Quixotic

Into the Woods

INTO THE WOODS

If my inner sanctum is where light falls softly,
And birds dart and play,
Then that is where we live.

If my inner sanctum is the backside of the moon,
And the sun a halo only,
Then that is where we dispel fear.

At life's meridian, in gray attire,
The maps and charts, drawn and examined,
I opened a drawer and found a labyrinth.

Something, finely drafted from antiquity,
With meandering paths of clipped box,
Where the signposts are writ in poetry.

I hold the missing chink in the mortar of my wall.
There is little in my day you do not share.
The sky is a vault of wonder everywhere.

—G. B. Congdon
14th January 2020

Ode to Necessity

ODE TO NECESSITY

A light on the open meadow,
bends the wind on a marbled afternoon.

The threadbare woods, haunting in form,
render me tongue-tied.

And again, I see you, my fair-faced one,
writing words upon the blank universe.

Sipping from the cup of honesty,
you pierce the sea with virtue.

And singing in the shady grove,
your smile reaches to the crystal peak.

—G. B. Congdon
12th January 2020

Storms threaten, tease, gather, and push off. Winter 2020 is a visceral experience with change. 

At The Vietnam War Memorial

At the Vietnam War Memorial

That war was fought in their names too,
who preferred jail to jungle,
who would rather empty bed pans
than body bags, who said:
may we die alone in Canada 
before melting a village
or burying a buddy's pieces.

Fought  also in the name
of that soldier's father who cranked
my arm tight to my ear,
ground my face into the cement,
kicked repeatedly between my legs,
all because it was easier for him
to cut my hair than to open that dreaded letter.

Fought in her name too,
though she linked her arms with others
and lay as if dead in the streets,
the tanks rolled on through the rice paddies,
and on and on over the namelss.

—Jon Tabakin, 1993

Here's to the fiftieth anniversary of Woodstock. As they say, "If you can remember, you weren't there."  Jon is among those who can't remember, but LIFE magazine says he was—captured here in the lower right corner he wears orange foul weather gear. He does recall Joe Cocker singing the thunderstorm in, and Jimi Hendrix playing "The Star Spangled Banner" on his guitar with his teeth. The ticket covered three days and cost seven dollars. 

Listen to the Roar

LISTEN TO THE ROAR

Rolled and tumbled by passion's call,
my love, unlace your shoes,
lock your hands in mine.

Lay still, my love, breath to breath,
our heartbeats anchored,
and swim in the distance no longer.

We are home, where words spoken live
in three/quarter time,
and a kiss is an inkblot, a dimple on the moon.

The stuff of dreams and longing,
saved in summer's linen pocket,
you are an ocean at rest within me.


—G. B. Congdon 24th July 2019

 

Tide pools and starfish, sand dollars and purple urchin, since birth, summer was the Maine seacoast. Salt spray welcomed and crabs called out to me. On this blue orb that we call home, I will never feel more at peace than by the sea. Call out twice, if my head is bent, while I make a study of sand ripple patterns. An afternoon at the sea is both profound and recondite, and why we love it so. 

Until We Kissed, That Is

Until We Kissed, That Is

How can a kiss shake the earth,
or cause time to stand still?
How can a kiss part the waters of a soul,
or call out with laughter to the stars?

I thought that was hyperbole, poetic license.
Until we kissed, that is.

How can the gentlest kiss be a volcano
and blow the roof off of memory and longing?
How can fingers folded together and intertwined be tantric,
and coupling itself be within time and last forever?

I thought hat was hyperbole, poetic license.
Until we lay together with your head on my chest.

How can a kiss make the wind blow through your hair,
and our bed turn into an ocean rising through the air?
How can a kiss cause a dog watching to try to speak,
or summon birds and turtles and bears and tears?

I thought that was hyperbole, poetic license.
Until we kissed, that is.

—Jon Tabakin, 4th July 2019

Dedicated to Jo Brunini.

The Linen Cupboard

THE LINEN CUPBOARD

All the many things I desired,
When young love garnered my attention.
Where did they go?
Buried somewhere beneath the wedding linen,
With eight monograms free of claret stains,
And folded flax that hasn't witnessed daylight.

Treasures I grew to value,
More than the fibers of my being.
How is it so?
I sat on my laurel,
When life begged I wear joy.
And once, I listened for the pulse of longing.

And still forgot that twin hearts beat as one,
Trade not my yearning for fear of failure—
Hands entwined can't be undone.
Better to beat my wings and sigh.
Better to lie beside you.
Better, far better, to know your tenderness.


—G. Brunini, 3rd July 2019

Dedicated to Jon Tabakin.

 

The Man in the Moon

The Man In The Moon

Your great-grandmother knew all the old stories,
but I'll tell you something that even she didn't know.
The moon is a pirates' lookout.
Long ago, before there were tides,
when over the deep the great ships
skimmed silently and only at night,
the greatest and fiercest of these great, fierce pirates,
perhaps the ancester of our own Captain Mallet,
not content with his view of the bay and the lake,
commanded tens of thousands of men to forge a huge mirror
shaped like the working end of a gigantic spoon,
which he then had hung in the sky.
And after a successful raid, and they were all successful,
when the fleet turned at last toward home,
he, himself, already drunk and his boots filled with blood,
would turn toward the most frightened pirate among them,
one of our ancestors perhaps, little one,
and "Man the mirror," "Man the spoon," "Man the..."
"Man the moon," he would cry.

 

—Jonathan Tabakin

13 June 2019

 

Nocturnal Voices

NOCTURNAL VOICES

How I love you.
Who else could I share this with?

I don't know?
No one I pray—
Already, you are my everything.

Did we invent love?
It seems so.

Liberation and release—
The timber of free-falling.

How I love you.
And each lost year, remembered,
since time began.
And each second, watched over
by the moon.
Shelter me in your tenderness.

Age, upon age,
chiseled our inner worlds,
like Michelangelo's statuary.
And now, by candlelight,
with our fingertips,
we trace veins in the marble.


G. Brunini
31st May 2019

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