Out Of My Mind

Real Value

2011-12-28T18:14:00.000-08:00

I have just done something perfectly insane. I realized this very suddenly as I prepared myself to watch the on-line streaming video of the last race at Santa Anita on April 3, 2008: a $20,000 Maiden Claiming event that, I was certain, made not so much difference to anyone in the world as it did to me.

It also occurred to me that I very well may have had staked more on it than anyone else who had wagered on this race.

This was not a characteristic move on my part, a person usually quite conservative with money, and I certainly would not recommend anyone doing the same in similar circumstances. But on this particular day, my reaction to potentially terrible news was to do something drastic in an effort to steady my suddenly shaken world.

***

My youngest daughter, Gretchen, had a difficult birth and a troubled first week in the world. Underdeveloped and poorly functioning lungs caused her to have to be revived several times during her first four or five days. There had been much worry about her on several different accounts and occasions, all due to her developmental difficulties, but she seemed perpetually strong and resilient and determined to thrive.

She was a little more than a year and a half on April third, just getting to her feet to stumble around a bit, not yet having uttered her first word. Yet she was sociable and energetic and good-tempered, an engaging straw-blonde enigma.

***

“Beckwith-Widemann Syndrome,” my wife, Mary, forced out through tears of worry and that strange illogical sense of guilt all mothers feel when something is wrong with a child. “The doctor said she has signs…her tongue…that thing with her ear.” (Gretchen has a low-slung right ear with a tiny hole which looks exactly like a clean piercing squarely in the lobe where one would be.) “It’s a genetic thing. And she might have it. Kids who have it can get liver and lung tumors. They have to be scanned every three months. And some die.”

I blinked, hiding my shock. “Might is might,” I tried to sound strong and sure. “Might is not have.” I hoped she couldn’t tell my voice was shaking. I hoped I could conceal the fact that, suddenly, everything was shaking. It felt like the whole world was shaking.

I hugged Mary and tried to console her as best I could. But what really could be said? How could it be made to go away? What if it really was true?

***

Mary went up the stairs of our moderately middle class home in Auburn, Washington, carrying the baby towards naptime. Our six-year-old daughter, Laura Isabel, trailed afterward, clearly having caught the contagious sense of terror that suddenly permeated the air.

Might is might. I tried to reassure myself with my own words of intended comfort. Might is not have. It was about one o’clock in the afternoon.

Like many men, my reaction to shock and stress was the need to be alone for a while, so that I could regain and maintain my calm and be able to try to share it with my wife later, for whatever circumstances we would have to face.

I sat down at my desk in my office/library, surrounded by classic literature and horseracing memorabilia. We were in a reasonable place financially—enough money in the bank and next to no debt—an unusual circumstance these days, Mary, a credit union employee, was always telling me, but we were far from loaded and, I began to think in a panic, that one calamity could seriously upset our lifestyle. What if might turned out to be have after all? Thoughts of medical bills and costly therapies that might or might not be covered by insurance danced in my head like devils.

***

I had been picking up extra spending money on the horses for nearly two years. An avid racing fan and always one for side ventures, in June of 2006, I read a book that detailed a system for wagering on horseracing, using principles of stock market investing: “whether betting win, place, or show, always look for real value,” was the advice given over and over, and, with time, I found that if I did the homework and devoted enough concentration and mental energy, I could make a few extra bucks, and sometimes more than just a few. And the Internet availed me of nearly 300 races a day! And it was fun. And gratifying. I don’t make anything like a fortune teaching college English—who does?—and this made me feel like I was contributing a little more. We bought new furniture for the downstairs, remodeled the baby’s room, retiled all three bathrooms, built Laura a playhouse in the back yard, bought more expensive shoes and clothes than we might have otherwise—all on what I was able to make with my “second job.”

“Horse Money,” was what it is known as in my house—and everyone in our little family has plenty of things purchased with this special equine currency.

***

Santa Anita was just beginning an eight-race card. Why was I watching racing on a day like this? When I knew my wife was upstairs weeping and worrying? Then I knew. I had to make it better somehow. I had to do something to lighten the load. Medically, I was powerless. And as to knowing just the right thing to say to comfort my wife…Oftentimes I came up lacking in that venue. But maybe the financial end. Maybe a bit of security against a storm…

Before I really knew it, I found that I was looking for THE RACE. What I was suddenly calling in my own mind MY LAST WAGER. A big, bold, capital-letter investment that would pay off like none I had ever imagined.

Crazy. Foolish, even. I see that now. An all-or-nothing, for-all-the-marbles venture that no sane person should attempt. But my mind was feverish with fright. The unknown haunted me. This was the known. Horses and jockeys and dirt and sunshine. This was familiar.

***

I was set on Santa Anita, the only track with races that day whose betting pools would bear a huge wager without the odds going down so far as to destroy the ultimate payout on the investment.

I seriously considered Dr. Au Jus in the fourth race. Michael Baze was aboard, and the Santa Anita handicappers had this one billed as the “Bet Of The Day.” I had a lot of money left in my wagering account, and I was ready to use it all. I came so close to making the wager that I trembled. Then I balked. Dr. Au Jus won and paid $6.40 to win. I got up and paced, cursing my indecision and inability to act.

Then there was Behindatthebar in race number seven. David Flores was aboard, and he was having a great year. This seemed like a sure-thing. But Behindatthebar was even money, no real value here, especially if I added significantly more to the win pool, which would, of course, drive the odds down even lower. I shook my head and passed on it, as sure as I was of this horse. Flores took Behindatthebar through a scorching stretch run which left all other contenders in another time zone.

Why had I passed on Dr. Au Jus? $6.40! That was real value. That was a real opportunity, now gone forever.

***

I saw nothing else until the last race: a Maiden Claiming event for fillies and mares. I began the usual ripping through Internet sources, handicapper’s advice, on-line racing journals, racing blogs—and, to my surprise, they all said the same thing: Warren’s Sassy Cat.

This was her second time out. She had stumbled at the gate in her first race, getting away last, and then had rallied to be third. And the competition here was anything but hot—13 other horses who had yet to show anything like greatness. And she was in the very capable hands of veteran jockey, Martin Pedroza, who had ridden her in her first outing. On paper, she seemed like an obvious pick, and she was at 7/2. 7/2? Now this was value!

I went over and over everything I could find on this horse, right up until two minutes before race time. I was shaking, and my heart was pounding. What if she stumbled again? What if something went wrong? What if something totally unexpected happened? I had seen such things often enough. There would be no “making up the loss,” no second chances. I was violating two major rules of intelligent wagering: never bet out of want or need, and never bet all your winnings on one event.

I placed the wager: an obscene amount, everything I had left of my winnings from the past two years, more than half of the total in the win pool for Warren’s Sassy Cat. I noted the difference my bet made on the paramutual odds and prayed they wouldn’t go down any more. It would be an enormous win or a huge loss. A sane person would have taken all the money and put it in the bank as a modest umbrella against a rainy day. But I had done something perfectly insane.

***

They seemed to linger in the gate forever. My heart skipped a beat as my girl bounced backward in the box. If the bell sounds now…then… Then she got right again. I swear, if she wins, this is it… The last time… This is for everything.

Suddenly, something that I can only describe as a wave of warmth and calm spread over me. I knew everything would work out—everything would be just fine. The bell rang. I heard the familiar British twang of Trevor Denham’s voice as he called the race:

“And away they go…” This was it.

Titan Queen and Black Spot burst from the gate and tore through the opening quarter, It’s Noon Somewhere trying to keep up with them. Pedroza was practically standing on my horse to keep her out of the early fray, a distant fourth. The blistering pace was soon too much for It’s Noon Somewhere, and she peeled off and fell back. Titan Queen and Black Spot kept at each other in a merciless speed duel. They simply couldn’t keep this up forever, I told myself.

“It’s Black Spot and Titan Queen at the three-eights pole… But here’s Warren’s Sassy Cat, coming on smartly to take them on…” My girl was flying up behind them as Pedroza gave her her head, and she flew effortlessly by to take the lead. She went a little wide on the turn, but Martin quickly got her in toward the rail as they rounded for home. She looked clear, but then suddenly a closer came in to make a race of it.

“Warren’s Sassy Cat…taken on now by Groovy Lightning…” My stomach flipped again. But Pedroza urged her and she kicked in the afterburners, holding her rival at bay. I could see we had it all but won, but it just wouldn’t come to an end. Was Groovy Lightning gaining now? Anxiety rose up again. This was only six furlongs! Where was the line?!

Then, finally… “…Warren’s Sassy Cat… Warren’s Sassy Cat has won it!...”

***

When I had won $100 bets before, I had jumped up and down and cheered. Now, after having risked exponentially more and coming out on top, I simply sat, still tensed, almost disbelieving what had just happened, but allowing myself a real feeling of relief and hope, waiting for the results to go official. Pedroza had split horses at the top of the stretch, but it had looked clean. After about two minutes, it went up: Warren’s Sassy Cat $6.60… $6.60! Even better than Dr. Au Jus! And with all my money in there to boot!

At first, my wager log showed $0.00, and my heart was again in my throat. Could I have bet on the wrong horse? The wrong race? I checked. Number 7, Race 8. Santa Anita. It was all correct. I hit the refresh button on the browser…and the numbers came up and I calculated my win: $49,830.

I sat in disbelief for a long moment. Then I bolted upstairs. Mary sat with Gretchen and Laura on the bed, her face still filled with fear. “I just won $50,000!” I exclaimed, and, as if understanding all that I meant and intended in that simple declarative, my wife broke down and cried. And all at once, I was seized with more insight. “You’ll see! We’re going to remember April 3, 2008 as a happy day!”

***

We did. Further testing showed that our daughter did not have Beckwith-Widemann. (And the money will sit safely in the bank—except for what we will spend to take the girls to Disneyland…and Santa Anita Park.)

Over the next couple of weeks, it sank in. My daughter was not seriously ill, as we had feared. The joy I had felt at that $50,000 paled by comparison. My family was all right. Tragedy and loss had been averted. Love was intensified.

Real value. I had had no idea of what it actually was until now. And here, in this home, with these people, is where it had been all along. Here was the only place it could be found.

***

There was this year the thrill, the thwarted anticipation and the controversy surrounding Triple Crown wannabe Big Brown, the stunning upset by Da’ Tara in the Belmont, the tragedy of Eight Belles in the Preakness—but I will remember 2008 for a plucky little filly who proved game in the stretch in a $20,000 Maiden Claiming event at Santa Anita. Warren’s Sassy Cat—My Last and My Best—the horse who helped me discover what life’s best payouts are all about.

2008

One Year, Ten Months Later…

Not many things in life work out the way they are supposed to. What is it Burns said about the best laid plans of mice and men? “They gang agley”? Yes, that’s what it is. “The best laid plans of mice and men, they gang agley.” But once in a while, something goes just the way it should…

I am ashamed to say how long I waited--and watched. Watched with pain, disbelief and bewilderment as the horse that won me fifty grand was pounded through an unbelievably grueling race schedule that, at the end of a year and a half, had rendered a beautiful fine descendent of Secretariat and Alydar a perpetual also-ran at lowly California state fairground events. In fact, after breaking her maiden at the $20,000 level at Santa Anita, quite an accomplishment for a second time out, she never made better than a place showing ever again, even at embarrassing claimers against competition she could have annihilated at full strength.

Even toward the end, it was still there, that sweeping move through the backstretch which always made me think of her great-great-grandsire’s dynamic power play in the Preakness back in 1973. But hitting the track at often absurdly long distances for a six furlong sprinter, every two weeks and sometimes with only nine or ten days rest, she had nothing left in the stretch, too exhausted to last it out. One time she almost got there again, but not quite…it is a testament to her incredible heart that she was able to go out and give it her all under the conditions she was asked to do it for as long as she did.

But in the last two post parades, it was evident. She was shot--nervous and tired and sick to death of racing. I worried that something catastrophic would happen in the last one--there was an ominous feel to it and the way she shook her head and looked around, as if for a way out. But she made it through--again.

Then she disappeared altogether. And I mean disappeared. She didn’t turn up for a race or even a workout for two months, and I tried to find out what had happened to her, fearing the worst, but I could not find anyone who knew where she was--or who would tell me, anyway. FINALLY, I had decided to buy her out of racing, and God knows I had all the money in the world to do it, and had all along, thanks to her, but I couldn’t buy her if I couldn’t locate her or her owner--who, as it turned out, had left the country for six months to do business.

And that’s just how long it took me to find her: six months. I had great help and advice along the way, particularly from Katie Merwick at Second Chance Ranch, a rehabilitation and retraining center for retired racehorses here in the state of Washington, my dear friend Patricia Clark at Serenity Equine Rescue and Rehabilitation out of Maple Valley, Washington, and the absolutely wonderful Priscilla Clark from Tranquility Farm down in California, who had information and insights without which I could never have pulled off this project.

In fact, it was Priscilla who got the final key in the final lock, she and a fortuitous friend, Gail Matthews. The co-owners of Warren’s Sassy Cat both apparently had unlisted numbers. Searching everyone on the Internet with a the same last name or anything close, and anyone of the same nationality who lived in the Sacramento area, or anywhere close, I finally stumbled upon a man who turned out to be the nephew of one of owners. This man, of course, didn’t speak English. Now I do speak fluent German--but, naturally, that wasn‘t the right language either. This was par for the course at this point. The “conversation,” as you can imagine, was quite brief, to say the least. Of course, at this point, I didn’t even know that I had hit upon a family member of my horse’s owner, but I somehow had a hunch.

I called Priscilla and told her of my strange encounter and the feeling I had concerning it. By a remarkable coincidence, a charming woman named Olga, who is a friend of Gail, who sits on Priscilla’s board of directors, spoke exactly the language we needed. She made the contact, found out that I had, in fact, found a family member, got the number of the uncle, contacted him, and then he contacted his English speaking partner, who got in touch with me.

Then the negotiations began. The original asking price left me not knowing whether to laugh or cry. It was ludicrous. I countered with an offer that I knew was far above what he could ever get for a five year old racehorse with one win two years ago who had fallen down so far through the ranks that she would never get back up again. Counter offers came--still ridiculous. I stood fast. I knew my price was high and that no one would outbid me. More counter offers. Still ridiculous.

I can be an assertive person when I know I am in the right. “Twenty-four hours,” I said at last. “Then it goes down another $1,000.” (I knew that even then my bid would be far and above what anyone else would pay.) No answer for the rest of the day. The following morning, I called Priscilla, unsure now that I had done the right thing in leveling a threat. She said “sit tight and let him stew. You will get your price.” She was right. In the matter of the hour, the phone rang, and we had a deal.

***

It took a few days to sink in. I had bought Warren’s Sassy Cat, the horse I had never seen but fallen hopelessly in love with, the being who had won hope and happiness for me and my family on a day when everything seemed lost, a horse who was as revered in my house as Seabiscuit, Secretariat and Man O’ War all rolled together, the horse I had thought of and thanked God for at some point every day…

And there was more. Once she is retrained, my eight year old daughter, Laura Isabel, and eventually her younger sister, Gretchen (both mad about horses, by the way), could ride the 17 ½ hand tall, big beautiful red descendant of Secretariat and Alydar.

She was mine…

Which was only appropriate. I had been hers for nearly two years.

***

I have waited forever during the past ten days. And she finally comes tomorrow---Valentine‘s Day. It’s a couple of months late for this, perhaps, but I feel like a child the night before Christmas, and not just any ordinary Chrismas--the Christmas when a real miracle occurs--when you get exactly what you wanted, when you wake up from a wonderful dream and find out it’s all more real than you ever could have imagined.

And it’s Warren’s Sassy Cat, coming on smartly now into the final turn and headed for home…she’s drawing away clear and gaining momentum, far and away the best…

And so we all come away winners. We all hit the finish line together. It ends perfectly.

Just don’t tell Burns.

2010

Six Days Later…

[Let it be duly noted that much of what took place in the following addendum to the story of what turned into, to my mind, more of Warren’s Sassy Cat’s rescue than purchase, was related or told to me or otherwise rendered by congenital liars, con artists, persons who spoke broken English or practically none at all, and some suffering from all three maladies. Thus, I will be using the word APPARENTLY throughout, if for no other purpose, to show the utter confusion and dishonesty that arose in the final stages of this saga. DSJ]

The Valentine’s dream was ready to transpire. I had even written it into the final copy of the second part of the story. Then Burns’ words began to ring in the air… “The best laid plans of mice and men…” “They gang agley…” “Gang agley…” “Agley…” I suppose it is an early Scottish rendition of Murphy’s Law, but there’s something more ominous to it, especially after Steinbeck’s treatment. Yes, Steinbeck. And maybe I was Lenny, innocently pondering the peaceful times to come, the great dream, only about to get my head blown off in the process.

Well, it all began with what seemed a minor, if annoying, problem, especially considering all the anticipation everyone had felt, and the Valentine’s Day vision… The transport broke down in Barstow. (If you ever break down, it should be in Barstow.) I was told by my driver that if he couldn’t get up and running that day, he would rent another truck. Long and short--that didn’t happen. The day passed, and then another. Now February 16^th was the new due date. Then it was the 17^th. “One more hour.” Then “One more day.” I heard it everyday and was starting to get jaded. A wonderfully sunny week my kids had off from school was quickly getting away. Every minute of good weather seemed precious. I cancelled, and then uncancelled classes I would be teaching at various times when she was supposed to be arriving. It was really starting to get irritating.

Now my wife may contradict this, but I will claim to have a long fuse--that burns quickly toward the end. I had left several messages for my driver, inquiring as to the state of the truck on the evening of the 16^th, having been told he would be on the road at noon of that day. Nothing. On the morning of the 17^th, I expected the same old excuses I had been getting every day for several days: the driver blamed the mechanic, the mechanic blamed Moses, Moses blamed Adam, Adam blamed Eve, Eve blamed the snake, and the snake just stood there (he had legs to start, remember?) smiling.

All night long, I had been rehearsing what I was going to say, and let it be said that, if I have any talent with words at all, I also inherited my father’s poetic ability with long strings of gracefully placed obscenities. I was all set to get my driver’s voice mail ONCE AGAIN and (loudly) say my piece and engage another transport company. Fortunately for all, he answered the phone, actually on the road and headed for Reno before doubling back to Lincoln, California for my horse. He had “forgotten to call” to let me know he had finally got going. Thus, one of the great tirades is lost to history.

And let this be said too: during that eternal wait while he was broken down in Barstow, I wasn’t pleased with my driver, unfairly so, if he tells the story, and that may well be. But this I assert fervently: he played the hero the night of the 17th (if a well-paid one), taking on the roles of international diplomat, lay interpreter, cop, and psychiatrist for the perpetually insane. In short, he earned his money and then some…

And now it gets interesting…

***

But first, we must ask: “Why do things so often ‘gang agely‘?” Well, I have my own theory of evolution to explain a good deal of it. Some many millions of years ago, Homo Erectus stood upright for the first time, and, finding himself exposed, invented pants. The back pocket soon followed. Then he found that he needed something to put in the back pocket. He crafted the first wallet. Then he needed something to put in the wallet and drew little pictures of famous cavemen on leaves to fill his new invention and put it all in the back pocket of his pants. Circumstances followed that brought about an end to evolution, and the world has been headed downhill ever since…

And so it is our story continues…

***

Let me introduce “Slick” (not his real name, but rather a verbal rendering of his personality). Slick was the person who called me, claiming to be the owner of the horse.

Now, from previous installments of this ever-growing story, you will remember that I accidentally ran across a nephew of the owner, who had contacted the uncle, who, unbeknownst to me, had engaged Slick as a go-between for a sale, since the owner did not speak English very well and APPARENTLY had…well… “other issues” with the state of California that interfered with his ability to deal directly in the sale of racehorses.

Slick’s English was broken, but understandable when he spoke slowly, and, a little more than APPARENTLY, he had some less than honest intentions from the get-go. As I wrote before, what he was asking for the horse was ridiculous. I had been told that she had a slightly bowed tendon on the right back and that breeding was dead in California due to the economy and that $1,500 would be a fair price for this worn-out mare.

To avoid all the details of the bidding wars, I will simply say that I started at $2,000, a few hundred above what I had been told she would be worth, and at last gave an offer of $4,000, what she would have cost me if I had claimed her at her last race. This price, plus $100 for “boarding.” (It turned out, of course, that the horse was not on Slick’s property at all. He claimed that the horse was entirely under his care, quite APPARENTLY, a bald-faced lie, and he had actually asked for $200 in “board” for the few days she would remain at home.)

So the deal was struck on February 5th, and everything seemed great. Slick asked for a money transfer…into his girlfriend’s account…which did make me wonder a bit, but, anxious to get things finalized, I did what this APPARENT owner asked.

***

I was elated when I learned that my driver was on his way, and he was scheduled to pick up Warren’s Sassy Cat at four in the afternoon. My eight-year-old daughter, Laura Isabel, and I counted down the seconds, heralding four o’clock in the afternoon on the 17^th as a holy hour. I assumed everything was going according to plan…

But Burns had more in store for me…

***

I was in the middle of teaching a night class, discussing gender and ethics, when my cell phone rang. I saw it was Slick, and I asked my class to excuse me for a minute so I could see what was up. Slick was babbling, and fast, something about the horse’s papers. The trailer was there and APPARENTLY, Slick was having trouble laying hands on the papers. I told him to keep looking, that I needed them for the horse to ship and that he needed to get them to the driver. I explained I was at work, hung up and went back to my class.

Two minutes later, the cell rang again. It was my driver. I didn’t want to interrupt the class again, so I let the voice mail get it. Thirty seconds later, it rang yet again. The driver. Something was wrong. I excused myself once more. I was already perturbed that the transport was four and a half hours late to pick up the horse…but there was more bad news. “No papers… No health certificate, no Coggins release, no Jockey Club registration. Nothing.”

I told my class to go home and that we would resume on Monday.

Thus began a four hour Tchiakovskian opera that no one would believe without having been there. And here begin the APPARENTLY’s in earnest…

***

APPARENTLY, there was a major con-job afoot on Slick’s part. APPARENTLY, the owner had, in fact, authorized Slick to conduct business with me however he saw fit and trusted him to get a fair price. But APPARENTLY, Slick had made the deal with me, hidden the money in the girlfriend’s account and led the owner to believe that no sale had actually come about. APPARENTLY, Slick had intended to take everyone by surprise and then lie at the last minute about the price of the horse. Or maybe he was going to claim the horse had been stolen by pirates…I still can’t figure out this part.) But, APPARENTLY, he had some slippery plan that involved taking money from me, shipping the horse without papers, and not telling the owners…

APPARENTLY, someone suspected something when the transport showed up in the field, and thus began the opera…and, like most operas, it was long, there was lots of high-pitched screaming, and it was not in a language I understood…

***

Between 8:30 and 10:30, I made exactly 173 calls, half (86 ½) to Slick, begging him to look harder and faster for the “misplaced” papers (still thinking he was the owner), and the other half to my driver, begging him to stay “just a few minutes more.”

I had prodded this latter’s conscience early in the going, reminding him that I had waited several days for him. After two hours, conscience was not enough. He was starting to threaten to go, stating that it was simply getting too late. “Time is money,” I have always heard; thus, I figured, by some Einsteinean equation, that money must also be time. “I will give you $100 more, if you see this through.” It worked.

Another 173 calls passed back and forth, and somewhere in the night, someone who was APPARENTLY the wife or friend or agent of the owner (she held the papers, and APPARENTLY, fairly tightly) arrived on the scene, got my number from either Slick or the driver, and called my cell phone. APPARENTLY she spoke exactly 17 words of English. APPARENTLY, she was not going to give up the papers until she knew how much Slick had gotten for the horse. APPARENTLY, Slick had told her that he got $1,000 and had “forgotten to call” her about the sale. (Funny how things like that happen.)

APPARENTLY, and fortuitously, one of her 17 words was “four,” and I was able to convey to her that I had paid just that many times more than Slick had APPARENTLY told her.

Then the phone was passed again to Slick. At LONG LAST, I got to use the obscenity poem I had crafted the night before. I also let it be known that no matter how crazy he was, I was crazier and that I was prepared to find lawyers to sue him and that I would have the police at his place that night, if necessary. (Even as I was leveling these threats, I was secretly sick at heart, fearing frightfully that my beloved horse--and my $4,100--were gone for good.)

Slick stammered something incomprehensible and hung up.

A minute or so later the APPARENT owner’s wife/friend/agent called once more. “Problem, me!” she was crying. “Problem, me!” Now this was APPARENTLY a reference to something I had (loudly and with much language God must have frowned upon) told Slick. “Your [words deleted] money problems and whatever [words deleted] you owe her are [words deleted] not my [words deleted] problem!!!” APPARENTLY, she was trying to tell me that SHE DID have a problem, namely that Slick owed her/her husband/her friend/the person she represented (I am pretty sure she had a direct interest and was probably the owner’s wife) money, and she needed to hear again how much I had paid. “You honest man…” (She seemed to want to believe there was still one left.) “You tell me truth…” (Now somewhere in this mess, I did hear a pretty wild account of the matter of the outraged woman, who she was and what she wanted, from Slick, but APPARENTLY, this was an elaborate untruth, as I did hear from the true owner the next day, and he clarified most of it--though I never did get entirely clear about who the woman was. The owner did define Slick‘s role, however: “he a crook.”)

Once more, I assured her that the horse had been sold for $4,100 (I said it very slowly and several times), and APPARENTLY, “lawsuit” was also one of the 17 words, because I assured her that if she needed to file one against Slick, I would write an affidavit, stating the amount I had paid.

This did the trick. She gave the papers to my driver…and he ran for the door.

***

More or less twenty hours later, she arrived, the only horse left in the trailer. “Warren’s Sassy Cat!” Laura called out as it came up the drive to the paddock. A loud horse cry that must have meant “YES! IT IS! NOW GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” issued through the metal walls.

In moments, into the night’s chill and the deepening dark, a sweaty, dirty, worn, underfed--and hopelessly beautiful--17½ hand mare named Warren’s Sassy Cat…Warren’s Sassy Cat…actually mine at last!--very cautiously stepped onto Washington soil for the first time.

What can I even say about this moment?… Something fundamental changes in a person when he can say “my horse.” Charles Howard could say “my horse.” Mrs. Tweeny could say “my horse.” And now I could too.

***

And so it was that my own Jenny Geddes had beaten Burns again--and just at the wire.

“I feel like I have pulled her out of hell through a keyhole,” I wrote Katie Merwick at Second Chance Ranch at 2 a.m. on February 18th, “and that what started with a miracle has ended with one.”

***

I can see her every day now at the small ranch where she is boarded. And as I walk her around the grounds, I have to laugh that I once gathered a handful of Santa Anita soil, simply to have a bit of the place where she had won for me. Because now, here she is, Warren’s Sassy Cat-- My Sassy Girl herself-- here with me, clip-clopping alongside with her beautiful, noble head bobbing at my right shoulder. “My horse…”

***

Everyone who hears this story says “it sounds just like a movie…” Well, perhaps one whose script was written by a romantic poet who was descending rapidly into schizophrenic madness by the time he got around to the final act… Still, a happy ending makes it all right once the final credits roll…

But what to call it? “My Sassy Girl”? Already taken. “All’s Well That Ends Well.” Hum. That sounds familiar too. We could do a musical and call it “Singin’ In Ukraine…”

Well, we’ll figure it out…

“Coming to a theater near you…” Tickets go on sale on Valentine’s Day, 2011...

2010

Top 100 In Banned/Challenged Books

2008-02-29T12:22:00.001-08:00

Banned/Challenged Books

1. The Adventures Of Huckleberry Finn Mark Twain
2. The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer Mark Twain
3. A Farewell To Arms Ernest Hemingway
4. A Lesson Before Dying Ernest Gaines
5. Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland Lewis Carroll
6. All Quiet On The Western Front Erich Maria Remarque
7. Animal Farm George Orwell
8. Annie On My Mind Nancy Garden
9. Areopagitica John Milton
10. The Autobiography Of Benjamin Franklin Benjamin Franklin
11. The Awakening Kate Chopin
12. As I Lay Dying William Faulkner
13. The Bell Jar Sylvia Plath
14. The Bible
15. Black Beauty Anne Sewell
16. Black Boy Richard Wright
17. Black Like Me John Howard
18. The Bluest Eye Toni Morrison
19. Brave New World Aldous Huxley
20. The Bridge To Terabithia Katherine Paterson
21. Burgher’s Daughter Nadine Gordimer
22. The Call Of The Wild Jack London
23. Candide Voltaire
24. The Canterbury Tales Geoffrey Chaucer
25. The Catcher In The Rye J.D. Salinger
26. Catch-22 Joseph Heller
27. Civil Disobedience Henry David Thoreau
28. The Color Purple Alice Walker
29. The Complete Fairy Tales Of The Grimm Brothers William & Jacob Grimm
30. The Crucible Arthur Miller
31. A Doll’s House Henrik Ibsen
32. The Diary Of A Young Girl Anne Frank
33. Dracula Bram Stoker
34. East Of Eden John Steinbeck
35. Fahrenheit 451 Ray Bradbury
36. Fannie Hill, Or Memoirs Of A Woman Of Pleasure John Cleland
37. Frankenstein Mary Shelley
38. For Whom The Bell Tolls Ernest Hemingway
39. The Giver Lois Lowry
40. Go Ask Alice Anonymous
41. The Grapes Of Wrath John Steinbeck -5
42. The Great Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald
43. Hamlet William Shakespeare
44. Heart Of Darkness Joseph Conrad
45. Heather Has Two Mommies Lesléa Newman
46. I Am The Cheese Robert Cormier
47. In Cold Blood Truman Capote -4
48. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings Maya Angelou
49. Invisible Man Ralph Elison
50. Jude The Obscure Thomas Hardy
51. The Kama Sutra Of Vatsyayana Vatsyayana
52. King Lear William Shakespeare
53. The Koran Mohammad
54. Lady Chatterly’s Lover D.H. Lawrence -9
55. Leaves Of Grass Walt Whitman
56. Little Black Sambo (1899) Helen Bannerman
57. Lolita Vladimir Nabakov -3
58. Lord Of The Flies William Golding -8
59. Lysistrata Aristophranes
60. Macbeth William Shakepeare
61. Manifesto Of The Communist Party Karl Marx & Friedrich Engels
62. Mary Poppins P.L. Travers
63. The Martian Chronicles Ray Bradbury
64. The Merchant Of Venice William Shakespeare
65. The Mikado Gilbert & Sullivan
66. Moby Dick Herman Melville
67. Moll Flanders Daniel Defoe
68. 1984 George Orwell
69. Native Son Richard Wright -6
70. Ninety-Five Theses Martin Luther
71. The Odyssey Homer
72. Of Mice And Men John Steinbeck -10
73. One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest Ken Kesey -7
74. Ordinary People Judith Guest
75. The Outsiders S.E. Hinton
76. Paradise Lost John Milton
77. Patience And Sarah Isabel Miller
78. Pensees Pascal
79. Portnoy’s Complaint Philip Roth
80. The Prince Niccolo Machiavelli
81. Rabbit, Run John Updike
82. A Raisin In The Sun Lorraine Hansberry
83. The Rainbow D.H. Lawrence
84. The Red Pony John Steinbeck
85. Sanctuary William Faulkner
86. The Scarlet Letter Nathaniel Hawthorne
87. A Separate Peace John Knowles
88. Silas Mariner George Eliot
89. Slaughterhouse Five Kurt Vonnegut
90. Sons And Lovers D.H. Lawrence
91. Sophie’s Choice William Styron -1
92. The Sorrows Of Young Werther Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
93. The Story Of Doctor Dolittle Hugh Lofting
94. Summer Of My German Soldier Betty Greene
95. Tartuffe Moliere
96. Tess Of The D’Urbervilles Thomas Hardy
97. Their Eyes Were Watching God Nora Zeale Hurston -2
98. To Kill A Mockingbird Harper Lee
99. Uncle Tom’s Cabin Harriet Beecher Stowe
100. Women In Love D.H. Lawrence

VISIT MY WEBSITE!

Top 100 In Comics/Graphic Stories & Novels

2007-12-27T15:09:00.000-08:00

.

1. The Absolutely Essential Eloise Kay Thompson & Hilary Knight
2. Andy Capp At 50 Reg Smythe
3. Asterix: Die Ultimative Edition 1-33 (33 Bänder) Rene Goscinny & Albert Uderzo
4. Auch Das Noch! Adam Trepczynski
5. Auch Männer Können Spülmachinen Ausräumen! Martin Perscheid
6. Berlin: Steinerne Stadt Jason Lutes
7. The Best Of Blonde Dean Young & Jim Raymond
8. The Best Of Gahan Wilson Gahan Wilson -8
9. Beziehungen Am Abgrund Martin Perscheid
10. The Biggest Tongue In Tunisia And Other Drawings B. Kliban
11. Bone: Flucht Aus Boneville Jeff Smith
12. Blankets Craig Thompson -1
13. The Book Of Mr. Natural Robert Crumb
14. Böse Bilder Martin Perscheid, Tom Körner, Kamagurka, Adam Trepczynski, et. al.
15. Calvin Und Hobbes Bill Watterson
16. Calvin Und Hobbes: Angriff Der Durchgeknallten Mörderischen Schneemutanten Bill Watterson -7
17. Calvin Und Hobbes: Die Rache Des Kleinen Mannes Bill Watterson
18. Calvin Und Hobbes: Ereignisreiche Tage Bill Watterson
19. Calvin Und Hobbes: Irre Viecher Aus Dem All Bill Watterson -3
20. Calvin Und Hobbes: Was Sabbert Da Unterm Bett? Bill Watterson -5
21. Calvin Und Hobbes: Wir Wandern Aus! Bill Watterson
22. Calvin Und Hobbes: Wissenschaftlicher Fortschritt Macht „Boing“ Bill Watterson
23. Cartoons By Guindon Richard Guindon
24. The Complete Fritz The Cat R. Crumb
25. Das Schicksal Otto Nückel
26. Der Anti-Streuwwelpeter F.K. Wächter
27. Der Streuwwelpeter Heinrick Hoffmann
28. Die Andere Seite: Beste Von Gary Larson Gary Larson
29. Die Peanuts Werkausgabe (25 Bände) Charles Schulz -4
30. Die Idee Frans Masereel
31. Die Passion Eines Menschen: 25 Holzschnitte Von Frans Masereel Franz Masereel
32. Die Stadt Frans Masereel
33. Die Sonne Franz Masereel
34. Displays Of Affection Sempe
35. Eloise’s Guide To Life: Or, How To Eat, Dress, Travel, Behave, And Stay Six Forever Kay Thompson & Hilary Knight
36. Eloise In Paris Kay Thompson & Hilary Knight
37. Eloise Takes A Bawth Kay Thompson, Mart Crowley & Hilary Knight
38. Everything Is Complicated Sempe
39. First-Date-Katastrophen Martin Perscheid
40. The Far Side Gallery 1, 2 & 3 (3 Vol.) Gary Larson
41. Feiffer: The Collected Works 1-3 (3 Vol.) Jules Feiffer
42. Gahan Wilson’s Even Weirder Gahan Wilson
43. Gänse-Stripshow Martin Perscheid
44. Geschichte Ohne Worte Frans Masereel
45. Ghost World Daniel Clowes
46. God’s Man Lynd Ward
47. Guindon: Together Again Richard Guindon
48. Happily Ever After: A Collection Of Cartoons To Chill The Heart Of Your Loved One Chas Addams
49. High-Spirited Rose Is Rose Pat Brady -9
50. I Paint What I See Gahan Wilson
51. Innocence And Seduction: The Art Of Dan DeCarlo Dan DeCarlo & Bill Morrison
52. The Irresistible Rose Is Rose Pat Brady
53. Jimmy Corrigan, Or, The Smartest Kid On Earth Chris Ware
54. Jungenderinnerungen Kamagurka
55. Kafka Robert Crumb & David Zane Mairowitz
56. The Katenzammer Kids: Early Strips In Full Color Rudolph Dirks
57. Licence To Dream: A Rose Is Rose Collection Pat Brady
58. Little Lulu (1936) Margé
59. Little Lulu And Her Pals Margé
60. The Life Of Christ In Woodcuts James Reid
61. Mad: Cover To Cover (48 Years, 6 Months, & 3 Days Of Mad Magazine Covers) Frank Jacobs
62. Mad Man’s Drum Lynd Ward
63. Mafalda: Alles Wird Gut! Quino
64. Mafalda: Da Bin Ich! Quino
65. Mafalda: Na Und? Quino
66. Mafalda: Viel Glück! Quino
67. Männer!/Frauen! (2 Bänder) Uli Stein
68. Männer Am Abgrund/Frauen Am Abgrund (2 Bänder) Martin Perscheid
69. Maus & Maus II (2 Vol.) Art Spiegelman -2
70. Mein Stundenbuch Frans Masereel
71. Meet Andy Capp Smythe
72. My Troubles With Women Robert Crumb
73. National Lampoon’s Truly Tasteless Cartoons: The Best Of The Worst M.K. Brown, John Caldwell, Thomas W. Cheney
74. Notes From The Couch Sempe
75. Nothing Is Simple Sempe
76. Nun Das Will Ich Mal Gelten Lassen! Martin Perscheid
77. Our Cancer Year Joyce Brabner, Harvey Pekar & Frank Stack
78. The Pin-Up Art Of Dan DeCarlo Dan DeCarlo
79. Playboy’s Kliban B. Kliban
80. R. Crumb Draws The Blues Robert Crumb
81. R. Crumb’s America Robert Crumb
82. The R. Crumb Handbook Robert Crumb & Peter Poplaski
83. Red Carpet Rose: A Rose Is Rose Collection Pat Brady & Don Wimmer
84. Remembering Farley Lynn Johnston
85. Rose Is Rose 15th Anniversary Collection Pat Brady
86. Rose Is Rose In Loving Color Pat Brady -10
87. Rose Is Rose: Right On The Lips Pat Brady
88. Rose Is Rose: Running On Alter Ego Pat Brady -6
89. She’s A Momma, Not A Movie Star: A Rose Is Rose Collection Pat Brady
90. Slovenly Betsy Heinrick Hoffmann
91. Southern Cross Laurence Hyde
92. Suddenly Silver: Celebrating 25 Years Of For Better Or For Worse Lynn Johnston
93. Sunny Spells Sempe
94. Tiny Footprints And Other Drawings B. Kliban
95. Uli Stein’s Tierleben Uli Stein
96. The Weird World Of Gahan Wilson Gahan Wilson
97. White Collar Giacomo Patri
98. Wild Pilgrimage Lynd Ward
99. The World Of Chas Addams Chas Addams
100. The World Of Quino Quino

VISIT MY WEBSITE!

Top 100 In Tea

2007-08-14T16:36:00.000-07:00

Tea

1. Ahmad Strawberry Black
2. Ahmad Black Currant Black
3. Bentley’s Pomegranate
4. Bigelow Cinnamon Stick
5. Boston Tea Company Boston’s Orange Spice
6. Chado Bolivian
7. Chado Chocolate & Orange
8. Chado Coconut
9. Chado French Vanilla
10. Chado Lady Grey -5
11. Chado Mango -7
12. Chado Mint
13. Chado Orange Spice
14. Chado Peach
15. Chado Xocatlatl Chai
16. Chado Yunnan Supreme
17. Coffee Island Tea & Imports Chocolate Crème Truffles
18. Coffee Island Tea & Imports Earl Grey
19. Coffee Island Tea & Imports East Frisian Leaf Blend
20. Coffee Island Tea & Imports Irish Morning Rum Crème
21. Coffee Island Tea & Imports Magic Moon Strawberry
22. Coffee Island Tea & Imports Spicy Chai
23. Czar Nikolas II Premium Nostalgia -3
24. Czar Nikolas II Premium Renaissance
25. Czar Nikolas II Premium St. Valentine
26. English Tea Store Cinnamon Black
27. English Tea Store Lapsang Souchong
28. English Tea Store Czar Nikolas Russian Caravan
29. Golden Moon Coconut Pouchong
30. Golden Moon Honey Pear
31. Golden Moon Lapsang Souchong
32. Golden Moon Sinharaja
33. Impra Kiwi
34. Impra Apple
35. In Pursuit Of Tea Dangui
36. In Pursuit Of Tea Wang Jin Gui
37. Krasnyi Oktyabr Indian Black Tea
38. Lana’s The Little House World Class Teas Chocolate Cherry
39. Lana’s The Little House World Class Teas English Cottage Christmas Tea
40. Lana’s The Little House World Class Teas Pineapple Coconut
41. Lana’s The Little House World Class Teas Snowflake
42. Market Spice Dragon Phoenix Pearl
43. Market Spice Pu-Erh
44. Metropolitan Tea Company Night Of The Iguana White Chocolate Chai -10
45. Metropolitan Tea Company Peach Apricot (Decaf)
46. Metropolitan Tea Company Vanilla Cream
47. Revolution Dragon Eye Oolong
48. Revolution Earl Grey Lavender
49. Revolution Organic White Chai
50. Revolution Sweet Ginger Peach
51. Revolution Tropical Green
52. Revolution White Pear
53. Rishi Lychee Berry
54. Russian Royal Tea Ceylon -4
55. Special Teas Almond Cookie -9
56. Special Teas Cinnamon Orange Spice
57. Special Teas Fine Lung Ching Organic
58. Special Teas Holiday Dream
59. Special Teas Kenilworth OP Single Estate Ceylon No. 317
60. Special Teas Kenya GFBOP1 Millma Estate
61. Special Teas Masala Chai
62. Special Teas Mate
63. Special Teas Smoky Russian Caravan
64. Special Teas Tung Ting Jade Oolong
65. Stash Breakfast Blend
66. Stash Chai Spice -1
67. Stash Chai White
68. Stash Christmas Morning
69. Stash Darjeeling
70. Stash Double Bergamot Earl Grey
71. Stash Double Spice Chai -2
72. Stash Earl Grey
73. Stash English Breakfast
74. Stash Holiday Chai
75. Stash Irish Breakfast
76. Stash Moroccan Mint Green
77. Stash Orange Spice
78. Stash Peach Black
79. Stash Pomegranate Raspberry Green
80. Stash Pumpkin Spice (Decaf)
81. Stash Wedding Tea
82. Stash White Christmas
83. Taylors Of Harrogate South African Kwazulu
84. Taylors Of Harrogate Orange Pekoe China Rose Petal Tea
85. Taylors Of Harrogate Christmas Earl Grey
86. Taylors Of Harrogate Scottish Breakfast
87. Tazo Organic Chai
88. Teas Of The World Chocolate Raspberry Truffle
89. Twinings Apple, Cinnamon & Raisin Black -8
90. Twinings Darjeeling
91. Twinings Green Tea & Apple
92. Twinings Jasmine Green Tea
93. Twinings Lady Grey -6
94. Twinings Peach
95. Twinings Wild Berries
96. Yamamoto Yama China Oolong
97. Yamamoto Yama Gen Mai
98. Yamamoto Yama Ginger
99. Yamamoto Yama Green Tea & Ginseng
100.Yamamoto Yama Jasmine

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Translation Of Hans Christian Andersen's "Das kleine Mädchen mit den Schwefelhölzern"

2007-01-13T15:04:00.000-08:00

The Little Matchstick Girl

Hans Christian Andersen is known for his charming and often tragic fairy tales, many of which deal with the struggles of the poor in a society that barely takes note of them until it is too late. “The Little Matchstick Girl” is perhaps his most famous of this sort of tale.

It was frightfully cold; it was snowing, and the evening had already gone dark; it was the last night of the year, New Year’s Eve. In this cold, and in this darkness, a little girl with bare head and bare feet went along the street. It is true that she had slippers on when she left the house, but what help were they now? They were very large slippers which her mother had used formerly; they were much too large for the girl, and this little one had lost them as she had hurried along the street after two carriages that had sailed swiftly by. The first slipper disappeared entirely, while the second was taken from the dust by a boy who promised to use it as a cradle, if he ever had children

So it was that the little girl walked along on bare, tender feet, which were red and blue because of the cold. In her apron she carried a supply of sulphur matches, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. No one had bought any from her the whole day, and no one had offered her an alms. Hungry and freezing, the little one trudged on, looking entirely defeated and shaken. The snowflakes fell upon her long, blond hair, which flowed in beautiful curls down around her neck, but she never gave any consideration to how she looked. From every window, there came a bright, streaming glow of light, spreading itself out over the street, and there came also the scent of delicious roast goose. It was New Year’s Eve, and thoughts of these wonderful things filled the mind of the little girl.

In a corner between two houses, one of which edged out a bit nearer the street than the other, she crouched down. She pulled her little legs up underneath her, but she was still freezing; nevertheless, she dared not return home, because she had not sold a single box of matches, and so had not taken a single farthing. It was certain that she would be beaten by her father, and it was nearly as cold at home as well; there was barely a roof over their heads there, and the wind whistled and cut through the straw and rags they used in an effort to stop up the large cracks and fissures. O, what a single match might do for her in this moment! If she only dared to take one out from one of the little boxes, and then to strike it against the wall, and to warm her fingers in its glow! At last, she took one out. Whish! How it shone, how it burned. A warm, bright flame came up from the matchstick, a little light, as she held it in her tiny hand. It was a remarkable light; it seemed to the little girl as though she sat before a large iron oven with brass utensils; the fire burned so beautifully—warming and healing her. The little one stuck her feet out, to warm them as well—and the flame went out. The oven disappeared—she sat there with the stump of the burned-out matchstick in her hand.

She struck another one; it burned; it cast up a light. And the place on the wall where it shown seemed to open up into a passageway through which she could see. She peered into the room beyond the passage, where the table was made up with a blindingly white tablecloth and fine porcelain, and from the dishes steamed heaping helpings of stewed plums and apples, and there was also a beautiful roasted goose. And what was even more marvelous, the goose sprang out of the bowl and waddled, with the fork and knife still stuck in its back, over the floor and right in the direction of the poor little girl. Then the match went out, and there was only the thick, cold wall to be seen in front of her.

She lit another one. Then the little one sat under a magnificent Christmas tree; it was even bigger and more beautifully decorated than the one that she had seen through the glass door of the merchant’s on Christmas Eve. Thousands of lights burned on the green boughs, and there were pictures like those in the shops looking down upon the scene; the little one reached out with both hands—and the match went out. The multitude of Christmas lights ascended ever higher, and then she saw that they were brilliant stars. Then one of them fell, pulling a long stream of fire across the heavens.

“Someone has just now died,” the little one said, because her old grandmother, the only one who had treated her kindly, but who was now dead herself, had said, “when a star falls, a soul flies up to God in heaven!”

Once more, she struck a matchstick against the wall; it cast a wonderful glow all around, and there in its shimmering halo stood the old grandmother, gentle and mild, shining brightly in the light.

“Grandmother!” called the little girl. “O, take me with you! I know that you will disappear as soon as the match burns out, disappear like the warm tile oven, the delicious roast goose, and the glimmering Christmas tree!” Quickly she struck all the rest of the matchsticks remaining in the little box, because she wanted to hold onto her grandmother; and the matches all together cast up such a splendid luster that is was as bright as day. The grandmother was never before so lovely, so tall; she took the girl in her arms, and the little one was taken up into the glowing light and a wondrous sense of peace; cold, hunger and fear were gone forever—she was with God.

In the cold, early morning hours, there sat a little girl with red cheeks and a smile upon her lips—dead, frozen on the last day of the year. The first morning of the new year dawned upon the little body bent over the tiny box that had held the burned out matches. “She was trying to warm herself!” they said. No one knew of the beautiful vision that she had seen, or of the glow into which she had departed, along with her grandmother.

2007

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Poetry, 2007

2007-01-01T17:58:00.000-08:00

.
.
a sea of white
and heaven’s dome
a lonely seaman’s
rowing home

2007

Douglas S Johnson

January Haiku

first snowflake
upon your coat sleeve
white augury

2007

Douglas S Johnson

Lazarus

Watch out for me
I am coming
The me you’ve never seen
The me you never thought
You’d have to deal with:

The Hell that was hidden
Locked in the infant
You believed would forever
Lie moulding in its crib
Terrified, and thus, “good”

Caked over with layers
Of shredded, rotting leaves
And squirming wiggly worms
O, that baby was a favorite
A disgusting little doll
That everyone loved to view
With condescending nausea—

So you will be surprised
(This is your warning:
Never say it wasn’t there
Only that you never looked for it)

2007

Douglas S Johnson

Only when
Completely bound
Is one completely
Free

When knots
Go to sand

Strife to air

Full madness
To simplicity

2007

Douglas S Johnson

Turn the lock
With pounding thrill
Still, waits
Behind the door
The beast
You have not
Counted on
Waiting for you
there

2007

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Translation Of Wolfgang Borchert's “Spät Nachmittag"

2006-06-21T22:20:00.000-07:00

Late Afternoon

Most of Wolfgang Borchert’s stories deal with how war places insurmountable distance between the minds and souls of human beings—but in others, like “Spät Nachmittag,” we do not know the cause of the disruption, what has brought about the inability for two people to connect at a deep level, or why they cannot allow themselves proper intimacy. And, in ways, this makes for an even more tragic story, because the cause of the isolation is not known—rather, isolation and misunderstanding are simply seen as inescapable parts of the human condition.

The house was narrow, grey, tall. She stood there and said, “so…” He looked at her. The faces were already nearly drowned in late afternoon. He only saw a pale oval slice of something before him. Then she said, “yes.” Her key-ring jingled shyly. It laughed. Then the young man said, “This is Catherine Street. Thank you.”

She focused her colorless jelly-eyes that stared through her thick glasses on the bright fleck that she assumed was his face. “No,” she said, and her eyes looked a little stupid. “I live here. This isn’t Catherine Street. I live here.” The key-ring laughed softly.

The young man was surprised. “Not Catherine Street?” “No,” she whispered. “Really? Then what am I doing here? My God! I wanted Catherine Street.” He said this very loudly. Her voice became very small. “I live here. In this house here.” And she jingled the key-ring.

Then he understood. He went in close to the pale oval slice. She wore glasses, and her eyes were gelatinous, so stupid, so watery—he thought. “You live here…” he asked and caught at her, “alone?” “Yes—of course—alone.” She spoke these words as though from a great distance. This voice was so new that it even shocked her. Her voice had never in thirty-seven years been as it was when she said, “I have a room.”

He let go of her and asked, “And Catherine Street?” “It’s over there,” she answered, and her voice was just half as loud as it had been before. “There, the second one on the left.” “Second on the left,” he said and turned around. And a distant murmur of gratitude was heard through the drizzly afternoon. But it was already far, far away. Then the sound of his footsteps evaporated as he went away into Catherine Street.

No, he turned one more time. A grey fleck stared after him—but it could have just as well been the house. The house was narrow and tall and grey. Her and her jelly-eyes, he thought. They were just like jelly, so stupid behind those glasses. My God, she’s already at least forty. And then out of nowhere, she says “I have a room.” He grinned at the late afternoon. Then he turned into Catherine Street. A grey fleck stuck to the narrow grey house. A fleck that breathed and whispered to herself, “I thought that he wanted something. He looked at me like it wasn’t really Catherine Street he wanted. No—he didn’t really want anything.”

Her voice was again as before. As it had been for the past thirty-seven years. Blindly, her blank eyes swam back and forth behind the thick glass of the spectacles. Like they were in an aquarium. “No—he didn’t really want anything.”

Then she shut the door. And the bundle of keys laughed. Laughed quietly. Very quietly.

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Translation Of Wolfgang Borchert's "Der Stiftzahn, Oder Warum Mein Vetter Keine Rahmbonbon Mehr Isst"

2006-05-23T16:12:00.000-07:00

The Crowned Tooth, Or Why My Cousin No Longer Eats Toffees

Wolfgang Borchert is known mostly for his dark and wistful—and often bitter—meditations on war, but in several of his stories, he demonstrates a sharp and penetrating sense of humor, and even, on occasions, a bit of nostalgia. “The Crowned Tooth,” told with Borchert’s usual patient, staccato, poetic style, is a vignette from a lost childhood, from a lost age, from a lost innocence—which are never quite lost.

It was a nice little theater. And a little shabby. It smelled like children, excitement, and toffee. The whole foyer smelled like toffee. That was because you could buy them up front by the cash register. Ten cents for five pieces. That’s why it smelled like toffee from one end to the other. But all considered, it was a nice theater. And a little shabby. It could barely hold two hundred people. It was the epitome of the little small-town theater. One of those that you would lovingly call a “fleabag.” But without spitefulness. Our theater was called the Victoria Lightshow. On Sunday afternoons, there were feature presentations for children. For half price. But the toffees were almost more important to us. They were a part of it all: a part of the Sundays, a part of the theater. Five pieces for a dime. A nice little profit for the owner.

Sadly, my cousin had thirty cents. That could buy a whole lot of toffees. We were the happiest of all the two hundred children. Maybe I was the happiest. Because I sat by him, and he was my cousin. We were thrilled. The “sadly” part came in later.

Slowly, everything became pleasurably dark. The slobbering sound of two hundred children sucking sweets subsided. And in its place there rolled forth through the theater a volley of Indian cries, the pounding of stamping feet and a persistent concert of loud whistling. The blessed announcements of joyful Sunday and the beginning of another show.

Then it was dark. The screen lit up and something behind us began to whirr. Then there was music too. The Indian whoops broke off. Once more you could hear the sucking noises from one end of the place to the other. And nearly two hundred hearts beating. The movie began.

After that, it’s kind of hard to sort out. Anyway, there was a lot of shooting, riding, robbing and kissing. Everything was in motion. And in front of the screen, two hundred tongues, lolling and sucking away. When you got back home, you only knew that there had been a lot of shooting, riding, and robbing. You tended to repress the kissing. That was just a lot of junk.

The more riding and shooting there was, the faster the toffees got shoved from one cheek to the other. And you could always hear it all. A wild fleeing of horses on the screen—and the sucking sound swelling forth like a waterfall.

It smelled like children, excitement, and toffees. Like toffees from one end to the other.

Suddenly, just as the brave, blond hero on his trusty steed was being chased by seven black-bearded robbers over the movie-screen prairie—just as he sent a piercing hero’s look up to the bleak, cloudy, tragedy-laden heavens—just as the pursuing bad guys drew their hair-trigger 45’s and hid behind a giant clump of blooming cacti—there was a scream!

That, in itself, was nothing unusual, because everything that happened there on the screen was underscored by the shrieking commentary of two hundred children. But this particular scream was out of the ordinary. It was too loud and too full of shock. It sent chills up my back. And of course it had frightened me the most, because the one who had screamed was my cousin. And then he screamed again. Loud and mournful, like a kicked dog. And then a third time: horrifying and not to be ignored. That was how my cousin screamed.

His objective was achieved. Everything that had been going on there on the screen stood still and the whirr stopped. The music died too, and the lights came on.

It was not easy to get the reason for the three screams out of the howling, cursing, sobbing thing that my cousin had become. But it soon became clear, and the owner of the theater, who also ran the cash register and sold the toffees, dedicated a couple of good manly swear words to his own toffees. And especially the toffees that he had sold my cousin.

But, of course, my cousin was also to blame. How often had those in his own house and the dentist himself tried hard to impress upon him “for heaven’s sake, NEVER, but NEVER” to eat toffees. He had done it anyway. And that’s why it had happened. His post crown—even then, my cousin, who was held in awe and wonder because of it, had a post crown—his post crown had been seduced right out of its place by the beguiling toffee. And during one of the more breathtaking occurrences on the screen, he had suddenly opened his mouth to gasp for air, and the post crown had maliciously and nastily taken flight from its brothers and adventurously rolled under one of the theater seats.

After ten minutes, we had to give up the search. The crown had too many advantages. How in the world were we supposed to find a post crown under the dark seats with two hundred children rushing all over the place? All the whistling and yelling didn’t help either. Maybe this heart-pounding treasure had already taken up accommodations in some stranger’s pants pocket. Anyway, it was gone.

The darkness fell once more, and the screen lit up again and everything that had been frozen in time was again in motion. And once more there was music. And next to me sat the rest of my silent, pouting, tear-streaked cousin, still sucking on a toffee, but not nearly so proudly as before.

Eventually, everything comes to an end. Soonest of all a children’s movie in a small-town theater. The screen just couldn’t take it anymore, nor the music. They were so overwrought that they just shut down. But for such eventualities, there were two side doors that suddenly swung open and allowed the bright, blinding white Sunday afternoon into the theater. After a couple of minutes, two hundred howling and yowling children were out the door and spinning off in the Sunday air toward other adventures.

And then, last of all, surrounded by a dark cloud of moodiness and dim foreboding, my toothless cousin and me. We looked at each other. Wordless and gripped with tension. Almost like grown men. In spite of the fact that we were only twelve years old, almost like grown men. I thought I saw in my cousin’s eyes a monstrous warning streaming out at me. The warning said: if you start to laugh now, I’ll beat you to death!

I didn’t laugh. I laughed five minutes later. Then I laughed all that much louder and harder.

We were only two or three steps from the theater’s exit, where the Sunday sun winked at us with its inappropriately joyful rays—when suddenly we both heard another scream. This time it was I who screamed.

I came to a halt and stood still, as though my toes were caught in a mousetrap. Then I cried out a second time. Like a conquering hero:

“Boy, I got ‘em!”

My cousin could only dumbly reply, “who?”

Then I cried out a third time: “Hey, the crown! I’m standing on it!”

And with that, I lifted my foot high off the thick, dirty-red carpet. There was the post crown, lying there, causal, like nothing had happened. That hard little stone that had pressed against my sole had been his prodigal tooth. Four hundred feet must have kicked it all over the theater. How else could it have dared to come this far?

Now my cousin gave one last cry.

Then he whisked it up, beamed at it reproachfully, but blissfully, and—without even wiping it off on his jacket—jammed it back into place.

And then we could finally laugh. Until the tears ran down into our Sunday collars. Especially my cousin, because he would have laughed really hard at something like a lost tooth. If it hadn’t been his own tooth, of course. But now it was back, safe in its place, and we saw no reason why we couldn’t laugh ourselves half to death.

My cousin never looked at another toffee. Not so much as looked at one. And I understand why.

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Translation Of Astrid Lindgren's "Susi Unverzagt"

2006-05-01T17:03:00.000-07:00

Little Susie Triumph

Astrid Lindgren is the author of many wonderfully charming children’s stories and books, the most famous of which is her German classic, Pippi Langstrumpf (Pippi Longstockings). The following is a translation of her story “Susi Unverzagt.” The German original has appeared among Lindgren’s collected stories and in 1997, it was published in Briefe An Mein Enkelkind (Letters To My Grandchildren), the proceeds from which go to benefit displaced women and disadvantaged children in third world countries.

I wish you could have seen the house in which Little Susie Triumph lived! It was so pretty and clean that one might almost have thought it to be one of those charmed fairytale houses where one finds dwarves and elves. The house stood in the poorest part of the city and on a narrow, steep street with cobblestones. It was truly a poor area, and there wasn’t a single house on the street as elegant as Susie’s.

Susie’s house! What am I saying? Of course it wasn’t Susie who owned the house; it was owned by Grandmother—Grandmother, who made the “Polkagrisar” and then sold them in the market every Saturday. What is Polkagrisar? They are a kind of sucker, or, more rightly, a kind of peppermint stick with red and white stripes. They’re really good, by the way! They’re called “Polkagrisar” in Sweden, and that’s where Susie lived. As I was saying, the house really belonged to Grandmother. But in spite of that, I will refer to it as “Susie’s house.”

It was common for the townspeople to see Susie sitting on the stairs before the front door as they passed by the house along the street. She had the brownest, most delightful eyes and the rosiest cheeks that anyone had ever seen on a child, and she always looked so—how can I put it?—“triumphant.” And so it was that the grandmother came to call her “Little Susie Triumph.” Grandmother said that Little Susie Triumph looked triumphant even when she was only three months old and lying in a basket outside Grandmother’s door with a note asking that Grandmother take her in and look after her because “no one else would.”

Oh, how comfy it was, this little house! There were two narrow windows that looked out on the street, and often enough you could see a little turned-up nose through the glass and two merry eyes looking back at you!. Behind the house, well-hidden by a high, green fence, lay a garden—if you could really call it a garden: the whole thing amounted to not much more than a cherry tree and a couple of gooseberry bushes. Oh, and there was a tiny patch of green grass too. And there sat Grandma and Susie very happily on pretty days, drinking their coffee in the spring sun. Really it was Grandma who drank the coffee. Susie just let the sugar-cubes plop into Grandma’s coffee. And then she threw breadcrumbs to the sparrows that played along the garden path and made merry in the snowdrop bushes. In Susie’s opinion, Grandma’s house was plenty big, even though it was very small. In the evenings, when she lay down on the kitchen bench which served as her bed, while Grandmother cut the paper in which the candy would be wrapped, she prayed in an ever louder and clearer voice:

Going ‘round the house so light
An angel with two candles bright—
A book, as well, he clutches tight—
I close my weary eyes, good night!

The thought of the angel going around the house at night always made Susie happy. Somehow that made for a pervasive, peaceful feeling. She didn’t worry a bit about how he was able to carry all of those things at once: two bright candles and a book. But she would have been all too happy to see how he did it—and how did he get over the fence? Maybe the day would come when she would get a peek at the angel. Up until then, she hadn’t had any luck. Apparently the angel went ‘round the house while Susie slept.

Now, when what I am about to tell you about occurred, Susie was not yet seven years old. What started the whole thing in motion was nothing spectacular. Grandmother slipped in the kitchen and hurt her leg. It was nothing more than that, and such things happen every day; but think of this—it was only a week before Christmas! There were all those peppermint Polkagisar to think about—and without Grandmother, how would they get sold at the big Christmas festival? Who would do it now that she was bedfast and couldn’t move her leg without having to cry out loud? Who would cook the Christmas ham and buy the Christmas presents and tend to all the Christmas preparations around the house?

“I’ll do it!” said Susie. Now I told you that this little girl was a walking Triumph.

“Oh, my, my my,” said Grandmother from her bed. “My lovely child, you can’t do all that. We’ll have to ask Mrs. Larsson if she will take you in for Christmas, and then we’ll find out if there is room for me at the hospital.” It was then that Susie looked even more triumphant than usual. She would stay with the Larssons? And Grandmother would go to the hospital? Wouldn’t Susie and Grandmother celebrate this Christmas the same as they had in all the years past? Oh yes, that was for sure! said Susie—almost seven, and with the brownest and most delightful eyes in the world.

And then she threw herself into the Christmas season housecleaning. But first she had to ask Grandmother something: “how do you do the Christmas housecleaning?” She had only a vague idea that somehow or another the whole house got turned upside down and the furniture stood around in hopeless confusion. And then everything went back to its old place—and then it was Christmas.

Grandmother said that this year the Christmas housecleaning didn’t need to be done as thoroughly as usual. “We won’t worry about washing the windows.” But Susie would hear nothing of it. One simply couldn’t celebrate Christmas without clean drapes. And one certainly couldn’t hang up fresh drapes if the windows were dirty.

Mrs. Larsson came over and helped out a little—just as she had at other times. She scrubbed the floor in the little kitchen and in the little room in which Susie and Grandmother lived; there were no other rooms. She washed the windows too. But outside of that, Susie did everything herself. You should have seen it, how busily she ran around, with a kerchief tied around her head and a rag in her hand. She looked even more triumphant than ever. She hung up the clean drapes. She spread out the worn throw-rug on the kitchen floor and dusted off all the furniture. And in the meantime, she had to make coffee for Grandmother, and she also cooked sausages and potatoes. She had to light the oven all by herself. Luckily, it was a good, reliable oven. She filled it, lit the bunched-up pieces of newspaper under the wood and blew on it, listening excitedly until it began to crackle. Grandmother got her coffee, and she shook her head and said, “Bless you, my lovely child! What would I do without you?”

And Susie sat on the edge of the bed with a big black dot of soot on her nose and plopped lumps of sugar in Grandmother’s coffee before going back to her housework.

But what about the candy canes that Grandmother had already cooked and had all ready to take to sell at the fair? Who was going to see to that? No one other than Little Susie Triumph—even if she wasn’t very good at counting money or weighing the candy canes, since these were usually the things that Grandmother did when they worked at their candy stand. But Susie knew what a fifty-cent piece looked like—she certainly did. Grandmother had to sit up in bed to weigh out the candy canes. A quarter of a pound to every sack. And half a dollar for every sack.

The selling of various merchandise at the Christmas fair began three days before Christmas. Every morning, Susie got up early and brought Grandmother breakfast in bed.

“My dear child!” said Grandmother. “It’s so cold. You will freeze your little nose!”

Susie just laughed. She was entirely ready for her big Polkagrisar adventure. And how she wrapped herself up! Two thick sweaters under her jacket and her cap pulled way down over her ears and a wool scarf around her throat and big red mittens, and Grandmother’s giant shoes of woven reeds to keep her toes from freezing—and on her arm she carried the basket filled with the Polkagrisar.

“See you later, Grandmother!” said Susie, and she ran out into the winter darkness. There were already many people going their way in the streets. Well, could anyone be surprised?—after all, it was the first day of the Christmas fair! It was bitter cold. The snow crunched beneath Grandmother’s shoes of woven reeds as Susie marched on in the direction of the marketplace. Soon the eastern sky began to take color. It looked as though it would be a beautiful day. Mr. Larsson was nice enough to set up Grandmother’s stand in its usual place in the market. Susie’s only duty was arranging the Polkagrisar in an orderly fashion. The other women at the market stared at her.

“Has Mathilda completely lost her senses? She can’t have decided to let that child run her stand!” they said.

“But that’s exactly what she’s done,” said Little Susie Triumph. Her breath steamed upward like smoke from her mouth, and her brown eyes glistened with excitement as she laid out her sweets. “Now, if that isn’t the littlest market-seller that I have ever seen,” said the mayor as he went by on his way to the town hall. And then he bought two of the small sacks full of Polkagrisar and handed Susie a shiny one-dollar coin.

“Oh no,” Susie said. “I need two coins for that. You owe me two fifty-cent pieces.”
The mayor laughed and fished two fifty-cent coins from his pocket. “Here you are,” he said. “And you can keep the dollar as well, you little imp!”

But Susie didn’t want it. “No, you owe just two fifty-cent pieces,” she said. “One coin for every sack. That’s what Grandmother said.”

Susie’s stand had many customers. Everyone wanted to buy from “the littlest market-seller.” And besides that, Grandmother’s Polkagrisar are the best in the city, red and white, sweet and delicious. Susie had a cigar-box for the money, and the number of coins therein grew steady. But just fifty-cent pieces. Susie wouldn’t take anything else.

The other market women were getting just a little bit jealous as they saw what a great business success Susie was having. Susie herself was so happy and excited that she could no longer stand still. Oh, she would build up a tremendous trade! She would cook a million sweets and go everyday to the marketplace!

Grandmother laid at home in her bed and had nodded off a little while before Susie flew through the door and emptied the contents of the cigar-box on the bed-cover. And the basket was empty—not a single candy cane remained.

“Bless you, my dear child,” Grandmother said, as she always did. “What would I do without you?”

But what about the Christmas presents? Grandmother hadn’t had the chance to buy anything beforehand. She had thought that she would wait until the first day of the Christmas fair, because she wouldn’t have enough money until then. And now here she was, in bed, unable to move. And Susie was just crazy about a certain doll—not just any doll. Oh no, at Söderlunds on Church Street there was the most beautiful doll in the world. Grandmother and Susie had looked at it many times, and Grandmother had secretly asked Mrs. Söderlund to hold onto it until after the beginning of the Christmas fair. The doll wore a sharp-looking dress, and it could open and close its eyes and, all and all, it was the just the most wonderful doll that money could buy.

But Grandmother couldn’t very well send Susie out to buy her own Christmas gift, now, could she? Or could she? Grandmother and Susie worked out a very clever plan. Grandmother wrote a note to Mrs. Söderlund—a secret message. “Secret!” it said on the outside. However, maybe that was unnecessary, since Susie couldn’t read yet, anyway. With this note, Susie ran to the Sönderlund’s. Mrs. Sönderlund read the note very carefully. And then Susie had to go in the backroom of the store, where there were many strange and interesting smells. After she had sat there for a while, Mrs. Sönderlund came in, gave her a large package and said, “You go back to Grandmother, straight as a string—und be careful not to drop that package!”

Oh no, Susie wouldn’t drop the package. She just shook it a little. She hoped that it was the doll, but she could not tell exactly what was in there. Susie bought a gift for Grandmother too, a lovely pair of knitted gloves, because she knew that Grandmother had wanted a pair for a long time.

Now, if you think that Little Susie Triumph and Grandmother didn’t have a real Christmas that year, I would advice you to spy through the narrow window on Christmas Eve. There you would see the fresh curtains, the little rug on the floor and the Christmas tree standing near Grandmother’s bed. Susie had bought it herself at the market and had decorated it with strips of colored cloth and little apples and Polkagrisar. You would also see how Susie sat on the edge of the bed next to Grandmother, the Christmas presents on the blanket, and how her eyes shone as she opened the package and saw the doll. But just maybe they shone even brighter as Grandmother opened her gift.

On the big, round table, candles glowed from their places on a red candelabra, and there was the grand Christmas dinner that Susie had cooked—even if, naturally, Grandmother had told her how to do it. And Susie sang lots of Christmas songs for Grandmother, and Grandmother shook her head and said, “O, what a wonderfully beautiful, blessed Christmas Eve.”

As Susie finally crawled under the blankets on the kitchen bench that served as her bed, she was so tired that she wanted nothing more than to go instantly to sleep. She made a bit of a muddle of her little prayer about the angel going softly around the house. But then she gave a quick look out the window into the yard. It was snowing outside. Everything was completely white.

“Hey, Grandmother!” called Susie. “Did you know that the whole yard is full of angels?”

Now, it’s true that Grandmother was in the room with the window that faced the street, but she shook her head and said, “Yes, yes, the whole yard is full of angels.”

A minute later, Little Susie Triumph was asleep.

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

On Judging Others

2006-04-09T16:10:00.000-07:00

Have you ever known someone you thought was “nice” (which usually means, “pleasing to me and living by my personal standards”) only to discover that he has done something that does not please you or does not fit your own particular moral code or that of your society (short of being an ax killer or something deeply evil)—and perhaps this person has always been good to you and other people, and you have seen this person perform a thousand good deeds and you have heard him speak a thousand good words, and yet, based on one incident of human weakness or wrongdoing, you proclaim, “Ah ha! He has shown who he truly is, and we see that he was a phony all along!”

But does the one misdeed or weakness cancel out the thousand good? And is it not true that an imperfect person can be seen as a totally corrupted “phony” only by one who can indeed proclaim perfection? And in such a case, who is going to rise up to cast the first stone? And who can stand to judge which part is the true person—the good or the evil—without committing a gross hypocrisy herself?

And why is it that, in a society of people ever ready to judge the others around them on so much as the rumor of inconsistency, a single good deed does not cancel out a life of evil, but a single deed of evil is seen to cancel out an entire life of good? Again, we hear it, “he has shown us who he really is [an evil person who couldn’t have done all the previous good deeds in sincerity].”

One of the most touching of all relationships in the Bible is that of Jesus and Mary Magdalene, a notorious woman of many flaming social misdeeds who was condemned roundly by her judgmental society, but who was ever comforted and reassured by her Savior of her own potential for goodness—and of her real, actualized goodness as well. This is because Jesus worked in a direction opposite to those who wish to judge others who have done things they “would never do” and then frown and snub these same, whom they make into pariahs, whenever they come around: he focused on the thousand good things and not the one evil—or even the one good thing and not the thousand evil—or even better yet, he accented and looked for the mere potential for good in a person, instead of any past misdeeds.

He did condemn one group of people, however: those who claimed to have no weakness and no sin (forgetting, of course, that self-righteousness is the worst of all sins)—the frowners, the snubbers, the condemners themselves. It is not for sinning that Jesus calls them to task, but for acting as though they did not, as though they were superior to even the “lowliest of men.”

This is true Christianity, for anyone who is interested in it.

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

A Meditation On War

2006-04-04T12:47:00.000-07:00

Is it not strange that, if someone comes and directly threatens my life and the lives of my family and children and menaces me and clearly intends to take my life—and even if the police will do nothing about it because there is “not enough evidence” for them to arrest the man, and the menacing and threats continue—I can do nothing against the man: if I enter his house illegally, I will be charged with breaking and entering; if I attack him physically, I will be charged with assault; and if I kill him, I will be charged with murder and be sent to prison—yet, if the leaders of a country feel the slightest threat, real or imagined, from the leaders of another country, they can, with no legal retribution whatsoever—even if it is proven later that there was no good reason to do so—enter that foreign country with aggressive troops, destroy whole cities and villages with high-tech bombs, and kill hundreds of thousands of innocent men, women and children in order to “protect their country” from threats or rumors of threat, real or invented.

If history is the process of the maturation of society and social government, as some people believe, we are still spoiled toddlers, full of illogical selfishness and self-will, flying in the face of reason and all that is ultimately good for us, hoarding all the little toys in our corner of the playpen or sandbox so that no one else can play—and, of course, since we are so busy protecting our toys and throwing sand in the eyes of the other children, we have no time to play either.

It will be interesting to see if we, as the inhabitants of the earth, a world society, live past our infancy and make it out of the sandbox and see a time when glimmerings of reason and logic-driven sanity begin to guide us along our way toward peaceful resolutions of our problems—or if we will all perish as children, to be buried in the sand where we waged our childish battles over nothing.

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Translation Of Simon Wiesenthal's "Letter To My Grandchildren"

2006-04-01T18:32:00.000-08:00

Simon Wiesenthal, survivor of the concentration camps and Hitler’s nefarious assault on the European Jews during World War II, submitted the following short piece for inclusion in Liv Ullman’s book, Letters To My Grandchild, the proceeds from which went to benefit displaced and abused women and underprivileged children in third world countries. The following is my translation (from the German) of Wiesenthal’s contribution to this literary project.

September 4, 1996

My dear grandchildren!

In four more years, our current century will come to a close. Because I was born in 1908, I’ve experienced everything in this century that there was to experience. In retrospect, I would call it the “Century of the Evil-Doer.” There were two world wars, and so as a child, I was a refugee, and then again, as an adult, I was a refugee. Most of our family have not died natural deaths, but rather had to suffer violent deaths at the hands of evil-doers.

When I think of the coming century—that I will barely experience at all—and I consider how it will unfold and how it might end, I constantly hope that you will be spared what we, your grandparents, had to endure. Your mother was named after both of your great-grandmothers—as is the custom among our Jewish people—so that they live on in their progeny.

Your grandmother and I are both survivors, and as such, we are not only concerned with the dead, but also with the coming generations. We must pass our experiences down to you, so that you can learn from them, because I am convinced that “knowledge is the best defense.”

It doesn’t matter that it’s all there in books, because; unlike with a real human being, you can’t ask a book questions. A witness must be a living witness. Thus it is that when I have spoken before assemblages of survivors, I have always admonished them: “You have children; you have grandchildren; your neighbors have children—you must speak to them. You must tell them everything that you have experienced, and stir up questions in them, so that they will be able to tell the stories again. Only in the oral telling does memory remain alive.”

As you know, after my release from captivity, I have always sought out young people to speak with, and I have spoken to thousands through speeches I have given at universities in countries all over the world. I stand there before well-dressed, well-fed, happy young people, and suddenly I ask myself, “how am I going to get across to someone who has never known hunger in his life or suffered from the cold how very important a single piece of bread, a single slice of Kohlrabi turnip can be, or what a jacket can mean? How can I share with someone who only knows death from lectures or newspapers how it felt to see the smoke over the crematoriums and know: this fat, sweet smell comes from humans who just yesterday marched in columns through the camp? With what words can I paint a picture for these young people of a mother who has had her child violently torn from her hands, certain that it is headed for the gas-chambers?”

I am afraid that it is impossible to truly convey all of these experiences. We can speak and put our memories into words. But these words, even when our audience listens with keen enthusiasm, will not become reality in their heads. What happened in the Third Reich escapes all imagination.

We, your grandparents, beyond any objections or considerations, have the duty to convey to you and all the young people who will listen to us how unique, inconceivable, and extraordinary the Holocaust was. Nonetheless, it remains difficult for us to show you the truth and reality with our descriptions. The inconceivable remains inconceivable.

My dear grandchildren, I must admit that even we, your grandparents, have made mistakes. Among these mistakes is the fact that we believed that we could meet the hatred for Jews alone, that we could earn esteem from others by way of our accomplishments. Among our mistakes is the fact that after 2,000 years, we still couldn’t comprehend that we are always the first sacrifice in the midst of any dissension—whenever and wherever a majority goes after a minority, it’s the Jew who gets nailed to the cross in the end. Also among these mistakes is the fact that we saw what was happening and yet waited, when perhaps we could have done something.

We simply couldn’t believe that the people who had revered Schiller and Goethe had thrown themselves down to worship Hitler. Even the Jews in eastern Europe war Germanophiles, and thus they were the ones who brought German culture to this region. When they were driven out of Germany before the turn of the century, they took their language, that is, Middle-High German, with them and preserved it in their exile. (The Spanish Jews did the same thing, by the way, taking the Ladino dialect of the old Castile language with them when they were driven out of Spain.)

I remember with perfect clarity the bookshelves along the wall of our residence in Buczacz: the vast majority of the books were in German. When my mother, your great-grandmother, wanted to convey something important to me, she placed one of those German classics in my hands, as if to say: “here is someone who has said what I want to say much better than I can.”

And it was also a mistake for us to believe that those who had read Goethe were incapable of reading the Nazi hate-rag, “The Stormer.”

It is occasionally claimed, that at least there is no chance of something like the onslaught of the Nazis under Hitler happening again. Maybe there will be other fascistic reigns; maybe there will be other occasions for persecution—but nothing like there was in the Third Reich. I hope, at least, that I have learned that control is better than trust. When hate and sadism combine with modern technology, hell can break lose anywhere, anytime, all over again. This combination of hate and technology is the greatest danger that human beings have ever found themselves up against. It’s not just the great technologies like those that made way for the atom bomb, but also the smaller technologies that run our everyday lives: I know people who sit in front of the television for hours, because they have forgotten how to communicate with each other. Soon people won’t have to learn foreign languages, because we’ll have little pocket computers into which one will merely speak something in his own language, and it will say it right back in whatever foreign language he wants. And so people will rely more and more on computers to try to understand each other. Sometimes I have a terrible vision in which the computers are all talking to each other—without the need for human beings.

My dear grandchildren, over time, we have had long and good talks with each other, ever since you have been big enough to understand what I have had to say about my experiences and the suffering that human beings endured under the reign of the Nazis. I hope that you will take these conversations we have had together into the new century and, with the knowledge of the dangers that I have told you of, know better how to guard and take care of yourselves.

With Love,

Your grandfather, Simon Wiesenthal

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

On Jerry Springer...

2006-03-31T20:33:00.000-08:00

Perhaps this is what made me sick with weary nausea. Here was no principle, good or bad, no direction… They were crazy actors playing to a crazy audience. –John Steinbeck

One of the best hours of talk-show TV that I have ever seen was sixty enthralling and emotional minutes of The Jerry Springer Show. He interviewed survivors of Riga, Latvia, a European city which was made up primarily of Jews, almost entirely extinguished in one of the most insane, bloodthirsty orgasms of violence and terror the world has ever known. At one point, the curly-haired, bespectacled Springer, dipping his head and tilting the microphone toward his mouth in that casual, yet boyish, somewhat insecure way we’ve all seen him do, spoke through a throatful of tears (real or manufactured), telling of how his own parents were haunted by the world’s treatment of the Jews during the 1940’s and of how his aged father would never relinquish his car, even in New York City, out of fear of renewed persecution or another madman with another “final solution,” for fear that “they might have to leave again…” Over a dozen years later, and having only seen this interview once, I still remember it vividly, and it even inspired a poem, which I set down immediately after viewing this compelling hour of quality television…

And now for those of you who haven’t a clue as to what I’m talking about or who are thinking there must be two talk-show hosts with the same name… This was all before Springer, overwhelmed by the ocean waves of the Oprah juggernaut (which has crested, but is far from subsiding), “re-tooled” his show, convinced that if he couldn’t out-schmaltz or out-star or out-sincere Oprah, he could at least out-sleeze Sally Jesse Raphael (or did she ride his coattails? Does it matter? Jerry, Sally, Maury, Jenny, Ricky… it’s like a long, sickening snail-trail without beginning or end or much difference in the slime along the way.)

I’m proud to say that, since his “re-tooling,” I have never seen an episode of Springer’s show all the way through, and these days, not beyond the time it takes to look away from a maggot-bedecked rotting possum dripping guts ripped out by the undercarriage of an old Buick tearing down a country road. (Come to think of it, given the choice between the rotting, half-gutted possum and viewing a sixty full minutes of Springer’s debasement of humanity, I will take the possum anytime.)

I sometimes wonder if Springer even thinks back on that interview of the survivors of Riga who told their tale of humiliation and de-humanization at the hands of Hitler, during which Springer nodded and appeared to tear-up, seeming to feel it deep down in his own Jewish blood—I wonder if he ever thinks about it now that he himself is the humiliator, the debaser, and dehumanizer. I wonder if he ever thinks about how he sold his soul to the devil, unable to clamber aboard one of the righteous, puffy white clouds that had all been bought up and stamped with the HARPO logo. I wonder if he ever ponders the irony of the blatant racism of his show, the stereotyping and abasement of minorities who, like the poor combatants in Ellison’s “Battle Royal,” barely seem to know what is happening to them, as they are encouraged to rage and romp and bear and beat their (male and female) breasts to the delighted (and demonic) howls of their (mostly white) audience—an audience, who, come to think of it, mindlessly chants the name of its cruel and ruthless, sniggering little leader, who might be led to go ahead and lynch his “guests,” if that would keep the ratings up.

Really watch sometime—if you can stand it—and think about it as you do—if you can bear it. It all makes the old-time minstrel shows or Edison’s turn-of-the-century short “Watermelon Eatin’ Contest” or those embarrassing postcards and cookie jars one sees on the back shelves in antique stores seem tame in comparison—but even when I hear Springer called anything worse than “hilarious—“ which is rare—it is never “racist—“ when he so obviously is. (Obvious even to me as I frantically press the clicker hard and fast, filled with horror and chagrin at being in the same species as “the Ringmaster.”) There certainly is no weeping—sincere or specious—for these people whom Springer obviously considers to be less than human.

I don’t know if Jerry ever does, but I think about that hour on Riga, Latvia a lot, and I think about power gone wrong, world leader power and petty puppeteer power—and how both destroy the human soul…

A final thought: I have said for years now that there will be a special “Springer wing” of hell, but I have, in recent times, come to believe that hell is internal—that we create our own hell and that those who “go to hell” will be forced to live with themselves and to see themselves for what they could have been and for what they really became, with no false glory, no adoring crowds, and no ability to deceive themselves, for all eternity… Maybe the demons will chant, “Jerr-eeey! Jerrr-eeey! Jerr-eeey!,” and then he’ll remember the old man from Riga, and then all the people that he stripped of dignity, humiliated in their poverty and desperation (for money or cheap praise, or both) and then left behind to seek out the next half a dozen freaks he could parade across his stage while he got rich, buying souls for flat fees and the promise of the same sort of “attention” we give to horrible car accidents and twisted serial killers…

Come to think of it, that’s about all Jerry will get out of it in the long run as well, a little cheap attention and his thirty pieces of silver. In the end, he is as desperate, and pathetic, as his guests—and his audience.

Take care of yourselves, and each other.

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

50 Things Fascists Believe...

2006-03-26T20:47:00.000-08:00

1) Fascists believe that Fascism represents the truth and that only a Fascist can have knowledge of the truth.

2) Fascists believe that citizens cannot make decisions or form opinions for themselves and that true democracy is dangerous.

3) Fascists believe that citizens must be spied upon and watched to make sure that are not thinking or saying anything contrary to Fascist propaganda and policy.

4) Fascists believe that anyone who is not a Fascist is a Communist or otherwise a dangerous individual to be oppressed and eliminated.

5) Fascists believe that using fear tactics to frighten citizens into supporting unethical political and war efforts is intelligent policy.

6) Fascists believe that manipulative devices are better than truth.

7) Fascists believe that most people don’t really want to know the truth anyway.

8) Fascists believe it is wise to suspend due process in regard to cases that they deem “political crimes.”

9) Fascists believe that any action or statement that does not agree with their policies is a “political crime.”

10) Fascists believe that “power” means “brute force” and that “to lead” means “to subjugate.”

11) Fascists believe that domestic military build-up is more important than international diplomacy.

12) Fascists believe that “foreign policy” is based in aggression or threats of aggression, tacit or explicit.

13) Fascists believe that war is better waged offensively than defensively and that “preemptive strikes” against any threat, real or imagined, are wise and justified.

14) Fascists believe that having military might gives them the right to use it in any circumstance.

15) Fascists believe that their country is innately superior to all others and that they are innately superior to the people of all other lands and that, therefore, any other nation may be invaded or politically and economically manipulated in any way necessary to further nationalistic aims and fascistic goals.

16) Fascists believe in torture of prisoners of war or even of dissenting private citizens if they deem that it furthers or protects their political power during wartime.

17) Fascists believe that it is better to refer to “protecting political power” as “insuring national security.”

18) Fascists believe it is beneficial to morale to lie about how a war they have begun is proceeding and to continually insist upon its “just and moral” basis.

19) Fascists believe that they can win over supporters by claiming that they declare war on other countries in order to defend innocent people against certain injustices and to protect the rights of people in foreign lands, while allowing grosser injustices to transpire in their own country and taking rights away from their own citizens.

20) Fascists believe that they are “saviors” and “liberators.”

21) Fascists believe that they can convince the people they are oppressing that they are “saviors” and “liberators.”

22) Fascists believe the future lies in eliminating mature resistors and brainwashing the young.

23) Fascists believe that racism and hatred can be used to further their strength and influence and make way for the elimination of all enemies, foreign and domestic.

24) Fascists believe that loud public addresses, jingoisms and flag-waving are more effective than logic and clear thought.

25) Fascists believe that future generations will forget their violence and bloodshed and gross injustices and remember the glory of speeches, rhetoric and propaganda.

26) Fascists believe they can gain credibility by forming alliances with radical church leaders and bathing themselves in a false Christian light.

27) Fascists believe that pretensions toward shallow pseudo-spiritual ideals can pass for sound public policy.

28) Fascists believe that religion is an opiate that can be used to their advantage.

29) Fascists believe that religion can be used to further hatred and racism.

30) Fascists believe that God is on their side and blesses the destruction of all their enemies and that religious scriptures support them in this idea.

31) Fascists believe that governmental dictate supercedes moral principles, no matter its basis or ultimate effect.

32) Fascists believe not only that moral relativity is the route of least resistance, but also that it is one to be taken whenever immediately advantageous.

33) Fascists believe that morality is always relative to their desire for power and advancement.

34) Fascists believe that their ends always justify their means.

35) Fascists believe that their ends are always right and just.

36) Fascists believe that fascistic rules can be passed off as moral law.

37) Fascists believe that one can suspend democracy in order to protect democracy.

38) Fascists believe that one must surrender one’s rights in order to protect one’s rights.

39) Fascists believe that “intelligent thought” is the ability to hold two contradictory ideas at once.

40) Fascists believe that the press and media are not meant to be tools for truth but rather tools of propaganda.

41) Fascists believe that free speech should be free up to the point that it is used to criticize or undermine their false principles and lies.

42) Fascists believe that laws that protect are laws that oppress.

43) Fascists believe that calling an oppressive and fascistic set of laws an “Emergency Decree,” or something similar, lends it credibility as a patriotic act.

44) Fascists believe that they can confuse and stymie most citizens with lots of bureaucratic and legalistic red tape.

45) Fascists believe that most people are ignorant and wish to remain that way.

46) Fascists believe that most people were made to follow, that is, to be controlled by the leaders—and that they were made to lead, that is, to control the followers.

47) Fascists believe that “good citizens” are unquestioning citizens willing to suspend their convictions concerning right and wrong “for the good of the country.”

48) Fascists believe they can suppress the basic human desire for truth and justice and freedom.

49) Fascists believe that citizens will believe their lies indefinitely and that they can root out all those who do not.

50) Fascists believe that history will not find them out and expose them for what they really are.

They are wrong in all 50 of these beliefs.

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Translations Of Rainer Maria Rilke's Poetry, 2006

2006-03-18T19:28:00.001-08:00

(A translation of Rilke’s „Ich lebe mein Leben im wachsenden Ringen...“)

I live my life in growing rings
That encompass the things of this world.
Perhaps I will not capture them all,
But I intend to try.

I circle around God, around the ancient tower,
I have been circling centuries long—
And I still don’t know: am I a falcon, a storm
Or a grandiose song?

2006

Douglas S Johnson

(A translation of Rilke’s „Immer wieder, ob wir der Liebe Landschaft auch kennen...“)

Always, once more, even though we know the landscape of love
And the little graveyard with its grieving names
And the terrible wordless gorge, in which all the others
Have ended: always, once more, we go out in couples
Under the ancient trees, again we lie down together
Among the flowers, facing the heavens

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Initial

(a translation of Rilke’s “Initiale”)

Out of infinite longings rise
Finite deeds like weak fountains
That arc, timely and trembling.
Yet that which is otherwise silent,
Our joyous strengths—become
Apparent In these dancing tears.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Lament

(a translation of Rilke’s „Klage“)

O, how remote everything is,
And for so long now departed.
I believe that the star
Whose glow I once embraced
Has been dead a century.
I believe I heard something
Fearful from a boat
Crossing in the distance.
In a house, a clock
Struck…
In which house?...
I wish to escape my own heart,
To walk under the immense heavens.
I want to pray.
For one of all of the stars
Must still be real.
I think I know
Which one, alone,
Has endured,—
Which one still stands like a white city
In heaven, at the end of its shimmering light…

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Premonition

(a translation of Rilke’s “Vorgefühl”)

I am like a flag surrounded by spans of distance.
I have inklings of the winds that come, and I must endure them
While the things below remain unmoved:
The doors still close softly, and there is silence in the chimneys;
The windows still do not tremble, and the dust remains thick.

But here I already know the storm and am aroused like the sea.
And I fan out and fall backwards upon myself
And am thrown in all directions, and I am entirely alone
In the great storm.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Augustine's Heaven (three short considerations)

2006-03-13T12:18:00.000-08:00

In college, I loved philosophical and theological talk—and I still do. (I only hope that now I engage in it in a slightly more humble, less pedantic, and more mature manner.) And one topic that was then and still remains the source of almost endless speculation for the religiously minded, or at least the religiously curious, is the idea of Heaven. “How does one get to Heaven?” “What will it be like?” “How can one know for certain that one is going to Heaven instead of Hell?” Those three questions alone can make for a lively evening of discussion with any group, large or small, stirred by such a theme as the Eternal Hereafter.

I was recently engaged in such a discussion with a very intelligent and thoughtful young woman (via the high-tech medium of e-mail, a form of communication I have come to embrace, despite myself), and it got me to thinking about all this again—and about Augustine and Luther and some of the church fathers and their notions about the “sweet by and by.” And so here I will try to briefly answer those three questions posed above, as best as I can, using as my basis ideas formulated mainly by Augustine.

1) Augustine knew, first of all, that Heaven is not a place of reward for a life well-lived or some kind of a spiritual retirement home that one can pay one’s way into with just enough earthly good deeds in the bank to keep himself out of the fiery pit. (To even have such an aim, to live life trying to be “just good enough” to make it to Heaven is hypocritical and false, and even childish [behaving one’s self to get a cookie rather than because one truly wishes to be a good person for its own sake]—and seeking to become “perfect” and thus deserving of eternal bliss on one’s own merit is even worse, a megalomaniacal striving after a delusion and a chimera, which, paradoxically, can only lead to the deadly spiritual sin of self-righteousness.) Rather, as Augustine teaches us, Heaven is something much better than a “final resting place” of physical leisure (or an escape from hellish torture) or even a “karmatic reward for good deeds;” it is the fulfillment of a love-relationship with the Divine for which we have always longed and sought and which we have cultivated to the best of our ability on earth—an endless existence in and of pure love, in which all things transpire and are experienced in unadulterated, untainted love, the final reunion of lover and beloved, a state of being striven for directly and for its own sake. And so it is that good deeds are not what lead to heaven, but rather loving and desiring love, seeking to unite oneself with the ultimate in Love, which is God, with no motive other than this. (Good deeds here on earth may, and will be a natural byproduct of this seeking after God, but they are not some sort of currency, something one “has to do” in order to get something else—in fact, a “good deed” done without love behind it or done in order to get some sort of personal benefit, either here or in the hereafter, is just selfishness and is dead and of no use whatsoever.)

Thus it is that Heaven is not a place of mere ease and comfort or avoidance of pain or even the big lottery payoff that allows one to live forever in Hawaiian splendor—but rather the fulfillment of something that one has been living and experiencing in part all along, a final finding of the ultimate, a consummation of the only relationship that we have ever really desired, a union with God, who is complete Love.

It is because of this “relationship-nature” of Heaven that Luther said that he was not afraid of hell—with the fire and brimstone and demons with pokey pitchforks—but rather of the idea of not being in Heaven— that is, of not being in a place made entirely of love—of being separated from God, whom he desired infinitely more than he could possibly have feared even the worst of hells. In fact, as we shall see later, if we are seeking Heaven—not as a reward or an avoidance of suffering—but rather as a final and complete union with the ultimate Source of Love, Hell becomes a mute point over which we don’t have to worry at all. In fact, I would say that anyone who truly understands what Heaven is and truly desires it and truly does not want to go to Hell need not have any concern about it. With a true understanding of Heaven and a true desire to get there, one cannot do otherwise. (What a wonderful revelation this is for those of us former Calvanists who have spent wasted years trembling daily, wondering whether or not we were “really saved.”)

So, given all this, the answer to “how does one get to Heaven?” becomes an easy one. One may as well ask “how do you get to Tennessee?” Well, you travel in that direction until you get there. You look at the map and move in the direction of Tennessee, without getting so distracted with sightseeing or gazing out the window that you end up in New York or Michigan. Concentrate on where you want to go and get there however you can. It’s the exact same with getting to Heaven, except that you are not moving toward a place, but rather toward the ultimate in relationships. First, understand what Heaven is—not a pleasure resort or a dodge from torment or a reward for a lot of nice things you did while alive—but rather the unending realization of the most wonderful relationship of love of which one could ever conceive—and then cultivate this relationship, straining with your whole being toward the Beloved, which is God, or Love, moving toward and into this relationship by living in, with and through love, always seeking love in all that you do and experience. It’s as simple as that. Stay on the course of love, and you will end up in Heaven as surely as you will get to Tennessee if you stay on the main highway leading there.*

2) In arriving at how one gets to Heaven (by “going all along,” as Emily Dickinson put it), we have already discussed a bit in the way of what Heaven will be like, and a little bit in the way of what it will not be. As we have already said, it is not a place of physical indulgences or an escape hatch from Hell. It is the final, complete and endless culmination of the deepest possible kinship with God, the ultimate source of Love. (And how much better must that be than a resort full of physical pleasure?)

One of the things that always used to confound me about the (often conflicting) pictures of Heaven that I received as a child was that they always sounded so boring. To a large degree, this was because I got just enough of the classical (and mistaken) notion that, again, Heaven is a pleasure spa for the soul that one buys with enough spiritual “brownie points” that have been earned through good deeds on earth—and just enough of the classical (and mistaken) opposite notion that Heaven is a totally disembodied experience, an abnegation of everything even vaguely associated with earthly life. Thus, on the one hand, there was the idea of a place of endless pampering (luscious grapes, expensive wine, lobster thermidor and caviar…over and over and over…), which, after a while, would grow unfulfilling and even monotonous—and on the other, a situation of absolute static perfection (sitting—if a disembodied soul can be said to “sit—“ on a cloud, playing the same old perfect song on the same old disembodied harp, again and again and again), which always seemed even more boring than the endless grapes and lobster, and more immediately so.**

Augustine and many of the church fathers show up both of these ideas as childish visions of the eternal bliss that only God can give. Of course, the real problem here is obvious: neither of these situations would really amount to bliss anyway, but, rather, they would end up like I always suspected, even as a child: in eternal boredom. And this is because neither of these visions represents anything that truly satisfies. In the end, eating grapes and lobster, playing endless rounds of golf in which one always gets a hole in one, or even playing the harp are all fine things—but without what the soul really pants after—the fathomless satisfaction of Divine Love—it all amounts to nothing. And if one has that Divine Love and has the assurance that it will last for all of eternity…well, then everything becomes heavenly, doesn’t it? Eating grapes, sitting on a cloud, taking a walk down the streets of gold, talking with friends and loved ones, or just petting all the dogs you had during the earthly life (they do all go to Heaven, remember)…with the Love of God surrounding us for ever and ever, simply everything that we do or experience will become Heaven. And that’s the first, and primary bit of good news here. No matter what Heaven is “really like,” God is there, and all of God’s love will be ours forever—and that’s all we needed or wanted to start with, right?

The second bit of good news here (at least for those of us who like the idea of the individualized bodily state in Heaven more than that of the “spirit soup” eternity or nirvana state) is that Augustine—and the Scriptures themselves—deny the idea of the bodiless eternity. In Heaven, we will have bodies—“perfected” bodies, whatever that will mean—but we will have bodies nonetheless. (Perhaps “incorruptible” is a better word to use here, since “perfected bodies” can get us thinking again that the main focus of Heaven is living in some sort of a physical paradise.) Jesus was raised from the dead in the body and ascended into Heaven in the body. And any reference to the final resurrection of the saved speaks in very clear terms—which do not seem to constitute a mere metaphor—of an incorruptible body which one will have in the hereafter. So, if we can embrace that idea for the moment and so get off of our nonexistent clouds and cast aside our disembodied harps, we can wrestle with a couple of the most common philosophical problems concerning “what Heaven will be like” and see if we can come to terms with them.

Problem #1: “How can anything still happen in Heaven (or at least anything interesting) if there is all good and no bad? And how can we be truly happy with what we have in Heaven if there is never any anticipation of loss? Won’t we just take it all for granted? And isn’t anything that’s exciting or stimulating based in the idea that one might lose or something might go wrong?” (Again we have the idea that Heaven will be boring, the notion of eternal stasis which could grow monotonous with endless time.)

I think we can see this first problem (the more simple of the two) as being more or less mute if we simply return to our basic premise about what Heaven is: a state of eternal love, in the center of all Love, which is God. Nothing else is for certain for us at this point, but this, in and of itself, is enough for us to know for sure. Maybe we will still play baseball games in which one team wins and the other loses. Perhaps there will be mornings when we can’t locate both of our socks. We may even have bad hair-days in Heaven! Again, we need to get past this idea that Heaven=Perfection of Physical Pleasure and realize that Heaven=Perfect Relationship with God. (Our bodies will be incorruptible, and one presumes, in nice working order and comfortable to live in, but physical perfection is not the point.) Heaven is Spiritual Perfection (which we will know while living in incorruptible bodies), and Spiritual Perfection entails living absolutely in Love. (To put it in perspective, think about this. When have you ever felt bored with anything or taken anything for granted while in the deepest enthrallments of earthly love?—never! Everything is magical and endlessly significant to the lover in love. And so how could one possibly feel bored or take anything for granted while endlessly enthralled by the love of God?!) If we get this concept of Heaven as being eternally immersed in the pure, depthless Love of God, finally and for good, almost all the problems and conundrums disappear! And if we are living in perfect Love, a ballgame, won or lost, is Heaven. If we are living in perfect Love, a morning when we can’t find both of our socks is Heaven. Even a bad hair-day can be Heaven—if we are living in perfect love. God’s Eternal Love, no matter what shape everything else takes, will not be monotonous, and it will lend its unspeakably wonderful colors to any and all other details of the heavenly life.

Problem #2: “How can it be Heaven if there are people I knew and loved on earth who are not in Heaven?” This one is difficult because it could involve people very close to us—mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, spouses, even children. And it’s not made any easier by the fact that we have already established that we won’t just be floating around in a vague, undefined, personless spiritual soup, but rather that everyone will have bodies—and one presumes, recognizable features—in Heaven.

To start, one must remember once more what Heaven is—and what it is not. Remember that it is not a place that has as its main focus perfect physical conditions in which one is in corporeal raptures twenty-four hours a day; it is just as well not a wishing well from which we can have any social or personal circumstances, just to our desiring, or a party or gathering of all our favorite people. It is a complete union with God—whatever the physical and social conditions happen to be—no matter who is there or who isn’t. And that, in and of itself, is utter peace and spiritual contentment, with no need for embellishment or addition of physical or social conditions; it will be enough to make us completely happy for all of eternity, no matter who or what else is there as well, and there will be no lack where there is God.

I don’t know as anyone can completely solve this problem of “missing” loved ones in a state like Heaven (in which nothing can truly be lacking or “missed”) or who could say for certain how aware we will be of such circumstances as “who went to hell” once we are in the heavenly state, and this is mainly because, as yet, in this earthly condition, it remains so difficult for us to imagine complete spiritual fulfillment and not “missing” anything or anyone because of such utter contentment of the soul. But the one thing that is certain is that there is no loss of anything or any relationship that will be able to dampen the joy that we get from knowing God face to face. To even suggest that some physical or personal or social imperfection could lessen the happiness that will be gained from living one-to-one with God is an absurdity—and even an insult to God.

Perhaps if we worry about such things while we are here on earth, we should concentrate on enlightening those we love and care about as much as possible in the ways of what Heaven really is and how one finally ends up there. At last, the people of God will want to spend eternity with the people of God, those who have embraced and desired Love, and when we are in that company, and in the endless company of the Divine, there can be nothing missing in us or for us—no part of our being that is left feeling unfulfilled.

3) Now comes the question which haunts the soul for many and which for many denominations and sects of Christians throughout history has made for nothing less than a spiritual obsession, especially those which espouse the idea of predestination. (I believe needlessly so, as will soon be demonstrated.)

First, we must remember again what Heaven is and how we get there, so we can build on our original assertions—and once we have returned to that base point, we are two-thirds of the way through our argument about how one knows one is going to Heaven. In fact, I believe that we have already answered this last question of “how one can be sure one is going to Heaven” several times more or less indirectly, and so we can dispense with it rather quickly here at the last.

The answer to the question is this: seek God with your whole heart, in the scriptures and in your daily living, desiring a relationship with God above and through all else, and you can be certain that you will go to Heaven—in fact, if you are living in such a fashion, you are already “going to Heaven,” that is to say, you have joined God in the desire for and the pursuance of a relationship that one day will be forever and complete—and that will be Heaven. That’s it. God wills the supreme relationship of love with anyone who seeks such a union, and so one only needs to go to God for the grace and mercy which afford such a union.

During the email discussion that gave me the impetus to begin writing this essay, the following rhetorical question was raised. “But doesn’t everyone want to go to Heaven?” The answer? In my opinion, given the things I see transpiring daily on this earth…

Flatly, no.

Certainly, everyone is interested in physical pleasure and contentment. Certainly, everyone is interested in escaping torment. Certainly, everyone would like to revel in every imaginable ecstasy and live for all of eternity in self-indulgent corporeal bliss. But, as we have said so many times before, this is not what Heaven is, but rather the most superficial of notions concerning unending contentment and not a reality on any plane of being—and, strange as it may seem to those who pursue things spiritual and everlasting, there are just a lot of people in the world who are a lot more interested in self-indulgence than in an eternity of Love—perhaps even the majority of people.

And I would even go a bit father with this.

I honestly believe that there will be no surprises, no one waking up in Hell who honestly understood and strove for Heaven. (Given what we have said previously, how could that happen—and after God has said that mercy and grace will be provided for any who come seeking Everlasting Love? It would violate the deepest promises of God.) And furthermore, I don’t think anyone who ends up in Hell will be too surprised either—and I don’t even think that those who end up in Hell would be very happy in Heaven anyway. How could one who has lived his whole life as a willed estrangement from God, alienated from love and filled with subtle hatred and desire for power over others, even feel at home in a place like Heaven? Why would a person who rejected love of other people and God in life want it in the afterlife? (Again, don’t make the mistake of thinking, “but who would want to suffer in Hell?,” imagining physical fire and demons with pitchforks. Hell [whatever it will be like—that’s for another essay] is not fire and pitchforks, but rather an absence of God, as Luther contended, and those who reject God simply don’t want God and do not want to live in an eternal relationship of Love, and curious as it might seem, they prefer the [spiritual] hatred and darkness and violence [that I believe will be Hell] to the [spiritual] love and light and peace that will be in Heaven. That is who they are, and they would not want to be in Heaven or even feel at home there.***)

And so if we had begun with the initially terrifying idea that maybe most people won’t be going to Heaven, some might have asked, with trembling voice,” “so how do I know I will be one who will?”

The answer we have already arrived at should resolve all those terrified feelings of uncertainty. If you know what Heaven is—a state of endless, eternal Love—and that is what you want more than anything else you can imagine—and if you are living your life to match your desire to live in this fathomless, complete Love of God by bringing as much love as you can to this earthly state, with the only motivation being to be nearer the Source of Love, and nothing else…then I absolutely guarantee that you are going to Heaven—the same as I can guarantee that you will get to Tennessee if you get on the highway there and just keep driving until you reach it.

Thus this whole thing becomes remarkably simple (if not easy!) The only thing that ever made it complex or confusing or fearful was those long-held materialistic ideas about what Heaven is and how one gets there.

One final concept we might explore here involves Augustine’s antithetical conditions which he calls “The City of Earth” and “The City of Heaven.” With neo-Platonic finesse, Augustine presents “The City of Earth” as a kind of illusion, a chimera which all must experience, but which will eventually be seen through by the true seeker of “The City Of God,” or Heaven. Those who become entranced with the “shadows on the wall” which constitute the City of Earth move away from the love of God, and thus, away from the City of God, and into self-love—which is the very antithesis of real love—and, at last, their lives become a wasteland of avarice, hatred, destruction, violence, selfishness, and wanton sensuality: the very stuff of Hell. (All of this leads me to believe that Hell is not fire and demons with pokey things, brimstone and whatnot, as in the fairy-tale, allegorical visions of it—but rather an endless realization that one has chosen the City of Earth—emptiness and vanity and illusion—over the only thing that could ever be absolutely fulfilling, the City of God, which is living in the endless Love of God. And perhaps living in the midst of the emptiness that they have gathered during the earthly life will be the setting in which the lost find themselves. Now we are in the regions of Luther’s Hell, which is infinitely worse than mere fire—but, as I said before, perhaps considerations about the nature of damnation is for another time.)

The City Of God, then, is everything that we have discussed previously. Not a reward. Not a payoff. Not a bargain. Not a refuge. Not a perfect society. Not a paradise of corporeal comfort. Not a big party with all of our favorite people. But rather an eternal existence in which the saved shall know beyond all else that may transpire there that they are forever loved of the eternal Spring of Love, that they never again need suffer being apart from that Divine Love or worry about being lost once more amidst the world of shadows and doubt and loss. It is a state of fullness and completeness, for those who have sought God, and therefore, for those who have sought Love, above all else—knowing that everything else is but a shadow in a world of illusions.

And so, of course, the ultimate good news from Augustine—and from God and the gospel—remains, and it should forever lend up hope and lead us on, no matter what occurs here in the valley of shadows and uncertainty and loss and longing: for anyone who knows God and so understands what Love is and desires it more than anything else and so lives life, Heaven is always present, dimly seen in this present existence, perhaps, but known as promise that will someday burst forth as glorious reality.

*Morris Venden wrote a wonderful little book called Love God And Do As You Please, whose very title sums up this concept. If one seeks God as passionately as one would seek the ultimate Beloved, one simply will not move in the direction of evil and cannot end up in Hell. Understanding what it is to love God, and loving and doing good in order to draw closer to God and for no other ulterior motive, is, finally, all one needs in order to attain God’s grace and mercy and so reach Heaven.

**My grandmother used to quip, “Heaven for the comfort, Hell for the fireworks.” And I can distinctly remember once or twice during childhood having had the thought that, even if Heaven was more luxurious, Hell sounded, in ways, more interesting.

***I believe that the parable of Lazerus and the rich man (and it is a parable and is thus not meant to be taken in any way literally) is not to teach us that hell is hot and physically unpleasant and that we should avoid it because of this, but rather to show that threats of such things as unpleasantness and extreme heat would not in the least change the hearts and minds of men and women unmoved by the word of God, the word of Love, that came through the prophets and wise ones.

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Poetry, 1987

2006-03-09T15:41:00.000-08:00

first there was laughter-
utterances in pink-
still disparate,
forming
like rose petals
amidst rugged thorns,
rising up
from black holes
of unsounded depth
and dark,
falling upon the grass
like rain,
like a sprinkling
of sacrifical blood

1987

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBSITE

A Parable For Those Who Think Good Can Be Bought With Evil

2006-02-27T12:22:00.000-08:00

There was a man whose beloved, aging mother was very ill and needed an expensive operation in order to save her life. The man was her only close relative and was very poor and therefore had no means to procure in time the money required to save the old woman from certain death.

Just as he was nearing the nadir of despair, the man was approached by the Devil, who told him that there was a way to earn money enough for the medical procedure.

"I have a job that needs doing," the Devil said, "and it pays very well. Would you like to work for me?"

Now the man was not by nature one to be cutting deals with the Devil, but, after all, he reasoned, his saintly mother was in dire straits, and if he could save her, what matter the means?

"What is the job?" he asked.

"You must exterminate a human life," the Devil replied. The man wavered and turned pale.

"Oh, do not worry," the Devil said. "The procedure is very simple, really. In fact, you will not have to face the person whose life you take for me while you are taking it, and no one will know of what you have done, so that as long as you walk the earth, you will never be accused by anyone of any crime."

The man was soothed somewhat by the reassurance, but he was not yet sure.

"Who is it that will die?" he asked, reasoning that, after all, there were lots of people who deserved to die and certain others who were near enough to it that a little help in that direction was near unto a blessing.

The Devil smiled and shook his head. "You know, I am very busy these days. I need all the assistance I can get. The wonderful part is, however, that I can find lots of good help. Now, if you don't want this job, I can get someone else who will gladly perform it." At this point, the Devil produced a little black box with a red button. "Here, all you have to do is push this button, and the person will die, plain and simple."

"But why can't you just press the button yourself?" the man asked.

"Do I meddle in your business or inquire into every little process of your work?" the Devil said. At this point, he began walking away. "You are obviously not interested in my offer."

Again the man thought of his mother.

"No wait!" he cried. "This person ... that I'm ... well... I don't want it to be a child."

"Granted," the Devil said.

"An old person!' the man insisted.

"Done," the Devil answered.

"A sickly old person!"

"As you say."

"An old sickly person with no good, decent moral other around to give care."

"Exactly what I had in mind," the Devil snickered.

With that, the man reached forward and pressed the red button.

He got his money from the Devil and ran straightway to his mother's bedside, in order that he might tell her the good news.

Alas, when he arrived, the old lady was dead.

(C) 1998 by Douglas S. Johnson

VISIT MY WEBSITE

What It Takes

2006-02-27T12:15:00.000-08:00

There was a wicked man who, at last, turned his heart to God and desired that he be used for some good upon the earth so that he might make allowances for the wrong he had done. After his conversion, he prayed night and day for his opportunity to display his right intentions, but none arrived. He went out into the streets and preached to people, but they were all hostile or condescending or politely ignored him. He sought out his neighbors and entreated them, begging that he might do something for them. All were amazed at the man's apparent change of heart and spirit, but none required anything of him, being at that time wholly satisfied with their lots and fortunes and needing nothing.

So it was that the old man tended his garden by day, occasionally looking out toward the road for someone he periodically imagined that he saw but who always vanished like some stars that become invisible when one looks directly upon them. By night, he laid in his bed and he prayed, "What does it take for a man to be right with God? What must he do? What will serve as remittance for all the wickedness that I have done?" Actually, it seemed to him that his sins had not been many, but that the potential was great for their influence spreading like waves in a pond into which a pebble has been dropped. This kept him awake many nights, wondering what evil was spawned from the evil he had done, what demon had grown fat and nourished on the scraps of food he had fed it all those years past. It was not that he did not feel forgiven by God, but he desired compensation also; he desired compensation from himself, that he might set things aright. So it was that when he went into the streets and then among his neighbors and found none who would have the good he longed to give, his sins seemed great and terrible, because they could not be counterbalanced or erased.

To make matters worse, a rumor grew in the town that his conversion was a ruse, that he was getting old and wanted the church to take him in now that he would not be able to take care of himself. This tale spread like wild fire through the little village, and soon the man was being driven forcibly from the streets when he came out to witness, due to the fact that the townspeople had grown self-righteous and angry.

One evening, when he had come into the village to buy his weekly groceries, he was accosted by a group of young boys who began to taunt and throw stones at him. He tried to run, but being quite aged, he was soon winded and could do nothing but bear the pain caused by the rocks that struck him, one on the left shoulder blade, another in the lumbar region and a third in the back of his left thigh. Three of the four boys continued to jeer at him, while the fourth looked on as he stumbled and nearly went down. Just as dusk fell over the street, the old man ducked into an alley and hid there from his attackers.

There he went down upon his knees and wept for the waste and the folly and the ruin of his life, knowing all the old grief anew. He entreated God one last time to allow him a chance to put things right, to counterbalance the evil that he had done during all of his years upon the earth, and as he did, he turned his tear-filled eyes toward heaven. At just this moment, the fourth boy stood alone at the mouth of the alley, watching him. For a long minute, their eyes met, and the boy knew in his heart that the rumor of the townspeople had been a lie, that the old man was sincere in his desires to do good. A star appeared and glimmered over the boy's head, and then the lad turned and vanished like a ghost.

That night, in a room brimming with inky darkness and crushing silence, the Angel of Death came to the old man. When the latter awoke, the angel spoke, saying, "thy soul is required of thee."

The man sat up in his bed, unable to see anything, but terrified by the words that he had heard, knowing from whence they had come. He begged and pleaded that he might be spared a while, saying that he had not made up for his sins.

"The debt is paid," the angel said.

The man continued to protest, insisting that he had not made up for his evil deeds, but yet the angel replied calmly.

"It is done. The boy shall take care of everything. Your goodness shall not vanish, but shall live on in him and in his children and in their children. Your virtue and sincerity has been displayed openly and has been witnessed by unjaded eyes, and it has altered the heart of another. What more can a man do upon the earth?"

With this, the angel embraced the old man, and they rose in a column of brilliant fire, and there was darkness no more.

(C) 1998 by Douglas S. Johnson

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Translation Of Wolfgang Borchert's "Stimmen Sind Da In Der Luft--In Der Nacht"

2006-02-24T16:46:00.000-08:00

Voices Are There In The Air—In The Night

Wolfgang Borchert, who was compelled against his will to fight in World War II for Adolph Hitler, has written much about the personal ravages of war and how, even after the damages to cities and railways and industries have been repaired and all is again in working order, damage to the human soul remains, unrepaired, irreparable, lives tattered and torn and pulled about my memory, haunted by old ghosts that cannot rest, human remains left behind and longing for things and circumstances that are no more. Here again, in his own quiet, steady rhythms that often amount to a kind of poetry-prose reminiscent of that of American novelist Thomas Wolfe, Borchert renders a lyrical vignette with five people who inwardly feel the pain of the loss of loved ones, a sense of home, and their own identities.

The streetcar made its way through the fog-wet afternoon. It was a grey in which the yellow of the streetcar was often lost. Because it was November and the streets were empty and soundless and void of desire. Only the lonesome yellow of the streetcar swam occasionally through the fog-wet afternoon.

However, they sat there in the streetcar, warm, breathing, excited. Five or six sat there: people, lost, lonely in the November afternoon. To escape the fog. They sat under comforting dim little lamps—entirely separate and alone they sat, escaping the fog. It was empty in the station. Only five were there, entirely separate, and breathing. And the conductor was the sixth one on this late and lonely November afternoon. He was there with his mild brass buttons, and he drew big, crooked faces on the misted-up panes. The streetcar climbed and bumped its yellow way through November.

Inside sat the five escapees, and the conductor stood. And an older man with incredibly wrinkled bags under his eyes began again—half to himself—he began once more:

“They are there in the air. In the night. O, they are there in the night. It’s why you can’t sleep. Because of them. But it’s just the voices, nothing more—you can believe me, it’s just the voices.”

The older man bowed way down. The bags under his eyes shook loosely and softly as his curiously bright forefinger poked at the flat bosom of the old woman who sat next to him. Surprised, she breathed noisily through her nose and stared, startled, at the bright forefinger. She kept on breathing hard and wheezy. She couldn’t help it, because she had a nasty November cold that had settled down deep, and it seemed to have gotten a tight hold on her lungs. But nonetheless that finger irked her. The two girls in the other corner giggled. They didn’t give much heed to all of this talk about night voices. They had known for a long time that there were night voices. In fact, they knew it better than anyone. But they giggled, because they felt awkward and ashamed there next to one another. And the conductor drew big crooked faces on the mist-laden windowpanes. And then there was a young man sitting there with them who had his eyes closed and who was pale. He sat there, very pale under the dim little lamp. He had his eyes closed, as though he slept. And the streetcar climbed, swimming yellow through the lonely November afternoon. The conductor drew a crooked face on the pane and said to the old man with the softly shaking bags under his eyes: “Yes, it’s clear: voices are there. Everywhere there are voices. And, of course, especially at night.”

Both of the girls felt secretly awkward and ashamed again, and a tickling little giggle crept out of them, and one of them thought: “At night. Especially at night.”

The man with the shaking bags under his eyes took his bright finger from the breast of the sniffling old woman and poked it now at the conductor:

“Listen,” he whispered, “to what I say. To what I say! The voices are there! In the air. In the night. And my good ladies and gentlemen—“ He moved the forefinger away from the conductor and stuck it straight up in the air. “And do you know who that is? In the air? The voices? The voices of the night? Do you know why they are there?”

The bags under his eyes shook softly. The young man at the other end of the car was very pale and his eyes were closed, as though he slept.

“It’s the dead—so many, so many dead,” the one with the bags under his eyes whispered. “The dead, my good ladies and gentlemen. There are too many. They crowd the night and jostle each other in the air. It’s the dead—the far too many dead. They have no place. Everyone’s heart is already full. Full to the rim. And the heart is the only place they can stay—that’s for sure. But there are too many dead who can only ask, ‘where shall I go?’”

The others in the streetcar on this afternoon held their breath. Only the pale young man with the closed eyes breathed deeply and heavily, as though he slept.

The old man with the bright forefinger poked it in the direction of each of his listeners, one after the other. At the girls, at the conductor, at the old woman. And then he whispered once more: “And that’s the reason no one can sleep. That’s it. There are too many dead in the air. And they don’t have anywhere to go. They talk at night and seek a welcoming heart. That’s the reason no one can sleep—because the dead can’t sleep at night. There are too many. Especially at night. They talk at night when everything is completely still. They’re there at night, when everything else is gone. At night they find their voices. That is why everyone sleeps so poorly.” The old woman with the sniffles drew in a squeaky breath and stared excitedly at the wrinkled, softly shaking bags under the eyes of the whispering old man. But the girls giggled. They knew other voices of the night, those of the living, who laid warm, manly hands upon their naked skin—those who hid themselves under the bed—those who came to them quietly, violently—especially at night. They giggled and felt awkward and ashamed in the presence of the other. And neither of them knew that the other also heard the voices—in dreams—at night—in dreams.

The conductor drew big crooked faces on the mist-wet pane and said:

“Yes, the dead are there. They talk there in the air. In the night…o, yes. That’s clear. Those are the voices. They hang there at night in the air—over the bed. And one cannot sleep because of them. That’s clear.”

The old woman sniffled through her nose and nodded:

“The dead—yes—the dead: that’s the voices. There over the bed. O yes—always over the bed.”

And the girls felt foreign manly hands secretly moving on their skin, and they flushed, on this grey afternoon there on the streetcar. But the young man—he was pale and very lonesome in his corner, and he had his eyes closed, as though he slept. Then the man with the bags under his eyes jabbed with his bright finger into the dark corner in which the pale one sat, and he whispered:

“Yes, Youth! They can sleep. In the afternoon. At night. In November. All the time. They don’t hear the dead. Youth sleeps through the haunting voices. Only the old have the ears for it. The Youth have no ears for the voices of the night. They can sleep.”

His forefinger thrust accusingly through the distance at the pale young man, and the others breathed excitedly. It was then that he opened his eyes, the Pale One, and suddenly stood up and wobbled toward the old man. Shocked, the forefinger crept backward toward the palm, and the bags under the eyes ceased their movement for a moment. The Pale One, the Youth, reached toward the face of the old man and said:

“Oh, please. Don’t throw your cigarette away. Please give it to me. I’m in a bad way. I’m so hungry. Give it to me, sir. That would do me good. I’m really in a bad way.”

The bags under the eyes grew damp and began to shake—wrinkly, sad, quiet, astonished. And the old man said:

“Yes. You are very pale. You look pretty bad. Don’t you have a coat? We’re in November.”

“I know. I know,” said the Pale One. “My mother said to me every morning that I needed to put on a coat—that is was November. Yes, I know. But she’s been dead for three years. She doesn’t know that I don’t have a coat. Every morning my mother told me. ‘It’s November,’ she said. But she can’t know anything more about coats—she’s dead.”

The young man took the glowing cigarette and stumbled out of the streetcar. Outside there was fog—in the afternoon—in November. And the young, very pale young man went out into the lonely, late afternoon with the cigarette. He was hungry. He didn’t have a coat. His mother was dead, and it was November. And inside the others sat and held their breath. The bags under the eyes shook quietly—sadly. And the conductor drew big crooked faces on the pane. Big, crooked faces.

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Translation Of Wolfgang Borchert's "Radi"

2006-02-11T23:37:00.000-08:00

Radi

In this story, Wolfgang Borchert tells the tale of a man visited by the ghost of a friend who was killed in Russia during a winter battle of World War II. While, of course, this is not an autobiographical tale in any literal sense, we can see Borchert, who was forced to fight against his will for Adolph Hitler, in both the guilty survivor and in the ghost who comes looking for himself and his past—finding that both are no more. As in many of Borchert’s short stories, we see with icy clarity how war destroys the body, the mind and the spirit of numberless people—some quickly, some more slowly.

Radi was here with me tonight. He was as blond as ever, and he had the same soft, broad, laughing face. Even his eyes were the same: something anxious, something uncertain. He had a couple of blond whiskers too.

Everything about him the same as ever.

“But you’re dead, Radi,” I said.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Don’t laugh.”

“Why should I laugh?”

“You always laughed at me. I know that. Because I was walked so funny on the way to school, and I went on and on about girls I didn’t know. You always laughed. Because I was a little anxious. I know very well you did.”

“Have you been dead long?” I asked.

“No, not long,” he said. “I fell out just this last winter. They couldn’t get me properly in the ground. Everything was frozen. Everything just stone-hard.”

“O yeah. You got killed in Russia, huh?”

“Yeah, first of winter. Now don’t laugh. There’s nothing very nice about being dead in Russia. Everything is so foreign to me. The trees are foreign. So sad, you know. They’re mostly alders. Where I lie there stands nothing but sad alders. And the stones moan and groan sometimes. Just because they have to be Russian stones. And the woods shriek at night. Just because they have to be Russian woods. And the snow screams. Just because it has to be Russian snow. Yeah, everything is strange. Everything so foreign.”

Radi sat silently on the side of my bed.

“Maybe it just seems that way because you have to be dead there,” I said.

He looked at me. “Are you kidding? O, no, man. I mean, it’s scary strange. Everything.” He looked at his knee. “Everything is so foreign. Even yourself.”

“Yourself?”

“Yeah, don’t laugh. That’s it exactly. You’re even scary strange to yourself. I’m serious, man, don’t laugh—that’s exactly why I came here. I wanted to talk to you about all this.”

“To me?”

“Yeah, don’t laugh—specifically to you. You know me, right?”

“I always thought I did.”

“It doesn’t matter. You know me well enough. The way I look, I mean. Not what I am. I mean, how I look—you know me that way, right?”

“Yeah, you’re blond. You have a full, roundish face.”

“Nah, come on, go ahead and say it. I have a weak face. I know it already. So—“

“Okay, you have a weak face that is always laughing and which is broad.”

“Yeah, okay. And my eyes?”

“Your eyes were always a little—a little sad and strange—“

“Don’t lie. I have always had very anxious and uncertain eyes, because I never knew if you believed what I said about the girls. So, what else? Did I always have a smooth face?”

“No, that wasn’t like you at all. You always had a couple of little blond whiskers on your chin. You always thought no one would see them there. But we always saw them.”

“And laughed.”

“And laughed.”

Radi sat on the edge of my bed and rubbed the palm of his hand on his knee. “Yeah,” he sighed softly, “that was me. That was me exactly.”

And then he suddenly looked at me with his anxious eyes. “Do me a favor, will you? But don’t laugh—please. Come with me.”

“To Russia?”

“Yeah. It’ll be real quick. Just a second. Because you know me so well, okay?”

He took my hand. And it felt just like snow. Really loose, and light—and cold.

We stood between a couple of alders. Something bright was lying there. “Come on,” Radi said. “That’s where I fell.” I saw a human skeleton, just like the ones I had seen in school. There was something made out of brown and green metal lying next to it. “That’s my steel helmet,” Radi said. “It’s all rusted and covered with moss.”

And then he pointed at the skeleton. “Please don’t laugh,” he said. “But that’s me. Can you understand that? You know me. So you tell me yourself: can that be me down there? Do you know what I mean? Isn’t that just scary strange? There’s nothing left there that’s really me. Who would know me like that? But that’s me. It has to be me. But it’s beyond me. It’s just so unbelievably strange. That down there has nothing to do with what I was before. No—please don’t laugh, but it’s all so unbelievably strange to me, so incomprehensible, so out there.”

He sat down on the dark ground and looked sadly out before him. “That has nothing to do with what I was before,” he said. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Then he got a bit of the dark dirt on his fingertip and smelled it. “Foreign,” he whispered. “Absolutely foreign.” Then he held the little bit of dirt in front of me. And it was like snow. Exactly like the hand that had reached out for me before: really loose, and light—and cold.

“Smell,” he said.

I breathed in deeply.

“Well?”

“It’s a bit of dirt,” I said.

“And?”

“Maybe a little sour. A little bitter. Just like dirt.”

“But foreign, right? Absolutely foreign? And really repulsive, right?”

I breathed deeply again, smelling the little bit of dirt. It smelled loose, and light, and cold. Maybe a little sour. A little bitter.

“Smells good,” I said. “Like dirt.”

“Not repulsive? Not foreign?”

Radi looked at me with anxious eyes. “It smells really repulsive, man.”

I smelled it.

“No, that’s the way the dirt smells everywhere.”

“You think so?”

“Sure.”

“And you don’t think it’s repulsive?”

“No. It smells just great, Radi. Try smelling it again yourself.”

He took a little bit between his fingertips and smelled.

“Dirt smells like that everywhere?” he asked.

“Yeah. Everywhere.”

He breathed in deep. He stuck his nose all the way into the hand that cupped the little bit of dirt. Then he looked at me. “You’re right,” he said. “Maybe it does smell good. But still foreign—when I think that this is where I am, it all just seems so strange, man.”

Radi sat and smelled and he forgot about me and he smelled and smelled and smelled the little bit of dirt. And he began to say the word “foreign” and the word “strange” less and less frequently. And every time he said it softer. He smelled and smelled and smelled.

I went back home on my tiptoes. It was five thirty in the morning. In the front yard I could see the earth through the snow. And with bare feet I walked over the dark dirt and the snow. It was loose. And light. And cold. And it smelled. I took a bit in my fingers, stood up, and breathed in deep. Yes, it smelled. “It smells good, Radi,” I whispered. “It smells really, really good. It smells just like dirt. You can be at peace.”

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Poetry, 1986

2006-01-30T15:43:00.000-08:00

>
>
......Callisto
(a series of 37 poems)

.....May 14, 1991

Pale--like a paper clown,
Gazing and delving
With devil's chocolate eyes,
Your lips a little parted
As though you might be ready
To speak,
You look at me.
Wordless words gather
In your eyes
And glimmer there.
As the sun throws spears
Of light
That gather round us
Like a sound,
You roll to the ground
And smile at me,
And look
As though you might understand.
(We should live so long.)

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....May 15, 1991

Yesterday you were an impish fool,
Ready to roll
In the long, tall grass.
You didn't mind the insects
That leapt
Onto your tapered body.
Today you dust them off
And look
Waspish and crossed,
A feminine hornet
Ready to annihilate a friend.
The queues of your hair blow
Back like noxious snakes--
And you curse the overheated sun.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....May 23, 1991

Your face is made of actor's paint--
And your hands are pale
White spiders
Gripped in terrible battle.
Your looks go shooting
Up my spine,
Raking each vertebra
Like knives, edgy and dull.
Xenophobic ghosts haunt my mind
Like rats crawling
Through a dusty attic.
They are afraid of you--
And they whisper
Warnings--
Until the sun comes
And melts them away.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....May 24, 1991

The white spiders
Tear at each other--
Again and again
They do war,
Rolling over and over--
Will one of them die?
Your face pales another shade
And twitches--
And your voice trembles
When you hiss: geh fort!--
Before you turn away.
Will one of us die?
Tomorrow you will play again
With the bugs and the grass
And me
(Or perhaps you will
Leave tonight
And be gone for another year.)

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....April 2, 1992

All paper doll smiles
Upon your triumphant return,
You hum at bits
Of Bach's cantata,
And your sing-song voice
Sings songs.
You relish each word
On that dark Teutonic tongue--
You torture me
With glass-clear tones
That rankle darkly
In my soul.
Your words are tight,
Constricting,
And I fight
To be free of them.
(I do not wish
To welcome you back.)
You look at me and laugh
With the sound of breaking glass.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....April 13, 1992

Speak to me today!
Speak to me
As you would speak
To your mother!
Speak to a brother--
Not with those vague
Teutonic echoes
That your tongue
Curls around
Like a fiery serpent.
Do not laugh
When I speak to you
Or when I beseech you
Not to hiss at me
In that dark Germanic way
I can never understand.

You turn and look
Toward the sun--
And you smile slowly.
It is all right for you today.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....April 23, 1992

The ghosts are whispering again,
Telling me that I should leave you.
I will not listen to them,
Though often I suspect
They are wise.
Today I shall say
That they are fearful,
Foolish apparitions,
Full of superstition and care.
Today I will stay and watch
Your eyes,
And listen
To your wordless words,
And understand nothing
And everything--
All at once.
I tell myself
That you will not hurt me.
The skies are full
Of gray rain,
And you are here, breathing
Warm breath on my neck.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....May 12, 1992

Paper clown faces
Left over from last year
Linger here in the field.
Look, the bugs
And grass remember.
The long green tendrils
Reach out and touch you,
Grabbing at your legs,
Trying to make you stay--
And the bugs crawl
Along your sleeves again,
Screeching and chirping
Friendly greetings:
Will-kom-men!
Will-...kom-...men!
Will-...will-...will-
...............kom-...men!
Your face lights up
Like the sun,
And you catch
At the little insects
With your thin, white hands--
The blades of grass
Are friends again
With your long, tapered legs
And they sway with your walking.
You are one
.....with all,
.....happy,
.....gay,
.....with sunshine-
.....chirpy-insect-
.....long-feely-green-grass-
.....smiles.
You are carefree.
The year begins over again.
You look
As though you might understand.
It is a trick
Done with mirrors.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....May 16, 1992

Your voice is like the jay's,
All caws and croaks--
And your hard little eyes
Are like his
When you speak to him.
You spread your wings
........and cry:
Fliegst! Fliegst!
........Fliegst, Liebchen!
You call out to him
As though talking with a brother,
Speaking encouragement
To one your know.
Then you fold your arms
And breathe hot breath
Into my ear:
Liebespaar--wir?
Ja?
...Ja?
Ich sage so.
Du sagst.
Bitte!
...Bitte!
...Bitte!
The words settle
In my ears
Like tiny birds
And burn in my brain
Like coals.
The ghosts are afraid
I have begun
To believe you.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....June 1, 1992

It is the month
Of weddings,
And you sip your tea
As I read Goethe,
Understanding little.
Thomas Wolfe is more
To my taste,
And all this German
Has made my tongue
Salty and stiff.
No, no tea for me.
Is it chamomile?
Still, no.
I must continue on
With my reading.
The books are beginning
To look smug
Sitting there
In their shelves
Unread.
I will not walk
Today--I shall stay
Here and wrestle
With your dark language
As Jacob wrestled
The angel.
Tomorrow I will join you.
Go alone today.
I will catch up to you
On another jaunt.
Now I will be alone,
While you sip your tea,
And I read Goethe,
Understanding little.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....June 2, 1992

You have finished
Your chamomile tea--
And Goethe has finished
My desire
For books today.
The clouds are soft pillows
Against which we can rest
Our weary heads.
But then after--
What is your desire
Today?
Shall we
.....run,
.....jump,
.....jaunt,
.....ramble,
.....drop
.....down into the grass
.....and lose
.....all sense of time?
What is the stuff
Of time
On days like today,
When all of life is
.....singing,
.....ringing,
.....clinging
.....to the soul?
Give Goethe
The whole pot of tea
And let us find
The sun.
Wordsworth
Would have loved you
And me on a day
Like today.
Perhaps later
He will come for coffee.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....June 16, 1992

Can this be you?
Why can't you be content
With love?
Androcles was loved
By a vicious king--
Raging Leo was calmed
And tamed by love--
And so it seems
A wretched beast
Has more ballast
Than you.
Thorns a' plenty
I have picked
From your delicate hide,
And what to show
But bites,
And claws,
And oozing blood?
Take away your smile,
Your sing-song voice,
Your sensual laughter,
And all the myriad
Hypnotic charms
Of your being
And you should have
No power over me--
(Though even now
I melt, as before a god,
Before your awe-struck eyes.)

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....June 16, 1992

Forgive me.
After all,
It is the month of weddings.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....June 17, 1992

Were I able
To thread my way back
Through the twists and turns
Of time,
And unweave
The million plaits
Of
Happenings,
Happiness,
And helter-skelter
Madness,
I don't know
Whether
I would lose
Or have
You forever,
From the beginning
Of all.
Your hands
Are poised before
You,
Waxy-white,
Waxy-blue veined,
Ready to leap
And kill
At a moment's
Notice.
Like two
Pick-pocket thieves
In a room,
We mix about,
Suspicious
Of the other,
Moving cautiously,
Carefully,
Wary and wretched
As two jackels
At a fresh killing.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....July 3, 1992

You weave your way
Along a sun-baked path,
Through the seared
And shriveled grasses.
They are your
Dead friends.
The serried sound
Of their voices
Is in your sea-shell ears.
You have misplaced me
In your mind
And the loving insects
That leap onto your dress
And offer themselves
For your amusement
Are no comfort.
You no longer curse
.....the sun,
.....the silly bugs,
.....the sun-parched pathway,
.....or me.
All is like the sad long
Sound that is heard
In sea shells,
And your dark hair
Brushes the rustling,
Boneless corpses
Of your tender-feely friends.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....July 7, 1992

Something is broken
In you,
For you are tender.
You have braided
Your hair
Like a little girl's
And you look for life
In a sun-bleached
Hell of a place,
And find none.
You have forgotten
Me utterly.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....July 9, 1992

On a someday--
In a sometime--
You will be happy
And know
Me
Again.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....August 1, 1992

It is evening
And the echoes
Of the year
Carry you along
In a tide of remembrance.
The hotness of the day
Reminds you of how
Your father blasted apart
Your fragile
Artist's soul.
And the evening's breezes
Of your mother's
Easy laughter.
Your heart is as
The embittered earth,
Hard, made of clay, and pulsing
With a terrible heat
That is far too deep
To be cooled
Except with winter.
Once again you are
A lost little girl, wandering
Amidst the indian paintbrush
And huge old grasshoppers
That cling to dried shafts
With tired legs.
A lost girl--
(Except for the hardened heart.)
Your hair blows
In the day's only breeze,
Seeding the earth
With longing and remembrance.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....August 7, 1992

You have undone your hair again--
And it falls
Down around you and flows
In the air like perfume
As you run along
The pathway
Through the tired Autumn field
Toward the sun that sits,
Red, expressionless,
Waiting for you to come
To him
And breathe life
Into his ancient soul.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....August 8, 1992

You recognize me again
And sit
Beside me
As we watch
The sun die
Over a field
Of utter desiccation.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....August 23, 1992

You sit and pull a brush
Through your hair,
Muttering soft words
That Goethe could understand
Were he sitting with you
Drinking evening tea.
The sun is gone and only
The burning pathway
That he left in his wake
Is left behind.
A few clouds are pulled
Like thin cotton
Across the flesh-pink sky.
It is a wonder
They are not burned up.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....August 29, 1992

The last of warmth lingers,
Like a faint smile
Upon the face of Autumn.
The terrible heat
Has exhausted itself,
Done in by its own devices.
The sun-seared leaves
Race hard acorns to the ground
(And always lose),
Pirouetting down
an
.....invisible
....................stair
............................case.
You sit beneath a tree,
As if doing some sort of dharna,
Never smiling,
Never glancing up at me.
A leaf catches
In your hair.
You brush it away
And will not look at it.
They are fall
......................ing
All around you.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

.....August 30, 1992

The last of Indian Summer
Has died
Upon the western plains,
Leaving only a bloody mass
Of red-orange death.
The stabbing winds
That warn of winter
Are the cause,
And you flee indoors
Now before nine o'clock.
You have loved
The last of this season
And the dying sun
.....and all
.....your myriad
.....little
.....crawly
.....buggy
.....feely
.....big-eyed
.....friends
(Though on certain days
You've hated us all.)
The remaining clouds
Are like fading puffs
Of brick-brown peace-pipe smoke.
They inch slowly away
Over the stilled horizon,
Announcing a death.
(You are wroth with them.)

1986

Douglas S Johnson

Death Is An Illusion

Death is an illusion
Suffered by idiots
At sundown. It is
Suffered by pretty rich
Girls in the evening,
When the money is spent
And cotton candy is eaten
By gross, surfeited dogs
That roam in the yard.
It is suffered by young
Men whose teeth are straight
And whose hair is always
Meticulously combed.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

Last Year

Broken smiles
Lie on the ground,
All around,
Gathering near
Our clumsy feet,
Looking like
Shattered china,
And leftover words
That we try in vain
To speak aloud
Fall like bits
Of weary lead
Or sad, sugary plums
That meet the earth
With sound
That spreads forever
Into dark
Like rings in water.
Forgotten shadows
Wander the ground,
Worn and tattered
As ancient women,
And moths of light
Swim over us,
Fluttering flowers
In a brief magic trick.
I take your hand
And remember the million
Web-sticky eons
Since last year.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

Lazy, lovely Linda,
There are no more poems,
..........no more.
Go home and sleep.
Steep hills will move like
..........lovers' dreams
Beneath your fairy feet.
Go home. Go home and sleep,
Lazy, lovely Linda.
There are no more poems,
..........no more.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

The Little Dead

The little dead mole
That the dogs drug about
Like a bit of rag
Not an hour ago
Lies on the faded blue carpet
In a corner of the garage.
He is no bigger
Than a mouse, really;
And from here he seems
Comfortably asleep.
Perhaps it was one
Of the cats
That brought him here,
Who stole his life
And sold his dignity
To a frivolous pack of pups.
I can imagine the hopeless
Pas de deux
He danced with the tabby,
The graceful pas de chat
Of his crucifier
As she daintily ended
His living.

Do the little dead die
Any easier,
With any less agony,
With fewer frantic scrambles
For a life which slips away
Like water through
A worn-out sieve?
What honor has this
Little roll of rumpled rags
Ever known?
And now, out
With the morning garbage.

1986

Douglas S Johnson

Poem For Piano, Flute And Voice

Hands playing,
Hands playing,
Hands playing keys:
Whose hands are these?
Whose hands are these
Playing these keys?
Lips playing,
Lips playing
Lips playing pipes:
Whose hands are these?
Whose hands are these
Playing these keys?
Whose lips are these?
Whose lips are these
Playing these pipes?
Tongues tonguing
Tongues tonguing
Tongues tonguing songs:
Whose hands are these?
Whose hands are these
Playing these keys?
Whose lips are these?
Whose lips are these
Playing these pipes?
Whose tongues are these?
Whose tongues are these
Tonguing these songs?

1986

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Poetry, 1990

2006-01-27T17:48:00.000-08:00

Beginning

And so she was there,
Talking with her eyes
So I could not hear,
The scars upon her face
Beautiful--Dainty--Clean
Speaking more loudly
Of a brutal time,
A time of sharp edges,
White pain.

1990

Douglas S Johnson

.....Imitation Of Dickinson

...(a series of four poems)

And then again falls the shade--
The long and narrow angles of the dark
Which creep into my yard
With the mists of an airy death.
And then I know
It's come again--
My unholy, unwelcome guest.

1990

Douglas S Johnson

I saw God the other day--
Out the corner of my eye--
Standing alone, and trembling--
His rosy colored fingers twitched--
A morning song.

1990

Douglas S Johnson

Its moment makes it beautiful--
It lives because it dies--
Torpid as we're waking--
And while we sleep--it flies

1990

Douglas S Johnson

To know the time--
To know the end--
To know the why--
And then to rend
Oneself from life--
And--like a parting leaf--
descend

1990

Douglas S Johnson

Morning

Little girl asleep
--Asleep upon my knee--
The sun is your misgiving,
I'm the moon--all full of dreams.

Moonlove you have never known,
Only passions of the sun,
Not knowing when your breath wakes stars
My love has just begun.

1990

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Translation Of Wolfgang Borchert's "Vielleicht Hat Sie Ein Rosa Hemd"

2006-01-24T00:15:00.000-08:00

“I Bet She Has A Pink Blouse”

“Vielleicht Hat Sie Ein Rosa Hemd” is another of Wolfgang Borchert’s sharp and subtle commentaries on the waste and senseless death and destruction that he saw during his time under Hitler’s forced military conscription during World War II. In this story, Borchert demonstrates how quickly, and permanently, the brutality of war can separate the sensitive soul from things of delicacy, beauty, and enduring meaning and how the trauma of war makes even the holding to such things a bittersweet venture.

They both sat on the bridge-railings. Their pants were thin, and the railings were icy. But they got used to it fast. And how the metal pressed into their legs. They sat there. It rained a while, then stopped, then rained again. They sat and watched everyone parade by. And because for the entire time of the war they had seen only men, the only thing they saw now was women.

And one went past.

“Look at the rack on that one,” Tim said. “At least if she falls in the river, she’ll float.”

“Yeah, but if she runs around too long in the sun, the milk’ll sour,” grinned the other.

Then another came by.

“Out of the Stone Age,” said the guy standing next to Tim, disappointed.

“All full of spider webs,” he agreed.

Then came the men. And their commentary ceased as these passed by. Locksmith apprentices, office employees with white pasty skin, schoolboys with intelligent faces and shabby pants, fat men with fat legs, old asthmatics and streetcar conductors who marched along like army sergeants.

And then she came. She was something else entirely. The kind of woman you just knew smelled exactly like peaches. Or maybe just like really clean skin. No doubt she had some kind of a really special name: Evelyn—or something like that. Then she had passed. The two watched after her.

“I bet she has a pink blouse,” Tim mused.

”Why?” said the other.

“Because,” answered Tim, “she just seemed like the type to have a pink blouse.”

“Idiot,” the other said, “she could just as well have a blue blouse. Why couldn’t she, you moron? Just tell me why she couldn’t.”

“Women like her wear pink ones. That’s something I know for sure, my good man.” Tim said this very loud and clear.

And the one who stood next to him said: “So you know one of these women?”

Tim didn’t say anything. They sat there, and the bridge railing was icy through their thin pants.

Then Tim said: “No, not me. But I knew a guy once who had one with a pink blouse. In the army. In Russia. He always kept a piece of some kind of pink cloth in his wallet. But he never would let anyone touch it or look at it. But one day it fell on the ground. Everybody saw it then. But he didn’t say anything about it. He just got all flushed. Just like that piece of cloth. Shot through pink. Later that night, he told me how he got it from his fiancée. Like a talisman, a good luck charm, you know. She always wore really bright pink blouses, he said. And that was from one of them…”

Tim stopped.

“Yeah, and…?” asked the other one.

Then Tim said very softly: “I took it away from him. And held it up high. And we all laughed. At least a half an hour we laughed. And some of the things that got said about it, well, you can only imagine.”

“Yeah, and…?” asked Tim’s companion.

Tim looked at his knee. “He threw it away,” he said. And then Tim looked at the other man: “Yeah,” he said, “he threw it away… And then he got it. The next day, he got it…”

Neither of them said anything. They just sat there and didn’t say anything. But then the one standing next to Tim said: “Bullshit.” And he said it again. “Bullshit,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” said Tim. “Of course it’s bullshit. I mean, sure it is. I know that.” And then he said: “But it’s weird, you know. It’s still pretty weird.”

And Tim laughed. Both of them laughed. And Tim made a fist in his pants pocket. And as he did, he crumpled up something in the palm of his hand. A little piece of pink cloth. A lot of the color had faded, because he’d kept it in his pocket for so long. But it was still pink. He’d brought it back from Russia.

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Gedichte Auf Deutsch, 2004

2006-01-23T12:25:00.000-08:00

An Einer Freundin

(nach Goethe)

Wie ziehst du mich--so vollkommen--
Als mit einer Zaubermacht?
Aus meinem früheren, leeren Leben,
Das war eine öde Nacht?

Ein Leben, zum Gefängnis geworden...
Durch schien die Mondenstrahle,
Die sang sehr leise in meinen Ohren
Und rettete mich aus meiner Falle.

Träumte ich von ein' Zeit mit dir,
Von einem grenzenlosen Drang--
Und nicht mehr war mein Leben leer--
Voll mit engelhaft' Gesang.

Bin ich's noch?--seh wie ich war
Bevor du mir kamst:
Nichts mehr als eine Kreatur
Gejagt von Furcht und Angst--

Ein einsamer Mann, in Dunkelheit,
Weit entfernt von Liebesblüte...
Wo du bist, Engel, ist Schönheit--
Wo du bist, ist Güte.

2004

Douglas S Johnson

Dein Lächleln bewegt Wolken
Über eine Sommerebene.
Licht kommt
Und geht.
Schatten gleiten
Wie matte Schwimmer,
Und Zeit ist kennzeichnend
Und ist nicht verliert
Auf der Erde.

2004

Douglas S Johnson

Ein Erinnerung Von Dich

Und dann—plötzlich
Gab es Sommerregen:
Sanft, flüsternd, geheimnisvoll—
Zärtlich und gut
Am frühen Nachmittag.

Ich wusste nicht mehr
Wie lang ich unter jenem Baum
Gesessen hatte—
Momente sind Ewigkeiten
geworden...
Und Ewigkeiten
Momente...

Und durch den geduldigen Regen
Kamst du...
Langsam und geisterhaft, zu mir—
Du, der ich nie
Begegnet hatte...

Und deine regennasse Küsse
Rührten um in mir
Einer entfernten Erinnerung—
Von einem Irgendwann,
Wann wir zusammen waren...
würden...
sind...

Die Vergangenheit—
Die Zukunft—
Und dieser Moment:
Wie die Regentropfen
Sind sie alle zusammen
Gelaufen...

Bis wir, wie ein Wesen,
Stiegen auf in die Luft
Durch Regen und Zeit.

2004

Douglas S Johnson

Ein Erotischer Traum Von Dir

Deine Küsse gaben mir den Hunger—
Den Hunger für die Zuckermilch,
Die aus deinen rosa Brustwarzen kam
Bis ich sie ganz aufgesaugt hatte—
Die dicke, warme, weisse Milch,
Die spritzte in meinem Mund
Zum Tempo deines Stöhnens.

Deine Kleidung schmolz
Wie Winterschnee in der Sommersonne
Unter meinen dringenden Händen,
Und deine kleinen, zitternden Finger
Waren auf meinem Kopf wärhend sich
Dein Bauch hob unter meinen
Dringenden Lippen, die suchten nieder.

Dein Schamhaar wickelte sich
Um meine Finger
Wie Reben voll mit Verlangen—

Und wir sanken ineinander
Wie kühne Schwimmer im Nachtmeer,
Und die Sterne kamen wie Blitze
In den Augen—durch das Wasser—
Durch das Gehirn—
Mit wilden Pulsschlägen—
Und unsere Orgasmen—
Zwei wurden Eins—
Kamen wie Ozeanwellen—
Und danach lagen wir zusammen:
Satt und nass; und riechend wie Salz.

2004

Douglas S Johnson

Sommernacht

(Linien Auf einem Postkarte)

Endlich kommt ruhiges Dämmerlicht.
Die feurigen Zungen der Sonne
Werden vom Atem des Abends gekühlt
Und auch die ganze fiebrige Welt—

Ich schaue den edelsteinbeladenen Himmel an—
Ich erkenne deine Heimkehr in meinem Herzen,
Als ob die Engel im Wind geflüstert hätten,
Dass es Liebe wieder in der Welt gibt.

Ich lege mich nieder in Dunkelheit, im Gras—
Und die Erde dreht sich unten,
Schaukelnd alles wie eine liebevolle Mutter—
Und die unsichtbaren Blätter sprechen
Mit deiner Stimme, die ich nie gehört habe...

Ich wache auf—also muss ich geschlafen haben—
Und plötzlich ist die ganze Nacht ein Wunder:
Dunkelheit—Stille—Sterne—
Sterne, die brennen als in einem Van Gogh Traum.

Es gibt ein gespenstiches Dasein an meiner Schulter:
Ein Atemzug eines winzigen, dunklen Vogels—
Und ich weiss, dass du wieder zu Hause bist.
Und ich schlaf wieder, hier im Sommernacht.

2004

Douglas S Johnson

Wird deine Einsamkeit
Die Sterne
Vom Himmel ziehen?
Und wird deine Traurigkeit
Den Mond
Zu Asche
Der Rosen wechseln?
Und wird dein Verlangen
Die Dunkelheit von der Nacht
Und das Licht
Vom Tag stehlen?

2004

Douglas S Johnson

BESUCHEN SIE MEIN WEBSEITE

Translations Of Wolfgang Borchert's Poetry, 2006

2006-01-20T19:55:00.000-08:00

The Kiss

(a translation of Borchert's "Der Kuss")

It’s raining—but she’s lost in bliss,
And her heart quakes, full of singing:
The whole world, a dream—a kiss.
Her dress wet, tightly clinging,

And carelessly showing off her knees
By holding so to the thigh.
A raindrop, smashed to smithereens
Saw that beheld by no other eye.

No deeper feeling has she known—
Blessed carnality, without alloy!
With holy light her long hair glows
And lampposts spin for utter joy.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Translation Of Wolfgang Borchert's "Die Küchenuhr"

2006-01-20T16:52:00.000-08:00

The Kitchen Clock

In „Die Küchenuhr,“ Wolfgang Borchert tells the sad story of an unhinged young man who has lost everything, his house, his way of life, and his family, to the ravages of war. The only thing remaining from his old life is a broken kitchen clock, which comes to symbolize a “place in time” to which he can never return.

They saw him coming from a long way off, because there was something about him that made him hard not to notice. His face was that of someone quite old, but to see him walking, one knew instantly that he was only about twenty. He sat himself, with his wizened face, on the bench. And then he showed them what he carried in his hands.

“This was our kitchen clock,” he said and looked at them, one after another—those who sat there on the bench in the sun. “Yes, I found it. It was left.“

He held before him a round kitchen clock that looked something like a plate, and he counted off each of the little blue painted numbers with little jerks of his finger.

“It’s worthless now,” he announced apologetically. “I know that. And it’s not particularly pretty either. It looks just like a plate with that white lacquer. But the blue numbers are kind of nice, I think. The hands, of course, are tin. And it doesn’t run anymore. No. It’s all busted up inside; that’s for sure. But it looks just like it always did. Even though it doesn’t run anymore."

With his fingertip, he made a careful circle all along the rim of the plate-clock. And he said softly: “It was left.” Those who sat on the bench didn’t look at him. One looked at his shoes and the woman in her baby buggy. Then someone said, “so you lost everything?”

“Yes, yes,” he said jauntily. “Just think! All of it! Everything! Just this here—this is left.” And he lifted the clock high as though the others had perhaps not understood what he had been talking about.

“But it doesn’t run anymore,” said the woman.

“No, No. It doesn’t. It’s busted; I know that good and well. But other than that it looks just like it always did: white and blue. And it still shows the time. And the beauty of it is…” he rambled on excitedly, “well, I just haven’t even told you the best part yet! The beauty of it is just this: think about it a second…it’s stuck right there at half past two. Right on half past two! Just think about it!”

“Then your house was hit at exactly half past two,” the man said and stuck out his lip self-importantly. “I’ve often heard about such things. When the bombs come down, the clocks stand still. It comes from the pressure.”

He looked at the clock and shook his head while he considered what the man had said. “No, my dear sir. No. You’re mistaken. It has nothing to do with the bombs. Please, don’t talk about the bombs. No. Half past two was something else entirely, something you don’t know about. That’s the funny thing, that it’s stuck right here at half past two. And not quarter past four or seven o’clock. Half past two was when I always got home. At night, I mean. Just almost always at half past two. That’s the funny part of it.”

He looked at the other man, but the eyes of the other man were turned away. And he couldn’t find them again. So he nodded to his clock: “Well, I was hungry, wasn’t I? And I always went straight to the kitchen. And it was almost always half past two. And then, of course, my mother came in. No matter how quietly I opened the door, she always heard. And as I looked around in the dark kitchen for something to eat, suddenly the light would come on. And there she would stand in her wool jacket, and with a red shawl tied around it. And barefoot. Always barefoot. And our kitchen was tiled. And she would squint so that her eyes were really small, because the light was so bright. She had already gone to sleep a long time before. See, it was night.”

“’So late again,’ she would say then. She never said anything more. Just: ‘So late again.’ And then she warmed up dinner and watched me while I ate. And all the while she put one foot on top of the other, and then the other way around, shifting back and forth, because the tiles were so cold. She never wore shoes at night. And she sat there by me until I was satisfied. And then I heard her take the plate away after I was already in my room with the light out. It was like that every night. And almost always at half past two. And that was the most natural thing in the world to me back then: that every night she would make me something to eat at half past two. It was the most natural thing in the world. And she always did it. And she never said anything more than ‘so late again.’ But she said it every time. And I never thought it would end. It was just so natural to me. That was just the way things were.”

For just a moment, it was silent there on the bench. Then he said softly, “and now?” He looked at the others. But he couldn’t find them. And so he spoke very softly into the round, white and blue face: “now… now I know that it was paradise. A true paradise.”

It was totally still there on the bench. Then the woman asked, “and your family?”

He smiled, awkward and embarrassed, at one and then the other. But they didn’t look at him.

Then he raised the clock high, and he laughed. He laughed: “just this here! It remains! And the beauty of it is—yes!—that it’s stuck exactly at half past two! Exactly at half past two!”

Then he said nothing more. But he had a very old face. And the man who sat next to him looked at his shoes. But he didn’t see the shoes. He was thinking about the word “paradise.”

2006

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Translations Of Wolfgang Borchert's Poetry, 2005

2006-01-19T14:56:00.000-08:00

Farewell ("Abschied")

(a translation of Borchert)

Allow me your rose-red lips:
One time more, to mine, to cleave—
(Even a distant baying dog
Knows that I must leave.)

Allow me your gentle lap,
Just for one last prayer
To take away my suffering—
Harken, the seawind, fair!

Allow me your soft blond hair,
Quickly, for one final dream:
That all your love was really love—
Allow me this one dream!

2005

Douglas S Johnson

Lovesong ("Liebeslied")

(a translation of Borchert)

As night draws nigh,
I hold near to you.
For now, I’ll be all
I can be for you.

Please never question
The future or past—
Only feast on my love
As long as it lasts!

For one single night
Be gentle with me—
For one single night
Is all there will be!

2005

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBSITE

Poetry, 2006

2006-01-17T00:49:00.000-08:00

Ah, Technology

If Poe had had our Internet,
He’d not have drunk himself to death;
Pondering over Earl Grey tea,
He’d have emailed someone from Tennessee
Who’d read “The Raven” on Poe.com,
And quoth in guestbook, “Ed! Da Bomb!”

Because she instant-messaged Death—
That dude was right on time—
And what a boon—for the little Moth—
Spell-Check for her Rhymes!

If that marketing giant, Amazon, had come barreling through the ancient woods
Of the Manhatta, bawling wild like an Indian brave with boiling blood,
And had that Gargantua taken up all the unsold copies of Leaves Of Grass in his sinewy hands
And hurled them to every corner of the world: to Borneo, to China, to India,
To Louisiana, to Timbuktoo, to the cop on the street, the whore in the doorway,
To the slave working in the fields, to the businessman smoking his cigars,
To the rich man and the poor man, to the rich woman and the poor woman,
To the rich child and the poor child and the child of war and the child of peace,
To the dogs and the cats and the pigeons and the blackberry bushes and all the dandelions
and…

2006

Douglas S Johnson

An arrow pointed straight at God—
That ever regal “What?”—
But how and why does one take aim
At such an awful “Not”?

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Being Walt Whitman

There is just so long you can be Walt Whitman,
With a bristly beard and all the doors off their jambs,
Cavorting, and singing the body electric,
Making love with the whole world in free fall

Until it finally gives way to a fracture, sudden but sure,
A little something that hobbles you in the knee,
That slows you in the head and paints the beard grey.

And then come rushing in all the little pangs of disintegration:
The myopias, the constipations, the heart palpitations,
The impotences, the slackenings, the slowings up.

Until at last you can hear Death overtaking you in the field,
Blasting shins, ravaging the stomach, tearing the mind,
Delighting in the carnage of a man
Who used to be Walt Whitman.

*

O, but there was a day, a single glorious day
That shall be a salve to all the others, a balm of happiness
To every frustration, blindness, dyspepsia, forgetfulness,
Irritable bowel, lingering cold in the head,
Fouled attempt at love-making, incapacitation.

And you were there with me on that day.
It is a day that cannot be said, and I will not damage it with words.
It began with spring sunshine, was filled with earth-rending
Love, and ended in gentle rain.

It was the day when we were perfect, when I was perfectly myself,
And you were perfectly yourself, a day existing in all time,
A day you made with me, when I was, completely, Walt Whitman.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Dandelion girl blooming
Among the weeds
She pulls in the garden

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Death and Life

Two master Generals,
Winking at each other
In the darkening jungle,
Feigning the part of enemies,
Dissembling animosity.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Early Summer Haiku

a single blade of grass
balancing the All
on its delicate tip

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Esteem

A pregnant woman,

Nine months gone—

Sweating, swaggering
Down Main Street
In Midland, Texas

Proud of her swollen belly
And her naked third finger:

She flashes the mayor
And moons City Hall.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Grand Is The Seen

(after Whitman)

Grand is the seen—the body in all its movements,
The riotous land upon which the body moves,
The throbbing ocean which yields its life
To the earth—the earth and all the star-filled space
Which cradles this world and all other worlds—
And grand are the animals, and the birds
In all their multitudinous forms and rich colors—
And sex and the life-drive, and all bodily urges
Which a thousand preachers cannot nay-say
Or repulse from the universe with violent sermons—
Grand is breathing in winter and wet grass in summer—
But grander still is the dance behind the curtain,
The mystery beyond even the deepest of mysteries:
The Spirit that cannot be divided or encapsulated,
Of which no man and no thing can say “mine,”
And yet which all have ever in common—even
As they have the breath of life and living in common.
Grander still this Mover without movement,
This Overseer without eyes or guiding hand,
This All and Nothing together—grander still,
More intimate, more known than that most known
As it comes blooming through the Seen.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

hot mint tea
under the japanese maple
a blossom falls

2006

Douglas S Johnson

The human soul’s a jungle,
With tangles so sublime
Not a lifetime of Safaris
Can its mysteries divine.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Huntress

Wearing a dozen different faces,
Bearing a hundred other names—
You peer into a midnight window,
Fangs glistening, fingers trailing blood
All along the pane,
But not finding me inside,
You moan like a wounded wolf
And turn again into the darkness

2006

Douglas S Johnson

I feel like little Em’ly
With all her dashes out
A Thunderstroke outbidding
Originality’s clout

Douglas S Johnson

2006

Lucifer’s New Plan

What needs doing
Is to catch him while he sleeps—
But when?—
To crack open
That giant skull,
That almighty melon,
To see what’s going on in there.
(We’ll have to shave
Just a bit of white hair—
But he’ll never notice.)

It has to be there,
In the wild and slippery
Curves and furrows:
The final purpose
Of the Holocaust.
And surely somewhere
In the temporal lobe,
There’s a beautiful explanation
For the necessity
Of leprosy,
And hiding in the amygdala,
A report on how a six year old
Girl writhing under
The searing flame of napalm
Furthers the divine plan.

We’ve heard theology.
Now we want neurology—
The inside reasons
The subcutaneous expostulations
The cellular defenses.
We want that head
Of heads at last to give
A decent account of itself—
And because it refuses—
We’ll wait until it sleeps—
But when?—
And knock it like a walnut
Until we get some answers.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Marble Maiden

Poised before the narrow path
Leading to a verdant world,
Your face a serious grey,
Yet livened by summer sun
And shadows of dancing leaves,
That seem to make you smile—

You are the first I see
This morning—an emissary,
A sign of coming peace,
A welcome into a living place
No longer sown with dread—

A quiet walk of flowered ways—
The heart-penetrating scent
Of purple irises—the days
Of Van Gogh’s joy, which came
To banish madness—

You signal to the secret,
Point the way into its depths—
Whisper, if one listens,
Of how to stay—for long
Moments I gaze into your
Changless eyes—hear your voice—
And then move forward—
At last amazed at how
Near heaven always was.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Middle Age

One morning you wake up
Floating in a jar of formaldehyde,
Twitching and flailing
Fetal arms and legs
In arrhythmic spasms,
An undead abortion—
A wild fibrillation of tissue—
A study for Nazi doctors
Wearing white coats and thick glasses.

Religion is gone.
Philosophy is gone—
Run away and over lost hills
Like wild horses
You’re just too tired to chase.

The sun shines sardonically.
The moon is a lush, a bore.
The stars are full of irony.

You look for other jars,
Other lives gone wrong,
Little middle-aged fetus eyes
Bugging out
With a tiny gleam of empathy
As late afternoon shadows
Angle through a room
You can’t recognize
And slowly shut the door
On further light—

2006

Douglas S Johnson

New March Haiku

Japanese plum tree smiles flowers—
Bows once to the girl
Who blossoms this year as well

2006

Douglas S Johnson

No Such Thing

Writing with safety pins pricking unwilling holes in virgin paper Freudian—Dickinsonean—shaking my head striving with style striving against it new attempts old innovation a bore—jabbing Macbethean madmen murdering Shakespeare gutting a bloated greyhaired Whitman threatening Emily with unspeakable crimes slicing Schiele from glossy books with razor blades slitting throats put it all in piles—all the world’s impotent, flacid, dogeared novelty and rebellion setting it aflame declaring destruction the ultimate creativity—massacree the final word in virtue banality the godhead of greatness—four elementary penguins stroll past stifling yawns

Douglas S Johnson

2006

Refrain To A Country Song Never Written

(composed after listening to Hoyt Axton’s
“Beyond These Walls” for the 106th time in a row)

...and the moon shines like a honeycake
And the stars like the sparklin’ sea—
But the whisperin’ grass and nighttime
Won’t bring you back to me.
And a train lets loose the cruelest wail
That’s ever been heard by man—
Sayin’ “all things fall to pieces”
As it laughs at destiny’s plan.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Shame

I wore the old shoes today,
You know the ones—
Those I pull on mornings
When I haven’t showered
Or combed my hair—
When I’ve slept ‘til noon
And slink out into accusing
Sunlight, to get the mail.
They’re the shoes
Too frayed—with briars
Of Adam’s sin
Stuck in the laces
And vulgar stains about
The toes.
You’ve seen me
In these—shied away.
The new ones,
Red, white and gold,
Are still spotless, and
Shine like a bishop’s robes.
You will not come
Near me again
Until I don them—
Smelling of cologne, smiling,
Hair combed and tied-back—
Heroically leaping
Puddles in a world
Of rain.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

slow whisperings
of old lovers
in morning rain

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Spontaneous Me
(after Whitman)

I saunter out into the day, embracing the summer wind, that embraces me,
Seeking the friend I know I shall find in the place we have wandered in our youth,
The place to which I return ever and again in dreams,
To find the rich carpet of grass spread just for me
And flowers strewn in riotous patterns in all the colors of my best fantasy,
Bees zooming like little masculine jets of strength through sunlit air.

I do not need to wonder, will I find you there? For I already know,
Anticipate you just as all of Nature has anticipated me.
And I have made all things ready for you just as she has made all things ready for me.
I bring my body into the wild fields filled with love-longing,
Brimming from foot to fingers with the summer juices of love and loving,
Smiling at the knowing, at the certainty, that you will be waiting for me there,
Near dancing as I step along over anthill and molehill,
Dreaming and living in a dream all at once, delighting in the corporeal ease.

For I find all at once that the body and the soul are one, are tied together
With the sacred bonds of nature that can never be broken or rent asunder,
And I feel that your body is drawing closer to my body,
That all the glory and loving that we have once known is returning:
A secret that the wind tells, a seeking that whistles through the high grass,
A wild, exultant goat-cry, a dizzying kaleidoscope of hope and realization
Spinning together in mad colors of divine promises kept…
Afterward, I awake in the wet grass, smelling of loamy earth and loving.
We are at last together, hidden there like field larks—and singing the body’ song.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Student’s Lament

Reading poetry’s a bore
Especially when it’s long
(And full of metaphors)—
I’d rather have a song
With lots of “da da dee’s”
And a melody that’s fun—
No “thou’s” or even “thee’s”
Like in Raleigh or in Donne.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Tale of a Dyslexic Librarian
(for K.B.)

"Quite!" she cried. "You're much too loud!"
He jumped from his chair for sheer fright--
"Do you mean 'quiet'?" he asked, full cowed.
"Yes," she answered, "Quite!"

2006

Douglas S Johnson

the days have a razor’s
edge again,
a sunshine sharpness
like they did in the valleys
of childhood
where the grass
grew higher
than an elephant’s eye

and I bleed life again:
the tears and blood
and all the proofs
of living—
I taste the bitter tang,
and I come and show
you my hands

and you take them
in yours again—
confident as God—
and we laugh and cry
into a red sunset—
“there’s no hurry,”
you reassure me—

and there is, again,
the old, old song:
“having for losing
losing for having,
having for losing…”

2006

Douglas S Johnson

Theme For Winter

It’s an ice cold room
In which they sleep—
Together, warm—

Just before morning
A limning of strange
Figures in frost—
Ghosts that might speak—

Etched into the pane

He wakens. She sleeps.
There’s a word—
Unuttered—a pain
Not quite formed just
Below the breastbone

A breathing belonging
To neither of the two.

She sleeps. He goes
To the window—
There’s a distant shape
Too far away to be
Innocuous, too near
To be ignored:

Perhaps it is death.
Perhaps a harmless cow.

She sleeps. He sits
Upon the edge of the bed
Keeping vigil—
Hearing her breathing
And the world breathing

And something comes near
And something departs.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

To An Old Man

Who truly is old

Who’s a little old ant
With pince nez glasses
A wheezy bug voice

Parkinsonian feelers
And six feeble legs

Jiminy Cricket’s
Superannuated
Televangelist cousin

This insect/old man
Who warns me of God
And squeaks out all
The virtues I lack

His 2,010 Commandments

Who trembles and shakes
As his heart palpitates
In his impotence
And sublimated jealousies—

I used to think him
A giant—this tiny piss ant
This mere breath
Of arthritic nothingness

But now I only laugh

Laugh not only at him
But at my own absurdity
In having once worshipped him

And striding along
Like a young Walt Whitman
I do not even bother
To crush him beneath
The tread of my sandal.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

A Walk

We see sunlight—real sunlight—
Only a few times in a life.
We understand the wind’s words
So infrequently—and so dimly—
That most often we forget to hear.

But then, some days-
In March, or September—
We are grasped
By that which we cannot grasp

And we look into the face
Of the other—
And see nothing but ourselves—
And then it is that we know:

We know what September sunlight
And March wind always know—
What the lizard and the lark see-
What living and dying share.

2006

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Poetry, 1994

2006-01-16T17:17:00.000-08:00

After Long Years

After long years, I take your hands
And try to find my name
There among the serpentine lines
And then in the mad red twists of your hair
That fall like a fountian's flow
About the shoulders that get lost
In the Van Gogh clouds that whirl above--that whirl above.
Then, my love, you peer at me as though
Time had created a stranger not even I would know,
And so I lightly run a finger
Again and again
Over the palm
Which for so long
Held my soul,
Stirring the tactile memories in its little hollow,
Filling its tiny cup with everything we were--
Knowing this you must eventually recognize,
And I watch your eyes.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Beach House Scene

You come to me
Like bits of old music
Pieced together
In memory
And appear in my mind
As you were the morning
You stood naked
In the window
Wrapped in the easy
Breezes of June
And the seagulls
Swept by like kites
Pulled back and forth
By wind and strings
As they wept
Cold, salty songs
And then fell back
Toward the solemn sea
And the wandering crab
Stumbled drunkenly
Through bright white sand
And the whole world
Framed you for that moment,
The stark pale image
Of an anonymous goddess
Which would live on
Like a tabbed
And tattered photograph
In fading sepia tones.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Beyond The Orchard

Extend your hands,
The thin, cupped palms,
To catch in the narrow streams
That run your life's very course
The rains of our love,
And then join hands with me
As we stand in the wide wet field
Above which the heron
Glides like God
Just before the downpour.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Carnival Ride

Drowsily I rise after
Loving you at the center
Of the sun, Sister Soul,
After falling back to earth
Like a wingless bird
From the two-bit tent
With the three-headed snake
And the solemn dog-faced boy.
After our fifty-cent ride
In Apollo's own chariot,
All the world around me has
Gone strange like dreams
To burned-out eyes and ears
Corrupted by barker's charms.
As I shuffle slowly through
The torn paper masks, bottlecaps,
And washed-out, wind-swept posters,
Through the afterbirth and sawdust,
I note this atmosphere far below
Has gone cold and unbreathable,
And God's face seems a knotted fist,
A sweeping black cloud of dust,
A sudden Midwest thundercloud,
The visage of an evil clown.
A grievous wind rises and then
The sun is blotted out like
A hateful, bulging eye, and so
The methodical strains of our old song,
The music of the penny flute,
Begins again, and there you are:
Flying high above the earth,
Lost to me on the ferris wheel car
That shall never come round
Again to the ground.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Coming Home

I am coming home to my love
After years of absence
On a morning that began
With the press of gulls at dawn
And salty ocean tears
And which now delightfully reels
With new southern winds
And the dappled density of woods
And with young green leaves
Which push their last red forefathers
From limbs and down to me.
And then, past trees and rolling fields,
Standing there, like God's final creation,
Is that most familiar house,
And I weep, and I run
Under a vast Van Gogh sky
Full of enormous suns.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Compensation

Guard this: our secret sanctum
Incorruptible and untouched
By feverish, impatient hands,
Unseen by hurried hoards
Who shall never think of us
Or see this rushing stream
In whose currents we are scrawled
Like flecks of evening light,
Who shall never suspect
What we are becoming together
When we are hidden here
Beneath these wind-pressed leaves,
Or see the sheaves of gold I reap
When I stroke your hair,
Or know that you often mistake my face
For that of the rising sun.
What we have begun is inextricable,
Not to be undone, sublime,
Strewn about by thoughtless winds,
But lasting in the sentinel mind.
Ours is this time: guard this.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Entelechy
(after Rilke)

As we meet in this garden
Beneath the summer's fiery sun,
Listen to these pulse beats
Within my hand, loved one
And know that for you,
Blood is moving round,
That tidal floods of life
And light and sound
Strain their worn conduits
For you and for this moment,
After which the world will dream itself
Into yet another form.
Hear what this reborn flesh
Impatiently longs to tell you
Before falling away once more.
Heed the failing voice
Of blood that remembers
And longs for return;
And fear not for my death,
For I grow into you like a vine;
Rather look upon time, upon the seasons,
And then upon our loving here,
As life implodes upon itself
And then, fountainwise,
Rises, joyous, again.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Exordium

Your gaze absorbs
The years of absence
As your merest touch
Melts the long days lost--
As we stand wordless,
Monuments to ourselves
And to our enduring love;
We are as fountains
Of water pouring forth
And then falling back
Into each other,
And we find etched
Into each other's hands
An eternity of chances.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

A Farewell

This is what is left to us:
This last press of hands
And parted, hesitant lips,
This wordless gaze as we
Pause here before your door,
Safe now from the sudden rain,
Knowing you must return
To the safety of your life inside,
Yet we abide a little longer,
Unwilling to sever again
This quiescent soul we share
Into two half beings stumbling
Through the graceless world.
Then all at once--the wind--grown colder,
Through stiff Fall leaves unfurled--
And as the first parched spirit lets go
And spins away into distant darkness,
So drifts my hand away from yours.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

For Walt Whitman's Reincarnated Lover

The touch of your hand
As we walk along the beach
At evening
Bears more meaning for me
Than all words ever spoken
By the learned philosophers,
And when at night
Your small pale fingers bloom
Like sweet-scented flowers
In the thick perfumed herbage
Of my manly breast
As the ocean sings her songs
To us and all we are together,
Then I know
Beyond all earthly knowing
That these things never die
But live on
With endless significance

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Generations III

He got so good at it over time,
We hardly ever heard him
As he labored with rowing each day
In the bowels of the sturdy framework
Of our taut-rigged family which sailed
In this dark, vast ocean of uncertainty
While others sank, or ran aground
Or were abandoned to a violent storm.
Through it all, his firm, sure motions
Moved us through steady currents
Which were forever against him;
And though, often enough, we went below
And saw how it was he worked for us,
It was very rare we saw it as such;
And whenever we did come before him,
Our Captain and self-imprisoned slave,
It was usually only to beg his praise
Or to tell him a blow had come up
And to ask, could he row a bit harder?
I no longer wonder why he rarely spoke,
But I wonder how he was always able,
No matter what, to muster one stroke more--
And now--I--praying my arms are half as strong,
Sit down to the oars
And place my unsure fingers
To handles his grip wore smooth.

1994

Douglas S. Johnson

Hauntings

You have arisen early again,
Stirred awake by the spirit
Of one not quite gone,
Shaken by a ghost unbidden
Which has nonetheless returned
To haunt you on these mornings,
And as I rise up in our bed
And see you standing
Naked in the nascent dawn
I know that you are not alone
And that your nakedness
Is no longer for me,
That another sees you
Stretching before the sun,
And I reach for you, knowing
I will never touch you again,
Knowing I can never caress you
In the way that makes you smile
With that distant downward gaze
As does this one I cannot see.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

A Homecoming

With the last dozen paddle strokes,
He notes the distant thunder,
Feels the stirring of cold wings
That flutter near his shoulder,
Smiles at the rising gusts of wind
That toss the black bird skyward,
Knowing now he has beaten the storm.
Inside him grows an intangible heat,
A living, vibrating electricity
To match the mouse-like scurryings
Of lightning on the horizon.
He feels a blessed spirit come near
Who whispers like the waves,
Who speaks of the miracle of return
With the owls in nearby caves.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

The Ice Cream Man

He rolls up our street and tinny,
Tottering tunes spill into the summer air
And children fill the yards
(Swooping down from trees),
And careen about like
Circling crows with crooked smiles
To descend upon this hook-backed man
With the tiny sparrow eyes.
I come behind you on the porch,
Listening to the silence
Between the blurry, whining notes,
And hear their hidden song
The same way I listen to your heartbeats
At night (hearing only the noiseless ones)
Or watch our children and note
The invisible motions
Just before--and just after--
As they take wing and fly
From the hardwood porch
Across the fresh-mown lawn
To join in rapturous whirlings
The widening gyre of ravens.
I take your elbow with my hand
And laugh aloud to think I am
Living in this place and loving you
Here during all the moments in between.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Interval

Tonight, awaken me
Carrying fire
In your cupped hands,
Transporting flames
Which whisper to me
With airy tongues.
In the silence
We must maintain
Sustain me with
The conflagration
Of your caresses.
Ring me round
With the halos
Of your slender arms
And silken legs.
Burn the story
Of your life into
My shoulder blades.
Tomorrow and tomorrow
And tomorrow
Will never be.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

In The Upstairs Room

As the hard black palms
Of violent heat
Press upon my eyes
On an August night
Until twin suns appear
And blaze slowly in my brain,
There is a sudden thunder
Without rain and
A growing ache that blooms
Beneath my breastbone,
A pain whose fruit
Is unknown loss,
And I toss in feverish sheets,
Driving myself back down
Into sleep,
My consciousness a corner post
Blistered by the steady
Strike of the sledge,
And after long struggle
I am able to bleed back
Into the place
Where you wait for me
In jagged streams of severed light,
Where you bend over
My burning body,
Which sizzles hot and red
Like a candle wick,
With your cool white hands,
Which smell of mint
And cup cool breezes
In their loving hollows.
You slip them over my eyes
And glide your lily fingers
Over my sunken cheeks
And over parched, parted lips,
And your flame-red hair,
Now soft panicles
Full of glowing seeds,
Brushes my febrile forehead,
And then your naked hips
And breasts and limbs
Fold round me,
And I am lost in wind
And dewy grasses
And in the sudden paean
Of rustling boughs
That sing their terrible song
On the edge of the ring
Of cataclysm
Just outside the storm.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Making Plans

On the night after the quake
Briefly shook our tucked away town,
In the wake of the last faint
Rumblings of aftershock,
You turn a bit in my arms,
Then solemnly start to write
Your plans for our future
In the flesh of my back
With the tip of your finger,
Assured that if your words
Reach down and linger in my blood
That I will have no choice
Except to live long enough
To see them unfold and bloom
Like your flowerbeds of roses.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Meditation To My Love

Enough: it is long enough
We have danced this waltz
In these sensible shoes,
Playing these worn-out parts
In a paperback roman a clef,
Plaster of paris souls the color
Of eggshells and shameful scars.

It is in the wider moments
Of wild lament and wilder love
That light is transplanted in us
And we are suffused with one another
And I plunge inside you, and
We are no longer those we played,
Or rather, those who played us,
But ourselves, without flaw,
And in your depths we mingle
In brine and primordial ecstacies.

I chase you to the tops of trees,
A wild man living on umbles
Ready to murder all impostors
And hollow, faceless rivals,
Wanting only to discover
The wanting to discover.
No longer paralyzed beneath
The wide cold umbra of the world,
I am drawing you into warm sunlight,
Falling with you onto a wet beach
And planting all the best of myself
Deep in your secret groves
And lush, untrammelled Edens.
When it is finished,
When our work is gloriously done,
And the residue of my love
Swirls and tumbles dizzily inside you,
So the earth itself will remember,
I take your hand and bury it utterly in sand.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Meridian

I crouch by the window
In the silver-barred winter room
Through which swings
The last wild arcs of dreams,
And you awaken and turn to me
With pale brow and moon-blue eyes,
And the silence speaks,
Calling us by many strange names,
Whispering to us between heartbeats,
Telling us the ceaseless stories
We are yet to live in time,
And when you rise and take my hand,
A star-lit hesitancy upon your face,
I laugh at our inevitability,
Knowing continents strung out forever
Could not have kept us apart.
In our palms are written the librettos
For a wild, unending music
Which keeps us wondrously awake.
You could not take yourself away,
Or untangle my thoughts of you,
Or burn my life from yours
With a thousand flaming crucibles.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

A Midwestern Nocturne

We are the ache
In each other's hearts
We harbor like a secret
At dusk in summer,
Abandoned warehouses
And moonlit graneries
In forgotten fields
Full of hoarded old time,
Doors solemnly closed
Against the night
And the long hours
We spent in bed
Listening to each
Other's heartbeat.

How long it has been
Since I felt
Your life stirring
Against my cheek
Or knew your narrow
Fingertips upon my knee.
Now at night you pass
Outside my window,
A ghostly silence
Beneath the cricket's
Lonely stitch,
And then you are there
Within the room
Standing with
Downcast eyes,
Your hands silver
And startling
And reaching toward me.
In the darkness you are
Illuminated briefly by
The headlight beams
That pass across the ceiling
And though you never
Quite touch me
You reach forever
And you speak to me
In the house's creaking
Before I sleep

1994

Douglas S Johnson

The Neighbor

I slept halfway in the hall that night,
So you might feel me near--or I might hear
Your fading heartbeat there in the floorboards,
Or so I, who cared more for them, might catch
The fallen stitches of past years
Full of nervous yapping dogs,
The harsh white light of naked bulbs,
And the glints from a single set of silver
Carefully washed each night at six;
Or perhaps to finally resolve your face
Which became unfocused in recent days
And then unraveled, fell away.

And one by one, the gems and stones
Of your waning life gathered round me
There in the airless dark:
Shorn hopes, unopened doors, fragments of bones;
And by midnight I knew you well enough
That I didn't even flinch
When I heard the sharp pop of the pistol
And the final trembling in the boards.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Next time, as one, unfettered, unbound--

Though today, we delight
As inseparable separates,
Twin grains of sand found
Washed together
After unthinkable ages,
Taken from impossible distances
And honed by depthless waters,
By the endless ocean,
Symbol of reunion.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Ode To One Sleepless

How sweet to know you are alive
And waiting tonight upon some porch,
Or perhaps upon some stair
Whose edge has been worn smooth
By all the countless times you've
Ventured out into the night
To hover there as though you
Might take flight into the dark,
Straining to hear my voice
Or slowly closing your eyes
While you moved into the yard,
And, beneath the eyes of angels
And the feathery moths of moonlight,
You took my hand, and we moved
Outward, outward into a somnolent world.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Of His Love's Voice

You have taken
All the random sounds
Of rain,
Of long train whistles at night,
And softly stirring hay
And melded them with
The early morning step
Of horse's hooves upon the stones
Outside of dewy windows at dawn,
The midnight breathing of lovers,
And that loneliest of sounds
One discovers in silence--
You have braided them
Into a solitary voice
That speaks, like wind in reeds, through you.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Parallax

Now, as I stand upon this bridge,
A lock of your red hair,
Aflame, falls from my fingers,
Racing into the waiting water below,
A strange, sibilant firework,
A teardrop of light on a starless night
Oddly out of sync with the time
When first I touched your fiery curls;
And here in the dark I remember once more
How years before they fell so softly, slowly
About your face and shoulders,
Tossed about by loving summer winds
As you stood in waist-high waving grasses
Beneath the shadows of moving clouds
During the days when we still loved.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

The Photograph

She waits, staring out
From a sepia-colored photograph
Hung in the back hallway:
A barely palm-sized three-by-five
In which she and I, then young,
Stand jauntily beneath a willow tree,
I with cap pulled tight and low
To shade what I hoped
Were the serious eyes
Of a curious genius or of a poet
Pondering a world that could produce
The likes of this one with me;
She with loose long hair
Blown wildly around her smile,
Her head turned slightly askance
While her fingers held some casual motion
That made it clear she was
Probably unaware of the camera
And of herself and of anything
But the sun and the breeze
And the everyday pleasures she hid
Like candy in the depths of her pockets.

Even before, I would lie awake
And think of how she looked
That day, how perfectly possessed
She was, and how perfectly possessive,
Of how she loved me more
Than I could ever imagine God
Loving all of humankind;
And now in these latter, emptied days
She has steadily taken
To haunting me in this same way again,
Gazing at me through death,
Unsettling the ground below me
Just as she did in living,
Pulling my fingertips
Toward her outstretched hand,
She who swore that if I died
First her life would be ruined
But thought little of leaving me
(Although I'm sure she found
Once she was gone and well reborn
That there was little love
Even on the other side
To match the one we once had here);
And so her spirit settled
Into those fading, laughing eyes
Which still shine blue in my dreams
Like the blinding skies on that day;
And there, beneath the willow tree,
She beckons and she waits for me.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

The Photograph II

On long winter afternoons
When my weary wife would creep upstairs
To retire with the frozen sun,
I would sometimes sneak into the attic
And take that bent-edged photograph
From under the stack of yellow letters
And ragged collegiate sweatshirts,
And I would study that enigmatic smile
Until I could nearly hear
The tempting tones of that sultry voice
That was like a butcher knife
Stealthfully wrapped in cotton,
Until I could feel again the press
Of those narrow alabaster arms
And I would know anew the soft undulant
Curve and crest of goose-pimpled breasts
And the rivers of apple-scented hair
And the midnight warmth and motion
Of her silken body in the act of love.
Then all the whirling particles of memory
Would slow and begin to flow together,
And once again I'd know with wistful clarity
The daring, self-destructive passion
I shared with that other, wilder one
And then left for this present balanced state
Of warm (and so, not unpleasing) domestic simplicity,
And upon my face there'd come a smile
That never graced my lips at other times,
And I'd replace the well-tabbed photograph
Beneath the crumbling missives,
Knowing something I could not say
As I made my way back downstairs
And past the silent bedroom.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

The Photograph III

For a decade I dutifully carried
That black-and-white photo-booth
Portrait around, bound to a past
That leaked away into the air,
To a square of irretrievable time
That steadily blurred and ran
Out over the borderless edges
And without a struggle disappeared
A little more with each passing day
(Drained away, along with your memories
And all of your passion for me).

It's the instant in which we were
Most ourselves, laughing and kissing,
Half hidden by your hennaed hair,
Two foolish friends caught
In a blessed moment I would fish out
Of a worn tweed pocket and consider
Time and again on lonely nights
When I had stumbled in late
After leaving some loveless lay
And a bottle of scotch in a rented bed.

Now you marvel that I kept it so long,
And that I remembered you at all,
Not realizing the inexplicable braid
Thoughts of you made around my heart
And how much and how often I wished
That a bent-edged, black-and-white photograph
Could be the whole of the world,
And that together we could crawl inside
And let our charred and wounded hearts
Cease beating in a frozen frame of love.

And now, on this night of reborn lives,
I bring out this battered bit of us
And drop it down on your dresser.
By some miracle brought once more together,
We hold each moment like a breath
And slowly find the other's fingertips,
And we begin again our endless dance,
Making a million more photographs
In the candle-lit hush of your room
(These in wild and indelible colors)
That shame the one which fades away.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Psalm To One Regained

The instant your fingers
Gently touched my face
I began to die
........to die
The long, slow, pleasant death
I'd always dreamed about
And had secretly hoped for,
And as I held you to me, warm,
My fibers, perishing, reborn, knew
A letting go of letting go,
An end to the endless hoarding
Of light and life and energy,
And then, when you stayed with me,
Pressing your patient flesh
To my breast...free once more,
I began to disappear,
........to disappear
Into the God-like solitude of night,
Into the Divine dark of your touch,
Spread over my weary lids like ashes.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Remutations

Nowadays I see you
Glancing around closing doors
That echo on darkness
Or your face will appear
Suddenly in mirrors
In front of which you once stopped
To casually fix your hair.
Did you think that my body
Could forget, or that the world
Or that the skies could cease
To give you back to me?

1994

Douglas S Johnson

A Reply

You ask me, my love,
If we could have existed differently--

You inquire whether we might have found
Other orbits, other lives than these

When fate, like wind through rain
Retains us in these patterns,

When the very lines of my hands
Are filled when my palm is placed in yours

When our desire, like gravity
Focused in our centers, pulls us to each other

When we, meteor and valley, are drawn together
Beneath the cover of darkest night,

When, with the urgency of summer thunder,
My words strain from your lips,

When at the behest of a distant thought,
Your deeds fall like ripe plums from my fingertips,

When long before the days in which I knew you,
The form of your face unfolded in my dreams,

When on winter nights when I was alone
The press of your mouth was again upon my flesh,

When thrown once more into the wicked world
The ghost of your touch upon my shoulder lingers,

When, slipping back and forth between our hands,
All my rings fit all your fingers.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Requital

For years you kept me
Like a child holds
A cookie in her palm:
Without thinking,
But with infinite care,
Placing me in your pocket
Like a string and top,
A gyroscopic toy
Which you now take out
And marvel at,
Laughing with joy
At "this is mine;
This is mine..."

1994

Douglas S Johnson

San Simeon Spring

You walk upon the beach
At evening,
Black cherry stains
Around your mouth,
Bruise outlines
Of dark, hungry mouths
Upon your breasts,
As a flock of birds,
Like a pendant lace,
Sweeps down
Toward your shoulders
As though to catch
The crumbs of our love.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

She Picks Primroses

She picks primroses,
Unaware of the butterfly
Perched in her hair or how
Her hands hold my heart
As we both stand here
Beneath the blue boil
Of the summer sky
And the noontide sun.

She picks primroses,
Oblivious that the universe
Is for long moments bent
About her softened features
Like the borders
Of a cameo brooch
In which she is forever
Daintily frozen.

She picks primroses,
Unaware that I am here,
Not thinking of the night
She woke me to feed me
A pomegranate seed by seed
And make love in moonlight
Or when she patched
My jeans with purple cloth.

She picks primroses,
Smiling sweetly and singing
Softly to the wind
Of the one she loves
And for whom she picks
These delicate flowers,
And sadly I know she
No longer sings for me.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Sounds On The Edge Of Silence

It is the morning dream,
The one which always begins
With the twin heartbeats,
The dream of forbidden love
In which I am startled awake
By a breath of cool breeze
To find the two of us beneath
A feverish, dizzying sky as
We lie in a field of verdant love,
Caught up and crazy in each other--
A mad winding of roots and limbs,
A wide garden of liquid sunshine--
And we two, naked and new,
Collapsed against the earth,
You turning, slick and hot,
In my trembling arms
And I breathing between
Your breasts, content to die.

It is the one I never
Tell you about, the one
From which I awaken to find
It is neither morning
Nor yet still quite dark--
And then I always hear you
Creeping through my house
Long into night, just before day,
Setting all my floorboards creaking,
Pressing your transparent face
To all my window panes,
Playing havoc in my attic,
Setting small, dangerous fires
In my basement.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Straying through night,
Beneath the trees,
We touch each other's hands,
Memorizing fingertips
In lieu of misty faces,
And pass on, into darkness.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

A Summer Nocturne

Upon what porch did you stand
And upon what step did you linger
Long to view what faint star
And think of me?
Did you believe I might be gazing
Upon that same dim light
And that all lovers
Likewise paused upon this night
And that a million mighty arcs
Were stretched through dark heaven,
To weave a God of love
Out of silver threads?
Into what bed did you retire
Beneath sheets of bold blue moonlight
And what names did silence give
And what dreams appeared
And burned like another life
In which you would gladly live?

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Summer Still Life

I have no more questions
Of the world when I hear
Your footstep in darkness
And when I feel
The brush of your hair
Upon my face
And view your naked form
In new moonlight pools
Of blue-white fire
As the storm wanes
And the distant pulse
Of sheet lightning
Beats like failing wings
In a sky full
Of silent knowing.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Sunday Afternoon

After the sweat and blood and madness of our love,
Which is at times a little more than half like war,
After the tempestuous thrust and storm of our union,
After the kisses which leave upon our lips
The burning flame and sting of cinnamon,
After the long wild cries, the ghosts of which
Send aching tremors quivering through the walls,
We are separate once more, though still twin
Echoes of that fading song of oneness.
You are flowing, distant, near--listening
To the voices, catching moths of sunlight in your palm,
While I, pondering the simplicity of your shoulder,
Pour laughter into the tiny cup of your navel
And watch, rapt, as a single tear falls upon your breast,
Trickling over the watershed of your left nipple,
And my weak frame shivers nearer yours...

And then, when you arise and leave again,
I become like a hungry shrew beneath a glass,
Forced to feed upon himself for lack of food,
For I cannot catch or consume or contain the thought
Of what we two have become here together.
I am staggered and senseless, dreaming
Of me and all my life pouring over and inside you,
All my secrets running together like raging rivers
Around and through your marvelous flesh,
All my body unlocked by the keys of your fingers,
All my soul taken away, for me to own no more.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Tales Of Summer

..........I

In these moments of longing,
We are purest:
Restless and diving
Like gulls in and out
Of each other's hearts,
Leaving behind sharp pricks,
Tiny throbs of pleasant pain
Which finally tingle away
To flecks of a lingering light
Which swarm our minds like moths
When we close our eyes.

..........II

In memory, which stirs
Like strange hueless fish
At the bottom of the sea,
We stand, sand dollars strewn
About our pale, shy feet,
And I am speaking to you
Through the voice of the waves,
Laughing through the gulls,
Yet you do not realize
I am speaking or know
That you are there with me.

..........III

At midnight, small fires
Built upon the beach
Do battle with the moon
Which blazes brighter
Than we've seen all summer.
Entranced, we search
Each other's shining face
In the blue boil of light,
And soon we are breathing
With the tides as we sleep,
And deep into the night
The waves wash slowly
Into and over our dreams.

..........IV

It seems you have resided
Here forever, here
In this small hollow
Just beneath my left rib cage
And I laugh in my sleep
To think of you there,
Inextricable, wordless.

..........V

I measure the flow
Of your laughter
Against
The lazy stride
Of the dark-haired girl
With the hole in her sock
As she walks in the sand
And the setting sun
Places a gentle corona
Upon her furrowed brow.
I watch her glance at you now
With suddenly vulnerable eyes
As though for a moment
She thinks you might
Be her fair-haired sister.

..........VI

In the gathered mists of morning,
From far ends of the beach,
We suddenly see each other,
Feeling as though we had
Come here separately, as strangers,
Knowing once more the keenness
Of longing and of loving,
And we do not move forward,
And do not wish to do so,
But only stand, amazed, gazing,
Listening for long moments.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Terminus

Out of the ceaseless circles of silence
And the aching white emptiness
Of the hot, Pacific sun,
You wandered into my life,
A divine vagabond
With a slow, sweet smile
And long, loose hair
And a pack full of love.
We spent all week here
Building fires at night
Beneath the long gray cliff
Which brooded over us
Like a grave father's brow,
And o, how I remember now
You just wakening at early morning,
The light coming into your eyes
From depthless dark
The way a tern falls upward
Into the sky of blinding blue
And how we waded through
The sure, sparkling waves
In which all the stories
Of our lives were scrawled.
I recall how you took my hand
For long hours at night
And how you released it again
And wandered, wordless, away.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

This is the sweetest secret
I have to share with you
That we will never die
You and I
But will reside forever
As tonight
In ecstasies,
Inextricable bits
Of each other's heart.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Tonight we shall sing songs
To each other here in the dark,
Striking a single spark of love
In eternities of ingurgitant void,
Taking wing into one another,
Knowing we must fly higher and
Faster than the night.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

To Oksana Bayul

I look upon you and think
"Ah God, I know you, sister soul,
Whose every soft, demulcent turn
In your solitary world of grace
Shows me all I need to know
In this place so robbed of beauty."
You who do not know my words
Are loved by one who does not know yours
When you open your arms and embrace the sun
And turn the earth and hearts of men
In the tiny span of your childish hand
And glide upon the round of ice,
Which becomes a glittering universe,
In which you move like a secret planet
That only I have discovered,
All the while unaware of the angel perched
Upon your slender shoulder.
O, but I see your angel there
And his smile is all our understanding.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Two Stars

Two stars, silenced
By a god and by space,
Nonetheless turn through time,
Hurled through darkness
By a rage, a combustion
That pulses unpredictable,
Yet in unison within them
And in the fingertips of night
Which cradle and sustain them
And in the uncounted hours
Which pass like moon-drunk moths
Until the tremulous instant
Their predestined paths
Merge in violent consecration
And emptiness erupts in flame.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Wallpaper

It has become your one obsession
The upstairs room that faces the sun
On these fair mornings which softly dawn
Upon yellowed patterns of roccoco swirls.
You stand and strip the dull tattered curls
Of paper away in long, jagged strands,
Which are scattered about and bury your feet,
Possessed of a sudden tearing compulsion,
A dry, impatient itching in your hands.
You are rapt, unable to stop, like a child
Peeling the skin from sunburned shoulders,
And I wonder what you are searching for
There beneath the pulp and paste,
And I wonder if you'll go a layer deeper
When all the tarnished paper's done,
If you'll pull apart studs and rafters,
Floorboards and baseboards,
Looking for the something we lost,
A something that crept away into the walls--
That we let slip through our fingers,
Only to have it slither forth like snakes
And disappear in dizzy yellowed swirls.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

We dance this dance
As planets--patient--
Whirl about their stars
In distant galaxies,
Heedless of present circumstance,
Mindless to all except
The music which draws
Them together.

The promise of final communion
Is written in the very lines
Of our hands

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Woman At Dawn

When she is gazing
Upon the morning world
Through the dusky glow
Of a secret upstairs window,
One finds in a woman's eyes
Depthless oceans of divine knowing,
And beginnings of new worlds
That form in distances
Infinitely far away
As numberless generations
Cry out in her blood
And their wide grey mouths feed
Upon her breasts and body
For milk and manna,
And all wonders ooze
From her pores
Like yellow honey
And shine in her eyes
As her laughter whispers
Of eternity and blessed days.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

Woman With Child

Under the moon she dances,
Flowing lightly, softly,
Like the breath of stars
Beneath the red laughter of Jupiter
And the watchful eye of Mars,
Her face like an element
And her voice soft and strange
As wind in summer wheat
Or sudden whisperings of rain.
Her arms, like Saturn's rings,
Encompass the uncertain world
And the slender slope of her hands
Gently cradles all frail things
And gives us final knowledge
Of ourselves and earthly being.
All possible grace and splendor
Hold to the sculpted curves
Of this corporal vision
Which shines with the light
And certainly of an undying sun,
For her belly is full and stirs
Strongly with the thrumming pulse
Of the briny sea's spacious waters
And a thousand ages yet begun.

1994

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Poetry, 1992

2006-01-15T11:47:00.000-08:00

An antique window moment
Opens
Unto eternity
And the moon—
And you pass within,
And go,
And stay—
And I cannot breathe,
And I cannot die.
Shadows pass
Within.
The world breathes
Inside of me
And stars bloom
Within my breast—
And you pass,
And go,
And stay—
Behind an antique window moment.

1992

Douglas S Johnson

How strange some souls—
Such as I—
While sifting through the sand,
Glean the rarest grains of gold
In a universe of beaches.

1992

Douglas S Johnson

I am a Runner--
God's Lonely Man--
A castaway
In athlete's clothes,
Propped by invisible
Arms,
With the scent
Of snow
Forever in my nose
And a searing heat
Forever at my shoulder,
A divine vagabond
Pulled forward
By Spring
And pushing
Against the World
With legs that cut quick
Harps into the unforgiving
Autumnal air.

1992

Douglas S Johnson

My feet fall
And strike the ground,
Pure speed and sound,
Like August plums
Turning loose of trees.
I am absolved
By summer's end,
Made holy
By past striving,
All surmounted hills
Stored in a heart
Strained
Of its own
Strange desire.

1992

Douglas S Johnson

Perhaps it is to outrun
Myself--
Or God--
Or to pursue us both--
To outdo angst
In its dirty deeds
Of restlessness
And endless locomotion.
Perhaps this is why
My feet burn
And my limbs boil
When I stand still.

1992

Douglas S Johnson

Rain, my benevolent lover,
Cups my life in hands
More delicate than death
And opens unto me
A way to full existence
And becomes a source
Of graceful knowing,
A how to fall
When falling is living
Itself;
And a how to run
When forward motion
Is my only hymn to God;
A solitude,
And solemn voice
Of man's short summer;
A teacher of dying in falling, in living
Itself.

1992

Douglas S Johnson

September

September's strong, seductive fingers
Slide slowly along her sides--
He sends slow breaths
Along her flesh
While loosening the roughened wormwood
Of Summer's smoldering brassiere.

He gets this way with her every year--
So her blushes,
Her at-first coy reluctance,
Seem superfluous at best.
But--as always--at last--
She brings forth broad hips,
Struggling out of weathered silks.
She boldly allows bronzed bared breasts
To accept his caressing breeze.

And then he lovingly strokes
The last wet blackberries
From the niches of her thighs--
She sighs the last wet grasses--
He coaxes sweet, small strawberries
That come shivering
From her breasts--
They pull the last black leaves
From the tops of the cherry trees
In the trial of their terrible embraces.

The sun turns away--aloof and discreet--
But does it very slow.
He knows
The faint hues of her smile--
That cock of her knee.

1992

Douglas S Johnson

Sometimes when the cherry bloom
Of your touch lights as soft
As love upon my arm,
It is too marvelous to be alive—
And the world awakens
With angels and mourning doves
And all the joyous heartbreak
Of breathing before the sun
And watching the night
Torn to frightful rags
And knowing beyond knowing
That the words you speak
That I cannot hear
Will rise and melt with the day
And take up lodging with wordless stars.

1992

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Poetry, 1991

2006-01-15T11:43:00.000-08:00

And now
You have gotten
Into everything:
Into morning bagels—
Into armchairs—
And into Mozart’s
Last concerto.
You have gone rummaging
Through my life
And brought back treasures.
You have found
Your way
Into my pockets—
And my cabinets—
And form little orbits
Of ecstasy
Along the rims
Of my glassware.
You linger
In my lampshades.
You hide
In my sugar bowl.

1991

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Translation Of The Grimm Brothers' "Der Hund Und Der Sperling"

2006-01-14T13:59:00.000-08:00

One thing that forever draws me to the Grimms’ fairy tales is that so many of them function on a multitude of levels: the literary, the philosophical, the theological, the psychological, and so forth. „The Dog And The Sparrow,“ one of the less anthologized, but certainly one of the more powerful of the Grimm Hausmärchen, is just such a story.

On the surface, „The Dog And The Sparrow“ may seem simply a straightforward „grim“ tale, a narrative concerned merely with senseless violence and destruction followed by blind, unmerciful revenge, but if one looks a bit deeper, it can be seen that there is much to be gleaned from a careful reading of this story.

„The Dog And The Sparrow“ is a cautionary tale, but, like so many of the Hausmärchen, it is also a story of devotion and comradeship between lost or stranded souls. We see here in the relationship between the dog and the sparrow, and especially on the part of the latter, the power of charity that does not expect remuneration or return, and friendship, the deep-felt bonds between unlike characters. „The Dog And The Sparrow“ also very vividly demonstrates that the greatest evil, that which has perhaps the most dire consequences in the world and in the human soul, is the simple, casual, careless evil that is perpetrated every day by men neither famous nor infamous, the „mere“ thoughtless acts which are more the product of apathy than of hatred, avarice or self-centered passion, acts barely remembered if not immediately laden with cosmic punishment.

The Dog And The Sparrow

There was once an old sheep dog that hadn’t a kind owner like others, and so he had been left to starve. Unable to hold out any longer, sad and hungry, he struck out on his own. On the road, he met a sparrow, which said to him, „Brother Dog, why are you so sad“? The dog answered, „I am hungry and have nothing to eat.“ To this, the sparrow said, „dear Brother, come with me to the city, and I will feed you until you are satisfied.“ So it was that they went together into the city, and when they came to a butcher’s shop, the sparrow said to the dog, „stand right there, and I will peck out some meat for you.“ With that, the sparrow sat himself on the counter, looked around furtively to see if anyone was watching, and pecked, pulled and tore at a slab of meat for so long that the edge of it came loose and tumbled to the floor. There the dog seized it, ran into a corner, and gobbled it up. The sparrow said, „now come with me to another counter, and there I will knock down another bit of something to please you.“ After the dog had wolfed down the second piece of meat, the sparrow asked, „now, Brother Dog, are you full?“ „Yes, I’ve had enough meat,“ he answered, „but I would be happy to have a little bread.“ „Then that you shall have,“ said the sparrow. „Just come with me.“ So the sparrow led him to a bakery, and pecked at a couple of loaves of bread, until they came rolling down onto the floor where the dog was waiting. Afterward, as his new friend was still hungry, the sparrow made certain that he had another pair of fresh loaves. When those were all consumed by the dog, the sparrow asked, „and now, Brother Dog, are you sated?“ „Yes,“ answered the dog. „Now I think I would like to see a little of the city.“

And so they set off together along the country highway. The weather was warm, and so when they came to a little bend in the road, the dog said, „I’m tired, and I could do with some sleep.“ „Yes, why don’t you lie down, then?“ answered the sparrow. „I’ll just sit here on this branch and wait.“ And the dog laid down in the road and was soon fast asleep. While he laid there sleeping, there came a man in a wagon pulled by three horses, and in the wagon there were three casks of wine. The sparrow saw that the man had no intension of turning to one side, but rather, that he remained directly in the narrow road in which the dog lay sleeping. So he called to the Wagoner, „don’t do it! or I will make you sorry!“ But the Wagoner only muttered, „what could you do to me?“ and he snapped the whip and drove the wagon right over the dog, which was crushed to death by the wheels. So cried the sparrow, „you have run over my brother, the dog, and killed him! That’s going to cost you both your wagon and your miserable nags!“ „Oh, sure,“ said the Wagoner, „as if you could do any harm to me!“ and he drove on. So the sparrow flew down and wriggled in under the wagon’s cloth covering and pecked at the spiget on one of the wine casks so that it broke loose. And thus all the wine ran out without the man’s noticing. But when he looked around, he saw it dripping from the back of the wagon, and when he got down and examined the casks, he saw that one of them was empty. „Oh, poor me!“ he cried. „Not poor enough,“ the sprarrow said and flew up to the head of one of the horses and pecked its eyes out. When the man saw that, he raised up his pick-axe and would have struck the sparrow in two, but the sparrow flew suddenly into the air and the man struck the nag in the head so that it fell down dead. „Oh, poor me!“ he cried. „Not poor enough,“ said the sparrow, and so as the man went on along the road with the two remaining horses, the sprarrow wriggled once more under the wagon’s cloth covering and pecked at the spiget of the second cask so that all of the wine dribbled away. When the man in the wagon became aware of this, he cried once more, „Oh, poor me!“ But the sparrow answered, „still not poor enough,“ and sat himself on the head of the second horse and pecked its eyes out. The man ran up in front of his wagon and raised his pick, but once again the sparrow flew suddenly upwards, and the Wagoner struck the horse so that it fell down dead. „O, poor me!“ „Still not poor enough!“ said the sparrow, and landed on the head of the third horse and pecked its eyes out. Again the man wielded the pick-axe and thrashed out in his anger, without looking, and, meaning to hit the sparrow, instead he struck the horse dead. „Oh, poor me!“ he cried. „Still not poor enough,“ answered the sparrow. „I will make you even poorer at home!“ And he flew away.

The man had to leave the wagon behind, and so he went forth toward home, full of anger and aggravation. „Oh!“ he said to his wife, „what misfortune I’ve had! All the wine is run out, and all three of the horses are dead!“ „Oh my husband!“ she answered him, „and what an evil bird has come into the house! It has brought together all the other birds in the world, and they have fallen down from above, into our wheat, and they have eaten up every bit of it!“ So the man went up into the field and he saw that, indeed, thousands and thousands of birds sat on the ground after having eaten up every grain of his wheat, and the sparrow sat right in the middle of all of them. „O, poor me!“ cried the man. „Still not poor enough,“ answered the sparrow. „Indeed, what you have done to the dog will cost you your life.“ And it flew forth.

And now the man had lost all of his goods, and he trudged back to the house through the dust and sat himself behind the oven, boiling over with poisonous anger. The sparrow sat outside on the window sill and called, „Now, it shall cost you your life.“ Then the man seized his pick-axe once more and threw it at the sparrow: but he merely split the window sill in two and did not strike the bird. The sparrow hopped inside, sat himself on the oven and called, „It shall cost you your life.“ But the man, blind and crazy with wrath, took the pick-axe and split the oven in two, still trying to kill the bird, and so it went also as the sparrow lighted upon everything in the place: plates, bowls, crockery, mirrors, seats, the table. Everything lay in splinters, but the bird remained unharmed. However the man was finally able to catch the bird in his hand. Then his wife asked, „shall I strike him dead?“ „No,“ he cried. „That would be too kind. He will die a much more gruesome death, as I will swallow him down!“ And he took the bird and swallowed him at once. However, the sparrow began to flap around violently inside his body, all around inside of him, and finally sprang up into the man’s mouth: then the sparrow stuck his head out and called, „Now, it shall cost you your life!“ The man gave the pick-axe to his wife and said, „Strike this bird in my mouth dead!“ The wife struck with the pick-axe, but the stoke fell directly upon the man’s head, so that he fell down dead. The sparrow flew up and out the window.

2004

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Translation Of The Grimm Brothers' "Die Drei Handswerkburschen"

2006-01-14T00:45:00.000-08:00

We’ve all heard the old saying about “giving the devil his due.” Well, the Grimm brothers do just that in the bizarre tale entitled “Die Drei Handswerkburschen.” As in so many Grimm tales, in the beginning of this one, we learn that times are tough, and that three poor young workman are turned out into the street with no way to make money. As they start out, seeking new means of income and hoping to remain together as they always have, they are approached by a stranger who offers them a deal that seems too good to be true. They are all three ready to jump at the offer, until one of the three notices that the odd stranger has a cleft hoof instead of a foot—and, of course, he realizes with whom they are dealing. Now, in tales more directly tailored toward the moral betterment of the hearer, the devil is always someone bad to be doing business with, but this is quite often not the case in the Grimm stories, which sometimes seem to convey the message “be led by God when you can, and take the devil’s hand when you must.”

In this tale, the Prince of Darkness promises the three workman riches and luxury, if they will merely follow him with blind faith, even unto the very brink of death. (There is here an odd, turned-around resemblance to many Biblical stories in which characters had to put all their faith in a deity who gave them assurance concerning what could be theirs, if they would only do what they were bidden without question.) In “The Three Young Workman,” following the commands of the devil very quickly gets them all tied up in a murder rap, blamed for a bloody crime which they did not commit And at this point, it seems to the morally-trained reader that they will get their comeuppance for putting their trust in Beelzebub… But that’s not the way things turn out. The ending of the story is not particularly clever or well thought-out, resolved by way of an unimaginative “deus ex machina” (“diabolos ex machina”?), but the tale is nonetheless amusing and interesting, given its unusual ethics and moral alliances.

The Three Young Workmen

There were once three workmen who had agreed to give up wandering from place to place and stay in a certain town and practice their trade together. However, there came a time when their master dismissed them from his service so that they were entirely at ends and had nothing with which to keep themselves alive. So it was that one of them said to the others, “what are we going to do now? We can’t stay here any longer. I suppose all that’s left to us is to take to the road again and find another town, and if we are unable to find work together there, we will make arrangements with an innkeeper, that we will write to him so each can always check to see where the others are, and then we will part from one another.”

And that seemed best to all three. So it happened that they found the need to go their own separate ways, and they were getting ready to part, when they were suddenly approached by a richly-dressed man who asked them who they were. “We are workmen looking for jobs. Always before now, we have remained in each other’s company, but we lost our jobs where we once lived, and we can’t find work together here, so we shall have to part.” “That will not be necessary,” said the man. “When you will only do what I say, you will never again want for money or work or whatever you wish to have. Indeed, you will become important and well-known men and ride around in fancy carriages.” One of the workmen answered, “as long as it will not damage our reputation or sully our souls, we’ll do anything you say.” “No,” replied the man, “I don’t want anything from you that will do you harm or dishonor you.” But just then, one of the three workmen saw that the man had one human foot—and one horse’s hoof, and when he had seen that, he refused to enter into any deal. The devil continued to speak, “don’t any of you worry about your souls; I have no designs on you, but rather my concerns are with a soul that is already half mine—and it only awaits me to take the other half, which is my due.”

Because the three workmen were reassured by this, they decided to agree to the devil’s proposal. So the devil told them what he desired of them. No matter what happened or who spoke to them about any matter whatsoever, the first workman was to say, “all three of us.” Likewise, the second, “for money.” And the third, “that’s right!” That was to be how they responded to anyone who addressed them, and in that order, and beyond this, they were allowed not so much as one other word; just as soon as they overstepped the rules of their deal, the endless supply of gold and riches they were promised would be instantly withdrawn, but if they followed everything that they had been told, just as they had been told, their pockets would always be full. And just to further reassure the three workmen, the devil started them out with as much money as they could carry and told them a good place where they could get lodgings. So the three went on their way together, and when they reached the boarding house, the owner of the place asked them, “would you gentlemen like something to eat?” The first answered, “all three of us.” “Yes,” said their host, “I gathered that.” “For money!” said the second workman. „That goes without saying,“ said their host. „That’s right!“ added the third. „You bet that’s right,“ replied the innkeeper. So it was that they were brought all good things to eat and drink and were waited on like three rich gentlemen, which they were since their meeting with the devil. After the meal, the owner of the boarding house came to them with the bill. The first said, “all three of us,” the second, “for money,” and the third, “that’s right!” “You had better know that’s right,” said their host, “all three pay, because I cannot afford to give anything away.” And for his trouble, the host was paid much more than that for which he asked. The other guests witnessed this unusual generosity and told the host, “these men must be a bit touched in the head to part with money so freely.” “Yes,” agreed the boarding house owner, “they don’t seem terribly smart to me.” And to add to the suspicions concerning their intelligence, even after the three had remained in the house for a considerable time, they never spoke anything other than “all three of us,” “for money” and “that’s right!” They had sharp eyes and ears, however, and they saw and heard everything that transpired in the house.

It so happened that a tradesman came to the boarding house carrying with him a great deal of money, and he said to the owner of the place, “good Sir, please put my money away somewhere safe; I don’t like the looks of those three workmen over there, and I am afraid that they might try to steal it.” So the host did as he was bidden by the tradesman. But as he carried the sack the tradesman had given him up to his own room, he perceived that it was full of gold. Now, he had given the three workmen a room downstairs, but he had given the tradesman a special room upstairs. Then, at midnight, when the innkeeper felt certain that everyone was asleep, he went with his wife to the rich tradesman’s room, and they hacked him to death with an ax, murdering him in cold blood while he slept. When the sun came up, there was a great commotion, as people gaped through the door, which was ajar, and saw the tradesman dead and cold in his bed and swimming in his own blood. The guests were all in a panic, and everyone suspected everyone else, but their host broke in and said, “it is the three workmen who have done this!” The guests believed this readily and confirmed it among themselves, saying, “it couldn’t have been anyone else!” In the meantime, the host had the three workmen called before the crowd of guests and said to them, “have you killed the rich tradesman?” “All three of us!” said the first, and the second, “for money!” “That’s right!” said the third. „You heard it!“ said the host. „They admit it themselves!“ So it was that they were taken away to jail to await their trial. And it was then that they realized how serious the matter was, and they grew very much afraid, but in the night, the devil came unto them and spoke, “just hold out for one day, and be of great joy, for no one shall touch a hair on your head.” On the next morning, they were hauled before the court. The judge asked them, “are you the murderers?” “All three of us!” „Why did you kill the rich tradesman?“ „For money!“ „You heartless demons!“ said the judge, „you don’t even regret your horrendous sin?!“ “That’s right!” „They have admitted it and are too hard-hearted even to be sorry for what they have done,“ said the judge. “Take them away to their deaths!” So the three workmen were taken away, and the host went with them down into the circle around the place of execution. They were held by the executioner’s assistants and were made ready for the carrying out of their death sentence, after which they were taken up to where the executioner stood with his sharpened sword—but just then, there came a beautiful coach pulled by four blood-red foxes, and as it ran along, fire sprang from the stones under the wheels—and from the window, someone waved a white handkerchief. So the executioner called out, “someone comes crying ‘mercy!’” and someone in the coach did indeed call out “mercy! mercy!” The devil stepped out of the coach, disguised as a courtly, well-dressed man, and he spoke to the people gathered around the three workmen. “These three are not guilty.” And then to the three workmen, „You may now speak, and tell what you have seen and heard.“ Then the oldest spoke, “we have not killed the rich tradesman, rather, the murderer stands right here in our midst.” With that, he pointed at the host. “If you want final proof of what I say, go down into the basement, for there hang many others whose lives he has taken. Immediately, the judge sent the executioner’s assistants to investigate as to the veracity of what the workman had said, and when they reported back to him that it was all true, just as it had been told, the judge had the innkeeper taken away to have his head chopped off. The devil said to the three who had assisted him unknowingly, “now I have the soul that I wanted, and you are free and will have all the money you need for the rest of your lives.”

2005

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Poetry, 2005

2006-01-13T18:16:00.000-08:00

The air became fire to our lungs—
The moments cold fish hooks
That caught us by the belly
(Some threatening our eyes)—
There was a crouching dark figure
With wolf paws that waited outside,
Not even needing to prowl,
Laughing—without sound—
And yet we felt it in the flames.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

Awakening
(after St. Vincent Millay)

You sat on the edge of my bed
For an entire month
Before I saw you there--
Finally awakened to the sun
That ran like honey
Through my tangled sheets.

You touched me
As though exploring
A strange treasure--
A rare plant--
Curious, patient,
Interested in what
You had discovered.

You nurtured me--
Yours hands a balm,
Your lips a salve--
You saved me from death.

I blinked hard
And rolled onto my back
And I saw that your eyes
Were prophets,
Speaking a language
Of golden revelation
That I suddenly understood.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

Bush In Heaven

Ah—dinner with Jesus and the Great
(Who paid the thousand bucks a plate):
You’ll feel at home on that safe shore,
So far away from Michael Moore.

You’ll play God; than He’ll play you.
O, the things you two will do!
Smoking stogies and hitting the links
And bombing Iraq over evening drinks.

Just blink in heaven, to make them fall,
Those nuclear beauties, fine and tall—
And you know you’re right—on Jesus’ side—
So you kill with genuine Christian pride.

Just…

When you get to heaven, George,
To the end of that mighty Way you’ve forged—
Look down into Satan’s darkened cell
And wave to those you blew to hell.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

Carpe Diem Strain

Hasten ever joy to find:
The wine, the women, the song—
For Death is neither slow nor kind
And Life is never long.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

Do you remember still--standing
In an open field drenched with sun--
Sparrows, swallows, swinging
Like mad jesters above our heads?
Is is possible you still recall?
Our hearts were ages younger then
And air so light to breathe--
And horses ran in wild transports
Along the fencelines of the world.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

For Your Sake

(after Millay)

For the sake of all things
That be now no more
I leave these poor lines
By your bedroom door;
Outside of beggar's words
I have little more.

For the sake of lost things
That lay once in my hand
I shall poise empty palms
To catch summer rain;
I hide weary eyes
So they cannot be seen.

Many things be dead and gone
That were young and gay;
For the sake of these things
I lay my pen away
And write and speak no more
Of our former days.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

I Don't Miss You At All

Not when autumn pierces the grey
With a sudden stab of red among
Brambles full of desiccated thorns--
Not when the sun shyly appears
At late afternoon, self-conscious
Like a virgin before seasoned eyes--
Not when spring's early song
Plays soft through reedy shallows,
Sifted by the still crisp air--
Not when children run like gnomes
At noon, by edges of the forest
From whence their magic comes--
Not when their wild laughter
Perches lightly in my heart,
Flits in my veins like restless birds--
No, not then--
I don't miss you at all.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

I have known too often the landscape of love,
The places to which its pathways lead--
The places of forlornness and death
Where I am ever abandoned to myself--
And yet I find myself with you,
Along all its wild, familiar footpaths
That flourish red and green and blue in May--
Looking into new, unquestioning eyes,
Face to face with an inward sky.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

In the end, no Rhyme rings true
And Metaphor deserts--
And No One reads me anymore
And that's what really hurts.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

Love Song In Sotto Voice

I must come to you in secret--
Around the corners of your sleep
As silent as a burglar--
And whisper in your ear
That you shall one day love me
And that, in fact, you do--
As we meet in the sunshine clear
And smile as strangers, coy.
So pretend to be asleep, my love,
For those who peek and peer
And would judge from mighty heavens
As I stealthfully draw near.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

Reply To 1186

And so the mornings mine
We must—the nights—
Drain of their deep delights—
Which pause so fine
Upon the tasting tongue—
So this little—at least,
From life we’ve wrung.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

Unfinished Song

I woke to yet another dawn--
Wallpaper colored by the sun.
Open window, morning breeze--
Whispers of a distant sea.

I look upon an empty world--
A senseless universe unfurled
Made to break the hearts of fools--
Their tears collect in starry pools.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

Upon Her Spelling

(For Erin)

Do not beg to bug
Nor bug to beg
Nor billious bedbug hug
Nor kegger keg

Spellcheck forsake!
Grammarcheck--fug!
'Twill merely make
A "beg" of "bug."

2005

Douglas S Johnson

Will I know of the hour of your death?
Will I feel a pulling, as of sharp hooks,
Down deep within the breast?

Will you haunt me in heartless October,
When old leaves cover a wasted world,
The exhausted earth, which knows
Little of you and is harsh with me?
Will you come again on chill afternoons
When rain falls, cold, upon my face?

Will you simply recede from life
Like footsteps along a prison corridor—
As when an isolated captive is abandoned
By the last sound of vanishing life?

Will I feel anything at all when you pass
From this world: will I simply walk
On, unknowing, under an unblinking sun,
Unaware of my own damnation,
Which is damnation in its purest form?

For J.B.

2005

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

On "God's Back"

2006-01-11T12:06:00.000-08:00

There is a place near me where you may stand on the big rocks. When my glory passes by, I will put you in a crevice in the rocks and cover you with my hand until I have passed by. Then I will take my hand away and let you see my back; but my face must not be seen. Exodus 33:31-33

Moses was allowed to speak to God, to hear His voice by way of the burning bush. He was chosen to deliver God’s laws to the people, to be a representative of the Almighty. Moses addressed God as one would an intimate friend or compatriot. He was granted a lot for a simple man. But, in the end, Moses wanted a little something more. He wanted to look God directly in the face; he wanted to know the deepest truth of the deepest truth. He wanted it all. He was refused this request for the ultimate, but he was given what must have seemed at first a consolation prize. He was allowed to see God’s back.

“God’s back.” What a strange thing in itself to contemplate. What exactly would “God’s back” look like? The most magnificent of sunsets? The Rocky Mountains with their snow capped peaks? And then… does God have shoulder blades, a spine, and two arms? How long is His hair? Whatever could “God’s back” have been?

***

Whatever it amounted to, it was all Moses was given to see, amazing as it must have been in itself. But God was not “turning his back” on Moses (at least not in the figurative sense), nor was He giving him “the cold shoulder.” In a very real way, God was protecting Moses. Moses wanted the truth, the whole and absolute God-Truth forever and ever, Amen. But God, in His own way, and no doubt more gently than Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men, ostensibly told Moses, “you can’t handle the truth!” Moses was asking for something, not beyond God’s ability or willingness to give, but rather something far beyond his ability to receive. Why exactly this is true, we can only ponder. Perhaps it is impossible for a mere human being to look into God’s face without simply being blown to smithereens.

***

And so it was for Moses—and so it is for us. Even the most devout believer, the most adamant of God’s followers, even today, must settle for “God’s back.” We are so tempted, especially in times of trouble, to demand a definitive sign, a short peek at God’s face, just to reassure us that we are being taken care of or that we are on the right track or that things won’t get to be too bad or too much for us. “It would be much easier to believe in God if I could just hear His voice,” Woody Allen once quipped, “a single word—something—a divine sneeze—anything.” But just as God knew better than Moses what was good for him, God knows what’s good for us, and He lets us wait until He has passed by to let us see Him and to see that He has been there dealing with us all along.

***

God sees us as His “children,” but He doesn’t want us to be childish. He wants our belief in Him to grow and strengthen, and this is why He doesn’t rush in with an obvious miracle every time we are in trouble and immediately sweep us up onto a big white horse like in a John Wayne movie. If that were the case, our faith would be superficial; we would believe in our own bread and butter and how we’re going to get it, but little else. We wouldn’t see the true power of God, which is not in instantaneously turning our unpleasant to pleasant like something in a Siegfried and Roy magic show, but rather in getting us through the unpleasant—or perhaps even the horrific or the outwardly tragic—and showing us why it happened, how it has made us better, stronger, closer to others, more appreciative of life and living, and how life’s sufferings can often be the source of its most rewarding blessings.

***

We almost never realize God is working with us, making us better, stronger, until He is done with it. And this is how we see “God’s back.” We see Him, not when He’s coming toward us, ready to temper us with fire, but as He’s turning away, leaving the blessing, and the realization of the blessing, behind. I suppose that, as human beings, that’s about all we can handle—we are always blinded to God’s face, unable to perceive the incomprehensible truth of what He is doing when he is nearest us; but how thankful we can be that we have the moments when we are, like Moses, allowed to see “God’s back.” For these are the gentle times, the times when we are shown clearly why we are here, what we are doing, why we must suffer, and what it means to live as a weak, but divinely supported human being in a fantastic and sometimes confounding world with other weak, but divinely supported human beings.

Perhaps one day, when we are made to transcend these frail bodies that temporarily house our spirits, we will be granted the unspeakable vision of God’s face, but for now we can but get an occasional glimpse of “God’s back.” And, often enough, that in itself is not easy. We must raise ourselves up, sometimes in the midst of much pain and confusion, climb the mountain and wait, peering out from our little crevice in the rock, until finally—but assuredly—we see the Divine passing by.

-For K.B.

2006

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Only This Remains! (a translation of Wolfgang Borchert's "Dann Gibt Es Nur Eins!")

2006-01-10T16:36:00.000-08:00

Wolfgang Borchert was only one the of unfortunate thousands who were forced to work and fight for Adolph Hitler during World War II. Borchert, like many others, realized the fruitlessness of the war, and even its ultimate evil, and having seen it all up close, he came back with this message: that war itself is barbaric and is a solution only for barbarians, that civilized people resolve their problems with diplomacy and moral behavior and not with bombs and aggression.

You. Man at the machine and man at the work-station. When they come to you tomorrow and command you to cease making waterpipes and cooking-pots-and instead steel helmets and machine-guns, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Girl behind the counter and girl in the office. When they come to you tomorrow and command you to fill grenades and assemble rifles for snippers, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Factory owner. When they come to you tomorrow and command you to quit selling make-up and cocoa and start selling gunpowder in its place, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Researcher in the laboratory. When they come to you tomorrow and command you to find some new way to kill all the old living things, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Poet in your little room. When they come to you tomorrow and command that you no longer write love songs and that you will write songs of hate instead, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Doctor at the sickbed. When they come to you tomorrow and command that you write notices declaring men fit for war, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Preacher in the pulpit. When they come to you tomorrow and command you to bless murder and speak of "holy war," then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Captain of the steamer vessel. When they come to you tomorrow and command that you ship no more wheat-and instead cannons and tanks, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Pilot at the airport. When they come to you tomorrow and command you to transport bombs and phosphorous over the cities, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Tailor at the worktable. When they come to you tomorrow and command you to sew uniforms, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Judge in robes. When they come to you tomorrow and command that you serve in the military courts, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Man at the train station. When they come to you tomorrow and command you to give the signal for the departure of the ammunition trains and the trains full of troops, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Man in the small town and man in the big city. When they come to you tomorrow and command you to join their army, then only this remains:

Say NO!

You. Mother in Normandy and mother in the Ukraine, you, mother in Frisko and London, you, in Hoangho and in Mississippi, you, mother in Napal and Hamburg and Cairo and Oslo-mothers in all parts of the earth, mothers of the world, when they come to you tomorrow and command that you bear children in order that they serve as nurses in the military hospitals and as fresh soldiers for new battles, mothers of the world, then only this remains:

Say NO! Mothers, say NO!

Because when you don't say NO, when YOU don't say no, mothers, then only this will remain:

then:

in the noisy, steam-hazy port-cities, the giant groaning ships will grow silent and, like titanic mammoth corpses full of water, swing, bob and bump against the lifeless, lonely, algae-, seaweed- and barnacle-covered walls of the docks, that body once so impressive now become a massive cemetery, fish-foul, rotten, sickly and dead-

the streetcars will sit lifeless, senseless, gleamless, glass-eyed, dull, bent-up cages, they will lie like plucked petals near the crazy steel skeletons of wire and track, behind moldered sheds all shot full of holes, in lonely, crater-ridden streets-

a mud-grey, metal-heavy, leaden silence will roll over the land, voracious, ever gaining in power, and it will take hold in the schools and the universities and in the theaters, in sports arenas and children's playgrounds, hideous, greedy and unstoppable-

the soft, sunny fruit of the vine will rot on the neglected slopes, the rice will dry up upon the dusty earth, the potatoes will freeze upon the plowed fields, and the cows will lie with their death-stiffened legs high in the air like overturned milk-stools-

and in the great institutions, the ingenious discoveries of the renowned doctors will sour and go rotten and molder over with mushrooms-
in the kitchens, chambers and cellars, in the cool storage houses and silos, the last sack of meal, the last jars of strawberries, pumpkin and cherry-juice will go bad-the bread under flipped-over tables and on broken dishes will turn green and the runny butter will stink like greasy soap, the corn in the fields will sink down beside rusted plows like a defeated army and the smoking brick chimneys, the food and the smokestacks of the throbbing factories, covered over with ever-lasting grass, will crumble-crumble-crumble-

then the last human being, with shredded guts and plague-diseased lungs, crazy and lost, will wander, unanswered and lonely under the poisonous, glowing sun and under the wavering stars, lonely between the unending mass graves and the cold gods of the gigantic cement-clotted, wasted cities, the last man, dried up and thin, a lunatic, blaspheming, accusing-and his terrible accusation: WHY? will attenuate, unheard, over the steppe, blow through the exploded ruins, die out in the rubble of the churches, rebound from high-built bunkers, fall in pools of blood, unheard, unanswered, the last animal-cry of the last man returned to animal-all this will come, tomorrow, tomorrow, maybe, maybe as soon as tonight, maybe even tonight, if-if-if you don't say NO!

2006

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Poetry, 1998

2006-01-07T11:09:00.000-08:00

They are always working together:
All those memories,
In order to perfectly form
That One: while running
Over the bridge, suspended
Above a moon-drenched river,
I saw a glint of white light
Flung from a distant water crest,
And it fell through my eye
And into endless depths
Of history and time---
To reemerge as God
In its own appointed moment.

(c) 1998 Douglas S. Johnson

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Poetry, 1997

2006-01-07T11:05:00.000-08:00

Darshan

This morning,
I moved to my window,
Stretched forth my arms,
And from my fingers
Fell oranges (round
And sweet as a young
Girl's breasts)
And bright candles
(Spraying like fireworks)
As children gathered
In the street below
And received the gift.

Just before I turned
Back to my upstairs room,
I smiled, noticing
That the sun glowed
Like God's eye
In the palm of my left hand.
So I threw that
Down to them too.

1997

Douglas S Johnson

For Anne Frank

With hands still trembling
With innocence and stained
By the Keatsean pallor
Of a famished fledgling ardor,
You grasped a fountain pen,

a hundred books

a wire fence

a million lives--

And still you will not stop,

Grasping, clutching at us all

When we are trying to sleep,

Winding your bony, ringed finger

Into our freshly-washed hair.

Like the ghost of a dead daughter

We never wanted or knew we had,

You draw us back by the hand

Just as we are driving ourselves

Down into oblivion of dark;

You will not let us go, you will

Not let us free of ourselves;

You, my lost girl, are ruthless,

A crooked-toothed tomentor.

1997

Douglas S Johnson

Love Song Writ To A Mormon
(after John Davies' "The Author,
Loving These Homely Meats...")

If there were, oh! an ocean of coffee*
When it cooled, Mormon mistress, I would swim
In its dun waters, all the while lofty
With the chin, not to taste of droplets dim;
No, not if it hailed sugar or rained cream,
Nor if a demon came and made it tea
And Sir Philip** swam toward me in the stream;
Nor even if the tasty Arab bean
Stained the waters green and dyed me more:
No, I would not taint my palate's virtue
For I would think of you, upon the shore,
You, Mormon mistress, caffeine-free and true.
And then, at last, my love, my thirst to cop,***
I'd drink you down, good to the lastest drop.

*Mormons are forbidden the consumption of
caffeinated potables
**Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586) poet and tea
lover
***cop "to take away"

1997

Douglas S Johnson

Psalm

Sing unto the Lord a new song, and a song of praise unto the congregation of the saints. Psasm 149

Let us come unto thee upon rising,
Like clear water drawn from deep
Wells in the red morning light;
Like the roe which stands waiting
For her mate upon the far hillside.
Let us come unto thee at the noontime.
Let thy grace fall upon our heads
Like the oil that dripped from Aaron's beard.
Let the highest sun find us faithful,
Casting no shadow of doubt or transgression.
Let us come unto thee at the eventide
In repentance and steadfastness,
Like summer constellations which were
Faced away, but which turned back,
Which return forever upon forever.
Let us come unto thee at the time
Of our lying down, constant as the moon,
Obedient as the sun, which shall break
Up the outlying darkness, the darkness
Which goes and is hidden beneath thy light.

(c) 1997 Douglas S. Johnson

Rachel's Children

Do not weep.
We are as buckets of pure water,
Drawn upward from darkness
Into the red light of a setting sun.
We are as stones, hurled from a sling,
Moving fiercely through the night
Toward unseen targets.
We are as summer constellations
In winter, turned from sight,
But never lost, gleaming elsewhere,
Shining on deserts and generations
Of men not yet born unto the earth.
We are as books whose pages
Have not yet been written, which wait
In Holy silence, pure and whole,
Patient as the ocean's deepest deep.
We are not dead, but ever living;
So, dear mother of our tribe,
Do not weep.

1997

Douglas S Johnson

Verse Written In Age For A Young Woman

Who's never seen thee, never lived;
The dawn's light sparkles, softly hived
In Spring's young leaves above your head
As you stray 'midst the flower bed;
Gay girl of budding breasts, and eyes
Of virgin blue, and unsighed sighs:
I watch you through the lawn* of age
Which closes 'fore sight's window pane,
Though not enough to hide thy form
Moving within my night, thy morn;
How can a man as I love you?
Can cold December love the dew?
Can May love snow, or hot July
Welcome ice, or fair April lie
In downy beds with old November?
(Nay, June hardly Janus remembers.)
The world, it never has run so;
Thy noon's not come; my star won't go
Back to day's break, where it begun
(That we might shine as double suns.)
Then let us meet in some other world,
Some other time, unsprung, yet coiled
Within the works of untold fate,
Each hour make full, each minute sate:
If God, prithee, helps me recall
In Spring, the wisdom of the Fall
And let in me the Summer's heat
With Winter's patience, my love meet.

*lawn: transparent fabric used for curtains

1997

Douglas S Johnson

We stand in vast and spreading fields,
In astonishments of grass:
Ourselves an inch of earthly know
In acres of perhaps.

1997

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Poetry, 1996

2006-01-06T18:58:00.000-08:00

Ashley

Ashley, make and bake your bread
In loaves, to feed the ducklings
At the Cove, and mix in lots of Ashley love,
Along with dots of pumpkin seed,
Then knead in just compassion, finger
In your smile, then linger over
One more kneading in of laughter
For our weary world to nibble after.

1996

Douglas S Johnson

Bonsai

Inverted umbrella,
Supporting the whole
Trembling universe
There in the bowl
Of your fragrant branches,
Cradle my life also:
Balance it for me
In moments when I
Seem rather than be.
We shall mend together:
I will trim and bend
Your bowers, and you
Will shelter me there
In delicate structure
When this wicked world
Defies all shape or sense.

1996

Douglas S Johnson

Bonsai II

I trim my little bonsai,
Not certain where my knees
Begin and the earth ends,
Unsure whether I breathe
The air or if it breathes me,
Often losing my wandering
Fingers in the branches
Of my tiny, reaching tree.
What is me, and what is the other?
And what does it matter?

1996

Douglas S Johnson

Dear Lacey

Dear Lacey, can you hold
My love, in open palms
Like you do the bread crumbs
For the birds?
These words I offer you
As tokens of it, this love
That reaches to the sun
And then above it.

Or shall I give you stones
Rounded down within
The hollow of my hands
That you might understand
The devotion that is yours,
Which pours from my fingertips
Like lavender oil, to scent
Your skin, then bloom again
As flowers in your hair?

Or finally, Lacey, love,
Shall you fall from
Pillared rocks above
The waterfall, so
I'll appear in the swell
Below and catch you?
(You know it's true:
You shall always
Have arms to fall into
No matter how
Far away you'll be:
The strongest arms,
For God is holding me.)

(c) 1996 Douglas S Johnson

For A Breech-Born Guinea Pig

The sun parrots have flown
From the murdered Amazon;
The loamy mind of the earth is stultified in cement;
And all the while, hope
Vanishes faster than all the rest-
But what of the curly-haired rodent
I pulled by the feet from his mother's
Womb this morning before breakfast?
What of the way it kicked and cried
And bumbled about?
What of its first awkward munchings
At fresh lettuce?
What of it asleep at its mother's
Side, both worn and weary after
The struggle toward life and breathing?
What of that?

(c) 1996 Douglas S. Johnson

God To David

Since the beginning, I've sculpted your limbs for this day.
Feel it there: the granite in your bones which I took
Stone by painful stone from the far, fluted cliffs
Of Jerusalem, ground into marrow, and silently laid
In the depths of you like a Messiah's secret knowledge.
While angels slept, I molded a warrior's beating heart
Inside your breast to rage and pale the strength of lions
And shaped hands with grace enough to send whole planets
Singing through the summer air from a leather sling.
And today, dear one, you are a man, an art, a living readiness.
I have made you, but we both know I did not work alone.
You have often joined me in my visions, and in my creation,
Dreaming of a Deity who might have dreams of you.

(c) 1996 Douglas S. Johnson

Idyll

What if there were a child
Who not only fed the ducks
Which gathered round
For pieces of her doughy love
But also fed the invisible
Perfection of a hidden world
With the way she smiled
And raised her fingers
And leaned over the water?
What if she fed God too?
What then?

(c) 1996 Douglas S. Johnson

In Between

I paint the door, but keep it ajar. (I know what for.)

It's green, or anyways, becoming green, to match the jamb. It's the ugliest color eyes ever seen, but I don't care. Wife calls me to dinner, hollers, "Ham!" but I dip my brush in once again and take a swipe around the knob, getting a little on the brass. 'Cause while I work, I watch the 'live outside: the grass, the sun, that one big tree. The whole world there outside my door. (I know what for.)

I wait for that stout old man, all bristle-beard and tan like Whitman's hale and hearty brother. No foo-foo. No panty-waist. No pretender. Inspector of snowstorms and sparrow defender.

I've seen him before. He comes my way. (Today I told missus, and she just scoffed. Said there's cobwebs in my loft.) But you come here and watch, and soon enough he'll come up the walk, salute us with a red sunset, or a meteor shower. A gentle friend, or a bit of dandelion fluff. Oh, did I say he's different everyday? (It's just his way.) He's a sudden surprise, this one, a blueberry in the pancake batter.

(And how he comes don't really matter.)

(c) 1996 Douglas S. Johnson

I shall plant
A seed deep
Inside you-

But not to
Grow children

Or foxglove

Or mums-

But memories:
Memories that
Will reach up
To you
In your age
With hope held
In tiny hands-

Memories that
Will grow wild
In the dark
On August nights,
Excited in sleep-

Memories that
Will smell as rich
And sweetAs lovers' musk
In summer-

Memories of two
Who shall not die,
Who even now

Laugh

And love

And sing:

Divine offspring.

(c) 1996 Douglas S Johnson

Joe

And now we come to Joe De Lizo:
Learning for him is such a breeze, oh
He's already sat and thought at college
And memorized his Book Of Knowledge.
While other guys' heads are weary,
He's tellin' all about Einstein's theory.
We're certain that he'll be successful
'Cause he's our sandbox intellectual.
Now Joe, you'll show 'em all one day
By explaining something like DNA.
For now, if big boys prove a strain,
Push them down with your giant brain.
You'll learn every language on the shelf,
And make up three or four yourself.
It's quite apparent there ain't been befo'
Another boy like this one named Joe.

1996

Douglas S Johnson

A July Reprise

Come to the old window, sweet one:
Press your face near to the pane;
Prop your elbows on the worn sill
Of the past and gaze out upon
That which will be: you will see
Me pushing up the path, slow
And steady, trudging through the dust
And the rusty shafts of evening sun.
I'll come and look in on you,
Carrying my heavy pack, pretending
I only came by in accidental passing....
(I know what will really happen, though.
We'll make eyes at one another,
Smile as though into a mirror,
And then, perhaps, you'll let me in.)

(c) 1996 Douglas S. Johnson

Midsummer Night's Dream

Tonight I'll stand on my front porch
And hurl you a comet,
A fiery ball that you may take
And do with as you please:
Become a wizardess, a Wunderfrau,
Create a new life with it,
Something the world has never seen;
Paint your windows with its crystals;
Smear its sparkles on the lintels;
Or hold it in your belly
And relish its warmth...
Yes, this last thing most of all...

1996

Douglas S Johnson

A Northwest Children's Prayer
(For Sattam)

Now I lay me down to sleep;
Lord, bless me now,
For pity's sake--
And if I die
In a midnight quake...
On second thought,
Keep me awake.

1996

Douglas S Johnson

Note Swedenborg Passed In Church

In Heaven, ringed by songs of laughter
And a million burning suns,
You will see the angelic forms
Of those you saved below,
And there will be those of whom
You never could have dreamed.

(c) 1996 Douglas S. Johnson

A Parable Of Time (or, Patience)

Alone, you throw
Cold, rounded stones
Into the ocean's swell,
Watching them sink,
Disappear, in the hiss
Of great gray waves--
Are you amazed
When they are borne
Back to you, when
They roll in sunlight
And shine at your feet?

(c) 1996 Douglas S Johnson

A Prayer For Visitation

Angel, deliberate and slow,
Child of wind and frozen night,
Climb the cobbled path,
Trailing your marble skirts
And holding forth your ivory hands:
Comfort me here at my hearth
Where I huddle at comfortless fires
And breathe the useless winter air:
Despair, no something subtler still,
Has crept into my aging bones
And lies there like a lover's corpse:
Bend near, fair one, and
Whisper that I am not alone,
Before returning to your life of stone.

(c) 1996 Douglas S. Johnson

A Proposition

Perhaps we'd meet along a road,
Life's vagabonds
Carrying our packs full of love;
And maybe we'd walk for a span,
Stirring dust and picking violets
From shallow ditches,
Holding hands as we swam
Through vast rivers of summer air.
Sleepless, we'd move across
The world at night
As would two mated stars,
And no less permanent,
Our light perchance encouraging
Some distant others
Who would know we were
And dare to love as well.
Then in the morning light,
We'd sit beneath a wind-bent tree
While the world wakened to us,
Giving objects from our packs
Like children ... trading our trinkets
Beneath the blaze of a rising sun.

(c) 1996 Douglas S Johnson

Psalm

I awake early in the morning, O God
And look out upon Thy glowing face,
The wide, clean face of the world,
And know the Enemy is far away.
I shall walk with you all the day.
I shall walk in the golden valley
As sparrows bend their blessed arcs
About my head, ringing it round
With sparkling crowns of sunlight.
Tonight, I shall sleep by your stream,
Which runs sweet through the veins
Of the everlasting earth, and I will
Smile in my dreams, knowing
Thou, The Mighty Shepherd, guardest me
With thy crook and, gentle, guidest me
With thy Holy Hand until the dawn,
When I'll stand beneath the mountain
From which the brilliant waters flow.
I'll go to find the summit without care,
Knowing Thou will lead me there.

(c) 1996 Douglas S. Johnson

Tony

You're Ash's brother but love dirt better,
You're something of a real go-getter--
That is, if gettin' in trouble counts
(And a peck of trouble beats an ounce.)
But still you charms us as you grows
(Something about your crinkled nose.)
Someday you'll outsmart all the guys
(Or just throw somethin' in their eyes...)
You'll buy the world and never sell
You'll be a rough and tumble soldier
You'll give 'em fire, you'll give 'em... well
(Let's just say "heck" until you're older.)

1996

Douglas S Johnson

When shall she come,
That Angel who waits in my sleep
And peers round the corners
Of long summer days?
When shall she hover
Near and touch me
Gently upon the arm,
Smiling tenderly, pushing
Red hair over bare shoulders?
When shall she arrive
To laugh and tell me it's all
Been a feverish dream,
That I can walk away?
(She shall ease me into
Peacefulness like one
Returning a fish to water.)
I watch from this high place,
Where the sun lingers
Long between the stiff arthritic
Fingers of the pines and stains
The world far past evening,
Waiting for her to awaken me,
To restore me to the home
That stays in me, but in pieces,
Like an antique mirror
Shattered upon the floor.
(She shall return it, whole
And silver and shining.)

(c) 1996 Douglas S. Johnson

Woman To Her Newborn Daughter

You have slit me open
Like a cicada's skin,
Splitting me wide, leaving
Me pale and quaking,
A tenuous shell clinging
To the bark of a tree.
You were born with wings,
So you shall not need me
Long: no longer than it takes
Me to inspire, exhale,
And sever myself once more
In strange, lonely birth.

(c) 1996 Douglas S. Johnson

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Poetry, 1995

2006-01-06T18:56:00.000-08:00

a friend is the finest fame:
and you, my audience of one,
henceforth, enough will be--
your applause, my only aim

1995

Douglas S Johnson

Angel At Dawn

Stone statue
Receiving the rain
With upturned palms,
Gazing downward
Through filtered light
As another autumn
Morning bleeds through
Clouds and the dead
Rise in mists to
Gather at her feet:
Faint rays limn
The marbles, issue
From her fingertips.

1995

Douglas S Johnson

An Imitation Of Roethke

I knew a woman, bless her bones,
Who cracked my neck and rubbed my toes
And made me tea and buttered bread
And fluffed the pillows for my head.

She took me down and propped me up
And gave me cream for my coffee cup;
She soothed my days, and oh, my nights:
She was a soup bowl of delights.

She brought me stones and helped me sleep,
And had a white dove's lowly peep
But boy, that bird, when we got down,
Left dusty feathers on the ground

And spanked me with her big left wing
And cackled like a poultry thing;
Her lovely neck (how I was blest!)
Left me hungry for a thigh and breast.

1995

Douglas S Johnson

An Imitation Of Whitman

The ghost stroke of your hand
Against my hirsute cheek,
Your tender woman fingers
Running through my beard,
At once awakens me to darkness
And to a lonely hiss of silence,
And I caress the remains of dreams,
Praying I might linger long enough
To touch your flame-red hair,
Though my fingers fret but empty air.

1995

Douglas S Johnson

A Summer Song

I felt your hand touch mine
Beneath the pillow as I slept,
And dreamt of those two hands,
How fingers locked as we strolled
Along the summer sands, waves
Whispering our names as fiddler
Crabs stumbled in and out
Of water like weary, drunken
Sailors near the end of leave;
And this was perfect peace to me,
The sea and two hands laced together,
All the world a laughable cup
Of sparkling wind, sunshine and sky
Stretching away and away into endless
Bliss borne of your proximity.

1995

Douglas S Johnson

Stone Angel

In an ancient cathedral,
A stone angel watches,
Her eyes cast upward
As she leans outward,
Straining from her perch
And reaching toward heaven,
Begging God to take her
From this place which falls
About her feet, crumbles
Daily, abandoned, unused
By the forgetful heathens who
Have not the wisdom or will
To sustain or to destroy.

1995

Douglas S Johnson

We must earn our Death
From Life: going down
Into the sooty depths of
Airless caves, emerging
With gems, round and blue,
Like the eyes of Russian
Girls; we send a burning
Life skyward in yellow curls
Of smoke, a divine holocaust;
We dare to save even those
Who do not desire saving,
Forcing their blind faces
Toward the searing sun so
They cannot help but see
The brooding, multiplying
Orbs that gaze from endless
Dimensions of possibility.

1995

Douglas S Johnson

What I Dreamed

I dreamed we spent a day
Driving and making love
In a beat-up van
We called Blue Horse,
Your red hair dripping
Summer rain as the sun
Limned wind-blown clouds
That fled and crouched
Behind the mountain range.
I dreamed we were sixteen,
Hand in hand in a meadow
Where a lark swung sharply
Over our heads, splitting
The light into rings and
Lingering showers of song.
I dreamed we were children,
Latent yet with love,
You ahead of me, looking
Back to let me know
You would not be long;
Bending down, touching
Something in the grass:
An animal--perhaps a stone--
Or the future's soothing balm--
When you smiled up at me,
The world, my entire life,
Opened like a palm.

(c) 1995 Douglas S. Johnson

What I Saw

A pear fell from the tree
Behind you as you walked
Through the far orchard:
When you turned to look
I saw that in your smile
There were all the words
Ever spoken on the earth.

1995

Douglas S Johnson

When You Had A Fever

I smoothed your brow and dabbed
Your cheeks with an icy cloth,
And closed your eyes with kisses,
Then opened them again to spoon
You a simple, watery broth,
And laid in bed with you and felt
Your body's burning heat upon my limbs,
As silently you slept once more
Beneath the freshly laundered sheets,
I ready to die for peacefulness,
Knowing I had purchased at the store
Meat, carrots, and onions--all
Of which would make a hearty soup
In which a crust of bread would soak,
A heavenly repast for two in love
To dine upon when your fever broke.

1995

Douglas S Johnson

you are perched upon a spindle at
this very moment: wheeling
on its pinpoint

the

world whipping by like a mad video
locked on fast forward

you turn

through the winds of demon

laughter,

through the tactile beckonings

into the fingers that crook

and tempting orbs that promise
from every possible direction,
listening for a thin and straining
voice you pray persists

one final time, you cast
your eyes about,
all of eternity to lose;

now, fool,

plant a foot and choose

1995

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Poetry, 1993

2006-01-06T18:51:00.000-08:00

The Art Of Breathing
(for William Blake)

Teach to me the art of breathing,
Lamb whose breath comes without knowing—
Teach to me the art of being,
Joyous Piper whose soft songs
Bloom from his reed
Before he has thought
To place it to his lips—
Teach me to sing the song of life,
Sweet child who sings before speaking—
Teach me to breathe & be & sing
Like a bird who concentrates
His soul in each soft, sweet note,
Knowing nothing of music.

1993

Douglas S Johnson

Casualty

He stood, fiery hair blown back
And blended with the Saigon sun,
His bold blue eyes now fixed and gazing
As though confronted by distant clots
Of inane hours and wasted deeds
As Death, like a giant ancient fish,
Rose and unsettled
The marshy mud beneath his feet.

He was at first affronted,
Frightened at the prospect of this loss,
But as his ivory lids,
Softly as the hand of God,
Closed over the dazed and dazzling orbs
Of his shining eyes,
And as his vision was turned inward
And was held steadily poised
Like a gun upon himself,
He slowly embraced the bullet,
Stroked the pain like a lover,
And treasured the quaking in his limbs
Like jewels.

1993

Douglas S Johnson

Elegy For Rilke

It is the only struggle,
This mad wrestling with angels
Here upon the dust,
The insane attempts
To pinion immortal beings
Amid the stones and shards of glass,
To find their blurry silhouettes
Where no flower will grow
And where wide masses of men
Walk in stark anonymity.

(c) 1993 by Douglas S. Johnson

Immanental Still Life

It is replete with meaning—
The glint in a woman’s eyes
When she glances up
From some thoughtful task
And faintly smiles
While her vision adjusts
Once more to the world.
It is that moment
In which she is still
Half far-away, half near,
When she is most beautiful.
It is in these scant seconds
When she sweeps like a bird
Of magnificent grace
Toward the earth,
Falling fluently through
The splendorous tangle
Of sunlit leaves.

1993

Douglas S Johnson

Leaving Pittsburg, Kansas

First I wonder
If I'll ever feel again
Beneath my feet
The round, knobby corners
Of hard-worn bricks
In cobblestone streets
Or if again
I'll ever be stirred
By a sound nearly as sweet
As that
Of the bold brass bell
In the tower of St. Mary's
As it rang in six o'clock
On an April evening.
And now what
Will I ever find
To replace the sorrowful face
Of the lonely angel
That hovers over
Her abandoned company
Of long forgotten spirits
In the cemetery
On the far edge of town?

How far down can I push
Such things
In my memory
Before they surface
Once more
Like strange dark fish
Struggling toward
The surface of the sea?

As we rumble away
From our home
In that lumbering Ryder
Stuffed full of memories
And bits of clay,
I find I am in love
With the whirling fan
In the front window
Of Jackson's Electric.
I want to get out
And tell it goodbye
And run my fingers
Once more
Over the rough red brick
Of the Stillwell Hotel
Which continues to crumble
To bits and fall
Onto the flat black roof
Of Otto's Cafe.

To turn around and stay
Would only prove
That my blood is in the soil,
That I couldn't live without
The day-to-day lime green
Of Ettinger's Office Supply.
I try not to look back
At the century-old monoliths
That are the Fox Theatre
And the Gutteridge Pharmacy
(But do anyway--)
I say these names
Over and over
Like an incantation
And then listen one last time
To the harsh scrape
Of a woman's shoes
On square stones.
All the sacred blood
In a deep-stained sky
Cannot atone
For the lost wailing of trains
Or for that of the stone angel
Which will weep
To see me leave
To return no more.

1993

Douglas S Johnson

Mountain

It is a time of revelation:
Those hours spent
In the harsh and difficult task
Of loving.

It is an ascending
Of scabrous cliffs and fluted edges,
A holding tight
To air and to the narrowest
Of fissures.

It is a severing from old ground,
From dry sand and malleable clay,
From the watery marshes of the everyday,
To give oneself utterly
To climbing,

To the mountain itself,
And to the impassive crags.
It is a joining of oneself
With stone,

Until reaching the top,
One plunges to its deepest heart,
Collapsing, wordless, into the light
Of a million suns.

1993

Douglas S Johnson

Nocturne

The Kansas City Southern
Blows through our bellies
At midnight,
And the long nausea
Of its wailing
Recedes to leave
A plain of grey,
An emptiness more vast
Than the mind.

1993

Douglas S Johnson

Requiescat

Store them up:
Not stones, but
Those things that perish:
Those pages you allowed
The casual breezes
To blow out
Onto windowsills,
Those yellowed laces
You let slip from the
Arms of your stylish chairs,
The dried rose petals
Which fall brittlely
From a rusty locket
Into a world on fire.

--(c) 1993 Douglas S. Johnson

A Song Of Ascents

Listen:
We are alive.
No more days spent
Holding our breath
Or clenching dimes
In sweaty palms,
Caught endlessly
In a fiery Babylon
And drawn down
Into an earthquake
Of screaming voices,
Into the wide split
Searing wounds
From which issue
Terrible sound
Turned to visible
Flame -- no more
The disappearing
And disappearing
And no more
The violent twisting
Through the febrile
Crowds:
Turn away
And fall upon
The ground, and
Devour fistfuls
Of grass and leaves.
Taste God in the blades.
Know the bitter grace,
And the acid power,
And the joy untold
And untellable.

--(C) 1993 Douglas S. Johnson

Train-Haunted Land

Train-haunted land,
I have left you--
Left you
Like some sort
Of a gallant fool
Perched upon a horse
And unable to smell
My own blood
In the soil.

I knew not then
I would awaken
With your wailing
Whistle
Blowing through
My brain,
Or that the wild,
Time-hungry pistons
Would be lodged
In the valves
Of my midnight heart,
Or that their flailing
Rhythm would launch
My blood
Through my limbs
In the dark
In this strange land.

I didn't know
The blowing grass,
Moved by a million
Careful fingertips,
Would fill my dreams
And whisper strange names,
Or that the wind-tangled trees
Would reach down
To clutch at my hand
After I was already
Too far away.

Too soon the dawn returns,
And the pistons fade
To grey,
And then are gone--
And the grasses
Are stilled,
And all the strange names
Fall away--
And your faint whistle
Calls to me,
Dopplerwise,
And then wraps itself
In Night.

Train-haunted land,
I have left you.

1993

Douglas S Johnson

Washington Song

Crouched in the hollow bone of a heron's wing,
I know the heft of silvered skies
As we fly--bird and I--over Western evergreens
Through which the sun's rare yellow blooming gleam
Is like the sudden unshuttering of a stranger's eye
(When it bothers to be seen.)
Now above the lusty fragrance of new tulips
And over the coy forsythia's faint seduction,
I smell your apple-scented hair
And I know that you are somewhere
Here in this pewter dawn
Waiting for me--with circling swallows--
In a high-grown meadow
Wet with the interminable rain.
After pain of absence, my soaking
Fingers melt in yours
(Like scattered drops on window panes--)
Already rain presses our hair
And even now blurs our faces in shades of grey--

I shake myself free--fall from heaven
Into your land, your soul,
And lie with you in dripping acres of love.

1993

Douglas S Johnson

Western Song

(for Ruthie)

I have traveled the land of my soul--
I have seen the mountains of my own mind--
I have sprung from the shimmering chrysalis of my own captivity
Into new, brave lights of joy.
I have found my new Jerusalem
Amidst a vast wreckage of Babylons--
I have emerged from the narrow caves of disbelief
Into the sun of truth mirrored by a thousand ages--
I sink like roots into living
As though for the first time,
And feel the terror and the joy of my own pulse
In a land of beauty and light.

1993

Douglas S Johnson

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Das Kleine Eichhörnchen, Das Sprechen Könnte: Eine Geschichte Für Kinder

2006-01-05T22:33:00.000-08:00

(Für jeden Freund, der zu weit weg ist)

Es gab einmal ein Eichhörnchen, das sprechen könnte, und dies wäre ein wunderbar schönes Ding, außer, daß im Wald, gab es kein anderes Dasein, das auch sprechen könnte, und keines der Tiere könnte das kleine Eichhörnchen verstehen.

Das Eichhörnchen könnte über alles sprechen, aber es könnte nicht sagen, wie es über alles sprechen könnte—nur daß, eines morgens, nachdem es gerade im Sonnenschein aufgestanden war sofort die Wörter „was?!“ „wer?!“ „wie?!“ aus seinem Mund flogen und immer danach könnte es sprechen.

Also ging es jeden Tag durch den Wald, sprechend und auch hoffend, daß es irgend jemand, der ihn verstehen und mit ihm sprechen würde, finden könnte.

„Hallo Vogel,“ sagte das kleine Eichhörnchen. „Du singst sehr schön!“ Aber das Vogel zirpte nur unbewußt, hob seinen Kopf und sang weiter.

„Hallo Frosch,“ sagte das kleine Eichhörnchen. „Wie geht es bei dir und deine Freunde im Sumpf?“ Aber das Frosch krächzte nur tief und lang, zerknitterte sein komisches Gesicht und sprang wieder ins brackige Wasser.

„Hallo Schildkröte,“ sagte das kleine Eichhörnchen. „Willst du mit mir heute morgen sprechen?“ Aber die alte Schildkröte sagte nichts und humpelte langsam weg über den staubhaltigen Pfad durch den Wald.

Das kleine Eichhörnchen ging ein bischen weiter, bevor er wieder
anfing, mit den Anwohnern des Waldes zu sprechen.

„Hallo Baum,“ sagte das kleine Eichhörnchen. „Wie geht es dir heute morgen?“ Aber das Baum starrte es nur an und raschelte mit seinen Blättern.

„Hallo Gras,“ sagte das kleine Eichhörnchen, „wie geht es dir heute morgen?“ Aber das Gras verspottete es nur und neckte es mit Geflüster.

„Hallo Blümenchen! Wunderbarer Sonnenschein heute morgen, ja?“ Die Blümenchen nickten mit ihren Köpfen, aber das Eichhörnchen wußte, bei ihren leeren Ausdrücken, daß sie es nicht verstanden.

„Hallo Stein,“ sagte das Eichhörnchen, „ich wünsche dir einen guten Morgen. Aber, wie die anderen im Wald, der Stein schaute es nur an und runzelte die Stirn.

Ach, dachte das Eichhörnchen. Wenn es nur einen im Wald gäbe, der mich verstehen könnte! Wie gut wäre es, wenn ich sprechen könnte und alle meine Wörter begreifen könnten. Also war das Eichhörnchen deswegen oft traurig, und oft wünschte es, daß es nicht sprechen könnte, daß es nur stumm war, weil es tat ihm weh, so wunderbares Ding zu haben, aber niemand da war, der es mit ihm teilte.

Nun war es so traurig und bestürzt, daß es wach blieb, eine lange Zeit, alle Tiere des Waldes schliefen bereits. Nur ab und zu schaukelte eine Eule und Fledermaus durch die dunkle Luft, hier und dort saßen oder hängten sie in einem Baum.

Und wenn das kleine Eichhörnchen zu ihnen sprach, hatten sie als Antwort nur ein bedeutungsloses „Hu?! Hu?!“ oder einen hohen Schrei, das tat seinen Ohren weh.

Das kleine Eichhörnchen ging und ging tiefer und tiefer durch das Dunkel, eine sehr lange Entfernung, bis es aus dem Wald und nah den großen Hügeln und tiefen Tälern war.

Und schließlich kam es zu den einsamen, dunklen Hügeln und tiefen widerhallenden Tälern und voll mit Weh und Einsamkeit rief es in die Nacht...

„Hallo?!“

„Hallo?!“ rief zurück das Dunkel von den Tälern und über die Hügel.

Es gab eine andere Stimme! Irgend jemand hatte ihm geantwortet! Es war unglaublich! Endlich hatte das kleine Eichhörnchen eine Antwort!

„Gibt es jedermann da?!“ rief das kleine Eichhörnchen.

„Gibt es jedermann da?!“ rief die Stimme aus der Nacht.

„Ich bin es!“ rief das kleine Eichhörnchen.

„Ich bin es!“ rief die Stimme.

Das kleine Eichhörnchen konnte nicht sehen, wer da sprach, aber es war froh, daß es jemanden gefunden hatte, der mit ihm sprach.

„Gut, dich zu begegnen!“ rief das Eichhörnchen.

„Gut, dich zu begegnen!“

„Würdest du mein Freund sein?!“

„Würdest du mein Freund sein?!“

„Ja!“

„Ja!“
Das kleine Eichhörnchen war endlos glücklich. Es hatte einen Freund, der ihn verstand und dem es sprechen könnte.

„Es ist spät, ich muß nun gehen!“ sagte das kleine Eichhörnchen.

„Es ist spät, ich muß nun gehen!“

„Bis bald, Freund!“

„Bis bald, Freund!“

„Bis morgen Nacht!“

„Bis morgen Nacht!“

Und das kleine Eichhörnchen, müde und glücklich, drehte sich um und ging zurück nach Hause und es machte ihm nichts , daß sein Freund so weit weg war oder, daß es seinen Freund nicht sehen könnte.

Es war doch glücklich als es ging durch die kühle Nacht, unter dem Mond und die Sterne.

2004

VISIT MY WEBPAGE

Sing, Evelyn

2006-01-05T14:17:00.000-08:00

(a translation of a passage from Wolfgang Borchert’s “Die Lange Lange Strasse Lang”)

Evelyn stands in the sun and sings. The sun is there with Evelyn. You can see through her dress—legs and all. And Evelyn sings. Her voice is a little nasal, and maybe a little hoarse. She has stood too long in the rain. And she sings, so that I am stirred when I close my eyes. And when I open them, I see her legs and everything above them—everything. And Evelyn sings so that my eyes dim and my vision goes blurry. She sings sweetly of the end of the world. She sings of the night and of booze, of dangerous, restless spirits full of pain and of boundless woe. Evelyn sings of the end, the end of the world: sweet—pulling her song up from between skinny, naked girl-legs: the holy, heavenly, hot sinking down of the world. O, Evelyn sings like wet grass, heavy with the scent of desire—and so green. So deep green, so green like empty beer bottles that stand near the benches, where in the evening Evelyn’s knees peek out, pale as the moon, from under her dress—and I am stirred.

Sing, Evelyn, sing me to death. Sing the sweet end of the world, sing of the restless spirits, sing the grass-green scent. And Evelyn presses my grass-cold hand between her moon-pale knees—and I am stirred.

And Evelyn sings. “Come lovely May, and make…” sings Evelyn and holds my grass-cold hand with her knees. “Come lovely May and make the graves green.” That’s what Evelyn sings. “Come lovely May and make the battlefields beer-bottle-green and make the rubble—the endless acres of rubble—green like my song, like my booze-sweet song of the end of the world. And there on the bank, Evelyn sings a hoarse, hectic song—that makes me cold. “Come lovely May and make eyes shine again,” sings Evelyn and holds my hand with her knees. Sing, Evelyn, sing me back under the beer-bottle-green grass, where I was once sand and clay, where I was once the land. Sing, Evelyn, sing—sing me over the acres of rubble and over the battlefields and over the mass-graves—up and over, into your sweet, warm, maiden-strange moon-smoke. Sing, Evelyn, sing, when a thousand troops of soldiers march through the night, sing then—and when a thousand cannons plow the fields and fertilize them with blood. Sing, Evelyn, sing, when the walls lose their grip on pictures and clocks—then sing me into schnaps-green smoke and down into your sweet end of the world. Sing, Evelyn, sing me down into your maiden-being, down into your secret, nighttime maiden-essence that is so sweet and which stirs me so, which stirs me back into life. Come, lovely May, and make the grass green again, so beer-bottle-green, so Evelyn-green. Sing Evelyn!

2006

VISIT MY WEBPAGE