is a tiny wandering imaginary dinosaur which migrated from AOL in October of 2008.

Thinking Lizard

About Me

My photo
Rhodingeedaddee is my node blog. See my other blogs and recent posts.


[6-16-2009 Update Insert: Most of what is in this space is now moot. I found out what I was doing wrong and have reinstated Archives and Labels searches. They do work. However, in certain cases you may prefer Labels to Archives. Example: 1976 Today begins in November of 2006 and concludes in December of 2006, but there are other related posts in other months. Note: Labels only shows 20 posts at a time. There are 21 hubs, making 21 (which is for 1976 Today) an older hub.] ********************************* to my online poems and song lyrics using Archives. Use hubs for finding archival locations but do not link through them. Originally an AOL Journal, where the archive system was nothing like the system here, this blog was migrated from there to here in October of 2008. Today (Memorial/Veteran's Day, May 25, 2009) I discovered a glitch when trying to use a Blogger archive. Now, it may be template-related, but I am unable to return to S M or to the dashboard once I am in the Archives. Therefore, I've decided on this approach: a month-by-month post guide. The sw you see in the codes here stood for Salchert's Weblog when I began it in November of 2006. It later became Sprintedon Hollow. AOL provided what were called entry numbers, but they weren't consistent, and they didn't begin at the first cardinal number. That is why the numbers after "sw" came to be part of a post's code. ************** Here then is the month-by-month post guide: *2006* November: 00001 through 00046 - December: 00047 through 00056 -- *2007* January: 00057 through 00137 - February: 00138 through 00241 - March: 00242 through 00295 - April: 00296 through 00356 - May: 00357 through 00437 - June: 00438 through 00527 - July: 00528 though 00550 - August: 00551 through 00610 - September: 00611 through 00625 - October: 00626 through 00657 - November: 00658 through 00729 - December: 00730 through 00762 -- *2008* January: 00763 through 00791 - February: 00792 through 00826 - March: 00827 through 00849 - April: 00850 through 00872 - May: 00873 through 00907 - June: 00908 through 00931 - July: 00932 through 00955 - August: 00956 through 00993 - September 00994 through 01005 - October: 01006 through 01007 - November: 01008 through 01011 - December: 01012 through 01014 -- *2009* January: 01015 through 01021 - February: 01022 through 01028 - March: 01029 through 01033 - April: 01034 through 01036 - May: 01037 through 01044 - ******************************************************* 1976 Today: 2006/11 and 2006/12 -- Rooted Sky 2007: 2007/01/00063rsc -- Postures 2007: 2007/01/sw00137pc -- Sets: 2007/02/sw00215sgc -- Venturings: 2007/03/00216vc -- The Undulant Trees: 2007/03/00266utc -- This Day's Poem: 2007/03/00267tdpc -- Autobio: 2007/04/sw00316ac -- Fond du Lac: 2007/04/00339fdl -- Justan Tamarind: 2007/05/sw00366jtc -- Prayers in December: 2007/05/sw00393pindc -- June 2007: 2007/06/sw00440junec -- Seminary: 2007/07/sw00533semc -- Scatterings: 2008/08/00958sc ** Song Lyrics: 2008/02/sw00797slc ********** 2009-06-02: Have set S M to show 200 posts per page. Unfortunately, you will need to scroll to nearly the bottom of a page to get to the next older/newer page.


Friday, January 11, 2008


Venturings [ Originally written in 1973, the following poem is an imaginary conversation I had with Walt Whitman. It begins hyperbolically but laugh at it if you are so moved. It appears I felt a need to bolster my courage. ] Words for Walt 1 Walt, I am thirty-two and am making my charge at your supremacy. I have passed through Eliot and Roethke and have troubled Auden, and have read a thousand more, and have learned and loved them all. They have been to me as the phases of the moon, the vagaries of sunlight, the challengings of caves. It is time again to sum things up, for transformation. We have turned another century, yet much much more; we have entered the country of Hope-- all your dreams, sweet Walt, all your dreams! They are past and ever present but can not be changed, and for all you felt and yearned, you could not feel as I can, you could not yearn as I. It is time again for seeing, and today, Walt, I am ready, and so, Walt, is today. If in the grasses of evil and good, you in your grey beard stand, sensible, attractive, gathering, giving, all the more must I, all the more our race. It is time for transformation to a life we can barely dream of, or death; it will not come again. If we touch the soil rightly, and the waters, the air, what passages, what births! what mastery of time! 2 Oh human ageless Walt, how much we are alike, words hanging on words, lists, parallel constructions; and yet how different, your rhythms not my rhythms, your thoughts not my thoughts: and yet again alike, in our hearts. Much that I have written, Walt, is dead; the best that I have written is but preamble. Sleep with me. This woods we are approaching, let us dance and greet it. How much we are alike! 3 'uckin' root! Thought I'd missed it! Lift me. Blast it, scraped my knee. You'd think I lost my coordination! Now why did I-- hey, Walt, do you think-- beetled elm! They're dying on us, you know. Look, maybe we should sit a while. There. Huh, an oriole! Where is it? Again. There! And its elms-- will we miss its swinging nest, its bright colors and bright song, its special grace? Walt--hmm, that breeze feels good-- I love the touch of your rough hand. 4 Inside, most of this day, this fifty-degree March 12th-- student union, office, library-- inside, writing these words. And now I am in my apartment. It doesn't seem right. For neither as I would want all buildingsdown, should I want them foolishly lived in. And I have done so. Today, I think, I have done so. The sun scattered its pleasures for my skin and I ignored them-- the poet and his paper and his pen; vain beyond the moment's need, I stayed inside. Is it no wonder I wonder, am surprised at myself, am a joker full of sour puns. Somewhere, on the proud stem of a rose, sucking aphids rock; somewhere, on the walkway to a mansion, gray and yellow snow. Inside-- the habits that block awareness, the truths one tries to forget, the images that enlighten. 5 And now I hear you asking me, "What are you doing, young man?" And again, "What do you seek so pensive and silent? What do you need, camerado? Dear son, do you think it is love? Listen, dear son. . . ." And so I do: to the early robin honoring his love and possessing his land, to the thawing grass as it struggles back to green, to the teenage girls giggling, to the teenage boys yelling, their leather oxfords rapidly beating the sidewalk, to the hummings of cars and the grumbles of buses and trucks, to the ticking ticking ticking of my wife's white plastic clock, to the whispered ticks of my too-fast Timex watch. But, nothing. Yes, yes, it is love: a falling away from one, or so it sometimes seems, and a possible falling, unevenly, into another, but always behind my primary love--what I am doing here, the love I have for words. That, Walt, is why, at this uncanny juncture, my body and my spirit speak to you. 6 An end. I have come too close. The clouds ride high, and thin, through the leaves; where the sun has rested long, the air shimmers. Sometimes, a butterfly passes; sometimes, a bee; sometimes--there's a--I-- oh hell, I am just . . . tired, pale tired. Here it is, 1973, and people's thoughts still haven't opened enough, haven't cleared enough. So many of us (though few by comparison), so many of us must hide, for fear of losing our jobs, for fear of losing respect, for fear of losing our lives. An end: in the flowers at my feet, in the stones of buildings, in rivers of every description, in the turning of every wheel, from the mouth: an end. If I have gone too far, I have gone too far, I will go farther still. It can not be helped. The deaths I have suffered, the deaths so many yet suffer-- John, Bill, Anne. . . . oh the warped communications of loved ones, the black ideas that have warped love, have provided answers where answers can not yet be had. An end. 7 A beginning: a movement toward self, toward community, where every man and woman can walk as is, possessed of a sensibility the equal of light, the power and softness of light. 8 The oriole? It is night, night, without orange. 9 Settle. The sounds of the woods invite us, but we must not move, not even toward each other, especially not toward each other; we must keep our energies pure; the time is not yet right to mingle them. I leave you. Star above me, constantly changing, in color, in brightness, in position, in strength, probably dead, a black space or a great dark cloud, what moments of what eon of your boiling spirit hold me? What warmth, what variousness, traveled their thousands of years through static cold? who else this new moon night enjoys you? who else considers the ultimate trip of riding the conquering edge of your revelation? encourages you to make a wish on him? Starlight, imperceptibly present on my palm, ghost, welcome. What you tell me, I rejoice in; what you keep from me, I rejoice in, Where there is mystery, there is wonder-- starlight, I have just stepped back from myself, and see me here, sitting, babbling like a fool, and realize I am often like this. Foolishness is such a pleasant vice: games for one, fantasies; renewed through them, I am given depth, am given breadth. The breeze awakens again; and an oak leaf becomes a fluttering eyelid, and you what I do not want, the eye of a come-on girl. What you tell me, I lament; what you keep from me, I lament as well. 10 Midnight, and after, and after. Knowing, and not knowing. Waiting. Sleep. Dreams. With the rubbing of my hands, the orange sky and the orange leaves separate, the waves on Mystic Lake blossom and cry; I touch the nearest tree. 11 Snow. Sleet. All day, all day, snow, sleet. I had lived inside my cocoon, my cottage, for nineteen years, but now no longer. The birds about are hardy ones. In the streets of my self I dance, in the streets of others I dance; in the streets of others I buckle in regret. Seasons next to seasons, poeple next to people, gods next to gods, I mix with what I am. If you, Walt, blessed this earth, I will bless it again. = 3-19-73 Brian Salchert [ Since that date some minor revisions of "Words for Walt" have been made. It was originally published on the 2 center pages of the May/June 1973 issue of Milwaukee's GPU News. ] - Brian A. J. Salchert

No comments: