fly like an eagle

Music is most sovereign
because more than anything else,
rhythm and harmony find
their way to the inmost
soul and take strongest hold
upon it, bringing with
them and imparting grace.
—Plato, The Republic

The cranes are flying ...
—Chekhov

And here it comes: around the world,
In Chicago, Petersburg, Tokyo,
the dancers
Hit the floor running
(the communal dancefloor

Here, there, at intervals,
sometimes paved,
Sometimes rotted linoleum
awash in beer,
Sometimes a field across which
the dancers streak

Like violets across grass, sometimes packed dirt
In a township of corrugated metal roofs)
And what was once prescribed ritual, the profuse

Strains of premeditated art,
is now improvisation,
The desperately new, where to the sine-curved
Yelps and spasms of police sirens outside

The club, a spasmodic feedback ululates
The death and cremation of history,
Until a boy whose hair is purple spikes,

And a girl wearing a skull
That wants to say I’m cool but I’m in pain,
Get up and dance together, sort of,
age thirteen.

Young allegorists, they’ll mime motions
Of shootouts,
of tortured ones in basements,
Of cold insinuations before sex

Between enemies,
the jubilance of the criminal.
The girl tosses her head and dances
The shoplifter’s meanness and self-betrayal

For a pair of stockings, a scarf,
a perfume,
The boy dances stealing the truck,
Shooting his father.

The point is to become
a flying viper,
A diving vulva, the great point
Is experiment, like pollen flinging itself

Into far other habitats, or seed
That travels a migrant bird’s gut
To be shit overseas.

The creatures gamble
on the whirl of life
And every adolescent body hot
Enough to sweat it out on the dance floor

Is a laboratory: maybe this lipstick, these boots,
These jeans, these earrings, maybe if I flip
My hair and vibrate my pelvis

Exactly synched to the band’s wildfire noise
That imitates history’s catastrophe
Nuke for nuke, maybe I’ll survive,

Maybe we’ll all survive. . . .

At the intersection of poverty
and plague
The planet's children—brave, uncontrollable, juiced
Out of their gourds—invent the sacred dance.

Alicia Ostriker

“Saturday Night” from The Little Space:
Poems Selected and New, 1968-1998.
Copyright © 1998 by Alicia Ostriker.

more cranes

because it's there

The sacred places and pilgrimage traditions of Japan have been conditioned by geographical and topographical features as much as by religious and cultural factors. Over 80% of the Japanese country- side is hilly or mountainous terrain. This physical condition gave birth in ancient times to a unique and enduring tradition of religious beliefs and practices focused on mountains. While never systematized, this tradition was so wide spread that Japanese scholars have termed it sangaku shinko, meaning 'mountain beliefs' or 'mountain creed'.

Sangaku shinko should not however, be thought of in the narrow sense of mountain worship, but rather understood to have a broader meaning which includes the mythology, folk beliefs, rituals, shamanistic practices, and shrine structures that are associated with the religious use of particular mountains.

H. Byron Earhart, a scholar of Japanese religion, writes that "Most of the mountains whose sacred character is attested by archaeological evidence are also prominent in the earliest written records of Japan. In these writ- ings mountains play a religious role in the cosmogony and theogony of the formal mythology and are prominent as dwelling places of the gods, as burial sites, and as sacred sites of great beauty. In the two court compilations which represent the earliest writings in Japan, mountains appear in almost every imaginable religious guise". 1

in the west, needless to say, the dynamic is different. in the eastern depictions of even their holiest mountain, it hides, it doesn't loom. it sneaks into the picture rather than dominating it. even when the portrait is of that mountain particularly, one must work to find it. one would be hard pressed to find an alternate display. in paintings, the west's mountain's are bullies, and like any bully, they're 'asking for it.' 'take me down,' they seem to challenge.

and in the west we only very rarely find the mountains themselves sacred. 2 we worship 'on the mountain,' or, ' at the mountain,' or 'in the mountains,' ... but that's different. perhaps the western opinion of god is that she's blatantly before you, whereas in the east one must search, and then to find?

and then perhaps also the societal imperatives about individuality come into play? self, or group? is part of the japanese pattern of asymmetry simply another way of indicating the sweep, not the center?

Shingon in particular, founded by the sage Kukai (774-835), placed emphasis on sacred mountains as the ideal sites for religious prac- tice and the attainment of Bud- dhahood. Ascents of the mount- ains were conceived of as metaphorical ascents on the path of spiritual enlightenment, with each stage in the climb representing a stage in the passage through the realms of existence formulated by Buddhism.

During the Heian period (793-1185) Buddhist temples were increasingly built on the sides and summits of many Shinto sacred mountains. It was believed that the native Shinto kami of these mountains were in reality manifestations of Buddhist divinities thus pilgrimage to the mountains was believed to bring favors from both the Shinto and Buddhist divinities simultaneously. 1

am i suggesting that there is not meant to be an aspect of holiness in these western images of mountains? no, not at all. nor do i mean to suggest that every japanese printmaker was a saint (or whatever). these western prints and paintings were all completed in the wake of the wall of japan's influence. i'm just saying that i find these all very interesting questions, ones which i hope you will help to explore.

her parrot accomplice

MAY COLVEN

False Sir John a wooing came
To a Maid of beauty fair,
May Colven was
this Ladys name,
Her Fathers only Heir.

He woo'd her butt,
he woo'd her ben,
He woo'd her in the Ha';
Until he got
this Lady's consent,
To mount and ride awa'.

He went down to
her Father's bower,
Where all the Steeds
did stand;
And he's taken one of
the best Steeds,
That was in her Father's hand.

He's got on, and she's got on,
And fast as they could flee,
Untill they came to a lonesome part,
A Rock by the side of the Sea.

Loup off the Steed says false Sir John,
Your bridal bed you see;
For I have drowned Seven Young Ladies,
The Eight one you shall be.

Cast off, Cast off, my May Colven,
All and your silken Gown,
For it's o'er good, and o'er costly,
To rot in the Salt Sea foam.

Cast off, Cast off,
my May Colven,
All and your
embroider'd shoen,
For they are o'er good,
and o'er costly
To rot in the Salt Sea foam.

O turn you about
O false Sir John,
And look to the leaf
of the Tree;
For it never became
a Gentle Man,
A naked Woman to see.

He turnd himself straight round about,
To look to the leaf
of the Tree;
So swift as
May Colven was,
To throw him
in the Sea.

O help, O help my May Colven,
O help, or else
I'll drown;
I'll take you home to your Father's bower
And set you down safe and sound.

No help, no help you false Sir John,
No help nor pity thee;
Tho' seven Kings Daughters you
have drown'd
But the Eight
shall not be me.

So she went on her Fathers Steed,
As swift as
she could flee;
And she came home to her Father's bower
Before it was
break of day.

Up then spoke
the pretty Parrot,
May Colven where
have you been,
What has become of
false Sir John,
That woo'd you
so late the streen.

He woo'd you butt,
he woo'd you ben,
He woo'd you in the Ha',
Until he got your own consent
For to mount and gang awa'.

O hold your tongue my pretty Parrot,
Lay not the blame upon me,
Your Cup shall be of the flowered Gold,
Your Cage of the Root of the Tree.

Up then spake
the King himself,
In the Bed Chamber
where he lay,
What ails the Pretty Parrot,
That prattles so long or day.

There came a Cat
to my Cage Door
It almost a worried me,
And I was calling
on May Colven,
To take the Cat from me.

(there are many versions of this, all anonymous)

the bath, part 4

TEODORO LUNA CONFESSES AFTER YEARS TO HIS BROTHER, ANSELMO THE PRIEST, WHO IS REQUIRED TO UNDERSTAND, BUT WHO UNDERSTANDS ANYWAY, MORE THAN PEOPLE THINK

I am a slave to the nudity of women.
I do not know with what resolve

I could stand against it,
a naked woman
Asking of me anything.

An unclothed woman is
sometimes other things.
I see her in a dish of green pears.

Anselmo, do you know what I mean if I say

Without clothes

Her breasts are the two lions
In front of the New York Public Library,

Do you know that postcard of mine?
In those lions there is something

For which I have in exchange
Only sounds. Only my fingers.

I see her everywhere. She is the lions
And the pears,
those letters of the alphabet

As children we called dirty, the W,
The Y, the small o.

She is absolutely
the wet clothing on the line.
Or, you know, to be more intimate,

May I? The nub, the nose of the pear,
Do you know what I mean?
Those parts of the woman

I will call two Spanish dancer hats,
Or rounder sometimes,
doughboy helmets from the War.

Sometimes they are flat
in the late afternoon
Asleep. Like drawings,

Like a single rock thrown into the lake,
These parts of a woman
an imperfect circling

Gyre of lines moving out,
beyond the water.
They reach me at the shore, Anselmo.

Without fail, they are stronger,
And they have always been
faster than I am.

It’s like watching the lassoing man,
The man with the perfectly circling rope,

Pedro Armendariz in the Mexican movies,
Or Will Rogers. Wherever one is from,

Whoever this man is.
And he is always there.
Everybody knows one.

He always makes his big lasso,
twirling his rope
Around himself and
a woman from the audience

Only I am the woman,
do you understand, Anselmo?
Caught in the circling rope. I am the woman

And me thinking of a woman
Without clothes

Is that man and that rope
And we are riding on separate horses.

Alberto Ríos

from Teodora Luna's Two Kisses. Copyright © 2000 by Alberto Ríos.

are the men who are the capturers, the 'nurturers,' the captured, in fact? in the whole bath series, we have naked women being seen by (presumably) clothed men. i have tried to choose images in which the women are not apparently posing, apparently unaware of being observed. but in fact they are.

i have to admit that i don't exactly know what to make of all of this. when i used to do my magazine i realized that both male and female artists were most likely to feature their nudes female.
i like looking. feel comforted by looking.

so is it sexist? fashionable, yes (at that time, 'bathers' was a de rigour subject), but oppressive too? i just don't know. what do you think? if you are a woman, do you feel you are capturer or captured?
and men -- same question.

the bath, part 3

PLACES TO SWIM

Summer's ambitious project — the beach and its
dark striped rocks,
stone-lined pool at the swim club,

passage where the tide flowed out behind dunes,
left fingers and lips blue,
tea-colored pond of black sticks where kids

jumped off branches of an over-hanging tree,
aqua
 of indoor pool lanes,

the white lines' circling, breaking pattern
interrupted by arms, churns and kicks.

*****

Yellow leaves drift down —
 fish-shaped ovals, flecking slick streets,
light October rain,

almost like swimming, the walk
through wet, late afternoon air.
In town this week, two people found goldfish

balanced in paper cups
in their mailboxes.
Teal blue wool, ten rows

to no- tice the wave reappear

in the cable I'm knitting,
dusk pattern,

 



you bent
over the piano in the kitchen
picking out the lost bars of Satie
(what could sound better?).

Music book left
somewhere — an attic
or with cousins by the lake.

Talvikki Ansel

(how strongly a part of all this was erik satie. how similarly our artists paint the bathers.)

the bath, part 2

What has happened before the opening of the curtain:

Iinuma Sampei, the elder brother of Iinuma Katsugorô, was killed by the villain Satô Gôsuke. Katsugorô has sworn to take revenge and kill Gôsuke. His long quest led him to the mansion of Tsukumo Shinzaemon, where he became retainer and fell in love with Shinzaemon's daughter Hatsuhana.

Shinzaemon agreed to their wedding and the newly-weds decided to run together after Gôsuke, disguised as a couple of beggars. They were helped by Fudesuke, the brother of Hatsuhana. Katsugorô fell ill on the road and unfortunately lost the use of his legs.

At the Amidaji temple in the mountains of Hakone:

Katsugorô is crippled and Hatsuhana pulls him along in a wooden cart. They walk a long way to Hakone, where lives their enemy, who has changed his name to Takiguchi Kôzuke and has joined the Hôjô clan.

They confront their mortal enemy in the Temple of Amidaji, where beggars can receive alms from the Hôjô clan members. He captures Hatsuhana's mother Sawarabi and takes pleasure in humiliating Katsugorô. Katsugorô, who has suffered many years in search of Gôsuke, limps out of his cart, seizing the hilt of his katana and looking fiercely at his enemy. The opportunity of revenge has come but the crippled Katsugorô is powerless against the villain, whose power is at his peak. Gôsuke cooly smokes his pipe at his ease and leisure. Then, he offers a deal to Katsugorô: he will spare his life if Katsugorô gives him his wife Hatsuhana. Gôsuke leaves with Hatsuhana.

At the Shirataki waterfall in the mountains of Hakone:

Hatsuhana returns and goes to the sacred waterfall of Tô-no-Zawa, where she prays within the extremely cold water for the recovery of her husband. By some miracle, Hatsuhana's prayers are answered and Katsugorô suddenly recovers the use of his legs, while Hatsuhana mysteriously vanishes!

Fudesuke arrives at the scene of the miracle, bringing with him the head of Hatsuhana, who has resisted Gôsuke's will and was beheaded by the villain. Everybody understands that the woman who prayed in the waterfall was none other than the ghost of the faithful Hatsuhana.

What will happen after the closing of the curtain:

Katsugorô and Fudesuke win out over Gôsuke, avenging the murders of Katsugorô's brothers Sampei and Katsugorô's wife Hatsuhana. 1