Incandescent bread 

I baked bread recently using khorasan wheat. I had never milled grain for bread before and it was an arduous process with a countertop grinder. I was actually more interested in studying how my sourdough starter would work on a new variety of wheat flour.

The type I used, Triticum turanicum, (trademarked as Kamut in the US) is named after a species that some websites claim, possibly had its origins in the Fertile Crescent region of the Middle East, in what could have been parts of Iran, Afghanistan or Turkey. The Khorasan wheat, according to some others, is thought to have originated in Mesopotamia and then brought into Egypt [1]. Kamut is similar to durum wheat which is the one used in making pasta. 

In her dissertation, Tate Paulette notes that in the third millennium BC, cuneiform documents suggested that barley was more widely grown along with some emmer wheat and another free threshing species, which could have possibly been durum. Paulette also adds that in some sites across Northern and Southern Mesopotamia for example, archaeologists have actually recovered emmer wheat (Triticum dicoccum), and einkorn wheat (Triticum monococcum), as well as some other varieties of wheat, including bread wheat (Triticum aestivum) and club wheat (Triticum compactum) in addition to 2-row (Hordeum distichum) and 6-row (Hordeum
vulgare) barley (Paulette 2015: 7-8)[2]. 

Navigating heirloom grains is an almost political process. In any case, it was fun experimenting with this unusual looking wheat berry and the bread had an even crumb to it. It was delicious, like bread can be. I should share the recipe soon. 

Enjoy the poem !

The dough is molten at oven spring,
like a prayer to the historicity of things ..

Have we not imagined yesterdays
in the ritual of bread ? While our pasts

lay embezzled, on the tongues of men, the
sentiment of centuries colluded in germ,

echoing through heirloom remembrances
those floury philosophies of change.

While I stretch dough to gaze past
a windowpane, as far back as Khorasan ..

they were other names then, another
elasticity in time. Faith is a memory

of settled people in lands of milk and
honey, where every drought, every flood

spawns a new religion .. and the wheat,
always begs the same old question:

Are we there yet, in the fertile crescent
of opportunity ? The grains haven't changed

in their stolid countenance - long, subtle,
germy, cosseted. In the granaries of kings ..

they are willed by royal decree, never to die
in an eternal future and like humankind,

who score bread in the cuneiform of hearts,
grain is always thirsting to seed the land.

Terms [3]

Oven spring – In bread baking, the final burst of rising just after a loaf is put in the oven and before the crust hardens.

Windowpane test – the term is used to describe the state of the dough when it has been kneaded/folded enough and has a strong gluten network. 

[1]~https://www.organicvalley.coop/blog/bob-quinn-modern-benefits-of-ancient-grains/

[2]~https://oi.uchicago.edu/research/research-archives-library/dissertations/grain-storage-and-moral-economy-mesopotamia-3000

[3]~https://www.breadandbasil.nyc/sourdough/sourdough-glossary#windowpane

More on Haiku, Senryu and the nomenclature of hybrids

Haiku and Senryu

A few weeks ago I explored the similarities and differences between Haiku and Senryu (Read here and here)while constructing a few of my own having being inspired by Richard Wright’s ‘Haiku: This Other World’ [1][2][3] Both forms contain seventeen morae or ‘on’ or syllables and are structured in three metrical phases of five/seven/five syllables and are unrhymed but it is the Haiku that usually has a thought pause. Senryu is about human nature, can depict humour, sarcasm, cynicism, opinion, philosophy etc while Haiku takes inspiration from nature, should contain a seasonal reference (kigo), a thought pause or a cutting word (kireji), should be succinct, Zen, austere and portray harmony of images.

The Haiku of Matsuo Basho

Matsuo Basho, the most distinguished Japanese poet of Haiku [4]explained best, man’s affinity with nature in his travelogue Oi no Kobumi (Manuscript in My Knapsack): One and the same thing runs through the waka of Saigyo, the renga of Sogi, the paintings of Sesshu, the tea ceremony of Rikyu. What is common to all these arts is their following nature and making a friend of the four seasons. Nothing the artist sees is but flowers, nothing he thinks of but is the moon. When what a man sees is not flowers, he is no better than a barbarian. When what he thinks in his heart is not the moon, he belongs to the same species as the birds and beasts. say, free yourselves from the barbarian, remove yourself from the birds and beasts; follow nature and return to nature! [5]

Contemporary insights

Hakutani and Tener, editors of Richard Wright’s compilation of Haiku [5] quote R. H. Blyth who writes thus about Haiku taking further from Basho’s position, an insight into what Haiku means, even today: the joy [in Haiku] comes from the “(apparent) re-union of ourselves with things.” It is the “happiness of being our true selves.” Austerity is not only a lack of intellectualization, it is almost a wordlessness, a condition in which words are used not to externalise a poet’s state of feeling, but to “clear thing,” according to Blyth, “that seems to stand between” the poet and real things. Because the real things are not actually separate from the poet, they “are then perceived by self- knowledge.” Certainly, haiku ideally removes as many words as possible, stressing non-intellectuality, as thought, like passion, must depend upon and not substitute for intuition. The joy lies in the humor, the lightness, the lack of sentimentality. Blyth states: “It goes down to something deeper than the unconscious where repressions wait with ill-concealed impatience. It goes beyond this into the realm where a thing is and is not at the same time, and yet at the very same time is.”

I find Blyth’s explanation along with that of Basho’s sets the yardstick of measure of great Haiku, of what is true to original form. Contemporary Haiku verse exhibit a flexible composition, which makes it tricky to navigate the 5/7/5 syllabic construction, which may quite as easily qualify as Senryu. Does a reference to the natural world in a verse with a philosophical concern or one based in metaphor, make a Senryu a Haiku or vice versa or can it be a new form entirely. I found an article by Elizabeth St Jacques [6]that helps solve this issue. She cites George Swede, the co-founder of Haiku Canada (1977) who provides, she says, the clearest and most logical answer. After studying haiku types, he came to the conclusion that English-language haiku consist of “three content categories”: Nature haiku, Human haiku (senryu), and Human plus nature haiku (hybrids).

Linked Haiku/Senryu hybrids as a meditative process

I created some hybrids that appear to blur the distinction between both forms, although I find that staying true to the original may be an acceptable challenge of maintaining discipline in poetic construction while preserving the essence of Haiku or of Senryu. The evolution of a separate form based on similarity of structure and pithy intent is inevitable, acceptable and should probably be given a new specific name and description. I wish it could be called something other than a hybrid. Bloggers and poets Mike and Bryan at their online magazine indirectly allude to this form as ‘Failed Haiku’, which is also the name of their blog. They have compiled a detailed resource guide for Haiku and Senryu that I found especially informative to read [7]

I should like to write Haiku like Matsuo Basho because it would appear to be a meditative exercise in attempting a certain degree of mindlessness, or as Blyth noted ‘non-intellectuality’, yet, Haiku along those principles is still profoundly thoughtful because its construction is intentional.

Exploring the nomenclature of hybrids in a new paradigm

The terms Haiku/Senryu can be confusing while classifying such hybrid poems, even as current descriptions stricture one within the accepted forms of composing either. Hybrids have evolved into a separate form altogether and I wanted to name specifically the style and process I use in composing verses to a 5/7/5 syllabic pattern, as well as the linked forms of the same. I looked through a range of popular terms used in the meditative practice of Kintsugi that could possibly apply to such hybrid Haiku. Kintsugi itself is the literal term for the gold joinery of accidentally broken ceramic, sealed in East Asian lacquer which is a resin made from the highly toxic sap of Rhus Verniciflua [8][9] a technique that emphasises the scars and imperfections in the finally reconstructed item. Thus kintsugi (as ceramic art or as meditation) embodies the principles of wabi-sabi (looking for beauty in imperfections, revering authenticity), gaman (the practice of dignified endurance), kansha (act of expressing gratitude for nature’s gifts), Eiyoshoku (nourishing the body), mottainai, (which expresses regret when something is wasted) and  mushin  (the acceptance of change) [10] All of these apply to my compositions, yet are not an exhaustive list. Even so, these are merely words, in a language I am not familiar with except for these terms in universal usage.

So I ventured to look for something  analogous within the organic world. Here, unlike in the material world, where objects can be created for pleasure or even broken to be fixed, it is the principle of adherence that finds resonance in the living, in the attachment of cells. In living organisms for example, the very basis of the evolution of multicellularity lies in the fundamental property of the ability of cells to adhere to one another. This is brought about by Cadherins, which are transmembrane cell–cell adhesion molecules, that have a role to play in cell signalling, in determining cell shapes and cell positions, triggering tissue morphogenesis etc. When cells contact each other, cadherins from the opposing cells located at the site of contact form trans-bonds across the contact [11] Interestingly, stained tissue viewed under a microscope under various interplays of light would appear to resemble Kintsugi (gold joinery) but all this within a structured yet fluid assemblage of cells , like in a 5/7/5 Haiku. Of course, it would be odd to name hybrid haiku/senryu after such calcium-dependent adhesion but this adherence of cells finds favour in my understanding of contemporary pithy 5/7/5 composition. Such hybrids are not about fixing brokenness or creating Frankensteins or simply observing the beauty of nature or measuring imperfections or life philosophies or spiritual practice or expressing witticisms. They are more like a fluid cellular organisation of disparate functions, still uniquely defining an intentional yet kinetic proliferation akin to existence ~ a cellular morphogenesis that simply appears to occur, yet adheres in a cohesive narrative, a matrix of tissue. Perhaps, such haiku/senryu hybrids, when linked in stream of consciousness style of writing, could be called adhesion haiku or adherence poetry or viscid haiku ? (haiku here simply refers to the recognisable 5/7/5 syllabic pattern. Viscid was first used in the 1630s and refers to something adhesive, mucilaginous, viscous). I am merely exploring but I will go with Viscid Haiku for my linked ‘not exactly haiku’ style of verse for now.

Viscid Haiku

I composed some today inspired by the mundane here and now and also moments accreted to memory. I would like to call this hybrid poetry process as babbling through a brook of  consciousness 🙂

I scored dough today,
bread flowered in the oven.
Earth kaleidoscopes.

Blather of sunshine
roused late blooms in feverish
hues. Embarrassed paths.

Orchid drops pale hues
onto a seasoned table.
There's always Autumn.

As underlayment,
foam muffles rushed footsteps. We,
never heard them leave.

Driving through New York.
Walking in Manhattan feels
like morbidity.

We travel common
googled itineraries,
breathe borrowed moments.

Water displaces
underground soil. Friends depart
and houses settle.

Sore eyes seek a page
and gravity haunts water.
Pen stole a moment ..

Delightful I find,
this kitchen spiralizer.
Geometric food.

Thunderstorms last night
felt like aliens messing
with clouds and fire.

There are many ways
to craft a photo booth light
box. Sun's always bright.

The book I'm reading
never ends. Thoughts cruising past
words to tomorrow.

References:

[1]~https://akitahaiku.com/what-are-haiku-senryu-and-tanka/

[2]~https://poetrysociety.org.nz/affiliates/haiku-nz/haiku-poems-articles/archived-articles/modern-senryu/

[3]~https://poetrysociety.org/features/on-poetry/senryu-the-haikus-comic-cousin

[4]~https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/basho

[5]~Wright, Richard:haiku – This other world, Edited by Hakutani, Yoshinobu and Tener, Robert

[6]~https://startag.tripod.com/HkSenDiff.html

[7]~https://failedhaiku.com/links/

[8]~https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/elac/hd_elac.htm

[9]~https://mymodernmet.com/kintsugi-kintsukuroi/

[10]~https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.nbcnews.com/better/amp/ncna866471

[11]~https://www.cell.com/current-biology/pdf/S0960-9822(13)00710-0.pdf

For September

I took this photo somewhere in Flatiron, Manhattan .. the picture is by artist named dirtCobdin

Hurricane Ida’s remnants created deadly havoc in Pennsylvania, New Jersey and New York days after the system hit the Gulf Coast — some 1,000 miles away (npr.org)

Yesterday, a cloud burst in mythologies 
and the rain fidgeted over the retreat

of a tidal pantheon; deities swept away
by a current, and we stood awhile, watching

the moon elbow out the dusk. Breathing
is burdensome when cars float on water

and corpses leak out of cavernous
basements. Every tablet, etched, in the cold

heart of building code was read again
and then again. It wasn't enough to blame

Aeolian whim or the raging riposte of Apollo,
now that we had marvelled away Gaia's

ozone skirt. Her amnion always leaked
in folkloric floods each time she birthed

a parable. She once asked Noah to build
an ark so he could ride her waves

and we scrape the sky to impale her 
in shards where her womb is soft and yielding,

as we sour the air and burn the water and strip
her of her emerald sigh and melt her hills

and silt her wetlands. Mostly it was the asphalt
plastering her yearning that calcified her veins

and arteries, as she died slowly under our feet
we could hardly fathom her sorrow for the tears

rolled off her torso like an oil slick
and rode far into the subway for sewers.

Notes on hurricane Ida:

Hurricane Ida was the second-most damaging hurricane to strike the U.S. state of Louisiana on record, behind only Hurricane Katrina. The remnants of hurricane killed at least 43 people in New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Connecticut and left more than 150,000 homes without power on Wednesday, the first of September [1] The streets and subway platforms turned into rivers with the deluge of rain, people were trapped in their cars and some washed away by flash floods. A tornado (strength F-3) leveled houses in Mullica Hill, New Jersey with estimated winds of 150 miles per hour.

According to Tripti Bhattacharya (earth and environmental sciences at Syracuse University) whose research on regional rainfall and climate change was cited in the U.N.’s recent climate change report, hurricane Ida had just the right mix of weather conditions in place to fuel the system. The remnants of Ida met another system, an extra tropical front and combined to create heavy rainfall of er New York and New Jersey. Ida also spent time over a warm waters in the northern Gulf of Mexico which allowed it to intensify very quickly. As atmosphere warms due to the changing climate, it can hold more moisture which translates to excessive rainfall [2]

‘For every 1 degree Celsius of global warming, the atmosphere can hold roughly 7 percent more water vapor. Cities like New York are often more vulnerable to sudden downpours because so much of their land area is paved over with impervious surfaces like asphalt, which means that runoff is channeled into streets and sewers rather than being absorbed into the landscape’ [3]

There is need to take a hard look at city infrastructure, carbon emissions, infrastructure for improved and accurate weather forecasts in addition to looking at vulnerability maps and how that maps onto income for those that are hardest hit by such unpredictable weather.

The need for climate responsive architecture:

|Climate-responsive architecture functions in lockstep with the local climate(temperature, historical weather patterns, etc.), the direction of the sun (sun path and solar position), site-specific environmental conditions (such as wind, rainfall, humidity), seasonality and also taking into account the natural shade provided by the surrounding area and topography to design pleasant buildings which ensure physiological comfort of users, energy-efficient buildings with reduced reliance on artificial energy|[4]

References:

[1]~https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.nytimes.com/live/2021/09/02/nyregion/nyc-storm.amp.html

[2]~https://www.npr.org/2021/09/03/1034058911/hurricane-ida-climate-change-northeast-flooding-rainfall

[3]~https://www.nytimes.com/live/2021/09/03/nyregion/nyc-flooding-ida#ida-delivery-workers-safety

[4]~https://www.re-thinkingthefuture.com/rtf-fresh-perspectives/a1060-what-architects-must-know-about-climate-responsive-architecture/

Dragonflies playing dead and other baseline studies for our trip to Mars

I love the moist and humid 

of marshland,

watching

tall grasses break

the surface of water,

simply wondering

what fish must silver

the shallows

or what reptile

slither a shiver

down the spine ..

I took these photos while we walked the trail at Lobster Cove meadow and Appalachee preserves in Boothbay Harbor. They look like a poem. At 46.8-acres,  this preserve boasts of a freshwater wetland, large field and a quite densely forested upland [1] I loved every part of it and given half a chance, I would have perhaps spent my morning sitting by that soupy ferment of grass and sodden earth, creating botanical drawings or writing floral poetry ..

.. but this prose poem is really about dragonflies and a lyrical questioning of the viability of some species of the order Odonata, on planets that humankind propose to relocate to. Of what use then, is a dragonfly?

I'm hypnotized by the dragonfly's

agile life path 

or is it - a flight path? 


On taxonomy ~


Marsh trails at Lobster Cove,

court me in grass -

resigned they are,

to the trample of feet, 

or fate, in Maine,

land richly resplendent 

in the iridescence 

of one hundred and fifty five

species ---

emeralds, jewel wings, reds,

golds, pond damsels, 

darners, skimmers, hawkers,

predators, 

dragons that fly, 

and this isn't metaphor..



I flee to be happily feral 

in these teeming marshes,

soliloquising to this multitude.

This thick slice of populace,

if you police the species,

spawn irreverent ideas

of vagrants or migrants 

or residents. Of these

I ladle millions with simply 

the scoop of my hand, 

from a steamy soupy puddle.. 

Hundreds of dragonflies 

and damselflies,

are squadrons in the sky,

a flight arena weakening air.

They meld in a singular 

poetic brush stroke 

of airy romance

even as my botanical eye 

purloins them from a vast kingdom

to stricture within an Order, 

of specialised missions,

their godly wings for escort, 

or those that pivot 

to a singular pursuit

of combative intent 

and thus, genus is recruited 

to sub orders and 

other such self effacement

There are 155 species of Odonata in Maine which include the 112 of  Anisoptera,  which is comprised only of dragonflies. These hold their wings horizontal to the surface they alight upon, while damselflies (Zygoptera), hold them vertical, this being an important criterion besides the eyes, for easy differentiation between both, although they look quite similar.  Beyond that, you could mull over the variation of  corrugation patterns, the curvature of the various ridges and deep valleys on the plane of the wing membrane, or wing span and attached musculature while considering that individuals within the same species vary considerably as also, between the species. Yet, it was of great interest to me, that measurements based on the wing profiles from a single wing of very few dried specimens spearheaded whole studies and scientific hypotheses on the effect of these morphological characteristics on aerodynamics of the dragonfly. 

It’s a dragonfly, I want to know why it flies .. so ..

.

.

Now imagine this complex wing architecture, the attached musculature that enables the independent movement of each of the four wings and the aerodynamic magic that propels the dragonfly through three dimensional trajectories, through space. The ability to manoeuvre in a way that they can fly backwards without any added expense of energy, their speed, agility and their capacity to hover, aids them in their remarkable predatory routines. It makes my heart skip a bit when I understand they exclusively intercept other flying insects while in flight, perhaps like humans attempt to do in aerial combat. These remarkable creatures can cruise, pursue, intercept while on their territorial flights, in chasing others like them or in stalking prey and some can even fly in formation.

Flying is arduous and requires efficient management of energy. In extensive studies of the relationship between the wing planform of Odonata and aerodynamic efficiency during flapping flight, it was found that dragonflies must generate 221% of the power that would be necessary to produce the same lift with perfect aerodynamic efficiency (i.e. from an ideal ‘actuator disc’ or ‘lifting line’ in laboratory conditions). Damselflies, operate with a less efficient wing shape in comparison and have to generate 275% of the power that would be required under ideal conditions, simply to fly [6] The overarching question in these studies of wingspan efficiency is, why are insect wing shapes so variable. No one has yet discovered an optimal solution from the standpoint of aerodynamics as insects have several adaptive and non-adaptive factors that contribute to wing shape, and only some of these adaptations will have any aerodynamic or mechanical relevance.

Currently, no suitable wing model exists, to replicate what is experienced by the mechanosensors present on the wings of these living creatures, that are responsible for relaying sensory signals required to power a flight. Eliciting predictable and repeatable flight responses in laboratory conditions has been tricky as well, but most importantly, inorder to generalize and validate flight strategies in the real world, field recordings are essential, but we find that a reliable field data logger for Odonata is yet to be developed.

Thus it stands, we do not understand many things about dragonflies and there are several reasons to continue to study them, least of all that such research will advance humankind’s understanding of unsteady aerodynamics, flight control, sensory integration and the evolution of flight [6] but each dragonfly has its own unique functional design and form, therefore, the task of learning about the metabolic cost of flying to each organism and drawing conclusions thus about flight strategies, is much more complicated than it appears. Until now, no human to the best of my knowledge, has produced a successful dragonfly except for another dragonfly.

My need to know and understand arises as a matter of habit, marking with gravitas this breezy situation which sometimes, a marsh walk can be. When I excitedly tell my husband about surprising facts I come across , I mean, who can not notice the science of it on a leisurely walk .. he wonders the same as I, why one’s mind cannot quite exult and float, elated on fresh air and sunshine alone 😄 Well, I try …

.. not to think of some innovative blueprint for a new drone, designed perhaps like a dragonfly or a damselfly, or scientific research pondering the inefficiency of those horizontally or vertically held wings, that somehow refuse to be consistent in their shape and size [5] There I am, in a marsh, dragonflies in a flight arena of sky, exhibiting the same tendencies as the rest of the sentient species and I realise, there isn’t enough grass nor sky for everyone. There are entire societies at play here not to feel crowded out, and I, a bystander, looking from the outside at their arduous frolicking and wondering of the aggressive sexual behaviour of dragonflies that suddenly taints every romantic vision of earth and sky that I would like to weave into my marshy poetry. Somehow, writing lyrically of how happy I am to see dragonflies engaged in territorial displays over grass, is akin to admitting I enjoy bullfights or so I think and I laugh, for I do or maybe I don’t. In all seriousness though, it prods me to think of the limits of acceptance, a virtue we are smug to extol, or of the questions we are reluctant to frame …

Do you know how we map 

the flight of consciousness ?

I think that is what it is ..

the question I mean.


I wish I could veil my glance

in poetry, blissful membranous

euphemism, like lined coffins

for the dead but I would be

unfeeling not to notice

the corrugations in

those angelic wings.


Is everywhere the place

where the glade is pleasant,

the woods cheerful,

the waters run deep ?


Sometimes, all those things, yes 

and the female of the species

dropped dead. It startled me

from my airbrushed soliloquy, 

for blade strokes -

aerodynamic, iridescent

in a viridescent marsh,

had squelched irony

from the maw of design.


Nymphs in the shallows,

are a Neverland

of eternal childhood.

In the wake

of an artful airlift

for angelic pursuit,

are embattled skies

of conflictual ardour,

and comically painful

those cerci on neck ..


The kama sutra of aerodynamic love

yields outlines of hearts,

lyrical hymns to creatures

great, cherubic, winged,

but the females fake death

to squadrons of a militant

genetic drive.



Will we need dragonflies on Mars

with no oxygen nor water to monitor?

And what use a desultory

Martian anthropomorphisation

as it bites the barren of dust?


Each wingspan a solitary delight,

those 180 degree flips

three dimensional trajectories

of love, for survival of the species

through nicks and bruises ..

Mating in dragonflies is a unique affair in that it involves serious terms like tandem linkage and wheel formation and a great deal of aggression [7] It is highly acrobatic sport and eventually a mating pair forms this heart shape as in the picture above. The male first grabs a female by the back of her neck with claspers at the end of his abdomen that are called cerci which are structural appendages that actually fit into species-specific grooves in the female. Once this tandem linkage is established, the actual consummation takes place which is quite interesting but involves sexual gymnastics involving abdominal segments and appendages for scooping out of rival sperm, some vicious territoriality, pursuit of multiple suitors and a very tired female at the end [8] The high male-biased ratio in adult dragonflies at breeding habitats, has in part, contributed to females using different habitats to avoid male harassment.

Females of some species of dragonflies (Female moorland hawkers or Aeshna juncea for example) are vulnerable to being harassed when laying eggs since they aren’t protected by their male mates. This isn’t the case with all dragonflies but many of the species exhibit sexual conflict. In Moorland hawkers for instance, eggs are usually fertilised in a single sexual encounter with a male, and copulating again could damage their reproductive tract so after the act, females crash dive to the ground at very high speeds and fake death [9]

As I marvel at the dragonfly, I appreciate what humans can learn and possibly unlearn from our compatriots on this sometimes green and golden earth, while I question if there is more to the poetry of the species than simply one upmanship, mean spiritedness, lusty escapades, romantic illusions and other attributes of our inherent genetic propensity, that mainly drive every conflict, every conquest, every war and all tribalism.

How much of dragonfly do we wish to be, plainly rhetorical musing …

There were mushrooms too ..
I thought this looked like living sculpture ..

References:

[1]~https://www.mainetrailfinder.com/trails/trail/lobster-cove-meadow-and-appalachee-preserves

[2]~https://maineanencyclopedia.com/dragonflies/

[3](Gives a list of species found in Maine and their distribution) ~https://www.jstor.org/stable/3858343

[4]~https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1111/geb.12758

[5]~https://www.google.com/amp/s/phys.org/news/2014-11-secret-dragonflies-flight.amp

[6]~https://royalsocietypublishing.org/doi/10.1098/rstb.2015.0389

[7]~https://www.thoughtco.com/how-dragonflies-mate-1968255

[8]~https://www.livescience.com/43206-animal-sex-dragonflies.html

[9]~https://www.newscientist.com/article/2129185-female-dragonflies-fake-sudden-death-to-avoid-male-advances/

Continental Drift, Destination Vows

As events played out recently, I had the sweet fortune of being the celebrant for a very private exchange of marriage vows (yes, y’all read that right ! 🙂) It was for a lovely couple, very good friends we’ve known for many years. I also had the privilege of solemnising a unity candle ceremony, as well as being a witness later in the presence of an officiant, authorised to lawfully seal the union. It has been a most wonderful experience, in these grey and hazy times.

Later, I wrote a poem to mark the occasion, a tribute to their nomadic lives as they work for the betterment of children’s lives the word over. I tried to capture what it means to be a couple, while being part of the United Nations, separated often by geography and time, which will resonate with those that are involved in long distance relationships. It is a poem on how love sustains across borders, time zones, long separations, days, months, years… a few aspects of the story are deeply personal to our friends, the rest being poetic license. I’ve tried to add a touch of their organic world and weave in some of the countries they have lived in … I have experimented with the first person narrative style which in this poem, stands for either of the couple speaking to the other.

The theme song of this intimate ceremony was an enchanting instrumental based on Verve’s classic bitter sweet symphony. I have italicized what I borrowed from the song. There’s also a bit of Bizet’s Carmen at the end, which too has special significance.

The last month has been a whirlwind of sorts and when beautiful things happen around you seamlessly, like a river flow or you yield to the river perhaps, then surely, life is blessed.

The poem has been arranged to appear like a wave (best viewed on a large screen or tablet), given that a precious friendship was seeded in the aftermath of a Tsunami.

All photographs used with permission
        
        Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, that's life..
     
      bloat of whale song, birdsong, petulant -

    the rattle of tanks and thunder,

   giant waves cascading cymbals on shores

  for heartbeats lost

   in native lands.

    I'll take you down the only road

     I've ever been down.

      You know the one

       that takes you to the places

          where all the veins meet ..

                  those hopeful rivers

                       merging sinuous sentiment

                  into the shapelessness of ocean

             s   p   a   c   e    beneath the breast,

      a vast rhythmic rise

in tidal moons,  waves licking shores

  now awash in stories loosely anchored

    to transient shoals,

          then exasperated,

              sedimenting the ocean floor

                 in breezy metaphors of flying fish,

               fish like mammals breathing our air ......

             The reef edge was always steeply laced

           in a filigree of the statuesque -

       Coral corralling within aragonite bridal veil,

 feelings in free d

                             i

                              v

                                e

Rewind to retrospect:

     Small Giant Clams

         netted and harboured secrets

           to the future we never dreamed of

              except in stories that read as life itself,

               long after the deed is done.

             Washed ashore briefly on coral sands,

         we were a tsunami of affections

   seeking anchorage to archipelagic sentiment,

creating little islands of purpose,

islands of recreation,

 sand banks of spirituality, floating islands,

   floating plankton, floating algae, swimming

     in the shallows like the time

       I almost drowned     

         in fever

           and pulled you to seaweed depths

             but you came up gasping for air,

               to a soul clarity,                               

                  we both did ..

                  Time flew, like I flew, like a raven

             off the ark, to the ruins

        of an ancient fairy tale,

    where salt water couldn't drown

a covenant struck in a yielding heart,

the only living thing which I thought existed

    in the semi arid of those lifeless blunders

         that overstay their welcome on the dunes.

             The stars of the desert as brilliantly

                  luminous as our eyes, blinking binaries

                      when I looked for you in asterisms and you

                         looked to me

                                                and we

                               found ourselves                       

                                     under a red blanket.

                                          You came with a sprig in your beak

                                                to drier sands,
                        
                                                    where we etched

                                                        the holy books of faith

                                                           to our own religion

                                                              under a blanketing sentiment ..

                                                            feelings relocated, landlocked,

                                                        then clarified in three layers of lake

                                                  amid a thousand cichlid kisses

                                        darting under a blazing fire.

                               Those sun burnished hearts

                   south of the equator strangely rhyme

        the same, while venous blood flow upwards,

  downwards and across

that expansive meter

    of grassland, where we fostered

        the lives of children like it were

           a spiritual mandate.

               Those leached affections pooled

                    into a reservoir of love, a lake

                         that turned clear as crystal    

                              in that turbid genesis ..

                                  the celestial was most surreal          

                                      when I woke one day to the milky way

                                          obscured by the million lights

                                             along a river,

                                         dazzling a grid of avenues and streets

                               and I know that to this layered night

                 was hitched the hem of your sunrise

       and your cape of night stars

the one that would course through time

   to find me with stories

     etched in constellations,

         of warlords and poppy fields

            where the only rebel was the heart

                for it floundered on land carpeted

                    in the brightest, sometimes the whitest

                        snow, ravaged by battle tanks, redeemed

                             by roses along savage roads

                                 and land as soft as noni

                              and my heart yearned

                    under the same sky,            

              yours and mine,

      separated simply

by the geography of employment.

   It takes a while to find one's feet

         in the clayey soil of mangroves

             skirting the bay where tigers

                 tread to glide and humans barely stand,

                       for the passage of time

                             has been cobbled in death

                                  trod by the advancing cavalry of years

                            of those we knew who never grew any younger

                        and now, will never grow older,

               but we had each other,

       our days vivisected

 to a standard operating procedure,   

so we thought, zooming through

  the virtual multiverse        

     which sagely conspired to confine

       breath to national pleura ..

          deaf to the ventilating heart,

              blind to the diminishing 'soul'?

          Are human lives as poetic as mangroves -

      inhaling through aerial roots ?

  Or a stone cold reclining Buddha -

  His holy feet rubbed in gold leaf

     having little use for a Midas touch?

        Illusions of habitat, these ..

           Reality is solely etched in our partings,

              our separations, our prolonged confinements.

                Our measured lives

                    reluctantly succumbed

                        to the everyplace invisible

                           punctuating our complacency,

                              like a sardonic smile

                                  lurking without a body,

                                      seeking host.

                                        The world at its loudest SOS

                                     made every moment a past tense,

                              as crepuscular as terse beliefs

                      situating ambition in twilight, that future we all desire

               but never really have.  So we

    defied time,  shredded tense

   planned a grand escape, to elope

      with the moment itself.

         They told us that

               love ..     is a bohemian child and

                   he never, never knew a law,

                      but strangely, love's law

                         kindled this union as certain as a flame       

                     lights another and coruscates the void.

       That's,  the only road we know,    

the tangible of bright, the space w i t h i n,

   limitless as the horizon on a globe

       I'll take you down

          the only road I've ever been down.

              You know the one that takes you

                  to the places

                        where all the veins meet ..

Reincarnation

Babaganoush ~ We are blessed to have friends that cook and those that cook at our place 🙂
The ocean makes me
want to imagine
reincarnation.
My thoughts
a shoal of -

How does one know
what fish to be ?
The bigger picture
as far as the eye
can see
or as deep,
is a drop of water
under a coverslip ..

When I deliberate
transcendence;
it's simply a measure
of distance - this escape
to the stars

Transformation
has always been
the stuff of atoms
and here I am,
in a world of
limitless
reconfigurations ..
An interesting story from ‘Jerusalem : Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi’