LAL DED
(b. 1320, Kashmir)




translated by Andrew Schelling

You are the earth, the sky,
the air, the day, the night.
You are the grain
the sandalwood paste
the water, flowers, and all else.
What could I possibly bring
as an offering?





Solitary, I roamed the extent of Space,
leaving calculation behind.
The place of the hidden Self
opened and suddenly
out of the filth
bloomed a lotus.





O Blue-Throated God
I have the same six constituents as you,
yet separate from you
I’m miserable.
Here’s the difference—
you have mastered the six
I’ve been robbed by them.

* The six kancukas, “husks” or “coverings” of existence in Kashmir Saivism: appearance, form, time, knowledge, passion, fate.

This selection, from a booklet published by Longhouse, is just short of a dozen translated poems that suggest a deep allegiance to the Kashmiri form of Siva worship, as worked up by Andrew Schelling from a much longer and life enforcing work. Poet, translator and teacher Andrew Schelling has for years been a pivoting influence and friend to many from the halls of montezuma Naropa Institute of Boulder Colorado.

© 2009 by Andrew Schelling & Longhouse Publishers

MICHAEL MAURI

NOTE TO SELF
(South Deerfield, North Amherst)

Note to self: next year don’t split so much of the firewood into small pieces; leave more big chunks for a longer burn. Otherwise the day is too hectic, spent running up and down the stairs to stoke the fire.

Also, make sure to cut all the wood 15 inches or less. 16’s don’t fit in the stove. 15 and a half is the max. You knew that but you messed up anyway. Now you have to get out your saw and cut a bunch of pieces a second time.

End of January. World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland. Global leaders trying to explain where they went wrong, who messed up. What happened to the Grand Celebration? Even the rich got fooled this time, letting Wall Street paper-pushers fritter away their wealth, all the while siphoning off regal fees and stunning bonuses. Of course, the rich are still rich, and the poor are still poor, and everyone else is still in between. We’re all in this together, it’s just that we’re all worse-off at being whatever we are.

I’m thinking that what I have here is an Off-Davos Un-Economic Forum, of sorts, in South Deerfield, Massachusetts, with just myself in attendance, and I’m looking at my woodpile. It appears the woodpile might last the next two months. But, then again, it might not, either. So, if not, ⎯ note to self ⎯ be ready to bring in more wood next year. More than just three cords.

Today I’m making a chocolate layer cake. Why? It was on the cover of a magazine in the dentist’s office, on glossy paper in rich, sumptuous detail. I saw it; and, ogling the lush, image, I decided I’d try it. But, let’s face it, this is not really a cake, this is insanity. So much butter, so much sugar; so much heavy cream, even cream cheese! On the platter, the cake weighs about 15 pounds. But, oh, the excited faces of my girls! That regular routine of bread- and pie-making has kept me in the dark about the excesses of layer cakes. Home-making’s questionable side. But it’s too late now. Must go forward. Must eat.

Nonetheless, after we each eat a piece, and then another, we cut the rest of the cake into three chunks. Give two away to friends with kids. Keep one for tomorrow.

And now I know: beware of Family Circle magazine. It could lead you astray.

A death notice is taped above my computer. A young guy, just 31 years old. Ten years ago he was the crack young mechanic fixing my chain saws down in the basement of Streeter’s General Store. But then he got a job with the railroad, a good job. And now this. The newspaper mentions that people can donate to juvenile diabetes. The poor dad. I know him. A great guy, too, like his son was. What’s he going to do now?

True, my work involves cutting trees, yet I felt like weeping when I saw the great, old beech tree in front of the North Amherst library. All the branches had been cut off, amputated on all sides! Just the bare stem was still standing. While driving home from a day’s work, I saw it, standing naked in the cold air, darkness settling in, crescent moon already out.

We all know the economy is in free fall. No one is saying it isn’t. Not anymore, anyway. It had to happen. We’ll see what kind of economy comes next. Maybe a new economy that doesn’t wear down the world, dig it up and incinerate it, drop bombs on it, dig huge graves for people, ruin all the places. But that’s still pie in the sky. Right now everyone just wants to patch up the old one, hoist it back up, shine it up a little and get it back on its feet so everyone can start speNNNding again. Buying STUFF.

Someday, maybe, our insignificant micro-decision to raise laying-hens in the backyard will prove provident. Maybe it won’t seem so odd in this American neighborhood setting where maintaining mow-able lawns is a top priority, where status is measured in lack of productivity. Our chickens, our multi-colored feathered folk, a little noisy at times, a little smelly, too, often comical, livening up the yard and bringing joy to one and all. Except when they disturb the neighbors.

It’s just half a dozen hens. Various breeds. We provide for them and they provide for us. Every day now they give us one or two eggs, sometimes three.

Fresh eggs; different shades of brown in your hand as you walk back across the snow, sometimes still warm, to show the girls.


1/30/2009

Michael Mauri has lived in the US and abroad. Raised in western Massachusetts where many of his poems rise from the earth, he lives with his family in the shadow of Sugarloaf Mountain, making his living as a forester. Small booklets of poems have been issued, including Florida Turnips from Longhouse in 2008.





© 2009 by Michael Mauri & Longhouse Publishers

LOUISE LANDES LEVI




Word on the street

Is that Israel created HAMAS,

A good excuse for war /Word on the street

Is that Israel created Hamas, a good way to split

The Palestinians/ every man on his own,

Word on the street is that the

Plan was already drawn up in 2002,

It took 7 years to realize,

What’s so special abt.

Chanukah, are you playing

Maccabee all over again, funny I never

Read abt. Genocide in Jewish Studies 101,

Why didn’t they mention a nuclear arsenal, no. 6/ Top military,

You are going to prevent another Genocide

By doing one, You are

Poor psychological victims,

You are breaking

my

heart,

My Jewish heart, my heart that bore stars & insults,

But these stars & these mandates are

No excuse for murder-

At 8 yrs. of age

I recognized the fucked-up notion of the nation state

I knew you cld. not have a commandment like

THOU SHALT NOT KILL

& A STATE at the same time,

Every time I read the word

Israel in my little book on Hillel,

the elder, I knew that Israel was another

‘name’ for the heart, so Next

Year in Jerusalem meant

one day I wld. Arrive

to my own heart

& no one wld. be able to

take it away because it

didn’t exist in space time, tho I didn’t

know those words then, when I got

to the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory & I was

only 9 & I knew the machine was going to

go off even tho it wasn’t suppose to,

when the kids put

their hands in it, every one pretended

NOT TO NOTICE & when Israel got

Weird & wanted to kill everyone, & it was true

At Sabra & Shatila ---& it’s true yesterday & the day

Before & it’s all over the media but

The media is for sleeping

Not for waking, so it’s a way of

Not noticing, somehow & I think it’s wrong

& it’s only going to cause major pain & disturbance & loss

& I don’t understand except that a psychic friend

says that over there in Israel

she saw some

reborn Nazis & also

the sad rule: the priest who was

fucked in the ass as an altar boy is going to

do that same kind of ritual, he is going to come down

on anyone he can & that’s the

sorryful way things go down,

& really guns are so

OUTDATED.

NYC 2009

‘if I am only for myself who is for me’

In a long tradition of troubadour poets, Louise Landes Levi carries on as itinerant seeker, poet, musician and translator. See her versions of Sanskrit, Henri Michaux, Rene Daumal, plus her many books of poems. In this poem, available from Longhouse as one of our series of foldout booklets, Louise gives a cry out from the street to Israel and Hamas and ourselves.



© 2009 by Louise Landes Levi & Longhouse Publishers