Hosta

Hosta

But have you
Caught, among small
Stars, his flute?
—Robert Francis, “Delicate the Toad”

I.

The hosta, most dependable of plants
I know, when it comes to a bloom in hot
July, why is its praise so seldom said?
Why can daffodil and orchid not share
some turning of eye and head with this one
of quiet tones? It is more than a crush
of color that a whole plant gives itself
up to bring into the world: its green fans
spotted or striped yellow or white have grace;
and a virtue of seeds beads its grave stalks.

I love its self-sufficiency: sand, clay,
loam, it knows what it needs, does not aspire.

II.

It is no iris whose fringed shawl and hooded
privacy bloom and droop in one day: if
you travel a week you’ll miss just a greening,
a swelling, a slightness of added height,
as a child left home so discreetly grows
that you, returned, can think no time is gone
at all. It unfolds so day-by-day, it
drinks the season’s calm, soaking in the shade
that is its bath. Its spike becoming flowers
loves to tantalize, making an art of
premeditation, as the tight-rope walker
edges overhead step by held-breath step
toward a spotlight of applause. Its buds,
off-white all the quiet weeks you watch their
getting ready, bring a purple surprise
gliding each night up the long raceme. Some
may call it stiff because it does not rise
high, sway, and set itself up for a tumble
of hollyhocks, or lean like tulips past
their peak, or snap at its knees in a breeze.

Never headstrong, it pays tribute to sky,
pointing by compromise in light’s direction,
half way from straightness to the open patch
whose blue is half the formula for green.

III.

It must be tending always to its roots,
pacing itself. After its bloom is done,
it will not cry worn out, in need of rich
earth, staking, shelter from cold, the break-back
cares that rose and lily cannot forgo.

It can get on with the plants of the wild,
no house in sight, under maples and spruce,
its breath turned low, setting a patient clock.

It does not diminish others but holds
to its own, keeps sprouts and brambles at bay,
casts too much darkness for Virginia creeper
to fumble around in its roots. It travels
smoothly, wisely, each year gaining a modicum
but is no violet to send a host
against a lawn. Its slowness is its strength:
when all the fancy pampered one-day bloomers,
pale, spindly-stalked, in need of pulling strings,
get out of town, it will remain oasis,
serenity, thought furled into itself.

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Summer Solstice Report

Maybe it’s a coincidence, or maybe it just depends on happening to be here in the lower Delaware Valley, with a pretty temperate climate coming off a reasonable winter, but in the last few days I’ve observed:

My favorite forage food, the minty Creeping Charlie, has gotten on the tough side. Now just the newest leaves are edible (photo: April 21, when even the stems, and also the purple flowers, were tender and tasty).

But happily, my summer favorite, purslane, is taking its place! Purslane (left, below) is a succulent related to the garden plant portulaca. It’s an annual that seeds itself very efficiently whether you like it or not. So you might as well like it and consume it! It add a nice taste and crunchiness to salads and sandwiches, and has exceptional food and health value.

And (unfortunately not edible) canna lilies have started flowering! At least, this one to the left has. It spent the winter in a big pot in my study, so had a head start on the others, even though eventually, by April, its leaves and stalks died down to nothingness. The other cannas, those that spent the last 6 months stored in peat in the basement, didn’t go back in the ground till May, so their stalks are only a foot or so high now.

In the vegetable garden, this year, asparagus continued to produce edible shoots until about a week before the solstice, an unusually long season, no doubt owing to a relatively cool spring with a good amount of rain. But asparagus has now leafed out into the phase where it fortifies its roots for next year.

At exactly the same time, peas took asparagus’s place. I’ve never enjoyed such a big pea harvest! Here, my rustic pea trellis on June 13, just as the peas were starting to ripen. Now, with the hotter weather, they will probably finish up by the end of June.

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My view of composting

I have never figured out how to build a compost heap that would heat up enough to kill weed seeds. The compost manuals make it sound simple, but it isn’t! (See lots of really good composting advice from the Chester County Solid Waste Authority, though.)

For me, patience is the key. I just make a big pile and turn it over every couple of months (more often is better, of course!). If it’s not turned over, pockets of wet leaves or dry branch parts can form and sit for years.

My heap is long, narrow, and tall. I leave a blank spot from which I remove usable compost, and then I move the next 4-foot segment into the gap. it’s a once- or twice-a-year rotation. I do have a bad habit of putting sticks in, but try to break them up into small pieces, so that they will decompose faster and also so as not to create potential roofs for rodent lairs.

Any stick thicker than about half an inch I set aside to take to West Chester Borough’s Public Works for them to compost. Also, I take them my collected “gum balls” (prickly, super resistant seed pods of two extraordinarily productive sweet gum trees), which are almost indestructible, but which can serve as effective, though not really attractive, mulch. They also deter slugs from crawling into, e.g., strawberries.

How about kitchen foodcyclings? Those can’t be put in an open compost heap because they will attract rodents like rats and voles. I have observed those cylindrical composters. into which you pour your scraps and turn the crank to rotate and stir together the contents. My experience is that the composed matter becomes an unsavory black mass, very heavy to turn, and ultimately rusts through the cylinder. In short, an unpleasant operation.

Some cast-offs, like corn husks or pea pods, have little food value to rodents and can go into the ordinary compost heap. I have been burying other kitchen scraps in the ground and covering them with a large flat stone, or group of stones, to keep out scavengers. Theoretically, that produces some methane from anaerobic decomposition. but it also produces carbon-rich compost and keeps the scraps out of the trash flow. So, on the whole, a plus as far as I can see.

Kitchen scraps are a particular problem, because they can’t be put into yardcycings collected by your municipality. Burying them under a stone doesn’t take a lot of space. Just don’t include meat! And be sure the stone overlaps the hole you dig by a few inches.

Something else to keep an eye on: compostable packing materials, made out of plant materials like corn starch. I got a shipment of cereals from Bob’s Red Mill the other day, packed in the white blobs shown in the photo. Yes, it was compostable! I put some water on it and saw it begin to dissolve, then poured it out on the compost heap, where it rapidly returned to nature, as you see underway on the left. Below, as they arrived from Bob’s Red Mill.

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Sekou Sundiata on “the skin you’re livin’ in”

Sekou Sundiata was a poet I became interested in when teaching poetry at F&M College. We were trying to get him to come and perform but unfortunately it never happened. I did get to hear him live in New York once. He was a mesmerizing performer in the Spoken Word tradition, emphasizing a changing rhythm and the intensity of key syllables, singing as much as reciting his words.

Below is one of his most remarkable poems, from his album “The Blue Oneness Of Dreams,” which includes many great poems. I can still hear him hissing out a lengthened sibilant in “skin” and pushing the rhyme between “skin” and “in” in the refrain that recurs several times:

All depends, all depends on the skin,
all depends on the skin you’re living in

Driving while Black… jogging while Black… bird-watching while Black… it’s all in the news, with consequences for the individual and, as we periodically realize, for a society that has never recovered form its days peddling the fiction that one human being can own another.

And there is the sheer unpredictability of disaster striking from within that world of injustice:

I could wake up in the morning
without a warning
and my world could change

The poem (from genius.com) is well worth reading and even studying. Its apparent simplicity hides a lot of lessons.

Blink Your Eyes

by Sekou Sundiata (1948-2007)

I was on my way to see my woman
but the Law said I was on my way
thru a red light red light red light
and if you saw my woman
you could understand,
I was just being a man.
It wasn’t about no light
it was about my ride
and if you saw my ride
you could dig that too, you dig?
Sunroof stereo radio black leather
bucket seats sit low you know,
the body’s cool, but the tires are worn.
Ride when the hard time come, ride
when they’re gone, in other words
the light was green.

I could wake up in the morning
without a warning
and my world could change:
blink your eyes.
All depends, all depends on the skin,
all depends on the skin you’re living in

Up to the window comes the Law
with his hand on his gun
what’s up? what’s happening?
I said I guess
that’s when I really broke the law.
He said a routine, step out the car
a routine, assume the position.
Put your hands up in the air
you know the routine, like you just don’t care.
License and registration.
Deep was the night and the light
from the North Star on the car door, deja vu
we’ve been through this before,
why did you stop me?
Somebody had to stop you.
I watch the news, you always lose.
You’re unreliable, that’s undeniable.
This is serious, you could be dangerous.

I could wake up in the morning
without a warning
and my world could change:
blink your eyes.
All depends, all depends on the skin,
all depends on the skin you’re living in

New York City, they got laws
can’t no bruthas drive outdoors,
in certain neighborhoods, on particular streets
near and around certain types of people.
They got laws.
All depends, all depends on the skin,
all depends on the skin you’re living in.

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Rubbing in inequality

Not to dump on the New York Times again after my little who/whom grammar lesson for them but….

Really bad taste department: 4/10/20 p. A5:

• top half of page: “Isolating Against the Coronavirus Gives Rise to a New Threat: Starvation” (online title: “Indigenous Groups Isolated by Coronavirus Face Another Threat: Hunger”). That’s about Colombia, but we know a lot of people around the globe, including Americans are—however you like to phrase it—starving, hungry, or food insecure.

• bottom half of page: Sotheby ads for 2 properties “8 miles to Manhattan,” one for $32,900,000, the other a mere $21,500,000 (both are single family properties in Alpine NJ).

Nothing like rubbing it in to the less fortunate members of the human race, is there?

Or, remote possibility I guess: the person (or computer?) doing the page layout wanted to make a bitter political point about inequality?

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Joan Salvat-Papasseit and “the good that is everything”

Joan Salvat-Papasseit (Joan is the equivalent of John) was an avant-garde Catalan poet who lived from 1894-1924 in Barcelona, which 100 years ago, in an age when horse travel and airplane travel overlapped, was becoming a hub of modern influences. Many of his poems reflect his fascination with the emerging world of machines and industrial shapes; but this very accessible and humanistic poem (my translation, from the original in a volume published in 1921) shows in the simplest ways his affection for the things and people that make up everyday life, seen from a sick bed. “…Per veure el bo que és tot / To see the good that is everything”—what model optimism, what a feeling of uplift and lightness, in our own time of suffering from covid-19 and other maladies, both medical and societal! Salvat-Papasseit died of tuberculosis, which had no cure, at the age of 30.

Joan Salvat-Papasseit, All My Longing for Tomorrow

                                                                 To Marià Manent

Now that I’m sick in bed

I feel pretty good.

— Tomorrow I’ll get up

if I can,

And here’s what’s waiting for me:

City squares shining with brightness,

and garden beds with flowers

under the sun

under the moon of evening;

and the girl who brings milk

with a simple touch,

who wears an apron

with a lacy hem

and a bright laugh,

And the boy who sells newspapers

and runs on and off

the tram.

And the mail carrier,

who if he goes by without leaving me a letter makes me fret

because I don’t know the secrets

of what he’s delivering.

And also the airplane

that makes me raise my head

as if a voice were calling me from up on a roof terrace.

And the neighborhood women

early in the morning,

who go by in a hurry headed to the market

each carrying a yellow basket

and then they come back

with cabbages sticking out the top

and sometimes meat

or red cherries.

And then the grocer,

who brings out his coffee roaster

and starts turning the crank,

and calls to the girls

“Do you have all you need?”

And the girls smile

 their limpid smiles,

which are the balm given off by the sphere that he rotates.

And all the neighborhood kids,

who will make such a racket because it will be Thursday

and they won’t be in school.

And the sensible horses

and their drivers asleep

under the fabric

that flaps behind the wheels.

And the wine I haven’t tasted for so many days.

And the bread

set out on the table

And the red serving bowl,

giving off steam.

And you all                  friends

Because you’ll come to see me

and happily we’ll look at each other.

All this is waiting for me

if I get out of bed

tomorrow.

And if I can’t get up

ever again

here’s what’s waiting for me:

—You all will remain,

to see the goodness that is everything:

Life

and Death.

[Photo: Statue of Salvat-Papasseit by Robert Krier on the Barcelona waterfront, from Wikipedia]

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“I am the enemy you killed, my friend”

“I am the enemy you killed, my friend.”

That is, to me, one of the greatest lines of poetry ever. It occurs near the end of Wilfred Owen’s poem “Strange meeting,” which portrays two soldiers, on opposing sides in World War I, coming face to face in a lugubrious afterlife.

In their shared human suffering, small distinctions like foe and ally have drifted away. Enemy suddenly, in a jolting equation, becomes friend; killer and killed become equal. All that in ten syllables!

(The line is also a good one to recall in case anyone tells you punctuation doesn’t matter: try moving the comma two words to the left and see what happens.)

The poem begins:

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined….

Owen’s experimental use of assonating end sounds–here as often in the poem a dark or incisive d or t sound–ties the scene together in a way that conventional rhymed or free verse could not.

The two converse beyond the grave:

“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world….

And after a long disquisition on warfare and its discontents, the “strange friend” reveals, in that remarkable purifying fire (as Dante would say):

“I am the enemy you killed, my friend.”

Owen knew all about trench warfare, in which he died a week before armistice day, 1918. He was 25.

Read the whole poem at the Poetry Foundation. Photo from “Poems by Wilfred Owen” (1920) at Internet Archive.

 

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The New York Times and the English Language

George Orwell, in “Politics and the English Language,”  denounced lazy, sloppy and pretentious writing and speaking as a sign of unclear thinking (photo source). I so much believe that thought, that I extend it into grammar. On the fridge I have a magnet, kindly donated by a friend, that reads “I am mentally correcting your grammar.” It is just so hard (though I like to think I’ve learned) not to wince when someone says “Just between you and I” or “Him and me went together.”

This may seem trivial but it has been tormenting me for years: The New York Times seems unaware how to use “who/whom” and “whoever/whomever.” Their regular lapses do not impress me with the acuity of the nation’s self-appointed newspaper of record. A couple of years ago I wrote them to complain, but they didn’t answer and if anything, their grammatical performance has declined since then,

I contrast that with our own Chester County newspaper of record, the Daily Local News, which I wrote about 10 years ago on the topic. I later learned from one of the reporters that they had copied my little grammar lesson and taped it to writers’ computers! And really, DLN has gotten it right ever since! Yes, let’s support responsive local journalism!

Here’s the example that put me over the edge. Are there more important political topics today than Biden’s experiences paired against Sarah Palin in the 2008 campaign and his impending choice of a 2020 female running mate? How many editors do you suppose checked over that front-page story? They probably worked it over in an editorial staff meeting. And none of them knew how to use “who” and “whom”? And no one knew to fix it online 4 days later? Pathetic!

From “Joe Biden’s Time in Sarah Palin’s Shadow,” 5/11/20:

“It is not lost on Mr. Biden that whomever he chooses might well be elected the nation’s first female president after his turn, or at least become a new front-runner for the distinction.”

So what’s the problem? Every verb needs an explicit or implicit subject. What is the subject of “might well be elected”? Can it be “whomever…”? No, it can’t. “Whom/ever” is an object, not a subject. Correct English is “whoever he chooses might….”

With “who/m/ever” issues, if in doubt, rephrase with the more familiar “he/him” or “she/her”: “Her, the one he chooses, might…”? No, “She … might…”

The other construction frequently mangled by the New York Times is with a verb of opinion like “believe.” I’m just making this example up (though I have a pile of real examples on my desk): “Elizabeth Warren, whom many believe is the strongest choice, might make a real difference in the campaign.” Right? No, wrong. The subject of “is the strongest choice” needs to be “who,” not “whom.” (Think of “many believe” as being in parentheses.)

Writers in this case are easily led astray by the type “Warren, whom many believe when she speaks about bankruptcy, might…” In the earlier quotation, people don’t believe Warren, they believe that she is the strongest choice.

Got that, New York Times? Come on, if you can report from the four corners of the globe, you can figure out the difference between “who” and “whom”!

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Does political ideology kill?

Does political ideology kill? You bet it does!

I’m not just talking about nationalist campaigns that provoke wars like the Spanish-American War of 1898, but about everyday government decisions. Policies on school lunches, Social Security, car safety, drug regulation, flood control, health insurance, prison sentencing, air and water pollution, or gun ownership all involve questions of life and death.

As we speak, the EPA has recognized Earth Day by loosening regulations on power plant emissions of toxic substances like mercury (which damages babies’ developing brains) and microparticulates (which when breathed in over time, recent studies show, reduce patients’ resistance to Covid-19).

Over the past months, the lack of national policy on fighting Covid-19 has caused thousands of extra deaths, and only political ideology—opposition to government action even to benefit the people of the country—can explain the government’s continuing reluctance to engage in a national testing policy.

But I can’t think of a case before now—at least, since 1865—when our national leadership has been actively destroying American lives, as opposed to exhibiting mere negligence, incompetence, and omission.

Donald “Would you take medical advice from this man?” Trump, amplified by his favorite TV programs, has urged people to self-medicate with an anti-malaria remedy, chloroquine or hydroxychloroquine, which is at best unproven for Covid-19 treatment and at worst dangerous (you can be sure someone is trying to make money off that scheme).

The FDA has had to issue a statement that those drugs can cause serious heart arrhythmia. An Arizona couple, taking Trump’s words to heart, consumed a fish tank anti-parasite chemical with a similar name, chloroquine phosphate; one of them died and the other was in serious condition.

Then Trump (though he now denies it) suggested looking at the idea of injecting or ingesting bleach or applying UV light to or inside the body. Manufacturers and government agencies have been forced to use up valuable time telling Americans not to do it.

And then there’s Wisconsin, where a number of voters contracted Covid-19 because the state legislature and court system insisted the election should go ahead in-person on April 7. (That attempt to give a conservative Supreme Court candidate an advantage misfired, as he lost by a big margin.)

States have traditionally been seen as laboratories for federal action: let’s see how things turn out for different states, in terms of sicknesses, deaths, reopening schedules, and long-term economic recovery.

Other subsets of volunteers willing to experiment on their and others’ health by violating social distancing requirements include “open it up” demonstrators (“very responsible people,” according to the Great Divider), some promoters of what they like to term “religious freedoms,” and people who put more faith in ideologues than in the scientific community.

Such cases will show the ultimate in medical experimentation: people experimenting on themselves in real time.

The results will be in the data, but too late for those who suffer or die unnecessarily from the pandemic because they followed bad advice and role models.

Posted in Health care, Politics | Tagged | 1 Comment

ON THE FIFTH DAY

ON THE FIFTH DAY

by Jane Hirshfield, 2017

On the fifth day
the scientists who studied the rivers
were forbidden to speak
or to study the rivers.

The scientists who studied the air
were told not to speak of the air,
and the ones who worked for the farmers
were silenced,
and the ones who worked for the bees.

Someone, from deep in the Badlands,
began posting facts.

The facts were told not to speak
and were taken away.
The facts, surprised to be taken, were silent.

Now it was only the rivers
that spoke of the rivers,
and only the wind that spoke of its bees,

while the unpausing factual buds of the fruit trees
continued to move toward their fruit.

The silence spoke loudly of silence,
and the rivers kept speaking,
of rivers, of boulders and air.

In gravity, earless and tongueless,
the untested rivers kept speaking.

Bus drivers, shelf stockers,
code writers, machinists, accountants,
lab techs, cellists kept speaking.

They spoke, the fifth day,
of silence.

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