This article is good medicine for what is an increasingly incurable state of demoralization.
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Essential reading for understanding and navigating cultural insanity:
"The Demoralized Mind," by John Schumaker. Here is the link:
Following the posting of the Langston Hughes poem, "Let America Be America Again," I'm prompted to repost my interview with Kim Rosen, author of "Saved By A Poem." To my mind, this is a kind of survival manual for our time. Here is the link:
One of my favorite magazines is THE SUN. It is deliciously deep with no fluff, no advertising. I read it from cover to cover and it is always an enriching experience. One issue republished Langston Hughes' poem "Let America Be America Again," originally published in 1935. I had read it before many years ago, but it has hit me like a thunderbolt in reading it now in the context of our present political madness. Please read this poem for your own immunity against what is happening. Here is a link to the poem:
Hi all. The translation posted yesterday was incorrectly attributed to Paco. I want to correct this error, so here is Paco's translation. In addition, I have included the Potuguese letra. Enjoy!
The Man at the Helm
All alone at night
A light in the darkness shines directly
Obscuring the rest.
More than a wave, more than a tide
They tried to arrest him, impose a faith
But, drifting at will, breaking the longing
There goes one who fears nothing, there goes the helmsman.
And a desire to laugh, born from the depths of being
And a desire to go, to travel the world and leave,
Life is always to lose.
In the depths of the sea
Lie the others, those who were there
In ash-gray days
Eternal rest they found there.
And more than a wave, more than a tide,
They tried to arrest him, impose a faith
But, drifting at will, breaking the longing
There goes one who fears nothing, there goes the helmsman.
And a desire to laugh, born from the depths of being
And a desire to go, to travel the world and leave,
Life is always to lose.
On the background of the horizon
The murmur blows where it will
In the depths of time
And a desire to laugh, born from the depths of being
And a desire to go, to travel the world and leave,
Life is always to lose.
(Paco’s Translation)
E mais que uma onda, mais que uma maré
Tentaram prendê-lo impor-lhe uma fé
Mas, vogando à vontade, rompendo a saudade
Vai quem já nada teme, vai o homem do leme
E uma vontade de rir, nasce do fundo do ser
E uma vontade de ir, correr o mundo e partir
A vida é sempre a perder
No fundo do mar
Jazem os outros, os que lá ficaram
Em dias cinzentos
Descanso eterno lá encontraram
E mais que uma onda, mais que uma maré
Tentaram prendê-lo, impor-lhe uma fé
Mas, vogando à vontade, rompendo a saudade
Vai quem já nada teme, vai o homem do leme
E uma vontade de rir, nasce do fundo do ser
E uma vontade de ir, correr o mundo e partir
A vida é sempre a perder
No fundo horizonte
Sopra o murmúrio para onde vai
No fundo do tempo
Foge o futuro, é tarde demais
E uma vontade de rir nasce do fundo do ser
E uma vontade de ir, correr o mundo e partir
A vida é sempre a perder
You know those songs that get stuck in your head and go around and around and at some point disappear as if they had fallen off a cliff? These round and rounds are called "earworms." My current problem is not an earworm, but a repeating desire to hear a particular song. The song doesn't stick in my head like an earworm, but the desire to hear it is Velcroed there. I don't know if there is a technical term for this, but it is insistent, named or not. So I listen again and again. I listen to O Homem do Leme by various performers. My favorite and current object of obsession is the version that Mariza and Tim did at the 2012 Rock in Rio Lisbon Festival in Lisbon, Portugal (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTq9W6IblGY).
Who knows why these things happen? I don't, but I do know they are important. Is it the beat? The melody? The lyrics? It's something of all these, I think, together, forming some kind of whole that sparks something in me that wants (desires) to be with it, immersed in it, moving with it. I know it's Portuguese Fado. I know Mariza is my favorite Fado voice. But not knowing Portuguese, I did not know what the words were saying.
I sent the lyrics Paco and he immediately sent back a beautiful translation. Even before I knew what the magical Portuguese said, I knew that some of the lines and verses were functioning like mysterious rays penetrating deep into me.
Here is Paco's translation:
THE WHEEL MAN
Alone in the night
A boat courses to where it goes.
A light in the dark shines ahead
Obfuscates the rest
And more than one wave, more that one tide
They tried to arrest him impose him a faith
But, sailing to the will, breaking the longing(=saudade)
Goes the one who fears nothing else, goes the wheel man
And a will to smile, is born from the bottom of the being
And a will to go, run the world and leave
Life is allways losing
In the bottom of the sea
Lie the others, the ones who there stayed
In grey days
Eternal rest they found there
And more than one wave, more that one tide
They tried to arrest him impose him a faith
But, sailing to the will, breaking the longing(=saudade)
Goes the one who fears nothing else, goes the wheel man
And a will to smile, is born from the bottom of the being
And a will to go, run the world and leave
Life is allways losing
In the deep horizon
Blows the murmur to where he goes
In the deep of time
Flees the future, it's too late
And a will to smile, is born from the bottom of the being
And a will to go, run the world and leave
Life is always losing
It's next to last verse of the lettra that got me even before I knew what it was. And now? I'll let you know.
and and and and and and
fffft ffft fffsssss
First Aide: Whoa girl, you're drinking from a pail…not good.
Second Aide: She's wet herself.
cat's tail, monkey's mail, all hail the third rail argghhhhhh
Policeman: she's not making any sense
cracks in facts
artifacts for sealing wax
Social worker: She presents as a 30-year old delusion.
black in white not polite
give me candlelight
Doctor: No, it's chlorpromazine for you young lady.
lights out no doubt
hey doc wanna gawk a hawk a fauk
Nurse: Room seven will be available shortly.
i'm an alternator for the dictator
i'm a leading indicator
ok ok I'm outa here
hear
Jungian analyst Russell Lockhart presents notions of the meaning of money as it relates to the imagination, complexes, the Self, and the dark side of life. He presents his reflections on Bernie Madoff and Ponzi schemes, and speculates where "money as god" is leading us.
This essay is now available at http://ralockhart.com/WP/SilverChangeImagination.pdf
The Parliament of Owls is in session
But we cannot see their eyes
Their heads are looking behind them
Because owls do not move their eyes
What's coming comes from behind
It's not what is clearly seen, so visible now
It's the sickness afoot, the sickness coming
That's what the owls are looking for now
Sickness is afoot, evil's in full view
Sickness is afoot, where is our guide?
Sickness is afoot, what to do? What to do?
Sickness is afoot, where resides the guide?
Leonard wrote that magic is afoot
And Buffy sang his words
Leonard wrote that God is alive
And Buffy sang is words
But now, sickness is afoot,
And evil is alive, and where is our guide?
Sing the song that's in your dream
Dreams of the night will be our guide!
---------
A Note…
In the dream I saw owls sitting on branches of a tree.
No eyes could be seen as they were all looking behind
them. A sound began to rise, I think it was from the owls,
singing the line, "Sickness is afoot." As I woke, I started
hearing Buffy St. Marie singing Leonard Cohen's words
from his book, "Beautiful Losers."
Dreams have to do with the future. Our conscious intentions
as well as our hopes are all formed from what we know,
from what is past. The owls know what is coming. Look to
dreams to provide the hints.
Nearly forty years ago, I had dream. In the dream, I was leafing
through Jung's Memories, Dreams, Reflections. A piece of paper
fell out and on it was written, poem-like
A poem wants a poem
A dream wants a dream
This little dream has become the animating spirit of my work
ever since.
It is always a deep pleasure to me when someone responds to
one of my dreams or poems with a dream or poem of their own.
In response to my recent poem, "How the War on Reality Ended,"
my long-time friend Tony Albino sent me this poem.
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There once was a girl named Alice,
A comely thing who befriended birds
And trees and once, a rabbit without malice.
For she knew what needed to be known,
That plumbing life’s depths was a challenge
To understand, to grasp, to measure one’s soul,
Not in terms of success or failure or even balance
But against the one whose blood was carried in a chalice.
Content with silence, she spoke to none.
A wave and a smile but nothing more.
At a hilltop she’d stare wide-eyed at the sun.
Letting it pour a spreading kindness,
a warmth she hoped would keep her from being shunned
by all those who thought they knew her ways, her thoughts,
but if they really found a way to know her they’d be stunned
to discover how easy their knowledge could be undone.
She spoke water to rivers, wind to trees
and once while whispering to a flower
she gave directions to a troop of passing fleas,
who danced and twirled at being acknowledged
by this girl whose voice floated like a midsummer’s breeze
full of spice and song and hints of saffron
that could make any who were ill at ease and hard to please
smile at nothing and laugh at anything, even their knees.
But deep within was a discontent
that slid as if lying loose on a ship
unbound and unmoored, a shadowy vagrant
whose sudden shift would throw her off course
and into a fog-bank of torment,
her soul close-hauling a buffeting wild sea
whose dark intent threatened to consume and disorient
her every attempt to stay unencumbered and silent.
There is no one left to tell
How it all came crashing down
There is no one left to hear
How no one stopped the clown
The tipping point was clear
But what to do was not
Dire warnings were sounded
But all declared unfounded
Human hubris knew no limit
There was no app for that
Reality came knocking
And knocked humanity flat
Humans had a good run
Yes they did, they did
But so much for that
Time for something else
******************************
I've recorded this, and wondering if hearing it adds anything. As most all poets note, a poem must be heard for it to reach its proper depth. Here's a link:
