Quixotic

Mr. Hugo's Very Bad Day

MR. HUGO'S VERY BAD DAY

And so the conversation unfolded between man's best friend and master— Hugo, the Australian Shepherd, and the artist and writer, Giovanna.

"Listen G., we need to talk.  I may look like a placid stud muffin to you—but I gotta spell it out. What the hell are we doing anyway? Lying around day after day. If you aren't writing, you're painting. I mean really. Have you looked out the window? Pretty damn gorgeous out there,"

"Back it down Hugo. What's got into you? You never swear. What about our six-mile runs —outside? And if it's sunny, a go at Frisbee in the courtyard. What about yoga at five? I seem to recall you have no trouble finding your antler and hanging out doing up dog/down dog. Oh, I almost forgot, silly me. How about a round of "Professor Plum" in the library? Your very own find the cookie whodunit."

"Is this it for Pete's sake? I'm just a kid and life's an unending swath of ennui. I got in the wrong car—just so you know—you can tell me any day now, which way to the ranch. And while we're on the topic, why'd you have to go and mess with my manliness? You honestly think I didn't notice! I feel it every day, a certain —je ne sais quoi—call it a languid stupor I float in, like a vapid newt that didn't graduate to a salamander."

"Heck, Hugo—that's a lot of griping. And there I am mincing fresh parsley, kale, adding kimchi and flax oil to your free-range chicken patties. God forbid, I should bother to buy herbal supplements from London. and crystal energy tags from Boulder. And what about gratitude for a near perfect childhood—need I go on? O.K., I will. Three pink crinkle Lolly Lambs, just in case you ate one. Lullabies. Who else had a kiddie pool with a slide? Cruising with the top down... What about the reversible Filson jacket you love? The one you say makes you look badass."

"You know what I think? I think you've completely forgotten who I am. Look what I've got in my back pocket—Champions, that's what. CH PRopwash Reckon at Eukanuba, CH Propwash Syzygy—shout out to AKA Gander—World Best in Show. First ever Aussie to pull it off! Chew on that sister. I am made for great things. Sign me up for Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. You—you're content with the back forty, with coy-wolves and birds. Phooey. Really? The pretentious coy-wolves aren't even friendly. And who needs a bird! Hawks this and white egret that, and if I hear you get all drippy drooly over those bluebirds again I'm going to bawl my eyes out."

"Look, I know I have a lot going on. Hang in there. I'm almost finished editing the memoir for the twenty-seventh time. The novel, with two fab dogs, the ones I let you name—you love that Highlands story.  I left you hanging in suspense not knowing what's happened to Hero, but I don't hear you whining, "Oh sweet Jesus, anything but that," when I ask you to be my beta-reader. Fish skins anyone?"

"I guess it's just one of those days when a little voice in my head keeps asking why didn't I take a ride in that '72 F250. That dude was going somewhere. Why on earth did I say yes to a boring old Volvo headed to Vermont? Seriously? Of all the places in the world... Pretty soon that guy Bernie will be calling you again. I can hear him asking you to make phone calls. Super. Logging more time on your ass. (Sigh followed by an ear scratch). I'd be lying if I didn't say I'm mighty fond of eight o'clock fireside. And I own the corner seat not to mention my sherpa fleece blanket. No, I take that back—only a whoosh needs pampering. I tolerate it and don't you forget it. But licking the feta and garlic pan, I must say that's pretty dope. Seared salmon—count me in."

"I love you."

"Love you, too, babe."

—G. Brunini Congdon
16th May 2019

The Curve of the Earth

The Curve of the Earth

Two time zones separate my love and I.
Nevertheless, all day we talk to each other,
and sometimes out loud we each confess.
We pull books off the shelves to show each other.
We argue philosophy and laugh and share a memory,
we who have never touched, or even met except 
in childhood which is a place that no longer exists.
We cry out, "Come look!" into the next room.
At night the moon is a fulcrum that connects us,
and sometimes it is a mirror above our single bed.
When each thought, every word, lasts two hours,
how can I explain to you what we share?
If I were an astrologer, I would point to the stars.
If I were an astrophysicist, I would sing space and time.
If only I could talk about gravity and dark energy
and particles that fly through the earth as if through air.
If only I could remember the constellations and their stories.
Then maybe I could explain this miracle of longing.
But I am just a simple man separated from the one I love
by two time zones and the long, slow curve of the earth.


—Jonathan Tabakin, April 2019

April Anarchy

APRIL ANARCHY

Beyond the barking crowds on earth,
Eve joins the unfurled wings of song on air—
Singing, 'Be a dandelion in the meadow.'

In reply, a hawk in the green crown cries 'Harmony,'
And to the fire's damper of ignorance,
A sheltered wren warbles 'Joy-Joy-Joy.'

The lamb and the bull sip April's sweet water.
Transformed by the fifth element,
Love champions Eve, bird, and beast.
And together they dance in the spring.

—G. B. Congdon
3rd April 2019

Before The First Bud

BEFORE THE FIRST BUD

I'll call him the Cheer-e-o' tree,
He has a kink in his leg,
It sets his high step dancing.

Branches lay long and straight,
Not at right angles,
How did he get a foot to kick in the air?

My very own prancing jester,
Juggles honey-crisp in the fall,
Spine arching low to the east,

Hair flying, his head tipped to the earth,
He listens, patiently blowing kisses,
To the scrambling creatures below.

 

—G. B. Congdon

7th March 2019

 

Slowly, Slowly

SLOWLY, SLOWLY

When we made love,
Every hour of the day,
Birds set upon that white cloud,
On the flagship of surrender.

When each sentence began with,
I feel hunger, and I feel thirst,
Measured by metaphor, wit, and pun,
And ending with sexual innuendo.

Then we stood naked,
In the bright light of day,
Doing some very heavy sledding,
Unable to look away.


—G. B. Congdon

4th December 2018

Some things need no explanation. But there is almost always one. Love begets greater love and welcomes all frailty. One must disturb the universe to find true love, which wears many guises.  If the songbird sang, to hear himself sing, I love him still.  

Madonna

Jumping in on December's imminent arrival, I was in full-moon pregnancy mode for three November's, awaiting babes born on either side of the winter solstice... and one by osmosis, as Ming was born in China, a late November child.  I wrote this by moonlight, awoken, rightly so, by November's full moon.

PAUSED FOR JUST A MOMENT

I am the Madonna and the Vestal Virgin, 
The Black Madonna, Gaia, and Sophia, too. 
Everything uttered by the force of creation—
Into pitch black darkness.

To the soil once fallow, now fruitful,
To the loss of self, to benefit another,
To the ox at the anvil, to the ritual of the moon—
And sleeping wonder.

My womb is fertile,
I am earthen, all-knowing, gentle, and wise,
Purveyor of secrets, I roll like a tempest,
Both profound and startling—
Let nothing stand in my way.

—G. B. Congdon
29th November 2018

On Quartered Wing

On Quartered Wing

I know him by his plaintive cry,
It splits the dappled heaven,
Here live the Gray Ghost and me,
From my window I watch,
The Northern Harrier write upon the sky.

Like one who welds past and present,
I tend the meadow with hound by my side.
It's a sober world,
Of pregnant peals, and parted bramble,
The hawk lords over.

The Gray Ghost needs no cover,
His shoulders are broad quartering wide.
The hour has grown dark November unveils her tempest,
Fields shudder beneath a blanket of gold,
And the quiet wanderer flames the fire.

When once we lived in summer's glory,
The bee, hawk, and I,
He dips his wing to the fruitless tree,
And on the pewter dawn,
Bids farewell to raging weather.

I am not captive,
A hundred words walk with me over the boundary.
Beneath clouded moons,
I am rapt,
We are headed to distant skies together. 

—G. B. Congdon
13th November 2018

 

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 surrounds me. 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 creating beauty in form or word. My father 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. 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, my, 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 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.