My first comment was meant for @ Sloan Bashinsky but to the author of this post @Poetic Outlaws I can say that that poem touched me deeply. In fact it wet my eyes as I remembered my father whom I lost to cancer two Decembers ago. An intense man with the military bearing drilled into him, my mother a light hearted and often jovial woman brought out his funny side. Their love was like none I have ever come across. They’d rather have sheets each other’s company than anyone else. You mentioned Alzheimer’s which can make familiar people unfamiliar and create a distance between them. My Mom had Parkinson’s with dementia which did that and my Father was her target. But despite that he did his best to talk to and act like that didn’t matter and he cared for her til the last days. I respect him for that and for all who are faced with disease that cripple people mentally and physically and emotionally challenge their loved ones. My heart goes out to you and to them. I look forward to reading more of your posts.
To Erik and Patricia, Poetic Outlaws is the only place I have found online where love, truth and beauty breath regularly, the good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly, I said beautiful twice :-)
Sometimes, knowing something about a poet helps with context: where a poet might be coming from, how a poet lives or copes personally with what he/she expresses. Suicide has to raise questions. Yet, only a poet lives in the poets skin.
I was 50 years old when the first poem came out of me. I had been in a dark night the soul for about a year, The dark night had arrived very soon after I was told in my sleep by a familiar voice, “With respect to St. John of the Cross, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Then, in the dream, I was awash in pure, raw, black Evil, which caused me to gasp and gag and try to escape its grasp, and I woke up and it was still there for a few moments and I was terrified.
At the suggestion of a friend the year before, I had found a book in a local bookstore written by a Spaniard poet, Antonio T. de Nicholas, St. John of the Cross: Alchemist of the Soul. But for that book, I would have had no clue about the dark night of the soul. Nor, that some people experience a second dark night, which is much worse than the first dark night, which is awful. I often thought of killing myself during the first dark night, which lasted 4 years. But It was only thoughts. The black night arrived in early 1997 and lasted 16 months and I was suicidal every day, but something stayed my hand.
I was raised in Christendom, but I had not attended church for a long time when the first dark night came, and it did not cause me to start attending church, for I was in daily communion with not of this world phenomena. Except for a few brief scattered moments, all of that stopped during the black night. About a year into it, I started going to my mother’s church every afternoon and sitting in the nave until the maintenance staff nudged me awake because the church was closing. Nothing changed until I left the woman i was with, for whom church was very important, and then the black night began to lift, After the black night lifted, the phenomena returned full-bore and have been with me ever since, although the presentation changed many times.
Before, during and after the dark night and the black night, I was turned very which a way but loose, upside down and inside out. I was stood before endless mirrors looking at me. I was carried, nudged, pushed, shoved, yanked, spanked, criticized, rebuked, encouraged, terrorized and picked back up, and it’s still happening.
If you can access Google, here’s a link to an epic poem of sorts, which leaped of me in early September 2005 as fast as I could type it on a public library computer about my father and me. When I typed the last word and period, my father’s lawyer called me to say my father had died. https://afoolsworkneverends.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-hit-and-miss-club-was-written-by.html
Thank you. That was very informative and well written. I now have a better understanding of her. I have little knowledge of well known poets or any poets for that matter. Poetry has not been my genre of written works. But the passion and creativity behind it? That I get. To write a story or an article you express your idea in everyday language for the average reader. But poetry appeals to and speaks to a select audience: the deeper thinker, one who can read between the lines and see the beauty or tragedy of the words on the page. Hats off to those who can reach into the soul of humanity with words.
Sometimes, knowing something about a poet helps with context: where a poet might be coming from, how a poet lives or copes personally with what he/she expresses. Suicide has to raise questions. Yet, only a poet lives in the poets skin.
I was 50 years old when the first poem came out of me. I had been in a dark night the soul for for about a year, The dark night hadarrived very soon after I was told in my sleep by a familiar voice, “With respect to St. John of the Cross, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Then, in the dream, I was awash in pure, raw, black Evil, which caused me to gasp and gag and try to escape its grasp, and I woke up and it was still there for a few moments and I was terrified.
At the suggestion of a friend the year before, I had found a book in a local bookstore written by a Spaniard poet, Antonio T. de Nicholas, St. John of the Cross: Alchemist of the Soul. But for that book, I would have had no clue about the dark night of the soul. Nor, that some people experience a second dark night, which is much worse than the first dark night, which is awful. I often thought of killing myself during the first dark night, which lasted 4 years. But It was only thoughts. The black night arrived in early 1997 and lasted 16 months and I was suicidal every day, but something stayed my hand.
I was raised in Christendom, but I had not attended church for a long time when the first dark night came, and it did not cause me to start attending church, for I was in daily communion with not of this world phenomenoa. Except for a few brief scattered moments, all of that stopped during the black night. About a year into it, I started going to my mother’s church every afternoon and sitting in the nave until the maintenance staff nudged me awake because the church was closing. Nothing changed until I left the woman i was with, for whom church was very important, and then the black night began to lift,
After the black night lifted, the phenomena returned full-bore and have been with me ever since, although the presentation changed many times.
Before, during and after the dark night and the black night, I was turned very which a way but loose, upside down and inside out. I was stood before endless mirrors looking at me. I was carried, nudged, pushed, shoved, yanked, spanked, criticized, rebuked, encouraged, terrorized and picked back up, and it’s still happening.
If you can access Google, here’s a link to an epic poem of sorts, which leaped of me in early September 2005 as fast as I could type it on a public library computer about my father and me. When I typed the last word and period, my father’s lawyer called me to say my father had died. https://afoolsworkneverends.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-hit-and-miss-club-was-written-by.html
Sloan, thank you so much for not only your previous comments regarding knowing the life experience and origins of poets. But your introspective snapshot into those chapters of your life. Oh the similarities of your life experiences that parallel my life experiences. At least those you’ve touched on here. As I begin my last weekday craziness a prelude to blissful weekend I am compiling my response. As a writer (of short stories) my mind is ever full to the brim with possibilities for stories. But I will push them out of the way and put my thoughts Into words for you. But I warn you, I’m notoriously long winded. But will focus on making it as succinct as possible. I admire your tenacity and courage for one, being able to survive those periods of darkness and not be left unable to continue on or even utterly dysfunctional. Surely you had parts of your life irrevocably altered as you fought to stay afloat mentally. But during and after the storm, you retained your identity: the you, you were born with. And could examine your experience with new eyes. And then share it with others like myself. And now I am touched by it in a positive way. Sad you had to go through it. But we are both wiser for it. Thank you. Wish you well in your journey and I will look at the link.
Had I not gone through it, I would be someone else entirely today, or I would be dead, or in an insane asylum. My father and I loved each other dearly, but he could not fathom what I was experiencing, and although I tired several times to explain it, and sometimes I was very rough with him, and he was very rough with me, I never stopped loving him, and he never stopped loving me, but we did not see or speak for may years before he passed over, it was his call. Yet during all that time of estrangement, he sometimes came to me in dreams and it was always with something that was helpful, sometimes I didn’t want to hear or see it, but mostly it was he was the father I had always needed, and but for inheritances from him, which some people didn’t want him to allow, I would still be homeless, or I would be dead, He was a very successful capitalist, and despite my efforts, I became an anti-capitalist :-)
I, too, can get very long-winded, which is seen in my novels and stranger than fiction books at archive.org, a free library run by American colleges that specializes in out of print books and books donated by authors not seeking payment.
Beautiful! I’ve translated short stories and screenplays into English from Russian, but not poetry. That is something beyond my reach. One has to be a poet to translate poetry. You did a good job. I don’t speak Yiddish, not I hear music in your words.
My first comment was meant for @ Sloan Bashinsky but to the author of this post @Poetic Outlaws I can say that that poem touched me deeply. In fact it wet my eyes as I remembered my father whom I lost to cancer two Decembers ago. An intense man with the military bearing drilled into him, my mother a light hearted and often jovial woman brought out his funny side. Their love was like none I have ever come across. They’d rather have sheets each other’s company than anyone else. You mentioned Alzheimer’s which can make familiar people unfamiliar and create a distance between them. My Mom had Parkinson’s with dementia which did that and my Father was her target. But despite that he did his best to talk to and act like that didn’t matter and he cared for her til the last days. I respect him for that and for all who are faced with disease that cripple people mentally and physically and emotionally challenge their loved ones. My heart goes out to you and to them. I look forward to reading more of your posts.
To Erik and Patricia, Poetic Outlaws is the only place I have found online where love, truth and beauty breath regularly, the good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly, I said beautiful twice :-)
Sometimes, knowing something about a poet helps with context: where a poet might be coming from, how a poet lives or copes personally with what he/she expresses. Suicide has to raise questions. Yet, only a poet lives in the poets skin.
I was 50 years old when the first poem came out of me. I had been in a dark night the soul for about a year, The dark night had arrived very soon after I was told in my sleep by a familiar voice, “With respect to St. John of the Cross, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Then, in the dream, I was awash in pure, raw, black Evil, which caused me to gasp and gag and try to escape its grasp, and I woke up and it was still there for a few moments and I was terrified.
At the suggestion of a friend the year before, I had found a book in a local bookstore written by a Spaniard poet, Antonio T. de Nicholas, St. John of the Cross: Alchemist of the Soul. But for that book, I would have had no clue about the dark night of the soul. Nor, that some people experience a second dark night, which is much worse than the first dark night, which is awful. I often thought of killing myself during the first dark night, which lasted 4 years. But It was only thoughts. The black night arrived in early 1997 and lasted 16 months and I was suicidal every day, but something stayed my hand.
I was raised in Christendom, but I had not attended church for a long time when the first dark night came, and it did not cause me to start attending church, for I was in daily communion with not of this world phenomena. Except for a few brief scattered moments, all of that stopped during the black night. About a year into it, I started going to my mother’s church every afternoon and sitting in the nave until the maintenance staff nudged me awake because the church was closing. Nothing changed until I left the woman i was with, for whom church was very important, and then the black night began to lift, After the black night lifted, the phenomena returned full-bore and have been with me ever since, although the presentation changed many times.
Before, during and after the dark night and the black night, I was turned very which a way but loose, upside down and inside out. I was stood before endless mirrors looking at me. I was carried, nudged, pushed, shoved, yanked, spanked, criticized, rebuked, encouraged, terrorized and picked back up, and it’s still happening.
If you can access Google, here’s a link to an epic poem of sorts, which leaped of me in early September 2005 as fast as I could type it on a public library computer about my father and me. When I typed the last word and period, my father’s lawyer called me to say my father had died. https://afoolsworkneverends.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-hit-and-miss-club-was-written-by.html
Thank you. That was very informative and well written. I now have a better understanding of her. I have little knowledge of well known poets or any poets for that matter. Poetry has not been my genre of written works. But the passion and creativity behind it? That I get. To write a story or an article you express your idea in everyday language for the average reader. But poetry appeals to and speaks to a select audience: the deeper thinker, one who can read between the lines and see the beauty or tragedy of the words on the page. Hats off to those who can reach into the soul of humanity with words.
Sometimes, knowing something about a poet helps with context: where a poet might be coming from, how a poet lives or copes personally with what he/she expresses. Suicide has to raise questions. Yet, only a poet lives in the poets skin.
I was 50 years old when the first poem came out of me. I had been in a dark night the soul for for about a year, The dark night hadarrived very soon after I was told in my sleep by a familiar voice, “With respect to St. John of the Cross, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Then, in the dream, I was awash in pure, raw, black Evil, which caused me to gasp and gag and try to escape its grasp, and I woke up and it was still there for a few moments and I was terrified.
At the suggestion of a friend the year before, I had found a book in a local bookstore written by a Spaniard poet, Antonio T. de Nicholas, St. John of the Cross: Alchemist of the Soul. But for that book, I would have had no clue about the dark night of the soul. Nor, that some people experience a second dark night, which is much worse than the first dark night, which is awful. I often thought of killing myself during the first dark night, which lasted 4 years. But It was only thoughts. The black night arrived in early 1997 and lasted 16 months and I was suicidal every day, but something stayed my hand.
I was raised in Christendom, but I had not attended church for a long time when the first dark night came, and it did not cause me to start attending church, for I was in daily communion with not of this world phenomenoa. Except for a few brief scattered moments, all of that stopped during the black night. About a year into it, I started going to my mother’s church every afternoon and sitting in the nave until the maintenance staff nudged me awake because the church was closing. Nothing changed until I left the woman i was with, for whom church was very important, and then the black night began to lift,
After the black night lifted, the phenomena returned full-bore and have been with me ever since, although the presentation changed many times.
Before, during and after the dark night and the black night, I was turned very which a way but loose, upside down and inside out. I was stood before endless mirrors looking at me. I was carried, nudged, pushed, shoved, yanked, spanked, criticized, rebuked, encouraged, terrorized and picked back up, and it’s still happening.
If you can access Google, here’s a link to an epic poem of sorts, which leaped of me in early September 2005 as fast as I could type it on a public library computer about my father and me. When I typed the last word and period, my father’s lawyer called me to say my father had died. https://afoolsworkneverends.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-hit-and-miss-club-was-written-by.html
Sloan, thank you so much for not only your previous comments regarding knowing the life experience and origins of poets. But your introspective snapshot into those chapters of your life. Oh the similarities of your life experiences that parallel my life experiences. At least those you’ve touched on here. As I begin my last weekday craziness a prelude to blissful weekend I am compiling my response. As a writer (of short stories) my mind is ever full to the brim with possibilities for stories. But I will push them out of the way and put my thoughts Into words for you. But I warn you, I’m notoriously long winded. But will focus on making it as succinct as possible. I admire your tenacity and courage for one, being able to survive those periods of darkness and not be left unable to continue on or even utterly dysfunctional. Surely you had parts of your life irrevocably altered as you fought to stay afloat mentally. But during and after the storm, you retained your identity: the you, you were born with. And could examine your experience with new eyes. And then share it with others like myself. And now I am touched by it in a positive way. Sad you had to go through it. But we are both wiser for it. Thank you. Wish you well in your journey and I will look at the link.
Had I not gone through it, I would be someone else entirely today, or I would be dead, or in an insane asylum. My father and I loved each other dearly, but he could not fathom what I was experiencing, and although I tired several times to explain it, and sometimes I was very rough with him, and he was very rough with me, I never stopped loving him, and he never stopped loving me, but we did not see or speak for may years before he passed over, it was his call. Yet during all that time of estrangement, he sometimes came to me in dreams and it was always with something that was helpful, sometimes I didn’t want to hear or see it, but mostly it was he was the father I had always needed, and but for inheritances from him, which some people didn’t want him to allow, I would still be homeless, or I would be dead, He was a very successful capitalist, and despite my efforts, I became an anti-capitalist :-)
I, too, can get very long-winded, which is seen in my novels and stranger than fiction books at archive.org, a free library run by American colleges that specializes in out of print books and books donated by authors not seeking payment.
Wonderful.
So striking and precise. "From absence’s tallest tower" is an incredibly powerful line.
Thank you once again. What honestly volcanic horror.
Thanks for posting this. I am always looking for new (for me), poets to read and discover.
Yo.
Beautiful! I’ve translated short stories and screenplays into English from Russian, but not poetry. That is something beyond my reach. One has to be a poet to translate poetry. You did a good job. I don’t speak Yiddish, not I hear music in your words.
It should be “but I hear music in your words”
interesting use of words. How fathers are viewed is both universal and unique. To their peers, something else that can surprise offspring.
I love the idea of "translation as home."
Bravo for posting this!
Thank you
has stavans published a book translating her work...?
just wondering where to find more
thanks
👏🏻👏🏻