black bark of each tree and how the tangled branches form a latticework against the bright blue sky. The yellow and russet maple leaves shimmy with delight. When one says goodbye,  the physical world moves closer so the things one never paid much attention to parade before one’s startled eyes.


So here I sit in spite of a lousy night’s sleep. I beg the person who reads this letter, to hand it to a publisher.


If I got down on my hands and knees to plead with the people in my entourage not to board this plane, they would think I lost my mind. After all, I am the Secretary General of the United Nations, the peacekeeping force of the world.

To fly does not guarantee one will arrive. We have no choice as long as we are alive.  St.Teresa of Avila referred to man as a worm in the sight of the Divine. We strive but few are blessed to step across the threshold of the first room of the Castle she attempted to describe.  All she could say is we carry a spark of the Divine within, we remain loved by Him and nothing He created ever dies. I trust I am not getting maudlin here.


I am tired and lose track of where I am going with this letter and that is because I have been looking at the clock even though I know time is our invention and only succeeds in imposing artificial limitations. There are markers on the way one can discern; each marker leads to the next. You must walk step by step. We are seeds thrust into the dark and land either in torrential rains or scorching sun either in fertile or barren ground from which we must sprout. We must endure the elements and push towards light, skirt around obstacles beyond our wildest imagination. The way a life ends, whether we die in sleep or at the hands of a lunatic or an assassin makes no difference.


Does one fly to a higher dimension or is one called/Is there a summit or conclusion to any of our efforts/ Does it make any difference whether we leave here sooner or later/ I, like you, have had visions in dreams that I did not understand. I have made plans that were destroyed. I have been given and made promises that were broken; I have suffered the loss of love and the ills of flesh.

I know I do not sound modern here but more like a medieval man so I trust you will somehow understand what I attempt to convey. If not, I pray you may find a translator.


We are notes in a song NONE OF US CAN HEAR. I bow my head in gratitude that I have been used in this way to serve His will.

I must board now.

Dag H.




Strike Out


The man in the pale brown linen suit struts across the room. He scratches his head and lights a

Marlboro cigarette.It is so warm he removes his jacket.He is surrounded by maps and charts

and lines and screens. His job is statistical analysis, and he  has an M.B.A. from Harvard

and an undergraduate degree from MIT.


It is his job to figure out where the drones should strike to hit the intended target.

The enemy hides in underground tunnels near hospitals and schools. According to his boss

there has been more than enough recent bad press.This is war.


It has been a nine hour day with no break except for a half hour lunch with lousy ham and cheese

sandwiches. He hates that damn mineral water. He rubs his eyes that are red and ache

from the bright florescent lights. His assistants never stop talking. They sound like

barking dogs.


It is 8 PM.when he points to a dot on the screen.


A young man with manicured nails hits a button. He yawns.


On the other side of the world a five year old boy runs after a ball that rolls across the

street. Drones have no sound. In an instant he is a mass of flesh and blood.


The man in the pale brown linen suit puts on his coat and walks out the door. He looks

forward to a shot of bourbon with two ice cubes and a medium raw steak.




It was six am


Two men in dirty overalls were digging a hole. They air was cold. One man smoked a cigarette; the other sipped coffee from a paper cup. The men dug. They stopped and peered into the hole. They stopped and dug again.


It was Sunday. Children ran around the streets shouting and laughing and blowing soap bubbles. Red and yellow balloons floated in the air and kites shaped like birds. The weather was perfect, a blue sky and few clouds; the sun sparkled diamonds on the tin roofs of houses. The men who dug stood in the center of a stadium. Someone had put up flags.


When the parade began, all along the route were vendors selling popcorn and cotton candy and orange ices. A heavy iron gate with a lock led into the stadium. TV crews were busy setting up cameras and checking lights. Technicians tested loudspeakers that had to work right because the mayor intended to make an important speech.


The Mayor walked at the head of the parade followed by a wooden wagon pulled by two white horses. Whatever was in the wagon was covered by a blanket. Soldiers with guns walked next to the wagon. They waved at the women and children. Then came the treasurer, the bank manager, and the Chief of Police. They waved at the crowd too and the crowd cheered. Hundreds of families the men the women the children filed slowly behind the officials. They were walking in a dream.


When the Mayor got to the iron gate, he held the key high in the air, unlocked the gate and bowed down low with a flourish. The horses pulled the wagon through and halted in the middle of the stadium. The horses were unhitched and the families ushered in and seated. The stadium was filled to the brim.


The hole was six feet deep and three feet wide. The mayor waved his hand and the audience hushed.  He said the law must be followed. Women must wear veils to cover their faces. When they walk in the streets, they must be escorted by men, preferably their husbands or brothers. He pointed to the wagon and said, “This was what happens when the law is broken.”


Four soldiers walked over the wagon and yanked off the blanket where a woman wearing nothing but a sheet lay huddled weeping. The four soldiers yanked her up to face the crowd. In the front row seated on the bench that faced the hole sat the husband and two children. The boy was five and the girl was seven.


When the woman saw them, she screamed. One soldier struck her so hard on the mouth she began to bleed. They dragged her to the hole as if she were a rag. She kept on screaming. They shoved her into the hole and pushed her down till only her head showed above the ground.


She was staring at her family when they hurled the first stone. It went into her right eye. The second stone hit her forehead and opened up a hole bigger than a fist. Still the stones were thrown and thrown and thrown.


The woman had been seen in the street with a strange man. It was rumored they plotted to flee the country.




You must walk


even when you step over severed heads and hands.

Don’t be an idiot

throw out the orange pills

weep for the dead.


Look at the Real Estate section of the papers at homes worth millions of dollars and the six caret diamond rings look at the high rise apartments on Fifth Avenue bought by corrupt politicians for cash.


Did you see the bracelets made of ivory skulls that the rich purchase for amusement?


You must remember the hills of Rio De Janeiro where  gangs of boys and girls are shot  by cops, kids who never knew a mother or father, kids who are called scavengers and useless and dangerous, kids who eat food from garbage cans and drink polluted water, kids whose parents live in flimsy wooden shacks.


You must picture the people driven in black limousines by chauffeurs the ones who do not dare to carry cash into stores and use credit cards instead the ones surrounded by body guards who live in compounds.


Go to the villages in South America the ones you read about in books the ones that still have no water or electricity the ones where mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers had heads chopped off and no one dared walk by the rivers filled with corpses and body parts.


You must speak of the men the women the children who struggle to cross borders the ones cheated by smugglers who end up dead in the deserts whose hands are cut to shreds when they try to climb the barbed wire fences and when they get over are shot.


Listen to the stories of survivors who were tortured in the prisons. Remember each word they said.

Look at the wings of the birds smeared with oil.  See the birds that fall like stones from the sky.

Don’t believe the lies in newspapers or watch CNN.  Watch the black planes that spit out bacteria and germs over the cities. Look at the rising deaths from bronchitis and asthma. Connect the dots whether you like it or not.


Walk the aisles of supermarkets where fresh fruit and vegetables are not found and frozen food filled with chemicals are five dollars for a dozen.


Don’t think writers are useless.  Trace the money trails that flow across the continents. Remember the experiments done by the CIA. Think how the police in England use electromagnetic pulse to push the ones who are drunk or sick off the streets.


Get up from that ditch where you think you are hidden before you get shot.

Keep on walking no matter what you see.


Anna Akhmatova and Adrienne Rich were not afraid to tell it like it is. History is the needle stuck the grove of a record that repeats a song you do not want to hear the song of war of starvation of hatred of forced marches across deserts of barbed wire of empty camps no one dares to even think about.


Think of yourself as a soldier even though you are a woman, and when you believe words make no difference and no one listens when others huddle in their homes with blinds drawn down and are afraid of a knock on the door just keep on walking.


I tell you once and I will say it again until your listen even if I have to shout to make you hear. Get up and walk and keep on walking no matter what you see or hear.


The one in the ditch is found and shot. Sooner or later.


Nationality makes no difference. We are all refugees in a boat far out at sea and the borders of the countries we need to enter are closed. The ones who learned the lessons of history are dead.


Were you thinking it would make a difference if you did not speak?


You lived your whole life in illusion. You were never different.




January 19, 1993 — Four Part Poem


I.

Montauk, Long Island, Atlantic Terrace Motel

a shadow passed over in the morning mist

the angels   the divas  the spirits  the sacred.


Snug in our bed a bottle of gin and Blake on the nightstand

we recited Walt Whitman

browning our bodies to perfection on the empty beach.

It seemed so simple in love with love.

Clever words sliced air like shining scimitars.


II.

When the shadow passed over the sun in the morning mist, there was a purple

chill in the air. I shivered and wrote a poem called After Eden unfinished thirty years.


III.

Dear Stephen Michael,

It felt like the shadow of a great wing, the wing of the Archangel Michael. I pictured Adam and Eve two frightened children driven from the Garden of Eden by the flaming sword forced to roam the world like orphans, to spend a lifetime wandering under the shadow of that wing. Never to be able to return. How after the gate was closed and locked, everything silver tarnished.


IV.

25 years later I stand by the gate.

The woman in Li Po’s poem waited year after year for her lover.


Extracts from the forthcoming book: Traveling, A Perspective


 

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written by

Toni Ortner

© Toni Ortner

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Information About The Columnist...

Toni Ortner is a poet and author who lives in Brattleboro, Vermont.  She has 16 books that have been published by fine small presses, 14 of which are poetry books. She is Vice President of the Write Action Board that supports writers in New England through readings and other events.She gives readings at Vermont libraries and bookstores and read at the Brattleboro Literary Festival. Her work has appeared frequently at vermontviews.org and she has had numerous articles published in The Commons.

Tune in the fourth Sunday of each month at 5 pm for the Write Action Radio Hour on WVEW FM, l07 or go to www.wvew.org

and click

"Launch Audio Player" in the upper right hand corner and streaming will begin.. Toni interviews innovative writers  and they read their work.


Recent Works:



(Don’t Sit Shiva for Me

is current out-of-print — reprint due in 2017)

Don’t Sit Shiva for Me is a memoir about growing up in the Five Towns (Long Island) with their privileged culture, neuroses, art, and love… of not the most nurturing variety. The author uses deadpan humor and honesty to recount scenes that are delightful and sometimes exquisitely painful. For those of us who grew up in the suburbs of the 1950s, there is a gleeful and dismayed recognition.




Currents We Never Dream Of

The closest one might get to define the genre would be prose poetry. This is a spiritual journey yet so much more. It explores the currents that run beneath conscious awareness that can only be accessed through dreams, hypnosis or meditation. The words flow smoothly then twist and turn unexpectedly. The reader who is drawn in reads more closely. Insights startle. The book confronts us with stories, dreams, and myths that we must answer instead of neat contrived endings. Although at times it is unnerving or startling, you will never be bored.

The book is available as an e book from Smash words, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Kindle.

It was published by Moon Publishing.




This book honors famous women, writers, artists and visionaries of the 20th century as well as ordinary women who were innocent victims of war and genocide. A special section is devoted to Lyn Lifshin and there are poems about women in relationships.

This book is available as an e book from Smash words, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Kindle.

It was published by Moon Publishing


The Water Poems

An elegant pink water lily floats on the cover of the Water Poems by Toni Ortner. This beautiful book contains 24 clear poems that have appeared in literary magazines. Toni’s work alters to record and encompass what is, so this book among l6 others proves unique. Like thoughts, water is never still but breathes deeply altered by wind and air. The surface of water reflects what is… as does the mind of the poet. Objects sink like fading history. Translucent feathers whirl. A leaf floats momentarily. Since everything changes, islands we dreamed of are never reached. Waters flows without thought carrying whatever it will. Tides rise and fall pulled by the moon. Dreams and reality merge in a shimmer light.

This book is available as an e book from Smash words, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Kindle.

It was published by Moon Publishing.




Jeopardy

This book deals with the choices we make and how these choices sometimes put us in jeopardy with ourselves.

It can be purchased directly from The Finishing Line Press by going to the online site of the press or from Barnes & Noble, amazon.com, Kobo, and Kindle. This book is in paperback as well as an e book.



The Ides of March Poems: Early Selected Poems

The poems in this book have appeared in literary journals. The book can be purchased at iuniverse.com, barnesandnoble.com, amazon.com and is available as an e book and paperback.



Summoned

In this inspiring book, six famous women reveal the spiritual revelations that summoned them to act and alter their lives to change history.  The women are: Joan of Arc, Saint Teresa of Avila, Marie Curie, Rachel Carson, Mother Teresa, and Elisabeth Kubler- Ross. Hearing the first person voices of these women makes history come alive.

The book contains an extensive bibliography and blank note pages for the reader to jot down thoughts.

The book can be purchased directly from Goose River Press online and is available at amazon.com and other sites.