*The End and the Beginning

BY WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKA

TRANSLATED BY JOANNA TRZECIAK

After every war

someone has to clean up.

Things won’t

straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble

to the side of the road,

so the corpse-filled wagons

can pass.

Someone has to get mired

in scum and ashes,

sofa springs,

splintered glass,

and bloody rags.

Someone has to drag in a girder

to prop up a wall.

Someone has to glaze a window,

rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not,

and takes years.

All the cameras have left

for another war.

We’ll need the bridges back,

and new railway stations.

Sleeves will go ragged

from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,

still recalls the way it was.

Someone else listens

and nods with unsevered head.

But already there are those nearby

starting to mill about

who will find it dull.

From out of the bushes

sometimes someone still unearths

rusted-out arguments

and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew

what was going on here

must make way for

those who know little.

And less than little.

And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass that has overgrown

causes and effects,

someone must be stretched out

blade of grass in his mouth

gazing at the clouds.

    

         (Ukrainian child cries as he arrives at Polish border after fleeing war-torn country)

Before and after

The weather is mirroring the world. It’s violent and cold and a mystery. I can feel it (the world, the weather) dragging at my psyche today. Last night we had hard rain and thunderstorms, this morning while I was finishing my breakfast I looked out and it had begun to snow in big fluffy flakes, better to be called down than snow. It lasted about five minutes. Everything that landed melted into the earth. When I went out to get a book from the library before it was returned to its home library it was cold and windy, clouds swirled about, and I just wanted to get back home and curl somewhere. Instead, when I got home, I made some chicken soup.

The chicken was from a store that smokes chickens and ribs every day and if I’m in the area around the time they come out of the smoker I’ll grab one. I got the chicken Friday, and we have made a series of meals from it since; with a fourth of the meat left it was soup time. I’m not a huge fan of chicken, but I like it now and then in things. Sometimes I make Jerry what I call a before and after omelet with chicken in it, but I don’t care for chicken in eggs, before or after.

But as far as the soup, it was good for lunch. My mother made chicken soup with thick handmaid noodles and big chunks of chicken, it cooked until the broth was thick. The noodles were glorious. I always imagine it during a long winter snowstorm but know we had it year-round. A simple, basic meal. That sort of safe, let’s fill up and take a nap while the blizzard howls soup. Something I tried to mirror today, though no blizzard, and nothing as devastating here as approaches even the definition of devastating. Just the blaghs. Nothing a nap and a dose of poetry won’t cure. Just a refresh. Just so the world can be taken head-on.

Here's a poem from another time:

Early summer, red faced and swollen
two siblings bookend me
one bulging left, one right,
I was the double-pumped
chipmunk-cheek of mumps

balancing out our lockdown.

Our mother, trapped in the house
with our fever and whine, improvised games
to keep us busy between naps:
couch tent, cowboy cattle drive, pretend
prairie schooner. As the Sons of the Pioneers
played we drifted off like the tumbling
tumbleweeds under our imagined stars.
Our eyes closed and the hum of her sewing
machine came back to life. A distant train
on a trip we were not invited to take.

 

     (Tom and Calico, me and Yammy, Diana and one of Calico's kittens around the time of mumps.)

Gonna put on my traveling shoes

The woman at the tire store came into the waiting room with a lovely Good morning! to which I answered good morning how are you and she said Exquisite! she was my mother’s age and she was exquisite in her red shoes, matching purse and jacket. She then said, I see you still are wearing a mask, does it bother you that I’m not? I said not at all as everyone must do what is right for them, and I will stay across the room. Then she said I have such trouble with masks, they won’t stay where they belong, they’re always going up and covering my eyes, it’s not safe! To think I’ve lived this long without knowing what a weirdly shaped face I have, and we shared a wonderful, long laugh.

When she spied my book, we had another a quick chat. Then my car was ready, (tires and brakes checked great). My new friend and I exchanged have a great day be safe, pray for peace and I went out to my car and the display popped up “Low Battery Charge”.

Choice cursing. 😠


Here's a traveling poem of sorts:

The first time I arrived in Amarillo Texas
it was snowing. I was on a Greyhound bus,
eighteen hours into a trip to some place
I thought I needed to be but failed to get to.

The second time I arrived in a Yugo
after two days drive from Virginia.
I was in possession then of a life
that surprised and scared me
in its order and wonder.

The second time it was hot, very hot,
July heat. The first time it was some
winter month. I don’t know now,
just like, now, I don’t know how old I was.

But the third time I was in Amarillo
I was almost sixty, so close to tears
that for the past few days we’d
only been able to laugh at our hurt

for fear of the hole awaiting us.
A hole as big as this western sky
a hole as wide and deep, as dense,
as Texas. A hole that held its own

gravitational pull upon us. One
we needed to drive away from

to ever see clearly.

Past, present, future

Saturday, we drove to Columbus (Ohio), it was a chilly day, ice lined the route, the trees throughout were glittering disco fever flashes of brilliance. Aside from the crazy detours through Indianapolis (would it be too difficult to tell people at what exit your detour ends?) and the panic that accompanies this detour madness (note to drivers, you eventually can get back on your route even if you somehow end up downtown). I think that they should start with signs like they do in the West where the detour is mentioned and then the warning DO NOT FOLLOW YOUR GPS. I love that, it should always be followed by abandon all hope. I think we have it figured out now.

We went to Columbus for an engagement party for those two crazy kids, Ian and Justine, on Sunday. Though they have been engaged for a while, 2020 took a chunk of time out of planning things. A wonderful party for family and friends, a small gathering that was really nicely done and was full of music and laughter. Thank you to the parents of the groom, two hearts to them 💗💗 and the extended family for planning and execution. The next big thing will be Ian and Justine going to Iceland to be married. May the Northern Lights burn bright while you are there, the glaciers glow and the Hákarl, be tangy.

And today, having driven home yesterday, we have a day so warm that I have had the windows open since late morning. This morning around the feeders the usual suspects – Carolina wren, Carolina Chickadee, Tufted titmouse, house wren, cardinals, starling, blackbirds, robins, blue jays – were all out preening their slimness on a day they did not have to fluff against the cold. I had my yard cam out last night as I had a leftover muffin with egg that had ridden on the car all morning, so I cut it up and placed it under the pine with a couple of questionable grapes. I only got one picture as the batteries were too low. But it was a nice shot of a raccoon looking up at something.

Today I have been working on a “cure” for the fact that we took the satellite radio out of the car. We have had a battery low problem for months, something that was causing this alert to come on all the time. Neither Volvo dealer could find a problem, an alert, or an error. And one day while waiting for Jerry I noticed that the car kept trying to reconnect to the satellite after it had been shut off. After a bit of research, we had the satellite radio subscription stopped. (Thank you, Google) Since there has been no issue with the battery saying it was low. So, we can download music to our phones and podcasts, but I am also exploring using an older device (no, not my Walkman!) an Amazon Fire Phone I last used in 2017. I think it will be perfect for music and podcasts and can just stay in the car. I am sure we have an old iPod somewhere in the house but do not think it would have presented the challenge the Fire did. When it finally came back to life (IT’S ALIVE!) I remembered some of its features, and shortcomings but I think it will be fine.

And now, it is time to listen to the State of the Union address. We know the state of the world, we know the state of our hearts. Let us see what the President has to say.

Be safe, be kind.

Small bits

The second round of the ice storm arrived at noon. Looking out the window the physical aspect of the storm can be seen in how it bounces bird seed across the ground and makes the birds flee to the safety of the pine and a spruce over by my neighbor’s house. A shelter of sorts. Last night as I moved the feeders in, close to thirty cardinals were out near the deck and the lilacs. The lilacs are good cover from hawks, but the ice pellets were small bits of shrapnel. Overnight these bits of ice formed a solid sheet on the road and sidewalk and the only safe passage this morning when placing the feeders back out was via the lawn; even then best to stay where no path has been forged. Right after lunch, the snow came. Just a light dusting to cover the ice. While watching the blackbirds at the feeders I noted a woodpecker that dropped in and hung on awkwardly grabbing a sunflower and then speeding away. I think this was also the one that joined the blue jays this morning gathering peanuts in front of the house.

The rest of the day was spent thinking about Europe, about Ukraine, about peace. Paging through poems. Watching the birds. Watching the weather. Thinking about Ukraine. It’s raining in Kyiv, Ukraine right now. Soon it will be dawn and the day will be fairly warm for February, there may be sun.

Two weak hand poems:

Overnight the sky came to earth as crystal,
perfect cold gems of water
transformed. The way I wish at times
to change, to move through the world
in all forms, assembling and
disassembling as needed.

~~

In the clear dream
I saw sky and light
across a desert night
that place where stars
like curious observers
watch the earth
and wonder how
all those animals
can forget what
they’re made of

Memphis

Jerry and I went to Memphis for the weekend. We like to see cities and walk inside them; try for a moment to see what they are about. Memphis of course is full of a lot of contradictions and worries, glory, and shame. The weather was sunny and warm, the drive was easy. We did more walking and looking at the downtown area, than anything else. We had no desire to see Graceland or be down on Beale Street at night for any music. I was interested in seeing the markers about Ida B. Wells as she interests me, quite a lot. And the other assorted markers are curious, in fascinating and sad ways. We did not need to go to the Lorraine Motel, we know what happened there; no need to stand on the street and cry.

While walking past the federal building downtown, I made the offhand comment about the name, Odell Horton, “do you think that’s the name of a confederate soldier or the third imperial wizard of the klan?” After we got back to the room that evening, I looked it up and the good news is that Odell Horton’s name was added to the building in 2007, prior to that it was the Clifford Davis Federal Building. Davis was “…a vocal proponent of segregation with ties to the Ku Klux Klan. *”. And in December 2021 (DECEMBER 2021!) the name of Davis was taken off the building. (It had been the Clifford Davis/Odell Horton Federal Building) 🙄

Odell Horton “had a decades-long legal career before presiding over federal court in West Tennessee. He was the first Black assistant U.S. attorney and federal judge in West Tennessee post-Reconstruction. *” (*Micaela Watts, Memphis Commercial Appeal)

The Mississippi was very muddy, carrying a lot of debris. At the Metal Museum there were daffodils in the garden. We sat watching a barge turn, a few blue jays picking through the dead leaves, and listening to the traffic cross the bridge to Arkansas or return to Tennessee. The museum is small and lovely. The current exhibition is delicate and surprising. Work by Kim Cridler, I will share a few pictures, the one with the eggshells is actual eggshells. The patience and care to weld each section with such fragile accents! And I adore exhibits that include the artist’s notebooks.

Well, a good weekend, a birthday weekend for me and to top it all off, Jerry got me new cat pajamas and a tiara. What a guy.

My distraction

My distraction is blackbirds letting the wind hold them in flight, just a quiver of movement at the edge of the field, a whole flock suspended over the cattail-lined ditch. My distraction is the swirling leaves holding a dervish moment right in front of me. My distraction is the five gray squirrels at the pine, ground level a solid ribbon of motion up and down, chasing around, around, around; I dizzy just watching. My distraction is the clouds picking up their petticoats and racing toward the horizon, long rainlegs hurdling sweet gum and maple. Today I passed under the lilac and saw the faint trail that leads from their bare arms down toward the little draw where foxes and deer traverse. My distraction was I didn’t follow.

Today's weak hand writing exercise:

What is this need to witness the day’s first
light listening for whatever bird is near. What
is it about wind through a pine that makes me sixteen
again, alone beside a dark blue lake when the breeze
started a chorus of song throughout the thousand trees
and I thought yes, this is what I want.