Posts Tagged ‘ father ’

Zeitgeist Spam: From John Gossage, The Pond / Allen Ginsberg, “Conversation with My Dying Father” (for “father” substitute “country” or “currently existing ecosystems” if desired)

Wasted arms, feeble knees,
eighty years old, hair thin and white,
cheek bonier than I’d remembered,
head bowed on his neck,
eyes open now and then he listened,
I read my father Wordsworth’s
Intimations of Immortality Ode.
‘Trailing clouds of glory do we come
from God who is our home.’
‘That’s beautiful,’ he said, ‘but it is not true.

When I was a boy,’ he continued, ‘we had
a house on Boyd Street Newark New Jersey.
The backyard was a big empty lot full of bushes
and whole grass. I always wondered
what was behind those trees.
When I grew older, I walked around the block
and found out what was back there, it was
a glue factory.’

Source: Zeitgeist Spam: From John Gossage, The Pond / Allen Ginsberg, “Conversation with My Dying Father” (for “father” substitute “country” or “currently existing ecosystems” if desired)

Rough Ideas: June 2016 Archives

Throwing Away the Alarm Clock

my father always said, “early to bed and
early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy
and wise.”
it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house
and we were up at dawn to the smell of
coffee, frying bacon and scrambled
my father followed this general routine
for a lifetime and died young, broke,
and, I think, not too
taking note, I rejected his advice and it
became, for me, late to bed and late
to rise.
now, I’m not saying that I’ve conquered
the world but I’ve avoided
numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some
common pitfalls
and have met some strange, wonderful
one of who
myself-someone my father

– Charles Bukowski

Source: Rough Ideas: June 2016 Archives

“Beyond God the Father”,an Interview with Mary Daly :: DALHOUSIE REVIEW

. . . Following in the paths of these many fore-sisters, including fore- sisters who were burned as witches, Virginia Woolfand fore-sisters present and future, I would like to move towards conclusion thinking about the breaking out of women as a summoning of our deep memories. Women are like volcanoes. Explosions of our ancestral racial deep memory are necessary to break the unnatural crusts of the Fore- ground. Such explosions coming from deep internal potency can be compared to the explosions of a volcano. A volcano is a vent in the earth’s crust from which molten or hot rock and steam issue. Volcanic eruptions in women’s deep Re-memberings are Elemental, breaking through the vents in the crust, and although these may be experienced as sudden, the forces that caused them have been brewing in deep natural cauldrons. Women ourselves are the brewsters as well as the cauldrons; we are the agents of our own elemental explosions. The rhythms of our Re-membering are not like the tedious, tidy, tick-tocks ofthe clocks and watches oftidy time: Father Time, which is very tidy, 9 to 5. Think also, of the doomsday clock. The Bulletin of the Atomic Scientist put out in the United States has in every issue, a sketch of what they call the doomsday clock. Midnight represents, of course, nuclear holocaust. In January 1984, they set the hands at three minutes to midnight. So much for the clocks and watches of Father Time. The rhythms of our Re-membering are tidal. We may find insights about these rhythms in the words of the scientist Rachel Carson, concerning a small, green worm known to marine biologists as Convoluta roscof- fensis who lives in the sea sand, rising when the tide has ebbed and sinking into the sand when the tide returns. Sometimes scientists transfer a whole colony of these worms into an aquarium where there are no tides. Rachel Carson writes:

“But twice each day Convoluta rises out ofthe sand on the bottom ofthe aquarium, into the light of the sun. And twice each day she sinks again into the sand. Without a brain or what we would call a memory or even any very clear perception, Convoluta continues to live out her life in this alien place, remembering in every fibre of her small, green body the tidal rhythm of the distant sea.”J

So, too even within these most alien places women can remember our original rhythms, and these rhythms are lunar, natural rhythms: Rhythms of spirit j matter, rhythms of imagining, of thinking, of psy- chic force.

*     *     *

. . . Women are batteries. If you refuse to be a battery, then the male has to find the source of energy in himself. The patriarchial male then is thrown back upon his own possibility for generating his own energy, without sapping, vampirizing, women. And that, indeed, would be a great opportunity, it seems to me-to be able to not be a parasite, to not be a vampire. But, the trick is, if you do this primarily for men, again, you are missing the point, because women under patriarchy have never been for ourselves. Yes, most women bond with men in some way, but I’m inviting you to consider something ehe: the gynergizing, ecstatic experience of woman- bonding. Then you may want to reconsider that question or ask it again but it Will be in a different context, in a different environment.


— Mary Daly  (pp279;685-686 DALHOUSIE REVIEW )

Hillary Clinton Draws Scrappy Determination From a Tough, Combative Father – The New York Times

Hillary Rodham Clinton, second from left, with her father, Hugh Rodham, far left, brother Hugh Jr. and mother, Dorothy, in the 1950s.

Hillary Clinton Draws Scrappy Determination From a Tough, Combative Father – The New York Times.

“Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong” – The New Yorker

Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong

by Ocean Vuong

After Frank O’Hara / After Roger Reeves

Ocean, don’t be afraid.The end of the road is so far aheadit is already behind us.Don’t worry. Your father is only your fatheruntil one of you forgets. Like how the spinewon’t remember its wingsno matter how many times our kneeskiss the pavement. Ocean,are you listening? The most beautiful partof your body is whereveryour mother’s shadow falls.Here’s the house with childhoodwhittled down to a single red tripwire.Don’t worry. Just call it horizon& you’ll never reach it.Here’s today. Jump. I promise it’s nota lifeboat. Here’s the manwhose arms are wide enough to gatheryour leaving. & here the moment,just after the lights go out, when you can still seethe faint torch between his legs.How you use it again & againto find your own hands.You asked for a second chance& are given a mouth to empty into.Don’t be afraid, the gunfireis only the sound of peopletrying to live a little longer. Ocean. Ocean,get up. The most beautiful part of your bodyis where it’s headed. & remember,loneliness is still time spentwith the world. Here’sthe room with everyone in it.Your dead friends passingthrough you like windthrough a wind chime. Here’s a deskwith the gimp leg & a brickto make it last. Yes, here’s a roomso warm & blood-close,I swear, you will wake—& mistake these walls

for skin.

“Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong” – The New Yorker.

John Berger in conversation with Hans Ulrich Obrist | Vimeo

Haiku by Yamamoto Yoshi (山本美) | Entry No. 1

wearing his light kimono
father makes a cup of tea
but I know it’s a dream


by Yamamoto Yoshi (山本美)


Haiku by Yamamoto Yoshi (山本美) | Entry No. 1.


for Christina and her father

blackest crow

high up on a bough

overlooking its domain

in the here and beyond

– Donna Fleischer


Book Review: The Philosopher’s Daughter by Lori Desrosiers | Coal Hill Review

Book Review: The Philosopher’s Daughter by Lori Desrosiers | Coal Hill Review.