Quixotic

Counterpoint

COUNTERPOINT

Pondering has to do with perspective,
In my better fluid moments
I question the hell out of everything,
the 'why' the world is prosperous
And 'how' it is ringed by poverty.

Destruction, avarice, and lies
And yet, time finds me busy—
Some days indifferent and idle.
I have to get command of my narrative,
Roam the dark areas and illumine the wild.

I'll check the dictionary, Webster knows,
But from Archimedes to Zweig—
I meet definitions of beauty
And symptoms of general malaise,
Striding the gravel crown my footsteps halted.

Back in bed, I don't have an answer,
My lovely darling one,
A conspiracy of ravens beats at my door.
Maybe we've forgotten the marginalized.
Maybe, just maybe, we need houses, not bombs.

—G. B. Congdon

5th October 2017



I dedicate this poem to Buckminster Fuller, and each newly elected official who strives to bridge divides, embrace tolerance and deliver the truth. May we row steady to the other side, with the wind in our face. The birchbark canoe was made by ancestors of my mother's French Canadian family landing on new frontiers in the 17th century. Among them explorers, trappers, and interpreters sailing alongside Samuel de Champlain, forging friendships, adoptions, and more than likely marriages with the Native Americans. I see the Montagnais skirting through forests with their wolf head capes on their heads...

Apollo

APOLLO

I am two years old asleep in his arms. My father, Babbo, is 89 this year. I had an idyllic childhood. Lisa and I knew Babbo lived for us. How about the time he came home from a business trip, the late western sun streaming across his Harris tweed jacket lying folded over the green velvet wing-chair, as my five-year-old hands search inside his pockets. It's there, the surprise selected to amuse, beguile, and make our heart's sing. There it is—one small man wearing a driving cap, his hands on the wheel of a mini sports car—top down. Babbo only drives convertibles. And will you look at that on the underbody instead of an axel and tires, it has tentacles like a creature from the deep. Apollo winds it up, in full measure when we play—Babbo becomes Apollo. He does so everytime, we think nothing of it anymore. The season's woodland nymphs stand in the glade, all eyes peeled on his radiant form. The car and driver begin their ascent over the ivory plastered walls of our living room. We squeal. We jump. We run around in circles as the intrepid wayfarer peels blithely along, approaching the ceiling, like a skilled spider he navigates the precipice—he's traveling upside down, his jaunty head bobbing, further still crawls the driver until he runs out of gas—plummeting from the heavens to earth. But he has nothing to fear because he is in Apollo's hands. He'll live to see the light of day. Apollo has more tricks in his bag. After winding it one more time, ever so slightly, the driver begins touring Apollo's forehead—this is the cat's meow—our god wears a tiny man in a chariot for a crown. But wait, the foreign rover left an imprint on passing, marking the outline of a pink road over the middle of his brow which Babbo will wear to the office in the morning. His very own roadmap of love. And Lisa and I, we orbit, take a spin, dodging planets, and miraculously land back on earth at his waiting feet.

—G. B. Congdon
3rd June 2018

Talking to Dylan

TALKING TO DYLAN

"Hey, Bob."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Where are you taking me tonight?"
"We're going to the swankiest joint in town."
"I like to dance do you like to dance?"
"Do squirrels gather acorns?"

"Bob, what do you think happens when we die?"
"You weren't listening."
"Yes, I was. You mean that bit about floating souls?"
"Now you're talking and walking."
"Something like a fallen angel wearing Spanish boots. You know what, Bob?"
"No, what?"

"I might go west, and eat pork and beans. Be a wayfarer like you."
"Don't trap your self. Use your critical intelligence to navigate beyond the paradox."
"You want me to reject the banal, and stop being anal. How's that for poetry?"
"Wagon's ho, Jo! Keep your eye on the prize. Make like a tree and leave."
"Old blue-eyes, you are a riot, let nobody tell you otherwise."
And you're pretty as a Georgian peach."

"Aw shucks, you're just saying that to see me blush."
"Oh look, it's starting to rain. Make hay when the sun shines. Make love when it rains!"
"Listen to that do-re-mi falling from sapphire-tinted skies. No stopping it, a hard rain's gonna fall."
"I'm listening, Bob. And sitting here next to you, it looks like smooth sailin' from here on out."
"Kiss me, babe. And when you can spare a dime, give me a call."
"Are we courting and sparking Bob?"
"Most of the time."

—G. B. Congdon
24th May 2018 (Bob's 77th Birthday)


Gemini surround me, my father, Babbo, and husband Johns are born a few days apart. Bob Dylan jump starts the celebration one week early on the cusp of the sign of the twin. I am a Virgo/ Gemini Rising, a double Mercury whammy as Mercury rules both Virgo and Gemini. It is an artistic sign, every love of my life connects with architecture, or making/ building/ creating. Babbo took an aptitude test in his youth; it said he'd make a great architect but being born a child of the Great Depression eclipsed the idea. Johns is a master builder. Dylan makes iron gates and builds castles with words. Gemini generally succeeds and lead a tight ship—don't get in their way. Communication is of vital importance to Gemini. Babbo at 89, drives his BMW around picking up the remaining friends he has left and takes them out for coffee. A Gemini Rising needs to learn detachment, to be their center, not the objects. Gemini is a very ambitious sign, and our ambitions are varied. I am not "into" astrology, but see the proof in many of the discoveries as authentic enough to give respect on some level. After all, we live on a spinning PLANET hung in the vast COSMOS woven with other PLANETS  by forces we can't begin to understand. The mystical and magical fit in there somewhere. Oh, by the way, Mercury imparts a fluid gift of gab. Anyway, back full circle to the Gemini men in my life—how many songs has Dylan written? Tonight I have a date with Bob, and I can't find my glass slipper. I am 23 years old in this photo taken at my childhood home—and Cinderella is stepping out—Mother had me try on her wedding dress, the one she sewed herself, from the lining of a cloud—blue to match Babbo's eyes. I just want her to finish up and take the picture.

The Poet

THE  POET

Praise the bard's success, and each mistake,
He challenges the war-machine,
Inspiring truth to wake,
Soaring naked over the hill and ravine—

Those blue-eyes of sea glass,
Sprung from the seas wild ride,
His pen marks where other's fear to trespass,
Any old song makes a turn and takes a stride—

He forfeited his freedom,
And lives in the shattered realm of fame,
Gifting a map to his inner sanctum,
He makes someone less lonesome—

They hound him like a prophet,
And crown the man with laurels;
Yet, the sighing world cannot repay the poet,
Who is the companion of our vigils—

Stand beneath a tree wearing its first green,
There on the highest branch, a goldfinch sings,
Where many imitate, both raucous and serene,
But Dylan, he lets a note fly, no one else brings—

—G. B. Congdon
24th May 2018

It is 1965, and Dylan has eleven years on Johns, both are Gemini. I saw The Band in 1975, and was already a fan of Dylan. As Marion Davies said to Bing Crosby in the 1933 classic, Going Hollywood,—"I heard you sing, and I'm terribly in love with you." Bob doesn't have to dig around in his pockets for words. Happy Birthday on your magical 77th, beloved Bob.

Jeanne

JEANNE

I know the child you were born in winter's pale,
Raven-haired, and dressed in red
Like a Scarlet Tanager warbling
The hymns of Boston's wayfaring pilgrims—

Reciting poetry of the infinite,
And memorizing myriad tales of justice,
Won by tribes of men, free of conceit,
Writ on common land, by spirits not measured—

A woman seeking the world's eyes,
In a family without a car,
But one damn good beloved hunting dog,
A French woman beyond mistake—

You knew what it is to lose something precious,
That soared like jewel tone dreams,
Gilded on grief's silver blade of hope,
Chiseled into the veins of statuary marble—

Forged turning days into memories,
Pretty words tumble with the thundering tide,
To two daughters at the shore under summer skies,
Following chalk-white ridges in the sand—

—G. B. Congdon

7 May 2018

I do believe a child is an aesthetic being above all else. "Beauty" is the name of our planet. She is female, pregnant, barren, all-knowing, tempestuous, and serene. Mother placed great care in the "being" of doing. A few fine things are better than many poor. The child's eye seeks truth, and more than anything else, creation. Each child is a work of art on the sculptor's Hercules stand. A mother's job is recognizing that the unfolding limbs of an apple tree need a tended orchard in which to grow. 

Naked by Cover

NAKED BY COVER

The land where God forgot to shine,
Is under the low hung gray, I inhabit
Despairing the should've, could've, and would've
That death has overcome—

And in the lifting veil, it breaks
That glimmer of ablution circling the earth
That blade penetrating blindness called Spring
Like a halo on the Madonna of creation—

Piercing truth in the eyes of suckling babes,
The falcon-hood lifts,
The banded owlet blinks in wonder
A pool of crystal tears in which to bathe—

Gold and silver, I wear
Famine and plenty, I drink
Remembrance and forgetfulness, I dream
The child teetering towards you is I. 

—G. B. Congdon
22 April 2018

 

Here in the Northeast, we are held in the crossover of early spring, waiting for the full-blown variety. It's a bit like living a dream within a dream. A bit like owning a magical place you've never visited, yet instinctually know nonetheless. A stone ruin serves as the metaphor for places within yet encountered, and for the past decade that's its gift. 

Dog Day Confessions

DOG DAY CONFESSIONS

Trust is a thing with a bark and a bite—
That howls down the moon,
And roams an ancient landscape,
And sees with keen insight.

And follows through gale—
And eagerly sidles up to friends of mine,
That thread of understanding,
That builds belief in each other.

I've dreamt it in my brightest joy—
And on my darkest day,
Yet, nothing prepared me for an eternal shadow
Who never asks a smidgeon of me.

—G. B. Congdon

18th April 2018

 

Our son Joseph in Idaho, 2006, working as a ranch hand at Three Legged Coyote Creek Ranch with his brother. 

Defining Affection

DEFINING AFFECTION

About a boy and a dog?
The space between them is hallowed ground.
No need to look, he is there.
Traveling up one road,
And trailing down the next.
Resting on his master,
Not the passers-by.
Waiting for a bit of kindness,
He reads his answer,
And from his big dark watery eyes,
Nothing comes haltingly.
But a readiness born of stillness,
To do the bidding of his charge,
The one he was placed on this earth for.
About a boy and a dog, affection.
It was ever thus.

—G. B. Congdon
11th April 2018

The wilderness is known in solitude. It is summertime in Idaho, 2006, and two brothers have been shipped off to work as ranch hands on a sheep ranch. Our youngest son, can't get his fill of the farm dogs, as his brother captures their sojourn in a serpentine landscape miles away from home. They're heading to the ridge for the sunset, going to do some dreaming, and scheming on life. 

All My Loneliness

ALL MY LONELINESS

I gave you drums,
You gave me a sapphire,
And it was seduction we knew,
When I began to swoon like Lady Hope.

I saw promise without blame,
Without a false prophet by my side,
My banjo unstrung at my feet,
Nothing could destroy my wonder.

I began living invested,
No longer on a fool's errand,
Nor fear obliging me to hide,
You were present, playful, and private.

Sweet season on surprise,
I waited what felt like an eternity,
Beneath Jupiter's reflection,
Staring into space waiting for you.

—G. B. Congdon

18th March 2018

 

The year is 1967, and The Granite Curbstone is performing "Louie Louie" by the Kingsmen, followed by "Wipeout." My beloved is on the drums with the beach boy haircut. It is Johns' fifteenth summer, and he wouldn't have noticed me if he met me, I am only nine years old and standing at the ballet barre. We sacrificed the drums and the sapphire to the cause of keeping mother at home with the babies. And would do it the same again. 

Heaps of Ideas

HEAPS OF IDEAS

I thought I had it covered, 
With the knowledge, I'd acquired,
On animal signs and crossings that bind,
Into the weaving of a soul's tapestry.
I found life tranquil enough,
In time with nature's sympathy,
And independence was all I desired.

Out in the forest, I sought sanctuary,
There I stood aloof like a white shadow,
A half-glance of wisdom,
Stuffed in both pockets.
I thought I was content,
In my kingdom gazing at stars, solitary,
Penning metaphor and simile.

But you saw me, and found me a sultry thing,
And became my messenger, my oracle,
And mentor.
Sow me seeds of longing
To the four-square winds of a miracle,
And meet me in my moss temple.
We'll drive our heels into the hard earth
And not let go.

—G. B. Congdon
19th February 2018

The photo is taken at the second homestead Johns and I crafted for the family. (1993)
The geese and ducks have returned to our second pond. I watched the geese overhead coming in for their landing, the one at the rear lowered its backend, like a jet dropping the wheels, and even though the mate flew steadily ahead, he knew the signal as if carried on the wind like poetry, and they both dropped out of sight in unison.