Tag writing

* juggling with Eduardo Galeano

José Angel Araguz 1 Comment

Update on the PhD front: First day of classes/First day of teaching is Monday, August 26th…my birthday!

That’s right: I’ll be up bright and early – as I have been most of this week, what with orientation and syllabustering like crazy.

Wish me luck.

On that note, expect the Influences to become a bit looser, and more informal while I juggle chainsaws students.

* wish me luck *

* wish me luck *

As I mentioned last week, my birthday has me asking questions.  Like: what would my friend Dennis – who passed away three summers ago – think of where I am headed?  He told me once during a bout of undergrad existential angst: Get it together – only women can freak out AND still get things done.  You can freak out later.

The prose poem below by Eduardo Galeano speaks to how that good man stood (stands) in my life.

***

Grandparents – Eduardo Galeano

For many peoples of black Africa, ancestors are the spirits that live in the tree beside your house or in the cow grazing in the field.  The great-grandfather of your great-great-grandfather is now that stream snaking down the mountainside.  Your ancestor could also be any spirit that decides to accompany you on your voyage through the world, even if he or she was never a relative or an acquaintance.

The family has no borders, explains Soboufu Some of the Dagara people: “Our children have many mothers and many fathers.  As many as they wish.”

And the ancestral spirits, the ones that help you make your way, are the many grandparents that each of you has.  As many as you wish.

***

Happy freaking out later!

Jose

* questions with Pablo Neruda & Mary Oliver

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XXXIII.

And why is the sun such a bad friend
to someone walking in the desert?

And why is the sun so friendly
in the hospital garden?

Are these birds or fish here
in nets of moonlight?

Was it where they lost me
that I was able to find myself?

Pablo Neruda, from the Book of Questions

* sunsetular *

* sunsetular *

The above excerpts from Neruda are from a post I did last summer having some translation fun (see here).

It is my birthday month and so I am in question mode all sorts.  I believe questions can be their own genre of literature (ask Neruda).

There is the story of the Rabbi being asked by his son: What is the meaning of life? – to which the Rabbi responded with: Why would you ruin such a great question with an answer?  

The poem below by Mary Oliver turns on its questions, creates from a desire to know, a knowing.

***

Some Questions You Might Ask – Mary Oliver

Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of an owl?
Who has it, and who doesn’t?
I keep looking around me.
The face of the moose is as sad
as the face of Jesus.
The swan opens her white wings slowly.
In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness.
One question leads to another.
Does it have a shape?  Like an iceberg?
Like the eye of a hummingbird?
Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?
Why should I have it, and not the anteater
who loves her children?
Why should I have it, and not the camel?
Come to think of it, what about the maple trees?
What about the blue iris?
What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?
What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?
What about the grass?

***

Happy grassing!

Jose