Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Some Haiku

October 14, 2018

Kohut-Bartels-LS-2

(Watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels)

I chase one red leaf

Across dry and brittle grass

Juice of summer gone.

The garden spiders

Fold their black spindly legs,

Die, all work now done.

Pale lavender sky

Balances the moon and sun

The scale shifts to night.

 —

 Fallen leaves crackle.

Sparrows add the treble notes.

Season’s musical.

 —

Dogwoods blooming

The crucifixion appears

White moths in the night.

— 

Fall’s crispness compels

Apples to tumble from trees.

Worms make the journey.

 —

 The frost at morning

Makes the birds plump their feathers

Squirrels add chatter.

— 

 A swirl of blossoms

Caught in the water’s current

Begins the season.

 

The cold moon shines down

Upon hollow dried grasses.

Earth prepares to sleep.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

 

“It’s Strange To Be Here. The Mystery Never Leaves You.” And the addition of a Welsh poem: “Cad Caddeu” (The Battle of the Trees)

October 12, 2018
My beautiful picture

Watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2015

 

Contemplating a new novel, I came across this essay I wrote a few years ago.  There is mystery in life and writing and just everyday events.  Perhaps this mystery is what makes us put each foot in front of the other.  Perhaps this mystery is the seed of our gratitude.

Lady Nyo

 

“It’s Strange To Be Here. The Mystery Never Leaves You.”

Many are familiar with John O’Donohue, the Irish Poet/Priest/Philosopher.  I wasn’t and didn’t hear of him until well after his death in January, 2008 at the age of 52.  Coming upon him so late I realize what a marvelous voice has been stilled, but he did write a lot and spoke around the world.  These writings and interviews are what we have left of this remarkable man, but they speak of deep and important issues of the heart.  What I have cobbled together is partly from an NPR interview of a while ago and other readings of his works.  His words speak deeply to my own lack of faith, lack of any religious belief except certain Shinto elements and a yearning for answers about the visible life around us and the possible connections to the invisible world we contemplate. I am also rethinking O’Donohue’s words in light of the issue of familial narcissism and what it wrought for a family. It is a daily exercise that makes visible that is, at one point, carefully covered over. Then no appeal to religion or civility can abate the wounding. The fruit of a very poisonous tree.

As a poet, what O’Donohue says about poetry went deep and broad for me.

O’Donohue’s words are in bold type, mine are in italics.

Lady Nyo

 

The more I’ve been thinking about this, the more it seems to me actually is that the visible world is the first shoreline of the invisible world. And the same way I believe with the body and the soul. That actually the soul — the body is in the soul, not the soul just in the body. And that in some way the poignancy of being a human being is that you are the place where the invisible becomes visible and expressive in some way.

This is a radical concept to my thinking…that the visible world is the first shoreline of the invisible world.  But reading Celtic novels, especially something extended like “Mists of Avalon” certainly has this factor in the mix.  Further, this statement:  That the soul- the body is in the soul, not just in the body, makes sense if you follow Celtic Christianity.

Ireland was an important crucible of Celtic Christianity, merging a strong sense of mystery and transcendence with a passionate embrace of nature, the body, and the senses. The divine is understood as manifest as everywhere in everything. Perhaps this is best described as ‘animism’, or the belief of  the soul or spirit in natural things, like rocks, trees, mountains, thunder, etc…not just residing in the human.  For me, beyond this Celtic Christianity concept, I find it also resides in the Japanese Shinto religion and general mythology in the form of “kami’ or spirits residing in the same natural elements.

“Landscape” is a pivotal word, a defining feature of inner life as well as the outer physical world.  For a while now, I have used this word, “landscape” in my own definition of thoughts of characters:  however, his usage is much broader and more encompassing.

I think it makes a huge difference when you wake in the morning and come out of your house. Whether you believe you are walking into dead geographical location, which is used to get to a destination, or whether you are emerging out into a landscape that is just as much, if not more, alive as you but in a totally different form. And if you go towards it with an open heart and a real watchful reverence, that you will be absolutely amazed at what it will reveal to you. And I think that was one of the recognitions of the Celtic imagination: that landscape wasn’t just matter, but that it was actually alive. What amazes me about landscape, landscape recalls you into a mindful mode of stillness, solitude, and silence where you can truly receive time.

But I do think though that it’s not just a matter of the outer presence of the landscape. I mean, the dawn goes up and the twilight comes even in the most roughest inner-city place. And I think that connecting to the elemental can be a way of coming into rhythm with the universe that’s there. And I do think that there is a way in which the outer presence — even through memory or imagination — can be brought inward as a sustaining thing. I mean, I think that — and it’s the question of beauty you’re asking essentially. I mean, I think that as we are speaking, that there are individuals holding out on frontlines, holding the humane tissue alive in areas of ultimate barbarity, where things are visible that the human eye should never see. And they are able to sustain it, because there is in them some kind of sense of beauty that knows the horizon that we are really called to in some way. I love Pascal’s phrase, you know, that you should always “keep something beautiful in your mind.” And I have often — like in times when it’s been really difficult for me, if you can keep some kind of little contour that you can glimpse sideways at now and again, you can endure great bleakness.

Enduring great bleakness.  I think he is talking about an existence we all face in different and daily ways.  I see this as the physical environment surrounding us, those places where we fear the most, see with great trepidation, but also those deep emotional places where we have been wounded. These “keep something beautiful in your mind” allows us to survive those onslaughts.  I believe this is part and parcel of being a writer: we have a world of words to fashion for a particular ‘comfort’ and defense.

O’Donohue said these words that seem to be the meat of the argument…at least to me.

“It’s strange to be here: the mystery never leaves you”.  M. Scott Peck also said something that resonates this concept:  “Life is strange”.

When you think about language and you think about consciousness, it’s just incredible to think that we can make any sounds that can reach over across to each other at all. Because I mean, I think we’re — I think the beauty of being human is that we’re incredibly, intimately near each other. We know about each other, but yet we do not know or never can know what it’s like inside another person. And it’s amazing, you know, here am I sitting in front of you now, looking at your face, you’re looking at mine and yet neither of us have ever seen our own faces. And that in some way, thought is the face that we put on the meaning that we feel and that we struggle with and that the world is always larger and more intense and stranger than our best thought will ever reach. And that’s the mystery of poetry, you know, is poetry tries to draw alongside the mystery as it’s emerging and somehow bring it into presence and into birth.

“Thought is the face that we put on the meaning that we feel”.  Rather complex but astoundingly simple, too.  I especially like these words about poetry, because I struggle to be a poet…or actually, the poet in me…that invisible thing makes struggle to manifest into the visible, i.e.: words, poetry. But more, poetry IS the mystery, or a part of the mystery, and makes it manifest.

And the mystery is also the Divine.  Perhaps this is why the Divine is and remains a mystery because of so many aspects, faces.  It remains a mystery because we can never know it all.

An ancient archetypal poem, the “Song of Amergin” illustrates the Celtic sense of a symbiotic and seamless relationship between the natural and the divine.

“I am the wind on the sea. / I am the ocean wave. / I am the sound of the billows. / I am the seven-horned stag. / I am the hawk on the cliff. / I am the dewdrop in sunlight. / I am the fairest of flowers. / I am the raging boar. / I am the salmon in the deep pool. / I am the lake on the plain. / I am the meaning of the poem. / I am the point of the spear. / I am the god that makes fire in the head. / Who levels the mountain? / Who speaks the age of the moon? / Who has been where the sun sleeps? / Who, if not I?”

O’Donohue also writes that ‘everyone is an artist’.

I mean that everyone is involved whether they like it or not in the construction of their world. So, it’s never as given as it actually looks; you are always shaping it and building it. And I feel that from that perspective, that each of us is an artist. Secondly, I believe that everyone has imagination. That no matter how mature and adult and sophisticated a person might seem, that person is still essentially an ex-baby. And as children we all lived in an imaginal world. You know, when you’ve been told don’t cross that wall, ’cause there’s monsters over there, my god, the world you’d create on the other side of the wall.

When you’d ask questions like why is the sky blue or where does God live or you know all this kind of stuff. Like, one of the first times I was coming to America, I said to my little niece, who was seven, I said, ‘What will I bring you from America?’ She said, ‘Uhhhhh.’ And her father said, ‘No, ask him or you won’t get anything.’ And Katy turned to me and said, ‘What’s in it?’ Which I thought was a great question about America. So that childlike thing. And secondly, like that, every night when we sleep we dream, and a dream is a sophisticated, imaginative text full of figures and drama that we send to ourselves. So I believe that deep in the heart of each of us, there is this imagining, imaginal capacity that we have. So that we are all doing it.

I have to stop this entry because it could go on too long, and it’s a lot to take in, John O’Donohue’s words. Another time I will continue this, extend this, his fascinating words because there is much in them,  and for me, it makes some very definite links: it explains some mystery that pulls on the heart and mind, regardless our religious or spiritual or philosophical beliefs.

There is a poem, the famous Cad Coddeu, (The Battle of the Trees) I believe Welsh, that I came across years ago when I first started to write a novel called “Devil’s Revenge”  It is about the calling into battle of the trees, and it remains one of my favorites. The Battle of the Trees is a poem from the Book of Taliesin in which the legendary enchanter Gwydion animates the trees of the forest to fight as his army. In a loose fashion, it illustrates some of this concept that O’Donohue is talking about:  the soul residing in all natural phenomena , the animating force of life.  What is especially delightful about this poem is the calling out of the individual qualities of each of the species.  Anyone a bit familiar with trees will recognize these qualities of the different ‘woods’.

Lady Nyo

Cad Coddeu

The tops of the beech tree have sprouted of late,

Are changed and renewed from their withered state.

When the beech prospers, though spells and litanies

The oak tops entangle, there is hope for trees.

I have plundered the fern, through all secrets I spy,

Old Math ap Mathonwy knew no more than I.

For with nine sorts of faculty God has gifted me,

I am fruit of fruits gathered from nine sorts of tree–

Plum, quince, whortle, mulberry, raspberry, pear,

Black cherry and white, with the sorb in me share.

From my seat at Fefynedd, a city that is strong,

I watched the trees and green things hastening along.

Retreating from happiness they would fein be set

In forms of the chief letters of the alphabet.

Wayfarers wandered, warriors were dismayed

At renewal of conflicts such as Gwydion made;

Under the tongue root a fight most dread,

And another raging, behind, in the head.

The alders in the front line began the affray.

Willow and rowan-tree were tardy in array.

The holly, dark green, made a resolute stand;

He is armed with many spear-points wounding the hand.

With foot-beat of the swift oak heaven and earth rung;

“Stout Guardian of the Door”, his name in every tongue.

Great was the gorse in battle, and the ivy at his prime;

The hazel was arbiter at this charmed time.

Uncouth and savage was the fir, cruel the ash tree–

Turns not aside a foot-breadth, straight at the heart runs he.

The birch, though very noble, armed himself but late:

A sign not of cowardice but of high estate.

The heath gave consolation to the toil-spent folk,

The long-enduring poplars in battle much broke.

Some of them were cast away on the field of fight

Because of holes torn in them by the enemy’s might.

Very wrathful was the vine whose henchmen are the elms;

I exalt him mightily to rulers of realms.

Strong chieftains were the blackthorn with his ill fruit,

The unbeloved whitethorn who wears the same suit.

The swift-pursuing reed, the broom with his brood,

And the furse but ill-behaved until he is subdued.

The dower-scattering yew stood glum at the fight’s fringe,

With the elder slow to burn amid fires that singe.

And the blessed wild apple laughing in pride

From the Gorchan of Maeldrew, by the rock side.

In shelter linger privet and woodbine,

Inexperienced in warfare, and the courtly pine.

But I, although slighted because I was not big,

Fought, trees, in your array on the field of Goddeu Brig.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

A few favorite tanka….

October 9, 2018

Kohut-Bartels-LS-17

(Oil, “Dusk”, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2002)

 

 

Mist drifts in waves

Ribbon-ing maple branches

The rising of moon

Make Egrets shimmer silver-

Gauzy ghosts of nothingness.

 

 

Like the lithe bowing

Of a red maple sapling

My heart turns to you,

Yearns for those nights long ago

When pale skin challenged the moon.

 

How could I forget

The beauty of the pale moon!

A face of sorrow

Growing thin upon the tide

No one now visits me.

 

——

The full moon above

floats on blackened velvet seas,

poet’s perfection!

But who does not yearn for a

crescent in lavender sky?

Autumn wind startles–

Lowered to an ominous

Key—Ah! Mournful sounds!

The fat mountain deer listen-

Add their bellowing sorrow.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Night Fire Road”…..

September 30, 2018

D’versepoets.com : This Thursday is Open Link Night.  Come and read some great poetry!

PICT1020.JPG

(Watercolor done by JKB to illustrate “Night Fire Road”)

 

NIGHT FIRE ROAD

Sharp right into mystery,

Down black macadam churning

The guts and apprehension,

Pot-holed surface falling

Either side into waterlogged ditches.

Hurtling towards a tunnel

Of dark, smothering trees,

Deep in the mountain.

This is Night Fire Road

Spiraling down and up

Like the dark flames of its name.

Tires dumped in the tar of night

Maybe a car or two

Stolen, torched,

Liquor bottles christening the

Games of drunken fools.

Maybe it was meant

To be named for foxfire—

Bioluminescence come down from

The borders of Heaven

A gleaming fool’s gold

Only appearing at night

To tease greed and imagination.

Or perhaps it was named

For the illicit meetings

Of furtive lovers

Who shun daylight

And go enflame passion on

Night Fire Road.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

“The Kimono” just published on CreateSpace, Amazon.com

September 27, 2018

The_Kimono_Cover_for_blog_use.jpg

That was faster than we thought!  This novel took 12 years of research and writing. Not constant, but overall, 12 long, suffering years.  But the outcome is good and the work that Nick Nicholson in Australia did on this book has made it a better book by far.  Nick is a friend of over 12 years and had produced my previous three books on CreateSpace.

I am over the moon about this publication of “The Kimono”.  Frankly, there were years that I thought it would never see the light of day, but after I decided it was finished after 30 chapters, Nick said: “No, write on!  There is more to this story.”  And he was right.  I wrote 30 more chapters in a relatively sort time. And the story just blossomed out of all expectations.

So, it is done.  People who have read my Proof Copy said they can’t put it down.  And that is a good sign.  Thank you all who have encouraged me and pushed me to bring this book to life.

http://bit.ly/TheKimonoNovel

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

“After Harvest Song”

September 26, 2018

0403Whe-R01-009

 

This waning autumn season,

That burst upon the mindscape

Hijacked a summer landscape,

Dared mingle dazzling elements

Of color, odors, tangled undergrowth,

Where things are lost in each other

And plausible limits vanish.

 

And with the passage of these days

The Earth transformed in scarcity,

A stretching silence,

A gathering solitude

Where Pan’s pipes are brittle straw

Made golden, hollow by harvest.

 

Come celebrate this solitude

Rejoice with me in silence

Where time warps

And darkness gathers,

Where mystery is beckoned

By hoar frost and shadows.

All color now corralled

Like old dun horses

Barely moving against the grey of day.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016-18

 

“Storm Drain Baby”

September 24, 2018

Children of Aleppo pix

This ‘event’ happened a few years ago in Atlanta.

 

STORM DRAIN BABY

 

Yesterday a baby was born,

Placed in a storm drain

To die by a father who wasn’t.

Three days of heavy rain

Washed the Blood of this Lamb

Into the sea.

 

He was found, expected to live

And died,

His short life measured in scant public

Outrage.

 

The 19 year old father said as they

Led him away:

“It was a miscarriage gone wrong.”

 

The rain continues today

Rushing down streets

To storm drains,

Making a gurgling sound.

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017-18

“Poems of Autumn”

September 23, 2018

Kohut-Bartels-LS-19

(Watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels, 2003)

Tanka

 

Autumn wind startles,

Lowered to an ominous

Key—Ah! Mournful sounds!

The fat mountain deer listen-

And add their sounds of sorrow.

 

Autumn coming

 

Bullfrogs bellow a different pitch

Autumn’s fast approaching.

And though they soak in a rocky pond

Summer’s heat they can’t escape.

 

Full moon reflects in half-sunk eyes

Perhaps fish mistake the moons of Mars

And in their algaed depth by night

They travel the cosmos past the stars.


 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

Kohut-Bartels-LS-5b

(Watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels, ’03)

“Begging Bowl”

September 22, 2018

Roses, May

 

 

With begging bowl

go out in the world

to seek answers, not alms

why death and life

is so random,

why some are spared

and others not,

no mind to age, condition, status

all random, random.

And why glorious Autumn so violent

and why we live in the space

between joy and sorrow.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

Haiku and Tanka from “The Kimono”

September 12, 2018

via Haiku and Tanka from “The Kimono”


%d bloggers like this: