POEM OF THE WEEK: An Abstract Art

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AN ABSTRACT ART

When the painter Kandinsky lay in hospital, aching
from some mysterious complaint, he wept

to think about the surgeon’s knife, about being
wheeled into a room without intersecting circles

and squares in the cool blues that he loved, the altered
shapes in which he lived. Nurses cooed and patted

his shoulder, but he was not assuaged. His cry
spattered off the pale green walls and smeared

the yellow corridors, stopped those who heard
its pitch and timbre, its truth if not the implication.

“You do not understand!” he moaned, and the words
like a jazz refrain traveled up the vents and out

the windows, through the operating room, behind
the laundry door. “I have no skin! I have no

skin!” Throwing off the nurses, he clutched
himself, as if his arms could wrap his torso in the layer

of gauze he needed to face those unknown places.
What they didn’t see was that he knew his own

condition: Outside his picture plane – without
a brush and palette knife – he lay naked and alone.

Arcs and lines could not stay the bleeding edges,
random forms conspiring to erase him from creation.

–Christine Hemp

Image: Wassily Kandinsky, Watercolor after Painting with White Border (Moscow), 1915. Watercolor, India ink, and pencil on paper, 5 1/16 x 13 1/4 in. 

 

Poems and Ponderings

POEM OF THE WEEK: My Body Feels

 

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   MY BODY FEELS

My body feels fine
with your body
Your fine body feels
with my body
A full-bodied feeling
to feel one
Another (finally)
my body in yours
Yours in mine bodily
oh the fineness in
My body and your body
feeling.

–Christine Hemp

Image: Anne Hirondelle: Detail “Re:Coil XVII” graphite on layered tracing paper, 2011

 

Poems and Ponderings

POEM OF THE WEEK: Eurydice

Eurydice Safe
EURYDICE

I didn’t want to come back. I loved him, yes. But after the wedding,
the wine and figs, the merging of our flesh, he wanted to show me

off to the forests and fields. Thirsty for his notes, they loved
him, too. (Olive leaves trembled when they heard the harp. Grasses

hissed with pleasure.) I begged him not to take me too far
into the glade. Marriage, after all, was new to me. (And those talking trees

and blades!) I wanted to go home. My beloved paused, the wind
breathed in. All of nature waited for the braided chord. That’s when I said

No more! and ran across the meadow, tipsy and confused, just as dusk
had slithered in the shade. My bare feet, unused to such

terrain, throbbed. I thought I knew the way, but I stumbled
and was lost. My dress hem ripped and stars began their chatter overhead.

You know what happened next. Let’s fast-forward to the grave and what
I felt when I went under, viper’s poison turning into heady brew.

It wasn’t what he told you: I was no hostage. The darkness gathered
and released me. With each step downward to the Styx, confusion waned—

I no longer worried that I’d lose him to the fawning crowds
whose devotion to his melodies I could not match. I wouldn’t have to

bear those taut adagios, each pluck of the string making me
(just like those trees) ache and bend for more, a slave to utter harmony.

–Christine Hemp

image:
Sas Colby: detail of “SAFE,” mixed media collage

Poems and Ponderings

POEM OF THE WEEK: Gabriel

Kiefer cropped2

GABRIEL

I squeeze myself into time. It’s tight
like a little coat or a skin I’m much too big for.
I do it, though, for spaciousness – for the light

I bring with me. Her eyes at first blink with tears,
her pupils wide, and in them I can see the door
of history: the tree she springs from—the sheer

audacity of that branch growing beyond her womb
into memory, blood, and bone. Before
I raise my hand I cannot help but see a tomb

as well; it’s why I’m here: That gyre
of time. Prepositions cannot explain or
place the “where” or “when” of that fire

who sent me. It’s all a gift, and what I bring
has no relation to “being good,” that poor
imitation of love. Horns, halos, or even wings

are not my story, though there are those who
try to make it so: Me on the immaculate floor
holding a white lily I am said to carry through

the corridors of temples, ancient paintings.
But she sees beyond all that. At her core
she’s at home within her flesh, sustaining

calm when the spark ignites. She holds her belly,
opens her mouth.  I tell  her something more
about the seed, the fruit. All she does is stare at me.

In our brief exchange, I taste her fear,
but she does not flinch. “Yes,” she says. (Lord--
how much joy and sorrow can a  human bear?)

                                                                             –Christine Hemp

image: Anselm Kiefer 

“Book With Wings”
1992-94
Lead, tin, and steel
74 3/4 x 208 5/8 x 43 3/8 inches

 

 

 

 

Poems and Ponderings

AT THE NILE’S END, A New Year’s Blessing

Helping Change the Bandageby Christine Hemp

        My husband unclipped the halter tie, and I backed Buddy out of the horse trailer into the damp, cold, December night. We heard a high-pitched whinny from inside the horse hospital. When the vet opened the giant door, the light from the cavernous room made us all blink. Buddy perked up his ears.

        Just hours before, I’d been out riding with a friend.  Buddy, my little gray Arabian who moves like a Mazda Miata (and has a personality to match), nosed too close to my friend’s horse’s tail. One swift kick and a happy pre-Christmas trail ride had turned into a grave emergency. I called my husband, asking him to bring the trailer, while my friend and I assessed the two gashes on Buddy’s bloody foreleg. “We’d better get a vet to look at that one,” she said, pointing to Buddy’s shaky knee, and within the hour my husband had arrived with the trailer and we were headed toward help.

        The young veterinarian opened the door wider, and invited me to walk my horse to the open space where she could inspect his leg. Buddy was completely obliging, but he wanted to face the horse in the nearby stall, a handsome, chestnut gelding with a beautiful white blaze on his face. Closer inspection revealed a ghoulish, three-foot zipper of fresh stitches S-curving along the horse’s flank. He stood still, eyes wide, as if in shock.

        “What happened to him?” I asked as the vet kneeled to examine my horse’s small wounds.

        “It’s already been all over the news….” she paused, as if searching for words.  “He was struck by a semi-truck on Route 3.”  The huge room fell silent except for the hum of the antiseptic lights and the breathing of the two horses.

        “But Cash is the lucky one. His three pasture mates were killed.” She daubed Buddy’s knee with gauze soaked in betadine, the iodine color mixing with the red-pink already staining his white leg.

        Every horse owner is haunted by such images. Just the thought of horses running blind along a highway is enough to give any of us nightmares.  I’ve caught my share of loose horses (a couple of them my own) and usually it turns out okay. But this was the worst I’ve heard. Not only that, we later learned that vandals had cut the pasture fence. Apparently Cash had been calling out for his friends all evening. Until Buddy arrived. 

         “Well, I don’t like the looks of this,” the vet said as her slender, expert fingers separated the flaps of skin on the knee wound. A rush of heat and adrenalin coursed through my limbs and I felt slightly dizzy.

        “What do you mean?” I said, one hand on Buddy’s lead rope, the other reaching for my husband’s arm.

        “Well, with a wound like this –” she pointed first to the long laceration above the knee. “It’s not a big deal, even though it looks worse. We can stitch this up. But here—.” She squeezed around the small gash on the knee, “the blow may have punctured the joint sac. If that’s the case….it’s …” she cleared her throat, “potentially very serious.”  She lifted her finger to show us the fluid that had come out of the wound. “See? If this is synovial fluid, it should be more viscous. It might already be infected. If so, it’s a tricky business.”

        “You mean it couldn’t heal?” My voice became thin like a piece of straw. “Are you saying we’d have to put him down?” A cold chill came over my body and I began to shake.

        “Well, it’s just so hard for these to heal if it’s inside the joint,” she said. “But we don’t know yet. And we have to make sure there are no bone shards in there as well.”

        My husband put his arm around me and the room seemed to swim. Suddenly the chestnut horse’s nightmare and my own were tethered together. Cash had lost his friends and I now was, in an instant, contemplating the possibility of losing mine.

        Buddy, who is usually quite inquisitive and busy (he puts his nose into pockets and even fetches my hat), calmly lifted his foreleg. All the while, Cash watched us intently, always keeping Buddy in his sights.

        “Cash sure has quieted down since Buddy got here,” the vet said as she took x-ray pictures of Buddy’s knee. I smoothed my hand along Buddy’s neck. I remembered how Buddy had helped me to quiet down five years ago when I staggered through an illness.

        “Well. No bones shattered!” The doc looked over at us and smiled. “So now the best thing is to pump him with antibiotics and get a head start on anything that might be happening in there.”

        The evening unfolded in a blur while she gave Buddy a sedative, applied a tourniquet, and injected antibiotics into the whole knee area as well as into the joint itself. “We’ll know more tomorrow when I get the white blood cell count in Buddy’s knee,”  she said. “And we can also insert some dye when we  take another x-ray to see if the sac has been compromised. We’ll watch for swelling, too. But he’ll have to stay here at least one night.”

        Buddy has never been good with stalls. Before I was lucky enough to have him as my own, he’d developed the habit of “weaving” whenever he felt trapped (especially in stalls), swaying back and forth like an autistic child.  He seldom did it anymore, but I couldn’t possibly think of him alone in this strange place.

        Cash offered a quiet nicker. His intelligent eyes took in every move we made. Cash! I thought. Cash would be here. Though the inside stalls were reserved for horses who needed intravenous medications, the vet agreed we could put Buddy next to Cash. As my husband and I left, they were breathing through the small windows between the walls, whispering things only horses know.

        When I arrived the next morning, Buddy whinnied a hello, but not with desperation. He was calm and his eyes did not show any distress.  Cash, too, seemed relaxed, as if they had both unburdened their stories during the night.

        The vet had to delay our tests to tend to another emergency, so I set up my fold-out chair in Buddy’s stall and spent the day playing my wooden flute quietly to the two horses whose lives had intersected unexpectedly in the night. Then, to calm myself as much as the horses, I read them some poems from the 14th C. Sufi mystic, Hafiz:

We are at
The Nile’s end.
We are carrying particles
From every continent, creature and age.

It has been raining on the plains
Of our vision for millions of years
And our senses are so muddy compared to yours—dear God,

But I only hear these words from You
Where we are all trying to embrace
The Clear Sky-Ocean,

“Dear one, come.
Please,
My dear ones,
Come.

        The trajectories of all of our lives, animals included, are a mystery to us. Who we meet. Why one moment we are riding on a trail or grazing in a peaceful pasture and the next moment we find ourselves in veterinary hospital stall.Buddy in the Stall!

        As I read aloud the poems of a mystic who seemed to understand these things, the horses snoozed, and I was suddenly awash in  peace. At least for that moment. I still didn’t know if Buddy’s knee was doomed. Nor did I know how Cash would survive – emotionally, though he was patched up physically. But there I was alone—at the Nile’s end—with two injured horses and it seemed as if all three of us were in the right place.

        Every now and then Buddy would lean over the pages of Hafiz and push them with his nose. Then he’d pick up my flannel flute case and wave it in the air and drop it into my lap. Then he’d go sniff the little window between him and Cash, as if to tell him all was going to be okay.

        And it was. Buddy and Cash spent another night together at the hospital, but the next day Buddy’s tests revealed that the joint sac had not been punctured at all, and that the lacerations would heal faster with the injected antibiotics. He wasn’t even lame, just proud of his magenta bandage.

        As we were finishing Buddy’s final examination, Cash’s owner, a middle-aged man in a jean jacket, arrived to haul him away. I could do nothing more than squeeze his hand an extra beat longer after shaking it. His eyes held mine and he said, “Thank you.” He tipped his head toward Buddy. “Also, for your horse.” His two sons loaded up the handsome chestnut who was headed for an equine rehab center so he wouldn’t have to return to an empty pasture. (“Please, my dear ones, come…”) Neither Cash nor Buddy was alarmed at the parting, as if they had settled the business they had between them.

        To have experienced this meeting and leave-taking was to perceive yet another bandwidth in this inexplicable world. Yes, there is the bandwidth of crisis, fact, and diagnosis – the news that pumps adrenaline into our veins and narrows our field of vision. And then there is the News of the Universe, where connections like invisible radar waves intersect and heal and move among all of us creatures who share this planet. This Universe exists simultaneously with semi-trucks barreling down a highway and metal horseshoes striking another horse’s knee.

        When Buddy was loaded back into the trailer, we headed north across Hood Canal to our windblown home on the Straits, and I wondered if the whole purpose of the weekend was for Buddy to be there for Cash and Cash for Buddy.     

      As we rolled into town, Christmas lights flickered on the houses, and I knew I’d already received the only present I could have asked for. I’d also been fortunate to sit quietly by a manger in a stall with  two creatures who know more about the other kind of News than I do. When Buddy pranced out of the trailer and into his meadow, the stars were glittering like broken glass.

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Buddy Red Frisbee Cropped

 

Poems and Ponderings

Today’s Hempsonian Feature: “Still Life” by Marilyn Abildskov from THE SUN

Click Paul Klee Painting to read the story

Klee-Landscape-and-the-yellow-church-tower

 

Poems and Ponderings

Today’s Hempsonian News: A great poet has moved on…

DIGGING  by Seamus Heaney 1939-2103

heaney2

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

Poems and Ponderings

Today’s Hempsonian Feature: “Telephone” By Caryl Pagel

Thiebaud and Yellow Phone

A new poem by Caryl Pagel in         the latest issue                                          of the Iowa Review.  Click her image to answer the phone…

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Hempsonian Diptych: Wayne Thiebaud, “24th Street Intersection Study” (1978) / yellow phone (anonymous)

Poems and Ponderings

My High School Music Director Turns 80

 

Bob Burton Turns Eighty
BOB BURTON TURNS EIGHTY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Acrostic Poem for my High School Choir Director

Believe it or not our maestro has reached a perfect
Octave. Each decade describes a clean sweep of his
Baton. And today, as always, we follow his lead, that subtle lift of his
Brow as he elevates us to mellifluous
Unity. That thrilling inhale! That expectation! Then that plunge into
Rhythm and melody. A crescendo opens and closes. Opens again.
Tempo moves our limbs and we become the andante and allegro.
Oh! S’Wonderful, S’Marvelous!
Nothing can stop us because nothing stops him from
Transporting all who sing, and those who hear, to a bandwidth
Up beyond the plane on which we eat our toast or brush our teeth.
Remember to start above the note and then come down to
Nail it, he tells us, the gypsy in our souls more than ready to
Sing our winged hearts out for this man. He composes more than tunes.
Even though he’s fancy free and loves to wander – bussing tourists
In the pouring rain, bobbing in a yellow raft, or basting
Ginger chicken with his Gourmet Club gang, his true self is
Harmonic Virtuoso, one who can woo both Handel and Cole Porter from
Teenagers and grownups alike. He has shaped our dominant chords for
Years and decades. We’re planning now for the Major Ninth!

Christine Hemp    June 30, 2013  Edmonds, Washington

 

Poems and Ponderings

Today’s Hempsonian Feature: Shaping Chaos

Shaping Chaos

Poems and Ponderings